Alan Trevellyn lay partially covered with snow. He was down on his knees, his torso and arms outstretched as if praying, his head on the ground between. Only one side of his body was cleared, the other was still as white as the ground. Simon paused and peered down, then crouched, hands on his knees, and stared.

Standing, he pointed at the agitated servant. “You! Did you find him here?”

“Yes, sir. I was here to collect wood for the log store when I stumbled on something. I thought it was a log… Or a stump… I had no idea it was the master… When I kicked at it, all the snow fell away, and I saw it was… Was…” He seemed to run out of energy.

“Did you clear away the snow with your hands?”

“No, sir. I kicked, and the snow fell away, and…”

Simon interrupted harshly, “I know all that. Did anyone else come here to see the body after you found it? Did anyone touch the body?“

“No, sir. I stayed here with the master until you got here just now, sir. I didn’t leave, sir.”

Nodding, the bailiff turned back to the frowning knight.

“What is it, Simon?”

“Look!” He pointed. “There’s snow over the body. But the blood’s on top of the snow.”

“Which doesn’t make much sense,” Baldwin agreed.

“No. He would hardly bury himself in the snow after dying, would he? No, someone else piled the snow around him after he was dead. And there,” he indicated the rows of lines on top of the mound that covered the dead man’s side, “are the finger-marks to prove it.”

“Let’s see what actually killed him.”

Simon grunted assent, and they carefully began to clear away the snow from around the corpse.

“Do you want one of the men to help you?” asked Mrs. Trevellyn.

Looking up, Simon glanced at the two men before returning his gaze to her husband. “No,” he said. “I think we can do this. Could you send one to fetch a wagon, though, to bring the body back to the house?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be inside if you want me.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s too cold for me up here.”

Simon nodded, and watched as she began to make her way back to the house, followed by her two servants, who straggled along like confused dogs expecting to be beaten. Turning back, he caught Baldwin’s eye. The knight was watching her too.

To Simon’s surprise, it did not take them long to clear the snow from Alan Trevellyn’s corpse. After only a short time they had wiped it from his back and sides, and now they had a small moat around him. His stance was clear to see now, with the arms reaching up as if in supplication.

“More than likely he just fell down like that,” was Baldwin’s own curtly expressed view when the bailiff pointed this out to him. “Come on! Let’s roll him over.”

Both taking a shoulder, they pulled hard. At first he seemed to have frozen to the earth itself. Simon felt it was as if the ground knew that he would be buried soon and had no wish to give up what it knew to be its own. But then it reluctantly gave up the struggle with a sudden loosening of its grip, and Simon nearly fell back as Trevellyn’s body moved, then toppled over on his side.

Simon stared at the bulging eyes, the blackened tongue, the black and red mess around the mouth where the blood had spurted and frozen or dried, at the deep wound beneath where the murderer’s knife had sliced through the yellowed cartilage of the windpipe before severing the arteries, and found himself swallowing hard to keep the bitter bile at bay. “Interesting,” said Baldwin, rocking back to squat on his heels after studying the wounds. “Just like Kyteler.”

The bailiffs voice was thick as he said. “Yes. Just like the witch.”

The knight took a close look at the face, and Simon could see a series of scrapes where blood had been drawn. It looked as if he had been hit with a heavy weapon of some sort.

“Mace, or maybe a cudgel,” he heard the knight mutter to himself. Apart from that there was little they could learn from the body.

It was not long before the men arrived to carry it back to the house, and Simon relinquished it with pleasure. As he watched the men collect it up, rolling it in a blanket and staggering with it to the cart, he stood well back, away from the gaze of those sightless, dead fish-eyes.

Even last year’s killings had not been quite as bad as this. At least then it had been a series of murders caused by a group of trail bastons, wandering outlaws with no other means to earn a living. Nobody was safe from the increasing prices that made food so expensive, that made lords have to reconsider how many retainers they could afford and threw out those they felt to be a burden. It was not surprising that some resorted to violence to gain what they needed. Especially since now, by law, all men had to own weapons for their defence, and by law must practise using those weapons for the better defence of their communities and themselves. No, it was not surprising that some decided that when their world refused to give them an honest way to earn a living they should resort to violence.

That was different, an almost comprehensible reason for a life of brigandage. But now? Two deaths like this? These were made more horrible, in some strange way, by the fact that they were unique. Perhaps if there were other bodies they would not seem so shocking. Maybe it was their stark, lonely individuality that made them so hideous.

As the wagon began the slow progress back, bumping and rattling over the lumpy ground, he paused a moment. It was just the same as the witch, he thought again. And it was only then that he felt the prickle on the back of his head as the hairs began to rise erect, and he felt as if he was suddenly smothered in an ice-cold sweat.

“What is it, Simon?” he heard his friend ask as he stopped in his tracks.

“I was just thinking. How was his body? Kneeling, sort of like he was praying – or maybe begging on his knees? Could he have been pleading for his life?”

When they returned, it was obvious to Angelina Trevellyn that they were deep in thought. They walked in without talking, stepping to a bench and sitting, their servant standing behind them. As soon as they were seated, she clapped her hands, and was pleased to see how quickly the manservant came in to serve them. He gave them mugs and poured mulled wine for them, then left the jug by the fire to warm.

“Can you tell me how he died?” she asked at last.

“Madam, he was slashed. His neck.” Baldwin was silent for a moment, peering into his mug, then looked up. “Do you have any idea who could have done this?”

Looking up, Simon was sure he could see a look quickly veiled – fear? Uncertainty? As soon as it appeared it was gone, and her face seemed to melt into repose as she reflected. “No, I cannot think of anyone who could do such a thing. Alan always had a temper, but to do this someone would have had to have hated him, surely?”

“Has he argued with anyone recently?”

She looked at him with a serious expression. “Sir, if you know anything about my husband, you will know that he was always strong and resolute. He was brave and never feared any man. He never hid his feelings.”

“Is it true that he nearly beat a servant to death recently?”

“Oh, I do not know about that. It is true he would beat the men if they were slow or stupid, but so many of them are! You know what servants are like! They are like dogs, and must be trained. He had to beat them to keep them alert. That is not a reason to kill him.”

“Did he know the witch?” Simon burst out, and she turned her face to him with sudden fear.

“The… The witch?” she said at last with an attempt at surprise. Under Simon’s gaze, she appeared uncertain. Licking her lips with a nervous gesture, she half-shrugged, then turned once more to Baldwin.

“The bailiff wondered if there could be something… You see, your husband died from the same kind of wound as Agatha Kyteler.”