“What?” Simon snapped and turned at the interruption to his thoughts, fixing Hugh with an acerbic eye. “What are you talking about? What is it?”
“I thought… Are you alright?”
“Yes.” The word came out as a sigh. “Yes, I’m alright. Look!”
Hugh’s face turned slowly in the direction of his finger, but his eyes stayed glued to his master’s face. He risked a quick glance. Simon was pointing at the ground. Hugh looked back. Simon seemed to be saddened by the mud, he was staring at it with an expression of resigned misery.
Confused, Hugh looked back at the dirt, staring, wondering what this meant. All he could see was the mess of a stable yard, thick with dirt and straw, and here and there the prints of the hostlers and their charges. Simon seemed to be pointing at a patch lying in the protection of the stable wall, where the rain of the last two days had not dropped, but it was close to the entrance to the stables themselves. He stared at the prints of feet and hoofs. He frowned and peered, leaning as he looked, at one hoofprint, a deep print, the print of a big horse, a print that showed itself to be missing a nail.
“I suppose we’re lucky that it was here. The rain didn’t get to it, so close to the wall, or it would be impossible to read. But I think it proves that I was right and-”
“What is it? What are you doing?” They both whirled round to see Edgar standing a short distance away, glaring at them.
“Come here, Edgar,” said Simon quietly – but for all the apparent calmness, Hugh could hear the bitterness in his voice. “We’ve found something interesting.”
“What?” the servant said suspiciously as he walked closer. Simon pointed down with his left hand. Edgar seemed to find his eyes drawn irresistibly down, following the finger, but when he looked up, confused, he found himself staring at Simon’s sword point. He stared in astonishment at the blade held in Simon’s hand, then glared at the bailiff.
“What is this?” he said, his voice registering angry incredulity.
“ That is the print of a large horse, a large horse missing a nail on one shoe. It’s the same as the prints we found by the dead body of the abbot of Buckland,” said Simon softly.
“No. No, it can’t be!” Edgar said, looking from one to the other as if in complete bewilderment. Then he seemed to sway weakly, toppling to his left, and raising his hand to his face as if about to swoon.
“Bugger! Quickly, Hugh!” said Simon, but as he spoke, the man seemed to explode into action. Shooting upright, Edgar leaned away from Simon’s sword, which had followed him as he staggered, knocked it aside, and sprang forward and caught Simon by the throat, forcing him to the ground, the bailiff’s eyes wide in his surprise and shock at the sudden attack as he fell with the servant on top of him.
Hugh sighed, watching them roll in the mud and dirt of the yard. He reached for his purse and untied it, hefted it in his hand for a minute, then brought it down on the back of Edgar’s head with a solid and satisfying thud. Edgar slumped to lie comatose on top of the bailiff, and it was only with difficulty that Simon could roll him off, crawling out from underneath the suddenly collapsed body.
“I… er, maybe you should tie his hands, Hugh,” he said, wincing as he staggered slowly upright with one hand to his throat. Hugh nodded dourly and went into the stables. There were some leather thongs hanging on a hook, one of which he brought out, and he soon had the unconscious Edgar trussed like a chicken. They picked him up and dragged him round to the front of the house, through the door, and into the hall, where they dropped him in front of the fire.
It was over half an hour before he came to, wincing painfully as he shook his head slowly to clear it and glaring at the two men sitting nearby.
“I think you should explain why you killed the abbot,” said Simon, leaning forward and contemplating the man with his chin on his hand.
“I didn’t kill him, I-”
“We know you did. The hoofprint proves that. We know that the monk Matthew knew Baldwin, and that he asked the others to wait while he came here to visit your master. We know that when the monks left Crediton you and your master followed them and caught up with them beyond Copplestone. You took the abbot into the woods and killed him. Then, when he was dead, you went north to the road and came home. All I want to know is why!”
Edgar seemed to waver for a moment, then his jaw set into an expression of determination. He struggled, wriggling until he was sitting upright, then glared at the two on the bench.
“We know you did it, but why?” Simon repeated. “Why kill him in that way? Had he offended your master? Was it a woman?”
The servant still stared, but at Simon’s question he seemed to start. When he began to talk it was in a slow, contemplative voice, almost as if he was reciting slowly from memory.
“It… it was a woman. She was my wife. De Penne caught her and raped her, and I swore vengeance. I had tried to catch him in France, but when we got here I saw Matthew in the town and he said who he was travelling with. Matthew knew nothing about it. When they left, I followed with a friend and caught up with them outside Copplestone. I captured the abbot and… I killed him.”
Simon leaned forward, a frown of disbelief on his face. “You tell me you killed him like that for a woman? Your wife? You were married while you were in service to a knight? While you were travelling all over the world?”
“Yes. My master gave his permission.”
“And your master was not present at the killing?”
“No.”
“But the print, that was from his horse.”
“Yes, I took his horse.”
“And his armour?”
“I… I have armour.”
Simon looked at him without a word for a moment, then said, “So you are saying that he had nothing to do with the matter? So who was with you? Who was your friend?”
“I will not give him away.” It was said angrily, as if the question was an insult, as if the suggestion that he could betray a friend was inconceivable, was contemptible.
The bailiff stared at him musingly, his chin still resting on his hand. His eyes never left the face and eyes of the man on the floor in front of him, gazing intently at him as he considered, until Edgar dropped his angry gaze and glared at his lap.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t believe you. I think Baldwin must have been involved and you’re protecting him.”
“It was as I have said! I did it. Sir Baldwin was not there.”
“We shall see.” Simon rose and walked over to the door. “Stay here with him, Hugh. I need to think.”
He walked out, went to the front door and stood outside to wait.
It was very difficult. Simon had only recently made the acquaintance of Baldwin, but he felt as though they had been friends for years. He liked the knight’s calm and steady gaze, the way that the man seemed to throw himself into whatever he was doing, as if he was determined to enjoy every day to the full, like a young man who has recently discovered new pleasures. And now he had to accuse this man, his friend, of a hideous murder. Almost before he was able to get to know him he must denounce him.
He felt a bleak depression stealing over him as he considered what he must do. And how would the man react? Would he reach for his sword? He was a knight, after all. He may well decide to deny his guilt in trial of combat with his accuser, and Simon was uncomfortably aware that it would require a great deal of heavenly assistance to overcome such a strong opponent. He walked round the house to the log where he had sat only a few mornings before while he nursed his hangover. It seemed so long ago now, so long since he had enjoyed the evening with this man, since his wife had laughed at every sally made by the grave but witty, educated knight.