in the trees and who also saw Greencliff with her horse. That should start some heads shaking, she thought with satisfaction. And then there was the interest there had been over the apparent break up between Greencliff and Sarah Cottey. Was that because of Mrs. Trevellyn? She paused at the door, caught by the idea as she pensively straightened her shawl. Now that was a thought!
Inside, Baldwin and Simon stood and prepared to take their own leave when the priest caught them both by the arms. “Wait, I want a word with you two.”
Baldwin was surprised by the urgency in his voice. “What is it, Peter?”
“What on earth have you two been saying about Greencliff? Or Mrs. Trevellyn?”
“What?” Simon was confused, but he ran through the sequence of events that so far made up their search for the killer of the witch, leading to the discovery of the identity of the woman who was involved. “What is troubling you? All we’re trying to do is find Agatha Kyteler’s murderer. What’s wrong?”
“It was what she said. That woman will make sure that this is all over the parish within hours. And what will happen then? Everyone will assume that Mrs. Trevellyn was responsible, whether or not she was. Just as they will all think Agatha Kyteler was a witch.”
“You don’t think she was?”
“God! No, why on earth should I? She was a very pleasant woman, always ready to assist the people of the parish who hurt themselves. No, I’m sure she was no witch.”
Baldwin grinned sidelong at the bailiff. “You see, Simon thinks there may be something in it because of all her roots and herbs.”
“Simon?“
“I’m sorry, and I’ll pray for her if that will help, but so many others think she was, I…”
“Agatha Kyteler was a good and kindly woman. Ignore the rumours. But you see how gossip can spread? What if news of this gets back to Alan Trevellyn?”
“Ah!” Baldwin seemed to understand this, although Simon was left looking from one to the other with growing exasperation.
“Why? Who is this man? Why should this be a problem?”
“Don’t you know Alan Trevellyn?” Peter asked. “I thought you would be sure to… well, he is a powerful man, a merchant…”
“Partner to Walter de la Forte,” murmured Baldwin softly.
“Precisely. They bring wine from Gascony. Anyway, he is known for his boldness.”
Baldwin turned to Simon. “What the good priest is trying to say is that this man Trevellyn is a hard man, known to be cruel to his servants, and who takes the law into his own hands on occasion. I had not thought before, while we were speaking to de la Forte, but now I remember Trevellyn. He almost beat an hostler to death late last year. How will he react, I think Peter is wondering, to us asking if his wife is having an affair with a local farmer?”
Peter nodded dejectedly.
“But surely,” Simon said frowning, “all we’re doing is asking her about what she was doing at Agatha Kyteier’s house.”
Peter and the knight exchanged a glance, then the priest scratched his head while he threw a speculative frown at the bailiff. “I don’t think that will help much. You see they have no children after several years of marriage. At the same time as starting rumours about the faithfulness and honour of his wife, you are asking her why she went to see the midwife – I don’t quite see how that’s going to help.”
“Ah!”
It was not until they were riding on the road to Wefford from the Tiverton road that Simon threw a speculative glance ahead and suggested that they leave questioning the woman until the morning.
“Why?” asked Baldwin, swivelling in his saddle to peer at him.
“At least we’d have a better chance of thinking what we need to ask her that way. If we can frame the questions carefully, we may not need to ask her about things like…”
“Like whether she’s been faithless to her husband, you mean?” Baldwin sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe it would be better. But what if by the time we get there Trevellyn has already heard about the rumours? You know how fast news gets around in these parts.”
“Surely they will not have heard first thing in the morning.”
Baldwin gave him a sour look. “Don’t bet on the fact!” he said. “I once smiled at a serving girl at an inn on the Exeter road. Next day a rumour began that I had used her that night.”
Simon grinned. “And?”
“No, I had not!” he declared hotly, giving the bailiff a black scowl. At the sight of the bailiffs sceptical smile, he shrugged shamefacedly, then became pensive. “You see how it is, though? I did nothing, but the rumours still started. And there was nothing I could do to stop them – it ended up with a projected date for my bastard’s birth!” He subsided, glowering gloomily ahead. A quick smile lightened his features, and he turned conspiratorially to his friend. “But the worst of it was, I would have liked to!”
He paused, scowling and shrugging himself deeper into his cloak, before continuing in a quieter, more pensive tone, “And that’s why I find these rumours about an affair between Greencliff and Mrs. Trevellyn hard to believe. A wealthy merchant’s wife and a villein? It hardly seems likely. Gossip is always so easily started, but stopping it is like halting a war horse in full gallop – very difficult until it has run its course.”
Looking up at the sky, Simon said, “It’s getting close to dark. Let’s get back and sleep on it. We can get the answers we need in the morning, and if we speak to her well rested, we’ll be more likely to be able to be careful and save her from embarrassment.”
“Very well.” Baldwin nodded. “But let’s go home past her house. At least you can see the place. It’s not far.”
This part of the land was not an area Simon knew well, being too far to the east of his old home. He had always spent more time to the west or the north, in the country where he had grown up, and thus it was a surprise to see the great manor house of the Trevellyns at South Helions.
Baldwin’s house at Furnshill could easily be mistaken for a farm, with its cosiness and simplicity, while the place built by Walter de la Forte was imposing, showing the wealth of its owner. By comparison Trevellyn’s was a castle. It stood in its own clearing, a massive property of grey and ochre, with granite walls topped by castellations, showing that the owner had money and influence: all kings for many years had been trying to reduce the number of fortified houses to stop the internecine warfare that still continued between lords when they had squabbles. A man who could build a place like this was wealthy and important, and the house spoke of his power.
The windows at the base were small, but those higher had been enlarged to allow more sunlight and were mullioned. The door was a small, blackened timber slab set in a tower formed of a projecting section of wall, with an overhang above in which Simon knew there would be trap doors so that defenders could drop rocks or burning oil on any attacker. Overall it gave a feeling of threatening solidity, as if it was glowering down at the humans riding past.
The land all round was set to pasture, and there were a number of sheep grazing, scraping with their hooves at the snow to get to the grass beneath. A small stream led from the house to the lane, so the bailiff correctly assumed that it had its own fresh water from a spring.
“I think I prefer your house, Baldwin,” said Simon meditatively as they rode on.
“Maybe.” The knight was surveying the ground around as if assessing the best point for an assault. “But if we have a new war between barons in England, and this shire is attacked, I think I’d soon get to prefer this to my own!”
The lane curved round in a great sweep after the house, avoiding the hillock it was set upon, and then began the long and steady climb up the hill west of Wefford. It took some time for them to wander up it, both deep in their thoughts, with Edgar silent, as usual, behind. At the top they could see the lane winding through the trees ahead, dark in their leafless splendour against the snow that had fallen through their branches to the ground beneath.
There, only a half mile away, stood a solitary farmhouse, and Simon regarded it with a jealous scowl. It stood so calm and quiet, a single building with a small barn nearby. The smoke drifting from the thatch promised a warm welcome.
As his eyes roved over the surrounding country, he could see that a light mist was rising from the cleared areas, making them appear grey and somehow insubstantial, as if he was looking through fogged glass. The sun
