“I think someone went to her and spoke to her. She was at the table when she was killed. I think she was killed as she stood there, with her back to her killer.”
The bailiff frowned as he tried to understand. “She was standing at her table while the killer cut her throat?”
“Very likely. Blood hit the wall behind the table in a spray, so it’s probable that she was facing that way when the killer struck. Blood was over the top of the table, not on the bottom, so the table was upright when the blow fell. After her throat was sliced, she fell back, and I think she pulled the table with her. No blood lay on the leg of the trestle, so I think that the table top protected it from her blood as she fell back. If she had fallen with the blow and then tried to haul herself upwards, she would have left her blood on the trestle where it faced into the room. As it is, I think she was wounded and took hold of the table, then fell back to die, taking the table with her.”
Both were quiet for a moment. It was Tanner who broke the silence. “Why would anyone do that to an old woman like her, though? She can’t have had anything to steal. Why kill her?”
Turning to him, the knight gave him a cold smile in which the bitter anger flashed. “That’s what we must find out.”
While the constable went to fetch their horses, Simon contemplated his friend. “Baldwin, something’s the matter. What is it?”
The knight stared at him for a moment. Then, holding out his hand, he showed what he had found on the floor. It was a gold ring, with a large red stone held in its flat face.
“That hardly seems the sort of ring for a poor old woman,” mused Simon, and then he noticed the knight’s expression. “Baldwin? What is it? Do you know whose ring this is?”
Baldwin stared at him dully. “Yes,” he said softly. “I know whose this is.”
Riding to the woods at the edge of the moors, the Bourc was frowning as he thought about the merchant. He had no desire to stay in England longer than was necessary, and could easily forget the incident, putting the attempted ambush down to outlaws. But that would be dishonourable. As a free-born Englishman, and knight, he had a chivalric duty to avenge this cowardly attack. To ignore it would leave the merchant thinking he had succeeded in scaring the Bourc, and that was not merely demeaning, it could be dangerous. If common people thought they could flout the law and attack their betters, all well-born men would be endangered.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that his master would enthusiastically support him punishing the guilty man. He must go and see Trevellyn.
He was following the trail made by his horses and those of his attackers back to the copse, and slowed as he came closer. On a sudden whim, he swerved aside and rode a short way parallel to the trees, his eyes flitting over the boughs. Two men had come back this way. They could still be there.
After going east for some hundreds of yards, he abruptly cantered to the woods, crashing through the ferns and bushes at the perimeter, half expecting to feel the sting of an arrow at any moment, but he heard and saw nothing to warrant concern. When he paused, listening for any noise over the breathing of the two horses, there was nothing. He carried on.
But he kept an eye open all the way.
“Tanner? Are you all right?” Simon had watched the tall figure of the knight ride away, the small shape of the dog at his horse’s heels – obviously having found another master, the dog was not willing to lose him. Now he turned, worried at the man’s taciturn demeanour.
The constable was slouched on his horse as they passed the Oatway holding, chin on his breast as if asleep, but staying stiff and steady in his saddle. At Simon’s question, his head snapped up, and the bailiff, to his intense annoyance, found himself being studied closely.
“What is it. Tanner?”
“I’m not sure, Bailiff.”
“Come on, you’ve been quiet all afternoon. What is it?”
But the constable would not say more. All he had were vague suspicions: Greencliff had been nervous; the boy was more scared of the knight than of the body. That was normal for a villein, and Greencliff lived on Furnshill’s land. It was only natural for him to be fearful of his master – his master held his life and livelihood in his mailed fist. That was no reason to denounce the boy.
In his youth Tanner had been a soldier for the king, as had old Samuel Cottey. They had been men-at-arms with one of the companies protecting the Welsh marches, and had witnessed all possible human cruelties at the time, or so Tanner had thought. He had seen the murders of the villagers, the rape of the women and the slow torture of men suspected of spying or fighting against the army, and it had been there, in the smoke and fury of the Welsh battles, that they had decided to leave warfare to others. They had returned home, Tanner to take up his father’s profession as a farmer until he was elected to be constable. This he found a difficult responsibility to drop, but until the previous year he had never been involved in more than the normal routine of arresting cut-purses at Crediton market.
Last year that had all changed when the trail bastons arrived and began to pillage the shire, killing and burning from Exeter to Oakhampton. That was when he rediscovered the joy of holding a sword. He had rediscovered the wicked delight in fighting, when the fighting was for a good cause. And now he had the same feeling: that something was wrong in the area. There was a killer loose. A killer who might strike again.
It was hard to believe that Greencliff could be involved. He knew the boy, had known him for over ten years, had known his father, and it seemed impossible that he could be involved in this murder. And yet he had been very nervous, and the body was very close to his house…
“I think I’ll leave you at the inn. I want to go and see Greencliff.”
The Bourc had travelled for over three miles through the woods when he came up to the edge and gazed out at the road. There was nothing overt to cause him alarm, and he was about to kick his horse forward when a sudden caution made him stop.
In front of him the lane straggled untidily down the hill from his left, a red and muddy track cutting through the woods. He could see how it bent, falling down a steep incline to a rushing stream where a massive granite block acted as a simple bridge. At the other side the road rose steeply, soon swinging right to follow the riverbank all the way to Crediton. All seemed quiet and peaceful. There was no obvious reason for nervousness, no indication that any other person was near, but he paused and frowned warily.
Although there was probably nothing, he felt a prickling of his scalp. Partly, he was sure, it was due to the perfect siting of the bridge. If he had wanted to attack someone on the road, this would have been the place he would have chosen. The steep sides of the two hills made a fast escape almost impossible, whether forwards or back. The road narrowed at the bridge over the fast waters, funnelling the victim perfectly into a small area where it would be easy to haul a man from his horse or strike him.
Nodding to himself, he studied the trees lining the trail. They were thick, with dense bushes beneath. If someone was there, he would hardly be able to see them. But he could still feel the warning tingle of danger. Dropping from his horse, he lashed the reins to a branch and walked down the hill, along the line of the road but keeping just inside the trees. All the way he kept a wary eye on the dirt of the lane, but saw nothing alarming.
The traffic making its way from Crediton and Exeter to Moretonhampstead and beyond had chewed the path into a quagmire, and the deep ruts bore witness to the number of vehicles which had recently passed. Hoof prints scarred the red mud, leaving it crate red and pitted, looking like stew left boiling for too long.