vague interest – or was it hostility? Then, looking at the older man once more, “Did you part at any time on the way back?”
To his surprise it was Alfred who answered before his brother could open his mouth. “No. We were together the whole time.”
As the two were led away and Black fetched Roger Ulton, Baldwin raised the corners of his mouth in a poor mockery of a grin and faced Simon. “Well?”
“I didn’t like the look of the younger one, and I didn’t trust him. But whether they were capable of killing Brewer and trying to hide the fact afterwards – well I just don’t know.”
“No, neither do I,” said Baldwin reflectively. “But it did seem as if the younger one – Alfred – was trying to hide something. I don’t know. Edward seemed honest enough, or at least he didn’t say anything that I could put my finger on.”
“No. Well, let’s see what this Roger has to say for himself,” said Simon, and they both turned to the man walking towards them with Black.
Close to, he looked less anaemic than he had from a distance. He was a thin young man, surely not an uncommon sight after the last two years of famine, and his emaciated appearance was heightened by a curious pallor in his complexion. His clothes, light brown woollen shift and leggings, seemed too large for him, and Simon immediately wondered whether they were originally made for a brother – or a father? His boots were worn and flopped as he walked, adding to the general effect of decay that he seemed to project, and they looked too large for his feet. His tunic had a hood, but it was thrown back as he walked to the knight and bailiff, to show an effeminately long, thin neck. Like his features, this was very pale, and Simon found it attracted instant attention. Almost as a disability draws the eyes against the wish of the onlooker, this neck, swanlike in its elegance, seemed to exert some power over the vision, as if wanting to emphasise its own vulnerability by dragging the gaze to it, so that the observer could wonder how the red blood could pump beneath such pure alabaster flesh.
It was with an almost physical effort that the bailiff had to wrench his eyes away and lift them to the face of the witness. By the sudden twitching jerk at his right, he knew that Baldwin had been similarly affected. They both studied the face in front of them with interest.
Like Edward before him, Roger kept his eyes cast downward in humility, the perfect example of a poor serf. But his eyes flickered occasionally as he tried to glimpse the faces of the two questioners before him. His face was as thin as his neck, and as pale, creating a disturbing contrast with his hair, which was raven black, as dark as Black’s own. But where the hunter gave off an aura of strong and vibrant health, this man seemed weak and sickly. His mouth was a thin streak slashed under his nose, the nose looked as though it should have a permanent dewdrop dangling, and his eyes, when he looked up, seemed watery and almost colourless, as if, like a coloured book in the rain, their paint had been washed off. The whole impact of this man was unappealing – there was not even the interest, Baldwin thought, of young Alfred. At least he had a spark of individuality; he would make a good trader. This one seemed to have nothing.
The knight looked down at his own feet, wondering where to begin, and then, as he looked up, caught a fleeting glimpse of a different Roger. For a split second he caught and held the man’s eyes, and, in that moment, he realised that the man was not as weak as he had thought.
“You are called Roger?” he started sternly.
“Yes, sir.” He had a strangely deep voice, an unexpected bass from such a thin body, and he spoke with almost reverential respect.
“Last night you went to visit your woman, this Emma…”
“Emma Boundstone, sir. She lives with her parents at Hollowbrook.”
“Yes. What time did you leave her?”
Perhaps it was the curtness of the question, or the frowning glare from the knight, but whatever the reason, the young man’s face coloured instantly.
“Why, sir?”
“What?” Baldwin slammed his glove down onto the trunk beside him, and bellowed, making Simon jump and nervously stare at him. “I asked you when you left her! Do not presume to ask me why I ask. Answer the question.”
“Sir, I mean no offence, I… it was about ten o’clock, sir. Ten o’clock. No later, I think.” and he subsided, his face down once more in apparent misery.
More softly now, Baldwin said, “How far is Hollowbrook from here?”
“About three miles, sir. Not more, I should say.”
“So you were back here again at… what, about half past ten, maybe eleven o’clock?”
“Earlier rather than later, sir. Nearer half past ten than eleven.”
“And did you see anyone on your way home?”
“No, sir. I saw no one.”
“Do you live alone?”
“No. My parents are still there. And my brother.”
“So they would know when you got in?”
“Oh no, sir. They were all asleep by then. No, I came in quietly and went to my bed without disturbing them.”
Baldwin nodded and looked over at Simon. “Do you have anything to ask?”
“Yes,” said Simon, leaning forward and fixing a glowering stare on the man. “Where is Hollowbrook from here?”
“Where? It’s over there, sir,” said the man, pointing back down the road, to the south.
“So you wouldn’t have passed Brewer’s house to get home?” When he shook his head, Simon gave a dismissive gesture. “Fine, that’s all I wanted to know. You may go – for now.”
They watched him leave, slouching away to the lane and up the road toward his house, then, “Well?” said Baldwin enquiringly.
“I have no idea. They all seem so damn scared. It’s probably no more than the fact that we’re not villeins like them. We terrify them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only way to get the truth out of most of them would be to put them on the rack!”
“Don’t!” Baldwin’s short, anguished cry made Simon stop in horror, shocked at his friend’s pained expression. Seeing the concern and anxiety in Simon’s eyes, the knight reached towards him, an arm falteringly held out as if in supplication – or was it to hold him at bay? The bailiff took the proffered hand, fleetingly feeling the agonised, convulsive strength in the knight’s grip. After a moment, the knight’s fingers relaxed, but Simon was shocked at the way that the misery and depression remained in the dark eyes.
To Black it seemed as if the world had stopped with that single, agonised, cry. He felt, rather than saw, Edgar move forward a little, then stop as if undecided, his hand on his dagger hilt, his gaze fixed on the two men in front. Clearly he was in two minds, the hunter could see that. It was as though he wanted to leap forward to defend the knight, but was held back by the fact that he knew there was no real danger near. Black looked from the knight to the bailiff, and then quickly back to the servant, and relaxed as he saw the servant’s hand drop from his hilt. Licking his now dry lips, Black let his own hand fall from his skinning knife. He liked the bailiff and was not going to see him killed without defending him.
Baldwin was breathing quickly, not from exertion but in an attempt to regain his composure, as he held Simon’s hand. “My friend,” he murmured, “don’t think that the rack or other tortures would help. I have seen them, and the effect of them. They do not work; all they do is destroy a man. They cannot force him to tell the truth, but they can force him to tell a lie, just to stop the pain. They do not help us to find the truth, all tortures can achieve is the breaking of a man so that he is destroyed, ruined.” His eyes held Simon’s for a moment, as firmly as his hand had grasped the bailiff’s, and the fear and disgust was there again, together with… what? Pleading? Was this knight begging for him to understand, or was he asking for forgiveness? Simon felt nervous, unsure of how to react, concerned that he might upset his friend even further, but certain that Baldwin needed reassurance.
“Baldwin, we’ll not use any torture in this matter,” he said, and that seemed to be enough.
The knight slowly took a short pace backwards, as if he was unwilling to lose contact with the bailiff, his eyes fixed on Simon’s face. There was no denying it, the knight knew he was still too badly affected by his experiences in France. To have erupted like that! When it was obvious that Simon was only joking, too. It was ridiculous.
Turning, he began to lead the way back to the inn, but as Simon followed, his eyes were fixed on the knight’s
