“But he was dressed and ready to go out?” Simon said, and the farmer turned to him and peered at his face.
“Yes, he was about to go out. He already had his cloak on, that bright red one. Why? Why does it matter?”
“The innkeeper said that he had made some comment about the woman on the day she died, something about her doing something. Greencliff said that if Kyteler wasn’t careful, someone would do something to her. We think he might have killed her.”
“That’s mad!” Sarah’s sudden interruption made them all turn in astonishment. “Harry wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s a good man, kind and gentle. He wouldn’t kill like that – especially not an old woman.”
“Be quiet, girl!” The old farmer’s voice was harsh and thick, his face stiff in his anger at being interrupted.
“No, wait!” Baldwin’s order made Sam Cottey fall back, as if the quick fury had exhausted him. “Now, Sarah,” he said more quietly: “why do you think that?”
Glancing briefly at her father, she paused, but then decided that, having come so far, she should continue. “Because I know him. He’s not cruel, he couldn’t kill someone like that.”
“The innkeeper seemed sure.”
“He’s wrong. Harold wouldn’t kill an old woman like that, cutting her throat. He’s too gentle.”
Baldwin’s eyes held hers for a moment, and then her gaze fell, and Simon was sure he could see the embarrassment there in the way that her face suddenly reddened.
“Perhaps,” said the knight softly. Looking back at the farmer, he said, “Cottey, what would you say about that? Would you expect Greencliff to be able to kill an old woman in that way?”
“Not an old woman, no.” Then his voice became bitter again. “But a witch? I should think he could have killed her and been glad! He might think it was a service – a Godly act – to kill the old bitch!”
Leading their horses from the house, Baldwin stopped for a moment and scratched at his head with a speculative grimace. “What do you think?”
Simon paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think she’s as convinced it couldn’t be Greencliff as her father is that Kyteler was a witch. Maybe…” He was cut off by running feet crunching on the soft snow.
“Sirs, sirs! Wait a minute!” It was Sarah again, rushing along the track with her skirts held high in her hands, giving Baldwin a glimpse of her legs.
“Yes?” he said.
She stopped in front of them, her face bright from her exertion, panting a little, then somewhat breathlessly leaned forward. “It can’t have been Harold.”
“Why?”
“He never thought Kyteler was a witch. He was sure she was clever, and she knew about plants, but he never thought she was evil or made magic. Anyway, he was a kind, gentle lad…” Her voice faltered as she caught sight of the knight’s raised eyebrow.
Baldwin smiled and said:
“So he didn’t believe Kyteler sent her dog to the Oatway’s chickens?”
“That!” She dismissed the idea with a curt movement of her hand, as if slapping away the suggestion. “How could anyone believe that! It was a fox or a weasel did that, not a dog. If her dog wanted to eat chickens, he would have eaten her own, not gone all the way to the Oatway holding to eat theirs.”
“Hmm.” Simon could see that Baldwin’s eyes were looking over her shoulder, and when he followed the knight’s gaze, he saw that the dog was lying in front of the door to the house, head between his forepaws and watching the huddle of humans, while the chickens strolled and pecked around him.
“But why then would Greencliff have said that about her? Why should he be so annoyed with her?” Baldwin asked after a moment.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he have many friends?”
“Not really, sir. Some of the other lads in the village. I suppose mainly he was friends with Stephen de la Forte.”
“I see.” He appeared to think for a moment. “All right, thank you for your help, anyway.” He mounted his horse, then glanced back at the dog, and his voice held a hopeful note as he said, “Her dog seems happy enough here… I don’t suppose you’d like to…?”
She smiled, but shook her head. “No, I don’t think father would like to have the old woman’s dog here. He’d always be afraid that she might be watching over him, ready to protect him or attack the man that strikes him. No, you’d better take him back with you.”
Baldwin sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with resignation, and whistled.
Back at the road, Simon looked over at him. “Well?”
Baldwin shrugged. “It seems clear that the boy was ready to leave the house as Cottey got there, but that could mean anything! Maybe he was on his way to look after his sheep, like he said, or maybe he was going to move the body, to bury it or hide it… I don’t know.”
“What if he was going there to move the body? The girl seems sure that he could not have killed the old woman.”
“Yes… It was strange, that. She was very defensive…”
Simon gave a short laugh. “Not that strange! She’s young, so’s he. He’s good looking, so’s she. I don’t think you need look further for a reason than that.”
“Possibly.” Baldwin mused for a moment. “Let’s see this friend of his – what was his name? Oh, yes, de la Forte. Let’s see what else he can tell us.”
Quickening their pace, they rode off to the inn to ask for directions. It seemed that the de la Forte house was on the way to Exeter, some three miles outside Wefford, so they turned their horses to the south and were soon there.
As they approached the property, Simon could not help letting a small whistle of approval pass his lips. “The de la Fortes seem well enough off,” he said.
Baldwin nodded. The house was a large and rambling place, quite long, with a number of stables and outbuildings. In size it was bigger than his own manor, with the roof probably higher. The whitewash was fresh and clean, making the house almost seem to rise from the snowy ground in front as if it was made of the same material. Above, a thick mass of thatch was visible only from the chimney rising high overhead: around it the snow had melted, showing the greying straw beneath.
The roadway passed close to the front of the house, which itself lay in a shallow dip, while between the building and the trail was a stream, cutting a neat and precise line through the snow. As they followed the track to the house, they slowed, moving at a walk through the ford at the little stream’s shallowest point before trotting up to the door.
Here the house had two stubby arms projecting forwards like horns from a cow’s head, and the door was in a yard formed between. There was a hitching rail, to which they tied their mounts before Simon knocked loudly at the door, while Baldwin tied up the dog with some twine he found dangling from the rail. He did not want his new dog to fight with the de la Fortes‘. They did not have long to wait.
An elderly servant, a thin, gaunt man with an expression of intense trepidation, opened the door and peered out at them. Trying his most winning smile, Simon nodded to him. “Is Stephen de la Forte here?”
“I…” As he began to speak, there was a bellow from behind, and the servant spun round, quickly explaining to someone inside. “No, sir. No, I don’t know who it is. He’s asking for Master Stephen, sir.”
“Out of the way!” came the voice, and the servant disappeared, his face replaced with that of an older man.
Simon felt he must be middle-aged from the thick and grizzled hair. Stout, not fat but thick in body, he stood a little shorter than the bailiff, but was almost half as wide again at the shoulder. He had a massive barrel chest, with arms that would have looked well as tree trunks, they were so massive.
His face was a maze of creases, some of them so deep that they appeared to be separate flaps of skin roughly butted together and sewn, and among them Simon could see the lighter marks, thickened with age, of old wounds from knives or swords. In the midst was a mouth, itself a colourless gash. A thick and broken nose sat between two bright and intelligent eyes, blue-grey like his son’s, which stared unblinking at Simon.