One window high in the northern wall gave a little light into the gloomy interior. From it he could see that there was one almost square room, with a tiny attic area which had a seven runged ladder leading up to it. Baldwin could make out the rugs and furs that made up the bed in it. Beneath, all was cluttered. In the centre sat a fireplace, around which stood two small benches. To the right was a table, covered with earthenware pots and a variety of twigs, leaves and roots. A pair of large flat granite stones sat near the fire, which must have been used for grinding in place of mortar and pestle.
All over the floor were pots and vessels containing seeds and leaves, some fresh, some dry, giving the room a soft and musty odour. Around the walls and from the beams hung clumps of other branches and drying flowers, but it was to his left that his eyes were pulled. There had been a similar table to that opposite, a simple affair built of roughly-hewn planks on top of a pair of trestles, but here it was fallen, as if pulled or yanked over into the room, away from the wall. The collection of herbs and other plants was scattered all over the floor, and broken pots lay underneath the toppled baulks of wood.
“Wait here,” said Baldwin shortly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the floor around the table. Walking past the constable, he moved forward slowly, gazing at the wreckage while he wondered whether there had been a fight.
Turning, he looked at the other side of the room.
There, he saw, the table was standing hard against the wall. The pots around it on the floor were neatly organised on both sides, as if placed in military lines. He wandered carefully towards it and picked up a pair. One contained what looked like several twigs of yew, the other held leaves and stems from a juniper. He replaced them thoughtfully and strolled back to the fallen table.
Here, it appeared, the same pots had stood at either side, with some resting on top. There were several more smashed on the ground, and leaves and roots were scattered all over the floor. Baldwin crouched down and picked up a few. Mostly they appeared to be different herbs. He smelled thyme, basil and sage. And something else. Over the heavy musk and the thick pine, he could smell the decaying sweetness. As Simon came in, darkening the room as his body shut out the light from the doorway, the knight’s fingers encountered the slight stickiness, chilly and thick on the floor, directly in front of the table.
“Found anything?” Simon asked from the entrance. He saw the knight turn, his face sad and reflective.
“Yes. This is where she died. Her blood is all over the floor.”
Sighing, the knight slowly traced the cloying mess from one extremity to the other. It seemed to have settled in pools on the ground, as far as he could see in the darkness. Mostly it had congealed, but here and there the thickest gobs still held viscous proof of their provenance. Tanner crouched by the fire. There was no chance of resurrecting the flames of yesterday, and he resigned himself to starting a new one so that they might have light.
Soon the flames were rising languidly from a small mass of tinder, and the constable found a small foul- smelling tallow candle which he passed to Baldwin, who waited by the table, crouching.
Taking the candle, the knight peered round, grunting occasionally to himself. To Simon, standing by the door, he looked like a hog grubbing for acorns. On hearing a muttered call, the constable strode to Baldwin, then lifted the bench while the candle was held to the top and sides, then the bottom and finally the trestles. Nodding, the knight allowed Tanner to set the table down again before continuing his study. He paused for a moment and stared fixedly, then reached down and picked up something, but Simon could not see what. At last he stood and, holding the candle high, looked hard at the wall behind the table. Snuffing the candle, he walked out, passing Simon wordlessly.
Outside once more, the dog sat, head on one side as if listening to their conversation. Tanner stood silently behind them.
“So what happened?” asked Simon. “Why would anyone kill her? It can’t have been an accident.”
“No, it was no accident.” Baldwin dropped and snapped his fingers at the dog until it lurched to its feet and walked to them, head down and tail slowly sweeping from side to side. Ruffling the fur on the dog’s head, the knight continued slowly and deliberately.
“I think someone went to her and spoke to her. She was at the table when she was killed. I think she was killed as she stood there, with her back to her killer.”
The bailiff frowned as he tried to understand. “She was standing at her table while the killer cut her throat?”
“Very likely. Blood hit the wall behind the table in a spray, so it’s probable that she was facing that way when the killer struck. Blood was over the top of the table, not on the bottom, so the table was upright when the blow fell. After her throat was sliced, she fell back, and I think she pulled the table with her. No blood lay on the leg of the trestle, so I think that the table top protected it from her blood as she fell back. If she had fallen with the blow and then tried to haul herself upwards, she would have left her blood on the trestle where it faced into the room. As it is, I think she was wounded and took hold of the table, then fell back to die, taking the table with her.”
Both were quiet for a moment. It was Tanner who broke the silence. “Why would anyone do that to an old woman like her, though? She can’t have had anything to steal. Why kill her?”
Turning to him, the knight gave him a cold smile in which the bitter anger flashed. “That’s what we must find out.”
While the constable went to fetch their horses, Simon contemplated his friend. “Baldwin, something’s the matter. What is it?”
The knight stared at him for a moment. Then, holding out his hand, he showed what he had found on the floor. It was a gold ring, with a large red stone held in its flat face.
“That hardly seems the sort of ring for a poor old woman,” mused Simon, and then he noticed the knight’s expression. “Baldwin? What is it? Do you know whose ring this is?”
Baldwin stared at him dully. “Yes,” he said softly. “I know whose this is.”
Riding to the woods at the edge of the moors, the Bourc was frowning as he thought about the merchant. He had no desire to stay in England longer than was necessary, and could easily forget the incident, putting the attempted ambush down to outlaws. But that would be dishonourable. As a free-born Englishman, and knight, he had a chivalric duty to avenge this cowardly attack. To ignore it would leave the merchant thinking he had succeeded in scaring the Bourc, and that was not merely demeaning, it could be dangerous. If common people thought they could flout the law and attack their betters, all well-born men would be endangered.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that his master would enthusiastically support him punishing the guilty man. He must go and see Trevellyn.
He was following the trail made by his horses and those of his attackers back to the copse, and slowed as he came closer. On a sudden whim, he swerved aside and rode a short way parallel to the trees, his eyes flitting over the boughs. Two men had come back this way. They could still be there.
After going east for some hundreds of yards, he abruptly cantered to the woods, crashing through the ferns and bushes at the perimeter, half expecting to feel the sting of an arrow at any moment, but he heard and saw nothing to warrant concern. When he paused, listening for any noise over the breathing of the two horses, there was nothing. He carried on.
But he kept an eye open all the way.
“Tanner? Are you all right?” Simon had watched the tall figure of the knight ride away, the small shape of the dog at his horse’s heels – obviously having found another master, the dog was not willing to lose him. Now he turned, worried at the man’s taciturn demeanour.
The constable was slouched on his horse as they passed the Oatway holding, chin on his breast as if asleep, but staying stiff and steady in his saddle. At Simon’s question, his head snapped up, and the bailiff, to his intense annoyance, found himself being studied closely.
“What is it. Tanner?”
“I’m not sure, Bailiff.”
“Come on, you’ve been quiet all afternoon. What is it?”
But the constable would not say more. All he had were vague suspicions: Greencliff had been nervous; the boy was more scared of the knight than of the body. That was normal for a villein, and Greencliff lived on Furnshill’s land. It was only natural for him to be fearful of his master – his master held his life and livelihood in his mailed fist.
