Agatha Kyteler’s death was very sad, she reflected. It was all round that the old woman’s throat had been cut. The innkeeper had charged people a fee to look, and many had taken the opportunity, giving gory details later to the others waiting eagerly outside, and that made her feel sad, as if the old woman had been molested. Jennie was happy enough to go and watch the executions when she had a chance, but that was different. That was seeing other people who did not matter. It was quite an exciting time, usually with a small, thriving market to supply food and drink to the crowds waiting for the first hanging, waiting to see the criminals being lined up, having the ropes set around their necks until they were hauled upwards, spinning slowly, twitching and jerking in their struggle for life, while the hemp tightened and stopped the breath in their throats.
If the felon was particularly strong and muscled – she had seen it a few times – one of the executioners would have to grab the swinging body, then leap up and embrace it, using his extra weight to jerk the victim down hard and fast to snap the spine. But they only did that if the felon was still alive after fifteen minutes or so, not before. After all, they had to make sure that the crowds were satisfied with their viewing first, even if there were a lot more criminals waiting for their turn. Otherwise there could be arguments over the gambling, with accusations that the executioners had intentionally killed the victim before the allotted time, that they had been bribed, and they could all do without the problems that kind of altercation produced.
At the outskirts of the town, she took a wineskin and sipped at the freezing liquid. Then, taken by a sudden urge, she halted the wagon and dropped to the ground. Crunching through the thick layer of snow, she walked to a bush at the edge of a field strip, lifted her tunic and skirts and squatted, giving a sigh of relief. It must be the jogging of the wagon that always had this effect, she thought.
Then, over the sound of her little stream as it died to a slow trickle, she heard a merry, tinkling laugh, and the steady clopping of hooves. Lifting herself, she peered over the shrub toward the road, where she saw two riders. One, she saw, was a middle-aged man, thickset with a heavy belly, and a face like a mastiffs, all wrinkled and creased, with two small and cruel eyes. The other was a younger woman, tall, slim and dark, with long braided tresses lying over her shoulders as black as ravens’ wings, framing a face as beautiful as the Madonna’s. Her hood was back, but the fringe of rabbit fur showed light against the darker grey of the cloak. She glanced at the miller’s wife, then through her as if she was no more important or interesting than the shrub she squatted behind. The man ignored her completely.
As Jennie stood and let her skirts fall, her hands automatically smoothing her tunic over the top, her eyes remained fixed on them.
Simon and Baldwin arrived at the de la Forte house in the middle of the morning. Both felt the cold today, as if Hugh’s misery of the previous afternoon had reminded them both how chill the weather was. It had not snowed again overnight, but this morning the clouds were thick above, looking as soft as goose-down in the heavens, and promised more snow to come.
Today they were prepared. Edgar rode with them, and each carried a sack of provisions and a wineskin. The bailiff had felt the bitterness in the air early when they left, and glancing at Baldwin, he could see that the knight was feeling the cold as well. His chest was rigid, his shoulders hunched and his mouth pursed, looking as resolutely slammed shut as an iron door. Gentle though the breeze was, it made up for its lack of speed by shearing through any protection, seeming to aim straight for the vitals.
Arriving at the house, he thought it looked very peaceful and quiet, with the smoke rising and gently swaying before dispersing in a straggling feather that trailed languidly northwards. Here, between Wefford and Crediton, even the noises from the strip fields would be hidden by the thick woods all around on a clear summer’s day. Now there was nothing. Not even the lowing of the oxen in their byres could be heard. The only sounds were of their hooves crunching and the occasional tinkling of their horse’s harnesses, like soft bells in the pale sunlight.
With the glory of the view, with the gently rolling hills looking smothered by the tree-tops that stretched off, over to the horizon, and with the air chill and fresh in his lungs, Simon felt good: strong and healthy, alert and sharp. The ride had honed his senses, and he waited for the door to open, with a keen excitement. He wanted answers from young Stephen de la Forte.
The thin, pinched face of the manservant at the door was an anticlimax, as if his temper needed immediate expression and any delay was merely frustrating. The feeling made him curt with the man, and when the old figure retreated, cowed, into the screens, he was ashamed of himself. There was no need to vent his spleen on this man.
Baldwin noticed his sharpness and smiled to himself as he followed the bailiff into the main hall. Here they were left alone for a moment while the servant disappeared through to the solar. The knight walked to the table, pulled out the bench, and sat, his eyes on his friend.
The bailiff was strolling round the room casually, his hands clasped behind his back, the very picture of suave relaxation. But Baldwin could see the suppressed excitement in the way that his head kept snapping towards the door at the faintest sound. He was clearly on edge.
They had been waiting for several minutes when they heard the clumping of feet in the solar, and shortly afterwards the door opened to show Walter de la Forte. He paused, glaring from one to the other, then gave what looked like a sneer and walked to the table where Baldwin sat watching him with calm and detached interest.
To the knight it looked as if the merchant was taunting them, as though he felt they were both so insignificant as to hardly merit any respect, and Baldwin was intrigued. It was strange that a man of lowly birth should feel superior to a bailiff and a keeper of the king’s peace.
It seemed to Baldwin that Simon was as interested in the man’s attitude as he was, and began to question him with a soft, almost gentle voice.
“After our last meeting, we have released Harold Greencliff.”
Watching closely, Baldwin saw the man’s sudden doubt. Walter de la Forte glanced across at the knight before staring back at Simon. “Released him?”
“Yes. Your son made it clear that they were together all day, so of course Harold could not have been involved, could he?”
“Oh. No, I suppose not.”
“Yes, but if Harold Greencliff didn’t kill Agatha Kyteler, who did? We can find no one who can suggest any good reason so we wondered if it could be someone from her past. We’ve heard that you were involved in the escape from Acre with your partner.”
“So what? Anyway, who told you?”
“Did you know that Agatha Kyteler came from Acre? That she came over with a boy and saved his life?”
At first Walter de la Forte looked merely astonished, but when he spoke, his voice was as forceful as before. He asked truculently, “What’s that supposed to mean? What is this? Are you accusing me of something? Is that it? You feel you have the right to come to my house and accuse me of murdering some old woman just because we were in the same place ages ago?”
“We have the right to go anywhere and ask anyone about the matter. I work for the de Courtenay family, and my friend works for the king. We have the right to question even you!”
Something snapped in him. The merchant half rose from his chair, his feet sliding back under him as if he was about to leap up and attack Simon, but even as he moved, Baldwin coughed and twitched his sword hilt with studied carelessness, making the steel stub at the end of the scabbard scrape over the floor with a harsh, metallic ringing. When Walter de la Forte shot him a glance, there was an expression of faint inquiry on the knight’s face, as if he was merely waiting for the man’s response. But Walter de la Forte saw that Baldwin’s hand remained on the grip of his sword, and the meaning was clear.