The Merchant’s Partner

The knight sighed and looked out over the hills as if seeking inspiration. “I know. There’s only the one other suspect. But I find it hard to believe that my friend’s son could have been involved. He was too grateful to this woman to want to kill her.”

“Maybe you’re right, but you’ll need to speak to him.”

“He’s probably back in Gascony by now. He has not been seen since Tuesday. For now, I think it’s the woman who is the problem. How can we find out who she is?”

“Oh, really!” her scathing tone made both men turn and stare. When she saw their puzzled expressions, she said, “The woman lives somewhere near. There can’t be many for you to consider.”

“But we have no idea where she might have come from, Margaret,” said Baldwin, peering at her with a small frown. “It could be from miles away!”

With a small laugh, she shook her head in mock disgust. “You think so? I doubt it! She must be close by – it’s surely unlikely that Greencliff would have taken a lover who lived far away. How often could he meet her if she lived far off?”

“So? How many women do you think live…”

“Simon, that’s not the point. De la Forte said she was well-born, didn’t he? And how well she was dressed! How many wealthy women are there round here. That’s the point!”

To her relief, she saw the understanding dawn. Baldwin looked as though he had doubts, but Simon grabbed her, tugging her to him, and embraced her, hugging her tight.

“I married a philosopher,” he said, gazing into her eyes and smiling.

Baldwin turned back to the hills. It was good to see his friends happy, but… He gri

Noticing the way he averted his gaze, Simon pulled away from his wife. He knew how much his friend wanted a wife and a son, and was sympathetic. It was impossible for him to understand how a man could live alone. But he could not stop himself patting his wife’s belly affectionately, hoping again that this child would be strong and healthy, that the birth would not be difficult. He wanted a son badly, but more than that he wanted his wife to be safe and well. A passing thought struck him. Did this woman of Greencliff’s have children? Then another idea leapt into his mind: was she pregnant? Had she gone to the midwife to get medicines for a birth, like Je

He frowned as he stared at the moors in the far distance. Who could this woman be? Was she the last person to see Agatha Kyteler before her murderer – if she herself was not the killer? Who was this mystery lover of Harold Greencliff?

But the hills gave him no inspiration.

The next morning, Je

Usually it was Thomas, her husband, who would ride into town. He would make his way in, calling cheerfully to his friends and customers, before delivering their sacks or collecting the items he needed. But this winter was hard and he must fetch more wood while it was possible in case the snow stayed.

When they had bought the wagon, it had seemed to be a good idea. Then they had only been in the mill for two or three years. The steady flow of grain from the manor had been enough to keep them busy and provided them with a good income, even after paying the taxes to the manor. That was in Sir Reynald de Furnshill’s day, of course, before his death and the arrival of Sir Baldwin. Their trade had been so good with the new mill that they had been able to bring in corn from other parts and make a good profit. That was why they had decided to purchase the wagon. It meant they could buy corn from farms far distant and sell their flour in Crediton to the bakers.

Now, though, after two years of appalling harvests, the wagon seemed less of a good idea. They could hardly afford to keep and feed the old horse, and with the prices demanded in the town for the simplest goods, Je

She passed the new house, where the de la Forte family lived, with little more than a cursory glower. She felt it was unfair that some were able to buy whatever they wanted when so many of her friends were starving or freezing to death for want of fuel. At the thought of death she shivered, thinking again of poor old Agatha.

The old woman was sometimes difficult to deal with, Je

Agatha Kyteler’s death was very sad, she reflected. It was all round that the old woman’s throat had been cut. The i

If the felon was particularly strong and muscled – she had seen it a few times – one of the executioners would have to grab the swinging body, then leap up and embrace it, using his extra weight to jerk the victim down hard and fast to snap the spine. But they only did that if the felon was still alive after fifteen minutes or so, not before. After all, they had to make sure that the crowds were satisfied with their viewing first, even if there were a lot more criminals waiting for their turn. Otherwise there could be arguments over the gambling, with accusations that the executioners had intentionally killed the victim before the allotted time, that they had been bribed, and they could all do without the problems that kind of altercation produced.

At the outskirts of the town, she took a wineskin and sipped at the freezing liquid. Then, taken by a sudden urge, she halted the wagon and dropped to the ground. Crunching through the thick layer of snow, she walked to a bush at the edge of a field strip, lifted her tunic and skirts and squatted, giving a sigh of relief. It must be the jogging of the wagon that always had this effect, she thought.

Then, over the sound of her little stream as it died to a slow trickle, she heard a merry, tinkling laugh, and the steady clopping of hooves. Lifting herself, she peered over the shrub toward the road, where she saw two riders. One, she saw, was a middle-aged man, thickset with a heavy belly, and a face like a mastiffs, all wrinkled and creased, with two small and cruel eyes. The other was a younger woman, tall, slim and dark, with long braided tresses lying over her shoulders as black as ravens’ wings, framing a face as beautiful as the Mado