“I am sorry, my lady,” he said, walking to his chair in front of the fireplace. Before sitting he poured a tankard of warm wine from the jug on the hearth, then sat comfortably and sipped, his eyes fixed on her.
He looked like a bishop, sitting in his small chair as if it was a throne, she thought. Although he was not mocking her, she felt sure she could sense derision in his attitude, and drew in her breath to berate him in his turn, but before she could, he began speaking softly.
“Margaret, I’m sorry you were worried, but you must understand: there’s been a murder. We could not just stop and come home as soon as it became dark. We had to see if we could discover any more.”
“Of course I know that,” she said sharply. “But how would it profit your investigation for you both to die on a journey home?”
“Not at all, of course, but…”
“Exactly!” she said, cutting him off. “Not at all! Two merchants and a monk have already died this year on the way from Tavistock. All because they carried on with their journey after dark. I will not have you two doing the same.”
“But Margaret,” Simon began, but she whirled, glaring, and he subsided.
“No more: I will hear no more!”
Baldwin grinned and inclined his head. “Very well, lady. I will ensure that we are back in time in future.”
“Do so.” She walked to a bench and sat, arms crossed. “And now, tell me about this woman who has died.”
The knight and Simon exchanged a glance, then, at a brief shrug from his friend, the bailiff quickly told her of their day and what they had found about the dead woman. Tentatively sitting beside her, he told of their discovery of the body, their talk with the Oatways and their visit to the empty cottage. As he spoke, the mastiff rose and walked to Baldwin, closely followed by her black and brown shadow.
“Poor woman,” Margaret mused when he finished, and Simon nodded. “And these Oatways think she was a witch?”
“Yes,” said Baldwin. “They seem to believe she could make her dog do as she wished. As if a dog needed any prompting to do mischief! Anyway,” he took Kyteler’s dog by the head, holding it in both hands and peering into its eyes, “how could they think this one was evil?”
“That’s what they do, though,” said Hugh, and at his sudden interruption, they all glanced at him. Under their gaze he hunched his shoulders as if he wished he had not spoken, but then continued sulkily, “Well, it is. They get animals and make them do what they want. They can call on wild animals if they want.”
Baldwin grunted, “Nonsense!”
“It’s true! And if they want, some of them can change into animals, too! There’ve been witches all over here since men first got here,“ said Hugh, hotly defensive. ”Ever since men came here and fought the giants away there’s been witches.”
“No, Hugh. There’s no such thing as witches,” said the knight. “There’s only superstition and fear – sometimes jealousy. Never witchcraft.”
“Then how did this old woman get her dog to go and eat these chickens, then?” asked the servant triumphantly.
Looking up, Baldwin smiled at him, but then his face grew sombre. “Just because some old woman has a dog, and her neighbour thinks it was that dog that attacked her chickens, does not mean it really was. I think the dog deserves the chance to defend itself. Likewise, just because somebody thinks a woman is a witch does not necessarily mean she is, and she deserves the chance to defend herself.”
“How can she? She’s dead!”
“Yes. She is.” The words came quietly.
Margaret stirred. “But, Baldwin, what if she was a witch?”
“Kyteler a witch? No, I don’t think so.” His face was as gentle as his voice as he looked over at her.
“Why not?”
“Because I do not believe such people exist. I cannot.”
Simon leaned forward and peered at him. “But surely on your travels you must have…”
“No. I never found any proof of a woman having been a witch. Oh, I found plenty of examples of old women accused of being evil, of being involved in magic. I have seen many of them being killed. But there was always another reason why they were accused, it was never because anyone really believed they were guilty.”
“What do you mean, ”another reason“?”
“I mean, whenever there was someone accused of being a witch, it was because the accuser wanted their money, their cattle, their house – something! Always there was something that would benefit the accuser. And, often, it would only turn up later, after the poor wretch had already died in the flames. Even the priests don’t usually believe they’re evil, which is why they rarely get to see the Inquisition even when they have been accused. They’re usually killed by the mob. No, I do not believe in witches.”
“But this old woman had all those herbs and roots,” said Simon doubtfully.
The knight shot him a quick look. “Don’t tell me you believe in witches?”
“Well,” the bailiff explained apologetically, “it’s not that I believe in them necessarily, or that I think Kyteler was one, it’s just that there are so many stories, and…”
“Oh, really!” The knight suddenly stood and strode to the fire, standing by the great lintel of the chimney, and when he spoke again his face was all in shadow, his body framed by the flames behind. “What is a witch?”
It was Margaret who answered. “Someone who uses magic to do what she wants.”
“And what does she want?”
“Wealth. Love. Power. Sometimes to stay young. There are many things a witch can desire.”
“Kyteler had none of these. What did she achieve?”
Simon stirred. “You say that, but surely witches use magic just to do evil? They don’t need any benefit, they do it to please their master?”
“Their master? Who do you mean? The Devil?”
The bailiff was suddenly aware of the darkness, of the isolation of the manor as he answered, “Yes.”
Filling his mug, Baldwin strolled back to his chair slowly. “Possibly. I would be happier to believe in a witch who was wealthy, though, than one who was trying to please her dark master!”
“All those herbs, though…” Simon began hesitantly.
“Simon, really! Do you accuse all leeches of being witches? She was probably good with them and used her skills to help others. There may come a time when even you are glad for the help of a wise woman who can stop the pain from a broken limb… Or piles!”
“What do you know of her death, anyway?” asked Margaret diplomatically after a moment.
Baldwin looked up. “Not much,” he admitted. “She was seen in the afternoon by Mrs. Oatway, but from then on we have little information.”
“No,” mused Simon. “That’s where we ought to start. We need to find out what Oatway and Greenfield were doing in the afternoon. They’re the two we know who were supposed to hate her.”
“Yes,” said Baldwin, and stared at the fire. “There is another suspect, though, Simon. I told you of my friend’s son.” Glaring into the flames, he explained about the Bourc’s visit to England to see the dead woman, and his ruby ring.
“Do you think he could have killed her?” Margaret asked.
Baldwin shook his head. “He was here out of gratitude. To thank her.”
“If his story was true,” she said quietly.
The knight did not respond, but later, when he left them to go to his room, his face still wore a troubled scowl.
When Simon at last drifted off into sleep, he had the same nightmare as before, but this time the figure in the flames was not the abbot. As it turned, to his horror he recognised the face of Agatha Kyteler, her eyes sad and accusing as they held his.
The constable arrived before nine o’clock the next morning with his companion. It had not taken them long to make the journey, though the snow had slowed them.
“Sir Baldwin, I thought you should hear this man: what he can tell about Greencliff.”
The knight looked up, his jaw moving as he chewed on a crust of bread. The youth with Tanner was in his early twenties, tall, at least three inches over the constable, and with softly pale flesh. He looked fat, though his skin hung flaccid round his jowls and the hands gripping the cap were chubby. His mousy hair was cut well, and from his clothes he appeared well-to-do, with a blue tunic of wool, and woollen hose of grey. On his heavy belt he wore a small dagger.