“Come on, Harold. Let’s get back.”
Simon watched the slow approach of the three men, two on horseback, one staggering slightly on foot, with a feeling of relief. At least there was no one else hurt. Greencliff had not managed to stab one of the men when they captured him.
He heard the crunch of snow as the Bourc strolled over to stand beside him. At the sound of a sigh, Simon turned with surprise. It seemed out of place for the man. From what he had seen of the stranger, he had appeared to be strong and self-sufficient, not the sort to express sympathy for a murderer and outlaw.
Catching the bailiff’s eye, the Bourc shrugged, ashamed. “I know. He’s a killer. But he’s a likeable sort of lad. I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of murder. He seems too quiet. And he seems more sad than cruel.” ‘But you said you found blood on his dagger!“ ’So I did. So I did. Could it have been in defence?” Simon paused and considered. “Defence? No, I don’t think so. Both murders were from behind, both of them had their throats cut. I don’t think they could have been killed except by a man who wanted to murder them. I can’t see it was defence. In any case, what defence would he need from an old woman?”
“Old woman?”
“Yes, he killed an old woman in Wefford.”
Simon became aware of a sudden tenseness as the man leaned forward and said, “What was this woman’s name, Bailiff?”
“Her name?” The three men were almost with them now, the lone walker struggling in the deeper snow that lay beneath the hillside, moving slowly and swinging his arms as if trying to maintain his balance. “She was called Agatha Kyteler.”
There was a sudden intake of breath from the man, and Simon turned to see that his eyes were filled with horror as he stared at the figure labouring towards them. “Agatha? You killed Agatha Kyteler?”
The bailiff gasped. “Of course! You must be the Bourc de Beaumont!”
“Yes, I am, but how…?”
“I am friend to Sir Baldwin. He mentioned you had been staying with him. He would like to see you again, I am sure. Would you ride back with us?”
The Bourc stared past the bailiff towards the centre of the moors, and when he glanced back, he smiled ruefully. “My friend, I think it would be a very good idea for me to return with you, and when I next leave for the coast, I think I shall take the roadways like others do, and avoid my own short cuts! Ah! Here they are.”
Turning back, Simon saw the men entering the ring of stones.
Now he could see the youth close to again, Simon felt that he was unwell. He had the feverish red and apparently sweating face of a convalescent. Was it that or was it just his guilt? Was it illness from his nights out in the cold or a deeper sickness at the knowledge of what he had done, of what his price must be now he was captured? His hands looked blue, as though the blood was cut off, and the bailiff made a note to get the thong tying him loosened.
His eyes were bright and steady, not ashamed or worried. They almost looked relaxed, as if he had tested himself and found himself to be stronger than he had expected. Although he appeared dirty and unkempt, he still stood tall – a bit like Baldwin, Simon thought. Proud and arrogant in his confidence.
The boy stood staring at him for a moment, then peered over his shoulder. Throwing a quick glance behind him, Simon saw that the Bourc was crouching by the fire and feeding it with fresh branches. The bailiff saw that the boy was struggling to control a shiver, and wordlessly led the way to the heat, Greencliff squatting and holding his bound hands to the flames with a small grunt of pain. After a moment Simon pulled his dagger free and, reaching over, sliced through the thong. The boy gave him a nod of gratitude before returning his gaze to the fire.
Tanner hobbled his horse before walking to the three by the fire. He stood and watched his prisoner for a moment, then pulled the ballock knife from his belt and tossed it to the ground beside the bailiff.
Looking up, Simon saw his serious – sad? – gaze and picked it up. Pulling the blade from the sheath, he saw the stains and picked at them with his fingernail. There was no way to tell for certain, but it looked a dirty brown, like dried blood.
“Whose blood is this, Harold?” he asked.
The light eyes glanced at him, then down at the knife for a moment with apparent disinterest before he shrugged and faced the flames. “Trevellyn’s, probably.”
“He admitted the murders,” said Tanner, and dropped down beside the bailiff.
“Why did you do it, Harold? Why kill them?” Simon said, frowning at the gasp from the Bourc.
The boy did not even bother to turn to face them. “I wanted to get away. I wanted money. They refused to give me any.”
“But you must have known that Agatha Kyteler had nothing! I suppose Alan Trevellyn was wealthy, but she had nothing! Why kill her?”
But they could get nothing more from him. He ignored their questions, sitting silently, his face set, with his hands to the fire, and his shoulders hunched as if they could act as a barrier to their questions.
Chapter Twenty
It was nearly dark when Jennie Miller walked into the inn and sat at a bench near the door with her pot of cider. It was too early for most of the people to have arrived, but there were already some men standing and talking in hushed voices. She knew why. Her husband had been told earlier that some of the men had returned from the hunt. They had found where Harold Greencliff was. He would be brought back soon.
In a small village like Wefford, this was news of the first order. Unused to the excitements normal in more populous or busier places, where the number of travellers passing through led to their own difficulties, Wefford had experienced its first taste of real crime in decades, and found that it had a sour flavour.
But where there were problems, there were also compensations, and this affair was no different. After all, nobody would miss old Agatha too much. She had scared too many people after the rumours put about by that old hag Oatway. Her death had caused more interest than anything she had done while living.
When the curtain opened to show a slightly nervous, scowling and dark-haired man, she looked up with interest. The face was familiar, but she could not remember where she had seen him. Thin featured, with weather-beaten skin and thick dark hair that straggled at the sides. Appearing shy, he hung back at the screens as if nervous of crossing the floor. Not tall, he looked quite thickset, but quick and lithe, a bit like her husband’s horse. Where had she seen him before? Surely he had been on a horse? It was then that she recognised him – it was the bailiffs servant… What was his name? The one who had waited outside with the horses when the knight and bailiff arrived to ask her about the day that Agatha died.
Shifting quickly on her bench, she smiled at him, and saw a minimal relaxing of his glower. Patting the bench seat beside her, she beckoned to him, then waved at the innkeeper.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked innocently, and he asked for a strong ale, sitting ungraciously beside her.
“Aren’t you the man that came to see me with Sir Baldwin Furnshill and the bailiff the other day?” she said when his beer had arrived and he had taken a deep draught.
He nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and now his face had lost some of its black dejection. The flavour of the beer restored some, if not all, of his equanimity.