“The witch, you mean.”
The knight peered at him. The boy’s voice sounded as though he was caught between emotions. It was as if anger and impatience were struggling for dominance, but Baldwin was sure he could see contempt, and self-disgust as well. “Did you think she was a witch?”
“Me?” The question seemed to surprise him.
“Yes. What did you think of her?”
“I didn’t think anything of her. I know what she was. Evil! She deserved to die!”
“Why?”
The boy held his gaze firmly and squared his shoulders with resolution, but kept silent. After a few moments Baldwin sighed.
“Very well. If you do not wish to answer, I cannot force you.” Greencliff glanced across at the imperturbable Tanner, and looked as though he was sneering. Turning, he was about to return to his cell when Baldwin stopped him. “No. Your friend has told us the truth.”
“What?” Greencliff spun round and stared at the knight. Strangely, Baldwin thought he was now scared. “Who?”
“Yes, we know you were with Stephen de la Forte all afternoon. He’s told us.”
Later, he knew that what worried him most was the fleeting glimpse of absolute surprise as the boy said, “Stephen?”
Chapter Eleven
They left the youth with Peter, consuming a large bowl of stew with minced meat, the priest happily organising more bread and ale as his guest ate.
Simon rode quietly with his chin on his chest. The three were silent, as though they were all contemplating the murder. At last, he said, “Baldwin, we must go back to Wefford and ask other people what they saw.”
“Yes, you’re right. We’ve spent two days thinking that Greencliff had to have been involved. Now we must get back to trying to find out who really was,” said Baldwin and sighed.
“Calm yourself, Baldwin.”
The knight threw him a puzzled glance. “Eh?”
“Just because it wasn’t Greencliff, that doesn’t mean it was your friend’s son.”
“No, but it’s suspicious, isn’t it? That he was here, trying to find out about her just the day before she…‘
“Look at it this way – nobody saw him there, did they? Let’s see whether someone else was there.”
“Yes,”, he said, but not convinced.
“So, where do we start?”
The knight stared ahead, towards the town itself, as if there was a clue in the scenery itself. “Jennie Miller, I suppose. Oat way said she was there with Sarah Cottey. Let’s see her. She might know something that can help us.”
The mill was a large, sturdy building to the east of Wefford, and they found their way to it by the simple method of riding through the woods until they came to the stream, then following it north. It stood in a small, sheltered valley. Looking at it, Simon thought it looked like a safe and warm property, with thick walls and a pleasing drift of smoke rising from the tall chimney. At the eastern end lay the stream from which it gained its power, quiet and sluggish now, but wild and fast when the countryside was less frozen. They had to cross the leat to get to the buildings, and were able to use a small wooden bridge that had been thrown over to help the farmers bring their grain.
Baldwin nodded approvingly as he gazed at the mill and the stream. Mills were jealously guarded by their parishes, and although the knight had only been here once before, and then only briefly, he was proud of this one. It had been built by his brother only five years before, and he was glad to see that the walls were maintained well, their limewash shining in the light.
But then, as they approached, they heard a high scream, and they spun in the saddles to look for the source. It seemed to be a young girl’s voice.
At first there was nothing, then the cry came again, shrill and urgent, from the woods to their left, on the other side of the water. Baldwin felt at once for his sword arid drew it, scanning the trees with a frown while Simon fumbled for his knife and spurred his horse alongside. They exchanged a glance, then both prepared to leap the stream.
“Ignore them, they always make a lot of noise.”
Turning, Baldwin saw a smiling, chubby woman in her early twenties standing in the doorway. He motioned toward the noise uncomprehendingly. “But… Who?”
Her smile broadening, she put a finger and thumb to her mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Immediately the sounds stopped, and were replaced by giggling and laughter, quickly approaching. After a few minutes four children appeared, two boys and two girls, the oldest being perhaps ten or eleven years old.
The knight’s eyebrows rose in sardonic amusement as he carefully stowed his sword away. Simon frowned as he watched the oldest of the two girls walk sedately to her mother. It was the girl from outside the inn, the one he had seen when they had brought the witch’s body back from the field. His eyes rose to take in the mother as Baldwin asked:
“You are Jennie Miller?”
Her grin broadening, she nodded as her brood accumulated around her, their eyes fixed on the strangers. “Yes. It was the children playing. I’m sorry if they troubled you.”
Clearing his throat, Simon glanced at his friend as he shoved his dagger back in its sheath, it’s no trouble. We… Er… Thought someone was being attacked. That was all.“
The knight dropped from his horse and glanced up at Simon, then over at Hugh, who sat glowering with a face like thunder. When he turned to the woman, Baldwin was laughing. “No, it’s no trouble, apart from having a fit of the vapours!” He strode forward, “I am Baldwin Furnshill. Can we speak to you?”
At her nod, Simon leapt down, threw his reins to Hugh and told him to wait with the horses. She led them inside, sending the children away to play.
It was sparsely furnished, but welcoming and homely. There was a large table, benches, and chairs at one end, and at the other was a huge chimney and hearth, now filled with logs and roaring. Motioning towards the flames, Jennie Miller said, “My husband isn’t here right now, he’s woodcutting. If you want him, you’re welcome to wait by the fire…‘ Her voice trailed off inquiringly.
Taking a seat at the fire, Baldwin sat and smiled. “No, it was you we wished to see.”
“Me?” Her eyes seemed huge, but not from fear, only amusement. This was no mindless peasant, Baldwin thought to himself, this was a quick-witted and intelligent woman. She was also clearly not afraid.
“It’s about the death of Agatha Kyteler,” said Simon as he too dragged a chair to the fire, then sat contemplatively staring at her. “Did you know her?”
She laughed as she sat. “Everyone knew old Agatha! She was always helpful to people who needed her sort of aid.”
“What sort of aid?”
“Anything,” she shrugged. “A salve for a burn or wound, a potion to clear the bowels, a medicine to stop pain – she could give help to almost anyone. She was very clever.”
The bailiff peered at her. “You know what the people say about her? That she was a…‘
“A witch?” She laughed. “Oh, yes, some said so. Why? Do you believe that?”
From his side Simon heard a low chuckle. He subsided back into his seat and left the knight to the questioning, faintly offended by his friend’s amusement. It was not surprising that he should believe, after all. He was not credulous, but everyone knew that the Devil was all round, trying to win over the forces of good and subvert them. Shrugging, he watched the woman as Baldwin began to question her.
“You didn’t think she was a witch?”
“No,” she said dismissively. “That was only a rumour. Old Grisel wanted to blame her bad luck on someone else. Bad luck happens. When we lose a sack of corn to weevils we don’t say someone put a curse on us. It just happens. When something steals chickens, there’s no reason to assume that it must be because of a witch. It was probably a fox!”