“You saw her dog, then?”

“No, but the feathers went her way again. It must have been her dog.”

Shrugging, Simon glanced at Baldwin, who coughed.

“Very well,” he said reasonably; “did you see anyone else there?”

Her face wrinkled with the effort of recollection. “Yes. Yes, while I was on my way there, Sarah Cottey and Jennie Miller were talking near the house. And some other woman was in the trees – I don’t know who – when I left.”

“What did she look like?” asked Baldwin.

“Look like? Oh, I don’t know. Dressed well. Slim woman. Fairly tall and young, I’d say. Had a long cloak on, with fur on the hood.”

“A grey cloak?” Baldwin’s face wore a frown when Simon shot a glance at him.

“Yes, it was grey, I think.”

“You saw no men?”

“No.”

After checking where Jennie Miller lived, they walked out with relief to the open air. Even the extreme cold of the gathering darkness was preferable to the stench inside. The husband followed them, standing and inhaling deeply on his doorstep as he watched them mount their horses. Baldwin whirled his horse, and was about to ride off when he seemed struck by a sudden thought.

“Oatway. Why was your wife so sure that Kyteler’s dog attacked your chickens?”

He stared up at the grave knight, then quickly glanced behind to the open doorway. Moving a little away from it, to stand closer to Baldwin, he said, “Because she thinks old Kyteler got her dog to come here.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Kyteler never liked my wife. My wife thinks she got the dog to come and kill our chickens, one by one.”

Simon felt the hair begin to rise on his scalp as the stooping man stared up at the knight, his voice dropping as if nervous of being overheard – not by his wife, but by someone else. “Kyteler was clever with animals. She always knew how to help hurt ones. And she could make potions for people too. She knew how to make potions, medicines and such. There’s only one sort knows about that kind of thing.” His eyes held Baldwin’s with a fearful conviction. “She was a witch!”

It had not taken the Bourc long to light his little fire from one of the bundles on the pack horse, and he was soon sitting and warming himself. Munching on a hunk of bread, he watched the man until he saw a finger twitch and eyebrow flicker, and then he stood and contemplated the supine figure for a moment before walking over and kicking it. “Wake up! You have questions to answer!”

The man was thick-set and swarthy like a seaman. On hearing the Bourc’s voice, he looked around blearily, his eyes unfocused and slowly blinking above the scuffed and bloody chin, until they caught sight of his captor and suddenly widened.

“I see you recognise me,” said the Gascon affably, squatting nearby. Pulling out his long-bladed dagger, he toyed with the hilt for a moment, then studied his prisoner with a smile. When he spoke, his voice was low and reasonable. “Why were you trying to ambush me?”

Brown eyes narrowed and flitted around the landscape.

“I shouldn’t bother, if I was you. They went. If they tried to come back, I would have seen them. They’ve left you here,” said the Bourc.

“They wouldn’t leave me alone.” But the eyes were uncertain as they moved over the surrounding country, and the Bourc let him search for his friends for a minute without interruption. There was no need to emphasise the fact. From here the moors fell down to the stream where he had caught the man, then rose to the trees a mile or so beyond. It was clear that no rescue was to be mounted from there. The Bourc watched as the man peered round to look up the hill, and grinned humourlessly. He knew that the country was as empty for nearly as far in that direction.

Holding the dagger delicately between finger and thumb, point dangling, the Bourc glanced at him again. “Why were you trying to ambush me? And why did your friends not shoot to kill? They had bows, I saw.”

The eyes snapped back to his face and the Bourc was surprised to see no fear there. The dark face stared at him with what looked like a vague sneer. “Why do you think?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?” There was no answer. The man hawked and spat contemptuously. Sighing, the Bourc tried again. “My friend, I don’t know. You don’t look hard done by – you aren’t starving or anything. You don’t seem poor: your tunic is good quality and not worn.”

Now the scornful expression grew. “We aren’t footpads!”

“Ah! So why else attack someone you have never met? You have the look of a sailor, and yet I know no sailors…”

Seeing a quick interest, he paused. “So you are a sailor. But I know no sailors… No, I do not understand why you should have tried to rob me. So…”

“So maybe I just hate Gascons.”

“Yes, that’s possible,” said the Bourc softly. With a flick he tossed the dagger up. It turned once in the air and he caught it again by the hilt. Reaching forward, he touched the point at the top of the man’s breast-bone. As the eyes widened, he smiled, then dragged the blade gently downwards, so lightly he left no mark on his prisoner’s skin, although it made the man squirm as it traced a mark of tickling terror down his chest. When it touched the top of his tunic, the Bourc angled it, so that it sliced through the cloth.

Speaking conversationally, he said, “You don’t look worried about dying at my hands. I suppose you aren’t scared of a quick death. That’s fine. But it’s getting close to dark, and it will be very cold tonight. I think I might just leave you here once I have cut your tunic off. After all, maybe I don’t like sailors.”

“You can’t do that! I’m your prisoner, you must…”

“I must? I don’t have to do anything. You attacked me. I can do as I wish with you – I’m a knight. And I have little time to take you anywhere, my lord expects me home in Bordeaux. No. I think that leaving you here to freeze slowly will be best.”

Now the fear was fighting to overcome the disbelief. “You can’t! What if someone finds me here and…”

“Finds you? Here?” The Bourc smiled at him again, his knife stilled, and he made a show of gazing round. When his eyes came back to his prisoner, he began to move the blade again. “I think it’s a little unlikely, don’t you? We’re not close to a road here. I doubt whether anyone would come here before morning. Of course, a wolf might come along…”

“Stop.” It was a cry of panic. “I’ll tell you why we were there… Stop! Please?”

The Bourc paused, his dagger poised under the man’s heart. “Yes?”

“We were paid to attack you. Not to kill you, just to hurt you a bit…”

“Who paid you? And why?” He stared. He only knew a few people here – who could have asked for him to be ambushed?

“Trevellyn – Alan Trevellyn – he lives over north of Crediton – we work for him. He paid us to follow you today, after he pointed you out to us in the inn – told us he wanted you hurt. That’s all I know.”

For a minute the Bourc held the man’s gaze while he considered. It was quite possible that the merchant had chosen to pay men to attack him. He had made sure of the Gascon’s route by telling him which way to go. Nodding to himself, he whipped the knife down, swiftly slicing the tunic to the hem. Then he moved the blade down and cut the thongs hobbling his ankles.

“Very well. You can go now.”

“But…”

“What?” He mounted his horse and stared down.

“My hands! And where is my horse?” the man said, struggling to his feet and dejectedly looking down at his bare chest.

“Be grateful you have hands left. As for your horse – you lost it. You know your own way home, I believe. I should begin walking.”

He could still hear the man’s hoarse shouting when he had left him far behind, but he soon put all thoughts of the robber out of his mind. His only concern was how to repay the merchant. Nothing else mattered.