“Yes, sir. Since the hour we brought him here.”
Baldwin sighed. “Take me to him.”
The cell was an unpleasant, square chamber dug under the floor of the main room. To get to it, Tanner had to lead the knight through the curtain at the back. Here, in the wooden floor, was a trap door with a simple latch secured by a thick wooden peg. Lifting this, the knight could peer into the dank and murky interior. “Greencliff?” he called doubtfully.
There was a sudden stir in the far corner, then a small splash as the boy stepped into a puddle, before his face suddenly appeared under the trap, and Baldwin could not help shaking his head and sighing. The boy who so recently had been a strong, tall and proud youth was a pale shadow of himself. His features were gaunt and strained, the skin appearing yellow in the half-light, his eyes vivid and unhealthy, his cheeks sunken and wan. His whole appearance was that of a man close to death, of someone who had fallen victim to an unwholesome disease.
“Tanner, get him out of there.”
Fetching a ladder, the constable wandered back to the hole in the ground and slipped it down. “Come on, lad. The knight wants you up here,” he called, offering his hand.
Leading the way to the front room, Baldwin stood with his arms akimbo and looked at the boy, shaking his head. Greencliff held his gaze. There was fear there. The knight could see it deep in the boy’s eyes, but he still appeared defiant. “Do you have anything else you want to say to me about the old woman’s death?”
“The witch, you mean.”
The knight peered at him. The boy’s voice sounded as though he was caught between emotions. It was as if anger and impatience were struggling for dominance, but Baldwin was sure he could see contempt, and self-disgust as well. “Did you think she was a witch?”
“Me?” The question seemed to surprise him.
“Yes. What did you think of her?”
“I didn’t think anything of her. I know what she was. Evil! She deserved to die!”
“Why?”
The boy held his gaze firmly and squared his shoulders with resolution, but kept silent. After a few moments Baldwin sighed.
“Very well. If you do not wish to answer, I cannot force you.” Greencliff glanced across at the imperturbable Tanner, and looked as though he was sneering. Turning, he was about to return to his cell when Baldwin stopped him. “No. Your friend has told us the truth.”
“What?” Greencliff spun round and stared at the knight. Strangely, Baldwin thought he was now scared. “Who?”
“Yes, we know you were with Stephen de la Forte all afternoon. He’s told us.”
Later, he knew that what worried him most was the fleeting glimpse of absolute surprise as the boy said, “Stephen?”
Chapter Eleven
They left the youth with Peter, consuming a large bowl of stew with minced meat, the priest happily organising more bread and ale as his guest ate.
Simon rode quietly with his chin on his chest. The three were silent, as though they were all contemplating the murder. At last, he said, “Baldwin, we must go back to Wefford and ask other people what they saw.”
“Yes, you’re right. We’ve spent two days thinking that Greencliff had to have been involved. Now we must get back to trying to find out who really was,” said Baldwin and sighed.
“Calm yourself, Baldwin.”
The knight threw him a puzzled glance. “Eh?”
“Just because it wasn’t Greencliff, that doesn’t mean it was your friend’s son.”
“No, but it’s suspicious, isn’t it? That he was here, trying to find out about her just the day before she…”
“Look at it this way – nobody saw him there, did they? Let’s see whether someone else was there.”
“Yes,”, he said, but not convinced.
“So, where do we start?”
The knight stared ahead, towards the town itself, as if there was a clue in the scenery itself. “Jennie Miller, I suppose. Oatway said she was there with Sarah Cottey. Let’s see her. She might know something that can help us.”
The mill was a large, sturdy building to the east of Wefford, and they found their way to it by the simple method of riding through the woods until they came to the stream, then following it north. It stood in a small, sheltered valley. Looking at it, Simon thought it looked like a safe and warm property, with thick walls and a pleasing drift of smoke rising from the tall chimney. At the eastern end lay the stream from which it gained its power, quiet and sluggish now, but wild and fast when the countryside was less frozen. They had to cross the leat to get to the buildings, and were able to use a small wooden bridge that had been thrown over to help the farmers bring their grain.
Baldwin nodded approvingly as he gazed at the mill and the stream. Mills were jealously guarded by their parishes, and although the knight had only been here once before, and then only briefly, he was proud of this one. It had been built by his brother only five years before, and he was glad to see that the walls were maintained well, their limewash shining in the light.
But then, as they approached, they heard a high scream, and they spun in the saddles to look for the source. It seemed to be a young girl’s voice.
At first there was nothing, then the cry came again, shrill and urgent, from the woods to their left, on the other side of the water. Baldwin felt at once for his sword arid drew it, scanning the trees with a frown while Simon fumbled for his knife and spurred his horse alongside. They exchanged a glance, then both prepared to leap the stream.
“Ignore them, they always make a lot of noise.”
Turning, Baldwin saw a smiling, chubby woman in her early twenties standing in the doorway. He motioned toward the noise uncomprehendingly. “But… Who?”
Her smile broadening, she put a finger and thumb to her mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Immediately the sounds stopped, and were replaced by giggling and laughter, quickly approaching. After a few minutes four children appeared, two boys and two girls, the oldest being perhaps ten or eleven years old.
The knight’s eyebrows rose in sardonic amusement as he carefully stowed his sword away. Simon frowned as he watched the oldest of the two girls walk sedately to her mother. It was the girl from outside the inn, the one he had seen when they had brought the witch’s body back from the field. His eyes rose to take in the mother as Baldwin asked:
“You are Jennie Miller?”
Her grin broadening, she nodded as her brood accumulated around her, their eyes fixed on the strangers. “Yes. It was the children playing. I’m sorry if they troubled you.”
Clearing his throat, Simon glanced at his friend as he shoved his dagger back in its sheath, it’s no trouble. “We… Er… Thought someone was being attacked. That was all.”
The knight dropped from his horse and glanced up at Simon, then over at Hugh, who sat glowering with a face like thunder. When he turned to the woman, Baldwin was laughing. “No, it’s no trouble, apart from having a fit of the vapours!” He strode forward, “I am Baldwin Furnshill. Can we speak to you?”
At her nod, Simon leapt down, threw his reins to Hugh and told him to wait with the horses. She led them inside, sending the children away to play.
It was sparsely furnished, but welcoming and homely. There was a large table, benches, and chairs at one end, and at the other was a huge chimney and hearth, now filled with logs and roaring. Motioning towards the flames, Jennie Miller said, “My husband isn’t here right now, he’s woodcutting. If you want him, you’re welcome to wait by the fire…” Her voice trailed off inquiringly.
