his fear of arriving too late was not going to be realised, that she had not died.
He had turned to stare at the flames as he mused and thus did not at first notice that he was no longer alone. It was the waft of flowery scent that made him look up, and when he did he gaped in awe.
The woman who stood nearby tugging her gloves off was beautiful. She was only a little shorter than him and about the same age, with a slender body clad in a light green tunic under a grey riding cloak, and when she glanced at him, he saw that the colour of her eyes almost matched her dress. High-cheeked and with pale features, she looked frail at first sight, but as he mumbled an apology and lurched to his feet he saw that it was an illusion. Her figure was strong and supple as a whip.
“Madam, please be seated,” he said, and she turned to him. He found that she had a disconcertingly intense gaze. The way she stared, it was if she was concentrating her whole being on him, looking him full in the face with a strange stillness. After what felt like several minutes, she gave a faint smile and inclined her head, sitting on the bench he had moved for her, then unclasping the grey cloak from her throat and, with a short shrug, letting it fall. The Bourc had just sat with her when another man entered.
Glancing round, the Bourc saw a barrel-chested man in his late forties or early fifties. From his breadth and peculiar, rolling gait, the knight needed no flash of intuition to guess that he must have been a sailor. The life at sea had stamped itself on him too heavily. Although the face was not badly formed, the mass of wrinkles and scars made it ugly. There was no gaiety, no pleasure or joy in his eyes, only a cold brutality. Small eyes like those of a wild boar glared from the Bourc to the woman, and as he stepped forward, the fire seemed to strike sparks in his eyes as the flames were reflected.
“Angelina! Move over!” he said, standing behind them.
To the Bourc it looked as though she was reluctant to move. As if rebelling against the order, she waited a moment while the newcomer grumbled before shifting along the bench. Even then she moved farther than she needed, leaving a gap between herself and the man, and the Bourc was pleased to see a sneer of disgust twist her face when she looked at the man. “Innkeeper!” the man bellowed. “Wine! I want wine!” Only then did he turn and peer at the Gascon. “Who are you?”
Keeping his anger under control at the rudeness, the Bourc smiled back, but his eyes were hard. “Friend, I am a traveller on my way to see the master of Furnshill manor for my lord. I am called the Bourc de Beaumont. What is your name?”
“I’m Alan Trevellyn – merchant. Who’s this master of Furnshill?”
The Bourc started and peered at him on hearing the name, then stared at the woman. She clearly felt that his gaze was in response to the man’s rudeness, and softened the harshness of the question by her gentle voice. Eyes on the Bourc, she said, “I think we have heard of him, Alan. He is named Sir Baldwin.”
The landlord arrived with a tray of wine and handed pots to the man and woman. Other people were entering now, and he was soon busy going from one group to another.
“Sir Baldwin, eh?” said Trevellyn. “Yes, I think I remember him. He’s not been there for long, has he – his brother died or something.”
“I had heard,” the woman said, “that Sir Baldwin came here just before the abbot was murdered last year.”
“But surely you have not lived here long yourself, madam?” asked the Bourc, leaning forward and peering at her.
“She’s been here long enough.” The merchant put himself between them and glared wide-eyed at the Bourc, as if daring him to continue talking.
Staring back, the Bourc allowed himself a small smile and his eyebrows rose. “Do you object to me speaking to the lady?” he inquired softly.
“Yes, I do!” the merchant said, and suddenly his face contorted with fury. “She’s my wife! Leave her alone, or you’ll have to deal with me! Understand?”
The Bourc could not prevent a quick glance at her in open-eyed astonishment. That such a small, frail thing of beauty should be tied to so brutish a man seemed impossible, but even as he caught her eye, he saw the beginnings of the dampness as if she was about to weep, and she looked away quickly. When he unwillingly dragged his gaze back, the merchant’s lip was curled in a disdainful sneer.
“My apologies, sir, I had not realised,” the Bourc said, stiffly formal. A devil tempted him to say that he had assumed Trevellyn to be her servant he looked so poorly made, but he stopped himself. He had no wish to fight so soon after arriving here. “Anyway, I am here to see Sir Baldwin for my master, as I said, and then I have some personal business to see to. There’s a lady I must see. Do you know Agatha Kyteler?”
It was not his imagination. At the name, Mrs. Trevellyn’s head snapped round to stare at him and the merchant paused with his pot halfway to his mouth. Glowering at the Bourc, Trevellyn brought the mug down with slow deliberation. “Agatha Kyteler?” he said, then spat into the fire. “Why do you want to see that old bitch?”
He could feel himself bridling at this contemptuous treatment of the woman, but held his anger on a close rein. Sitting more upright, and resting his left hand on his sword, he said, “If you have something to say of her, share it with me. I know her to be an honourable lady.”
“Honourable? She’s a witch, that’s what she is! She puts curses on people – you ask anyone around here,” Trevellyn said scornfully.
Standing, his face white and taut with anger, the Bourc stared at Trevellyn. “Say that again. Say it again and defend yourself! I know her to be honourable – do you accuse me of lying?”
There was silence for a moment, as if every man in the hall was holding his breath. “Sirs, please!” the publican called anxiously, but the three ignored him. The Gascon was still and watchful, but his rage was boiling beneath his apparent calm. Trevellyn suddenly realised how his words had affected the stranger, and now gaped with fear while his wife looked excited, but kept silent.
At last the merchant shrank back like a whipped dog. Shooting a sullen glance at the Bourc, he shrugged. “I’ve said nothing that others here won’t tell you, but… if I’ve offended you, I ask your pardon. Ask the innkeeper where she lives, if you want to see her. He’ll know.”
And that appeared to be all that he was prepared to say.
When the Bourc drained his mug, Trevellyn hardly moved. He remained sitting, staring before him and carefully ignoring the Gascon. The Bourc looked at him contemptuously, then smiled at his wife. It pained him to see the sadness in her eyes, as if she was despairing at the misery of her life with her man, and the Bourc wondered again that such a lovely woman could have been manacled to such a brute. But there was no profit in thoughts like that, and he turned abruptly and went out to his horses.
Chapter Three
“For the love of God, will you get down, you brute! Lionors! No! No! I said… Lionors, NO!”
The bellow of despairing rage carried clearly from the house and far down into the valley as the servant handed the reins to the grinning hostler, and he could hear the sound of scrabbling paws slipping on the floor and pots smashing. He sighed and shook his head in vexation. Since Sir Baldwin had returned, he had been determined to maintain the great hunting pack that his father had owned, and kept a separate kennel for the hounds. But there was one bitch who refused to leave him: Lionors.
Walking inside, he sighed again when he saw the hall. One great iron candle-holder was on its side, a bench was upset, and plates and mugs lay on the floor. In the middle of the floor stood the knight, hands on hips, red- faced and glaring, while in front of him was the dog, lying on her back, belly and legs waving submissively while her massive black jowls dangled ludicrously to display her teeth. A fearful brown eye rolled as Edgar entered.
“After food again, was she?”
“No, damn it!” Baldwin kicked the submissive dog, but not hard, and strode to a chair. Flopping down, he eyed his dog sourly. “She was happy to see me.”
It was always the same, the knight knew. Whenever he went out and left her behind, whether it was for an hour or a day, the result was the same: on his return she would try to bring something for him. In the beginning, when he had first come home to Furnshill, he had found it an endearing trait, a sign of the mastiffs devotion. That
