Now he could see the youth close to again, Simon felt that he was unwell. He had the feverish red and apparently sweating face of a convalescent. Was it that or was it just his guilt? Was it illness from his nights out in the cold or a deeper sickness at the knowledge of what he had done, of what his price must be now he was captured? His hands looked blue, as though the blood was cut off, and the bailiff made a note to get the thong tying him loosened.

His eyes were bright and steady, not ashamed or worried. They almost looked relaxed, as if he had tested himself and found himself to be stronger than he had expected. Although he appeared dirty and unkempt, he still stood tall – a bit like Baldwin, Simon thought. Proud and arrogant in his confidence.

The boy stood staring at him for a moment, then peered over his shoulder. Throwing a quick glance behind him, Simon saw that the Bourc was crouching by the fire and feeding it with fresh branches. The bailiff saw that the boy was struggling to control a shiver, and wordlessly led the way to the heat, Greencliff squatting and holding his bound hands to the flames with a small grunt of pain. After a moment Simon pulled his dagger free and, reaching over, sliced through the thong. The boy gave him a nod of gratitude before returning his gaze to the fire.

Tanner hobbled his horse before walking to the three by the fire. He stood and watched his prisoner for a moment, then pulled the ballock knife from his belt and tossed it to the ground beside the bailiff.

Looking up, Simon saw his serious – sad? – gaze and picked it up. Pulling the blade from the sheath, he saw the stains and picked at them with his fingernail. There was no way to tell for certain, but it looked a dirty brown, like dried blood.

“Whose blood is this, Harold?” he asked.

The light eyes glanced at him, then down at the knife for a moment with apparent disinterest before he shrugged and faced the flames. “Trevellyn’s, probably.”

“He admitted the murders,” said Tanner, and dropped down beside the bailiff.

“Why did you do it, Harold? Why kill them?” Simon said, frowning at the gasp from the Bourc.

The boy did not even bother to turn to face them. “I wanted to get away. I wanted money. They refused to give me any.”

“But you must have known that Agatha Kyteler had nothing! I suppose Alan Trevellyn was wealthy, but she had nothing! Why kill her?”

But they could get nothing more from him. He ignored their questions, sitting silently, his face set, with his hands to the fire, and his shoulders hunched as if they could act as a barrier to their questions.

Chapter Twenty

It was nearly dark when Jennie Miller walked into the inn and sat at a bench near the door with her pot of cider. It was too early for most of the people to have arrived, but there were already some men standing and talking in hushed voices. She knew why. Her husband had been told earlier that some of the men had returned from the hunt. They had found where Harold Greencliff was. He would be brought back soon.

In a small village like Wefford, this was news of the first order. Unused to the excitements normal in more populous or busier places, where the number of travellers passing through led to their own difficulties, Wefford had experienced its first taste of real crime in decades, and found that it had a sour flavour.

But where there were problems, there were also compensations, and this affair was no different. After all, nobody would miss old Agatha too much. She had scared too many people after the rumours put about by that old hag Oatway. Her death had caused more interest than anything she had done while living.

When the curtain opened to show a slightly nervous, scowling and dark-haired man, she looked up with interest. The face was familiar, but she could not remember where she had seen him. Thin featured, with weather-beaten skin and thick dark hair that straggled at the sides. Appearing shy, he hung back at the screens as if nervous of crossing the floor. Not tall, he looked quite thickset, but quick and lithe, a bit like her husband’s horse. Where had she seen him before? Surely he had been on a horse? It was then that she recognised him – it was the bailiffs servant… What was his name? The one who had waited outside with the horses when the knight and bailiff arrived to ask her about the day that Agatha died.

Shifting quickly on her bench, she smiled at him, and saw a minimal relaxing of his glower. Patting the bench seat beside her, she beckoned to him, then waved at the innkeeper.

“What would you like to drink?” she asked innocently, and he asked for a strong ale, sitting ungraciously beside her.

“Aren’t you the man that came to see me with Sir Baldwin Furnshill and the bailiff the other day?” she said when his beer had arrived and he had taken a deep draught.

He nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and now his face had lost some of its black dejection. The flavour of the beer restored some, if not all, of his equanimity.

Hugh was annoyed. So far today he had been told to help two serving women (either old enough to be his mother) with moving barrels in the buttery, then Margaret had asked him to help an hostler in the stables area, and finally, he had been instructed by a haughty man-servant that Hugh had been assigned to him to help with the mews, the sheds behind the stables where the falcons were left to mew, or moult.

When he had gone to Margaret to demand some sympathy, she had been short with him. Of course he understood that she was upset at the continuing absence of her husband, but that was no reason to take things out on him. On seeing him, she had made it very clear that he was expected to help wherever he was needed while they stayed under Baldwin’s roof, and that meant doing whatever the servants felt was useful. After being peremptorily ordered to go out and help with the mews, he had obeyed, but had then made sure that he could not be seen afterwards, and had quickly saddled his horse to come into the village for an evening of peace before he could be asked to do anything else.

Now, as he sat and glared moodily at his pot, he was struck with a sense of the unfairness of it all. After all, he was the servant of a bailiff. He should not have to mess about helping hostlers – the knight should have enough men to look after his horses and those of his guests!

Looking at him, Jennie could see that he was feeling gloomy, and quickly ordered him another pot of ale. After all, if the bailiffs man knew nothing, especially when he had been living with the knight, the Keeper of the King’s Peace, then no one could know anything.

“I hear they’re bringing back young Greencliff,“ she said tentatively, as if musing. ”Shame that. He’s such a nice lad, too.“

“Yes. They should be back later, or first thing tomorrow.”

“Your master? He’s with them?”

“He’s leading them,” said Hugh tetchily, then resumed his gloomy stare at his pot. “They all seem to think Greencliff must be dead, though. He was out in all that snow, so it’s unlikely he’ll survive.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a minute, then said, “What about her”? That French wife of Trevellyn?“

Hugh stared at her uncomprehendingly, wondering what she was talking about. “Eh? What, the widow? What about her?”

“Didn’t you know? She was having an affair with Greencliff. That’s why he was with her horse when she went to see the witch. He was helping his lover, looking after the horse of the woman he was having an affair with. I think she killed old Agatha while he held her horse!”

When the little group rode into town the following morning, Simon was pleased to see Baldwin, Edgar and Hugh standing outside the inn opposite the gaol. Saying, “You see to him, Tanner,” he dismounted and led his horse to the group of men standing on the patch of brushed earth, which showed red where the snow had been swept away.