“Look at it this way – nobody saw him there, did they? Let’s see whether someone else was there.”

“Yes,”, he said, but not convinced.

“So, where do we start?”

The knight stared ahead, towards the town itself, as if there was a clue in the scenery itself. “Jennie Miller, I suppose. Oatway said she was there with Sarah Cottey. Let’s see her. She might know something that can help us.”

The mill was a large, sturdy building to the east of Wefford, and they found their way to it by the simple method of riding through the woods until they came to the stream, then following it north. It stood in a small, sheltered valley. Looking at it, Simon thought it looked like a safe and warm property, with thick walls and a pleasing drift of smoke rising from the tall chimney. At the eastern end lay the stream from which it gained its power, quiet and sluggish now, but wild and fast when the countryside was less frozen. They had to cross the leat to get to the buildings, and were able to use a small wooden bridge that had been thrown over to help the farmers bring their grain.

Baldwin nodded approvingly as he gazed at the mill and the stream. Mills were jealously guarded by their parishes, and although the knight had only been here once before, and then only briefly, he was proud of this one. It had been built by his brother only five years before, and he was glad to see that the walls were maintained well, their limewash shining in the light.

But then, as they approached, they heard a high scream, and they spun in the saddles to look for the source. It seemed to be a young girl’s voice.

At first there was nothing, then the cry came again, shrill and urgent, from the woods to their left, on the other side of the water. Baldwin felt at once for his sword arid drew it, scanning the trees with a frown while Simon fumbled for his knife and spurred his horse alongside. They exchanged a glance, then both prepared to leap the stream.

“Ignore them, they always make a lot of noise.”

Turning, Baldwin saw a smiling, chubby woman in her early twenties standing in the doorway. He motioned toward the noise uncomprehendingly. “But… Who?”

Her smile broadening, she put a finger and thumb to her mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Immediately the sounds stopped, and were replaced by giggling and laughter, quickly approaching. After a few minutes four children appeared, two boys and two girls, the oldest being perhaps ten or eleven years old.

The knight’s eyebrows rose in sardonic amusement as he carefully stowed his sword away. Simon frowned as he watched the oldest of the two girls walk sedately to her mother. It was the girl from outside the inn, the one he had seen when they had brought the witch’s body back from the field. His eyes rose to take in the mother as Baldwin asked:

“You are Jennie Miller?”

Her grin broadening, she nodded as her brood accumulated around her, their eyes fixed on the strangers. “Yes. It was the children playing. I’m sorry if they troubled you.”

Clearing his throat, Simon glanced at his friend as he shoved his dagger back in its sheath, it’s no trouble. “We… Er… Thought someone was being attacked. That was all.”

The knight dropped from his horse and glanced up at Simon, then over at Hugh, who sat glowering with a face like thunder. When he turned to the woman, Baldwin was laughing. “No, it’s no trouble, apart from having a fit of the vapours!” He strode forward, “I am Baldwin Furnshill. Can we speak to you?”

At her nod, Simon leapt down, threw his reins to Hugh and told him to wait with the horses. She led them inside, sending the children away to play.

It was sparsely furnished, but welcoming and homely. There was a large table, benches, and chairs at one end, and at the other was a huge chimney and hearth, now filled with logs and roaring. Motioning towards the flames, Jennie Miller said, “My husband isn’t here right now, he’s woodcutting. If you want him, you’re welcome to wait by the fire…” Her voice trailed off inquiringly.

Taking a seat at the fire, Baldwin sat and smiled. “No, it was you we wished to see.”

“Me?” Her eyes seemed huge, but not from fear, only amusement. This was no mindless peasant, Baldwin thought to himself, this was a quick-witted and intelligent woman. She was also clearly not afraid.

“It’s about the death of Agatha Kyteler,” said Simon as he too dragged a chair to the fire, then sat contemplatively staring at her. “Did you know her?”

She laughed as she sat. “Everyone knew old Agatha! She was always helpful to people who needed her sort of aid.”

“What sort of aid?”

“Anything,” she shrugged. “A salve for a burn or wound, a potion to clear the bowels, a medicine to stop pain – she could give help to almost anyone. She was very clever.”

The bailiff peered at her. “You know what the people say about her? That she was a…”

“A witch?” She laughed. “Oh, yes, some said so. Why? Do you believe that?”

From his side Simon heard a low chuckle. He subsided back into his seat and left the knight to the questioning, faintly offended by his friend’s amusement. It was not surprising that he should believe, after all. He was not credulous, but everyone knew that the Devil was all round, trying to win over the forces of good and subvert them. Shrugging, he watched the woman as Baldwin began to question her.

“You didn’t think she was a witch?”

“No,” she said dismissively. “That was only a rumour. Old Grisel wanted to blame her bad luck on someone else. Bad luck happens. When we lose a sack of corn to weevils we don’t say someone put a curse on us. It just happens. When something steals chickens, there’s no reason to assume that it must be because of a witch. It was probably a fox!”

“But you said she was good with herbs and making medicines. Is that why people were prepared to think it was her, do you think?”

“Yes, I think so. She was very skilled, she knew all about different plants. That doesn’t mean she was a witch, though, and after all, everyone was happy to take advantage of her knowledge when they needed her.”

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully, and Simon was sure he was thinking of Sam Cottey, the man who denounced the old woman as a witch but still used her poultice when he hurt his arm.

“When we spoke to Grisel Oatway, she said that she saw you there, at Kyteler’s house, on the day she died. Tuesday. Why were you there?”

“Tuesday? Yes, I was there. I went to speak to her about my pains. Last time I was with child she helped with the sickness and cramps. I wanted to see her about some more herbs, like the ones she gave me before.” Seeing the knight’s raised eyebrows, she giggled. “Yes, I’m carrying a baby again.”

“Oh… Fine, well…” To Simon’s amusement, he saw that it was the knight’s turn to be embarrassed. “I see. You did see her?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I was there early in the afternoon.”

“Do you know when?”

“Not really. About two hours after noon, maybe.”

“How was she?”

“She was fine. A bit tired, I think. She used to spend so much time out collecting plants, and I think it was getting to be a bit too much, really.”

Simon cleared his throat and leaned forward. “You seem to be one of the very few people who knew her, like Sarah Cottey, but no one seems very sad that she’s been killed.”

“Why should we be sad? The poor old woman never tried to make friends here.”

A picture came into mind of the Kyteler cottage, fresh painted, with a new roof. “The house was well-looked-after. She was surely too old to paint and thatch – who did that for her?”

Jennie Miller smiled knowingly. “She wasn’t stupid,” she said, and her voice seemed to imply that she was not certain that the same could be said for Simon. “Whenever someone went to her, they had to pay in some way. She was not anxious for money, she had little need for it. No – she asked for things that were useful. If someone needed her help, they had to help her.”