“Yes,” said Stephen, and uncrossed his legs.

“How long have you known him?”

“How…? Oh, almost all my life.”

“You are of the same age?”

“Yes. We are both twenty.”

“I suppose you must have talked about everything.”

“Yes.”

“So why was he upset, then? He must have told you.”

To Simon it looked like a gesture such as a theatrical player might use. The boy half turned to his father, opening his mouth, then faced the knight again with a thoughtful frown on his face. “It is difficult for me to tell you this… I do not know if I should, for he told me in confidence, and I swore to keep it silent for him.”

“What?”

“A woman.”

Baldwin sat back, his eyes still fixed on the boy, and Simon found himself immediately thinking: Sarah Cottey! It must be her.

“Who?” he heard Baldwin rasp.

“I cannot say.”

“This is nonsense!” said Baldwin, standing abruptly. “You expect me to believe that he knew you since childhood, that you talked about everything, that you were close friends, and yet something like this, something so important, he kept from you?”

“No, sir. You don’t understand.” The voice was low now, almost sad. “She is well-born, not a villein. And married.”

“Ah!” The knight faced him again.

“Yes. Of course I know who she is, but I swore to keep her name secret when he told me. You must understand, I cannot break my vow.”

“No. No, of course not,” said the knight hastily.

“But there’s one thing I can tell you.”

“Yes?”

“He couldn’t have killed the witch.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He was with me all afternoon on Monday, and all evening.”

“So?”

“I heard from the innkeeper that old Kyteler was seen by Oatway in the early afternoon, so she was killed later in the afternoon or in the evening. I was with Harry all that time. It can’t have been him.”

Chapter Ten

The father stood at the door and watched as the two walked to their horses, untied the dog and mounted, turning and slowly making their way back down the path, through the ford, and on to the road back to Wefford.

There was a bitter wind blowing that felt as though it was licking at Simon’s skin with a tongue of pointed ice. His cloak, tunic and shirt were of no use in defence.

“The weather doesn’t improve, does it?” he remarked after some minutes of silence.

“Hmm? Oh! No, no it doesn’t.” Baldwin was jogging along with his mind completely absorbed.

Sighing, Simon said, “What part of his speech did you find confusing?”

“Only the one part that matters. Who is she?”

“This lover of Greencliff’s?”

“Yes. Who could she be?”

“Unless Greencliff himself decides to tell us, I doubt whether we’ll ever find out.”

“No. Unless, of course, the boy de la Forte could be persuaded. I wonder…?”

“What?”

“Was he lying, do you think?”

“Ah!”

Baldwin glanced across at him. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to jump to conclusions? Tell me I’m being fanciful?”

“Would you listen to me if I did?”

The knight considered. “No.”

“Good!” said Simon and chuckled. Then, with a small frown, he said, “What did you think of the boy de la Forte?”

“Think of him?” Baldwin shot him a glance. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him. I think he is telling the truth about the woman, though.”

“That Greencliff was having an affair with one?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so too,” said Simon, nodding. “So what do we do now?”

“I suppose we must release him. There can be no doubt that after Stephen de la Forte’s evidence the boy could not have been close to the woman when she was killed.”

“No, unless de la Forte was lying. I felt he was this morning, and again just now. It wasn’t just a case of holding things back. I got the definite impression he was deliberately lying.”

“Yes. I thought so too.” Baldwin glanced up at the clouds overhead. “There’s at least another hour and a half to dark. Do you think Margaret would grudge us a warming drink on our way home?”

If it had not been for the innocent expression on his face, Simon might have thought he had no ulterior motive. As it was, the bailiff knew well that the knight had a reason to want to visit the inn and his grin broadened as they increased their pace to a canter.

The innkeeper was sitting at a trestle in his hall when they arrived, both flushed from the sudden warmth after their ride. He was not alone.

This late in the afternoon, the inn was filled with people after their day’s work. Farmers and labourers, local villeins and others lounged on the benches or stood near the fire. Round and portly, slight and thin, no matter what the drinker’s figure, all became silent at the sight of the knight and his friend. The black and brown dog followed, slinking quietly as if he realised the impact of their entry.

“I think we’ve been noticed,” said Baldwin quietly, almost laughing.

Simon could not find their situation amusing. His eyes were darting over the men in the room, trying to find a friendly face. There was none.

“Sirs! Please, come in and sit,” said the keeper, evidently trying to put them and the others present at their ease. Walking to them, he quickly led the way to a table in a dark corner, at the back wall, near the curtain to the screen, and pulled over a pair of chairs.

“Wine,” said Baldwin shortly, and the landlord nodded as he walked away. Pulling off his gloves, the knight looked around the room, and as he met the eyes of others there, they looked away. Gradually they began talking again under the firm gaze of the knight. The dog curled up under the table.

“Here, gentlemen, your wine. Warmed and spiced.” The innkeeper set the tray down and poured them each a large measure.

“Good,” said Baldwin, smacking his lips as he drew the mug from his mouth. “Ah, yes. Very good, innkeeper. Will you join us? Will you take a drink?”

The expression of harassed nervousness disappeared.

“Yes, sir, I’d like one. Here, let me…” He waved to a woman at the far end of the bar, a short and stout woman of a few years less than the landlord himself, whom Simon took to be his wife, and soon another tankard arrived.

“It seems to be a busy inn you have here, keeper,” said Baldwin appreciatively.

“Yes, sir,” said the publican, smiling as he looked around his empire. “Yes, we have some good customers here.”

“Are they all locals?”

“Yes, all of them. We don’t have many travellers at this time of year, not with the snow. That trade begins again later, when the spring begins.”

“I see.”

Simon leaned forward and set his pot down, resting his arms on the table, while Baldwin leaned back and gazed at the man sitting with them. The bailiff stared thoughtfully at his hot wine, then said, “We’ve been to see the de la Forte family. Do you know much about them?”

The innkeeper took a long pull of his drink and glanced from one to the other. “Not very much, no.”

“So you do not know about their business?”

He shrugged. “Merchants. They import wine. Well…”

“What?”

“Oh, I was going to say, they used to, that’s all. I think they’ve suffered more than most over the last few years. I used to buy my own stocks from them.” He waved an airy hand vaguely towards the far side of the room, where he kept his barrels. “But then, when they began to lose their ships, I had to go elsewhere. Now I buy it from…”

“So you know the father, then?”

“Old Walter? Yes,” he chuckled. “He still comes here every now and again, but not too regularly.”

“What is he like?”

“How do you mean, what’s he like?”

Before Simon could answer, Baldwin leaned forward conspiratorially, beckoning the landlord closer and peering round as if to make sure no one could overhear their talk. “You see, my friend,” he said quietly, “Walter has suggested, in a way, that perhaps I might like to invest in some of his ideas.”