“I can’t finish, I’m too tired,” he heard one say.
“Hisht! Save your breath! We have to, or he’ll take the skin off your back. You know what he’s like.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to rest, or I’ll die here.”
“Such talk! Just get on and…‘ He was cut off by an enraged bellow.
“What are you doing?” The Bourc saw with surprise that the merchant had suddenly come round from the edge of the trees and now stood, hands on hips, glowering at the men. “Well? Why have you slowed? Maybe this will give you some energy!”
As he spoke, his hand reached back over his head, and the Bourc saw he held a short whip. It made a hideous whistling noise, as full of venom as a snake. Then the younger of the woodsmen cried out as it cracked. A fold of the tunic above his elbow opened and flapped, and a red flood began to stain his arm. Whimpering, the boy hefted his hatchet high overhead, but even as the axe fell, the whip slashed across his back.
The older man stoicly chopped at the branches, but he was not safe. Two strokes caught him, one around his waist, one on the chest which made him stumble and forced the breath to sob in his throat.
“Pick up the branches you’ve already cut and carry them to the house!”
“The wagon, sir, it’s not back yet, and…‘ The boy’s voice faltered. His objection earned him another crack from the whip.
“Do as I order, unless you want to feel this again!”
From his vantage point the Bourc watched as the two men, one snivelling, the other silent with a kind of taut agony, collected armfuls and walked back to the house.
“And hurry. You have to finish this tonight!” the merchant shouted at their retreating backs. Then he turned and looked at their work with a sneer. “Fools!” he muttered contemptuously. He kicked at a branch, walking farther along the trunk towards the trees, and the Bourc smiled to himself.
Giving a polite cough as the merchant passed by, he was pleased to see sudden fear in the man’s face as he turned and saw the Gascon for the first time. “Mr. Trevellyn, I am so pleased to see you again. I think we have some things to talk about.”
He saw the whip rise and leap back, and then it was whistling towards him.
Chapter Fourteen
The innkeeper at the ‘Sign of the Moon’ was very busy that night. It seemed that everybody from the village had come to his hall to drink. There was little else to do on a cold and snow-bound night, and while it was a delight to have the room filled with people wanting his ale, it still created havoc. He only hoped that his stocks of beer would survive until the next brew was ready.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered when a new hand stuck in the air or a fresh voice called to him. If it carried on like this until the spring, he would have to get someone to help. As it was, he and his wife were running witlessly like headless chickens, out to the buttery where they refilled their jugs with ale or wine, then to the hall again, where they struggled to fill the mugs and pots before they were all emptied. It was like trying to limewash a city wall, he thought. Just when you think you’ve finished, as you get back to the beginning, you find it’s already old and worn and you have to start again.
One group he watched with a particularly sour eye. He took no delight in gossip, even if it was a stock currency here in the ‘Moon’. He especially disliked malicious rumours that could hurt or offend, and the Miller family had an effective monopoly of them today.
Seeing a man lift his tankard in a silent plea, the innkeeper wove his way through the groups of people. As he stood pouring, he could hear the Millers.
“But how do they know it was Mrs.. Trevellyn as was carryin‘ on with young Harry?” he heard one man ask.
Jennie leaned forward, her face serious. “Who else could it’ve been?” she said. “It was her who went to Greencliff and tempted him. And then they went to Agatha. You know what that means. And then they went back, after killing her.”
“So you sayin‘ as it was both of them did it? They both killed Agatha?”
The innkeeper walked away sighing. It was bad hearing such talk, ruining people’s characters to fill a boring evening. There was one thing for certain: it was bound to get someone into trouble. He glanced back at the little huddle, his eyes looking for empty pots, but always they were drawn back to the group. Was it worth telling them to shut up? No, they would carry on. Throw them all out? They would just hold court outside, and he would lose business at the same time. He shrugged. May as well let them continue, he thought, and went out to refill the jug again.
There was another man who was not amused by the talk. Stephen de la Forte sat near the screens, his back to the room, his face twisted as if his ale was vinegar.
His mug was empty. Turning, he tried to catch the eye of the innkeeper, but instead found himself being fixed by the gaze of the Miller girl, the oldest one, who stood and subjected him to a close scrutiny before tugging at her mother’s tunic.
Jennie saw the white-faced youth staring and her voice failed. Following the direction of her gaze, the group saw Stephen, and their chattering died, as if the sluice that fed their conversation had been shut, and suddenly all talking in the hall stopped.
Now Stephen found himself the focus of all attention. He stood and walked to the table where the Millers sat, the woman staring at him with large bold eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” he said deliberately. “You’re all saying it was those two, when there’s nothing to prove it, apart from her,” he pointed to Jennie, “saying he was in the road that day. There’s nothing else says they had anything to do with it. Nothing.”
“Come on, Stephen,” came a voice. “Nothing wrong with wondering. That’s all we’re doing, just wondering who might have done it.”
He spun to face the talker, an older man with round, jowled face and grizzled hair. “Nothing wrong? You’ve all set your mind to it that they’re guilty, haven’t you? Eh?” He looked around the table, staring into their eyes, until he met those of Jennie Miller. Only then did his Jip curl into a sneer. Shaking his head with contempt, he spun on his heel and left, yanking so hard at the curtain as he left that he nearly pulled it from its fixings.
The wind had built again, and was whipping the snow into mad, whirling smoke before him, obliterating the view and making it hard to see the ground under his horse’s feet. It was with a curse of sheer fury that the Bourc dropped from the saddle, wincing as the movement pulled the fresh scabs on his back, and led his horses on, trying to keep his head to the south. This was worse than anything he had experienced before.
Here, this far into the moors, it was hard to maintain any course. All sense of direction had left him, and now he found it almost impossible to guess which direction was south. But he was tenacious and determined. He had never before failed to find his way, even when high in the mountains, and he was confident that he would win through, even if occasionally he would curse the thought of the easy lanes and roadways to the north which he had forsaken in favour of this bitter route.
At first he had managed to make good time. He had collected more wood, storing it as faggots on the pack-horse. The sky had been clear over to the south where the moors lay. Only to the north did clouds darken the sky. But that had changed as soon as he rode on to the rolling hills. Immediately the wind had begun to gust and blow, bringing the salty taint of the sea at first, but by late morning it was full of bitter coldness.