see nothing. Shrugging he looked up at the knight questioningly. “She was obviously lying here before it snowed,” he hazarded.
“Maybe I’m…” Baldwin broke off, then span and stomped back to the body. Reluctantly the bailiff followed.
Although he tried to avert his eyes, Simon found that they kept returning to the hideous wound, and his belly began to feel like a cauldron of stew on a fire, bubbling and thickening, making him belch. The bile rose to sting his throat, and he winced at the rough acidic taste. The corpse seemed to hold no fears for the knight, who took the head in both hands and turned it first one way, then the other, peering into the gash and at the yellowed cartilage of the severed pipes. He stared at the blue, pinched and drawn features, into the unseeing misty eyes, before rising again and frowning down, slowly walking round the body and contemplating it with his head on one side.
“I saw this woman on Saturday,“ he said softly. ”I didn’t know her name then. She was just some old woman on the road. I’ve never even spoken to her, and now I must find out who murdered her.“ He stopped his musing and looked up at Simon. ”Sad, isn’t it?“
“Oh… yes.”
The knight gave a short grin. “That’s not the point, though, Simon. Sad it may be, but there’s something wrong here. Can’t you see? She had her throat cut. She must have bled like a stuck pig! So where’s the blood? Eh?”
For all Greencliff’s nervousness, Tanner was pleased to see that he was happy enough to help carry the corpse back to the wagon while Simon and Baldwin subjected the hedge to a close scrutiny. The boy even took the blanket from his shoulders and helped the constable wrap it around the thin, frail figure, setting it beside her and rolling her into it, but while the constable took the shoulders, he could not help but notice the way that Greencliff’s eyes kept going back to the gap in the hedge where Agatha Kyteler had lain.
The old constable had seen many corpses in his life, brutally wounded figures after a battle, men who had bled to death after their limbs were hacked off or who suffered slow and painful deaths from stabs to the stomach, and the sad, tortured bodies of the people that tried to cross the moors in bad weather. For him, they were the worst, their hands contorted into grasping claws as they tried to drag themselves those few extra yards to safety, their faces twisted and staring with anguish, even in death. He was understanding of people who were revolted by the sights, although he bore them with equanimity, but he was faintly surprised that Greencliff should be so calm in the face of his previous apparent fear.
It was when they reached the hedge that led to the road that he realised he was wrong. Greencliff went up the incline first, stumbling backwards. At the top he paused and Tanner caught sight of his face. The boy was not just nervous: he was terrified, and the constable was about to urge him on impatiently, “She’s dead, boy, she won’t care if you drop her now!” when he saw the boy’s glance flicker over to Baldwin and Simon, and the realisation hit him like a bolt from the sky: he was scared of the knight, not of the body!
From that moment, the constable kept a wary eye on him. They managed at last to heave the body down into the track, and from there it took little time to toss it unceremoniously into the back of the high wagon. Again, the constable saw that the old farmer did not move. He too seemed petrified. Even when the old woman’s corpse hit the wagon and made it lurch, Cottey stayed staring resolutely ahead, shoulders hunched as if against the cold and elbows resting on his knees.
“Come on, Sam,” Tanner called. “Let’s get her back to Wefford.” Cottey whistled and clucked to the mule, but neither spoke nor turned, and the constable shook his head in a quick flare of disgust.
Baldwin and Simon were soon back. The knight mounted his horse and watched as Simon followed suit, then glanced over at Greencliff. “We may want to see you later – when we’ve had a chance to find out more. You live there?” He pointed with his chin to the longhouse at the top of a small rise. When Greencliff nodded, he wheeled round, checked the others were ready, and started off back to Wefford. By the time they had entered the trees again, he found Simon had caught up with him and was riding alongside.
Smiling, the knight gave him a quick look. “Feeling better?”
“Not really, no.” He was quiet for a moment, then said musingly, “It’s always worst just before you see them, isn’t it? It’s not knowing what you’re going to find that makes it more revolting. Once you’ve actually seen the damage, it’s not so bad.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Baldwin, the smile fading.
“Are you sure about the blood?”
The humour was wiped away like snow from armour. “Yes. She cannot have died there, not with the amount of blood she must have lost. Think about it: when you slit the throat of a pig or lamb, the blood sprays, doesn’t it?”
“Well, yes…”
“So too with humans. If she had died there, the leaves, the ground, everything would have her gore. No, she cannot have died there.”
“So where did she die?”
“Where?” His voice became lower and quieter, and he was musing as he continued, “That’s what we must try to find out.”
Yes, thought Simon. And why she was put there, too.
They clattered into Wefford at a little before lunch, and carried the wrapped figure into the inn, ignoring the protests of the owner, before calling for mulled wine.
Walking through into the dark interior, Simon strode over to the benches and sat, holding his hands out to the flames as if in a pagan ritual, feeling the numbness flee, only to leave stabs and prickles as sensation returned. Groaning, he stretched his legs towards the hearth and flexed his toes, grimacing in the exquisite pain.
After a moment he heard the curtain draw aside and the familiar stomp of his friend.
“God! Thank you for small gifts! That feels so good!” said the knight, baring his teeth as he stood close to the flames and sighed, “Innkeeper! Where’s my wine?”
Simon glanced at him. “I thought you believed in moderation with your wine?“
“When it’s this cold? Moderation, yes: but not to the exclusion of comfort,” he said, then roared again: “Innkeeper!”
He entered scowling, a look of bitter dissatisfaction on his face, and walked to the other end of his hall, disappearing through the curtain. After a moment he was back, carrying a pair of jugs and mugs on a tray which he set down between them. Turning, he was about to leave when Simon called him back.
“This dead woman, Agatha Kyteler,” the bailiff mused. “The name doesn’t sound local to these parts.”
“No, sir. She was quite new hereabouts. Only came here about ten years ago.”
“You seemed surprised earlier when you heard who had died. When we were questioning Cottey.”
“I was, sir. I heard her name only recently.” The man told of the visit of the Bourc and how he had asked about the old woman. Baldwin frowned as he listened but did not say anything, and ignored Simon’s questioning glance.
“What do you know about her?” asked Simon, his eyes on his friend. He felt nervous. It was clear that the knight was worried, and from what he had said of the Bourc’s visit when the Puttocks had arrived, he could guess why.
“Know about her? I don’t…”
“She was murdered, you know,” said Baldwin shortly, avoiding the man’s eyes as he toyed with the hilt of his sword in a vaguely threatening manner. “We want to find out who did it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, answer!”
Sighing, the innkeeper poured wine for them, then sat and watched morosely as they sipped the hot, spiced liquid. “She came from far off. Some say from the Holy Land. I don’t know. Took the assart down behind the Oatway place, about a mile from here, out east.”
“And?” Baldwin’s eyes narrowed and Simon had the impression that he was sure the publican was holding something back. “Come on, man. You’re the innkeeper! You know everyone here, and you know all the gossip, too. What was said about her? Who knew her well? Who liked her, who hated her? What do you know about her?”
His eyes flitted nervously from the knight to the bailiff and back, then, as if afraid of what he might see in their faces, he stared at the flames. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice, not fearful, but slow and deliberate. “She weren’t wealthy, but always had enough to survive. Very clever, she was, and that upset a lot of
