“So, Bailiff. You were successful,” the knight said smiling, nodding towards the man being led into the little gaol, then, with surprise, he said, “John! I thought you left for Gascony days ago.”

He was about to question them about the hunt and where they had met, when he noticed the pinched look on Simon’s face and called out for the innkeeper. Soon, mulled wine was brought, the steam rising steadily from the liquid, and the smell from the sweetened mixture with its strong spices made the bailiffs mouth water. Taking a mug gratefully, he cupped it in his hands and blew on the surface to cool it a little, then took a sip of the scalding drink as the Bourc accepted another pot from the innkeeper.

“And, surprisingly enough, he’s alive, too!” Simon said, voicing the knight’s thoughts as he stared after the figures entering the gaol. “Yes, and it feels like I nearly died of the cold myself on the way.”

Mark Rush soon joined them, and they walked indoors out of the cold.

After his initial pleasure at seeing the men returning, Simon saw that Baldwin had sunk into a pensive reverie. The Keeper of the Peace was wondering whether he would shortly see the boy, his villein, hanged in the market square for the murders. It was surely not pleasant, Simon thought, to have to see the last remaining member of an old family on the estate coming to this kind of ignominious end. Far better that the boy had died on the moors or in the woods. To an extent, perhaps, it would have been better for all concerned if Greencliff had put up a defence and had died with an arrow in his head. At least that way there would have been an end to the matter. Now there would have to be a trial, with the lad perhaps attempting to defend himself – though how he could try to was beyond Simon’s imagination. The evidence all pointed to him.

As the knight called for more drinks, an eyebrow delicately rising at the speed with which the men finished off their first pots, Simon leaned forward on his elbows and jerked his head towards the Gascon. “Your friend knows a little more about the day Trevellyn died, and the day Agatha Kyteler was killed.”

“Really?” said Baldwin, glancing across the Bourc, who looked up inquiringly. “John? Simon says you can help us with the death of your old nurse and the merchant. Is that right?”

Before the Gascon could answer, Simon fixed him with a gleaming eye. “Be very careful how you respond, John. Your father’s friend thought you might be the killer.“

The Bourc stared at him, then at the sheepish knight. “You thought I did it?”

Shifting uneasily, Baldwin grimaced, “It did seem odd that you were with the old woman when…”

Laughing, Simon enjoyed the sight of his friend’s embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Baldwin. Anyway, he has an alibi, even if we didn’t already have Greencliff. Rush saw the Bourc on the road at dusk that day, far south of Wefford.”

“So what do you know of these killings, John?” the knight asked.

“I saw them both before they died.”

“Both?”

“Yes. When I left you on Tuesday morning, I went to see Agatha, as I said. I told you about the escape from Acre, but not the last detail. Agatha told me that herself. My mother wanted to save me, so she went to the boats to ask for a passage. You know more about it than I do, of course, but apparently it was mayhem. Boats everywhere, and all of the sailors demanding huge fees to save people. My mother carried me along the harbour, begging for help, but no one would help. Then she thought she had found one. Trevellyn’s ship.

“The master was happy to take her,” he said. “Pleased to, he said. But then he named his fee. Not money, not her jewels, just her. He wanted her!” He sipped his drink sullenly, but then grinned lopsidedly. “My mother apparently refused his kind offer, and asked that he accept a more sensible fee, but he insisted, and she came away empty-handed. Anne of Tyre, my mother, was of an important family, and I suppose she could not comprehend how low things had sunk by then. Anyway, she gave me to my nurse, and pleaded with her to take me to my father’s house. That was Agatha.

“To shorten the story, she managed to get on board, and refused to leave. She had all that remained of my mother’s wealth, and that was the cost of her passage. You have seen the man Trevellyn’s house? I would guess many of the stones of his walls were purchased by my mother’s jewels. A sobering thought, eh?”

“What became of your mother?” asked Simon.

“She died, I hope,” said the Bourc shortly, and Baldwin gave the bailiff a quick glare to stop him asking more. Time enough later, the knight thought, to explain about the horrors of capture by the besiegers of Acre, about the multiple rapes, the slow and painful murders – or, worse, the lifetime of slavery, owned by a fat merchant or prince. Far better, as the Bourc said, for the poor woman to have died quickly. Perhaps she was in the Temple when it collapsed, mercifully crushing all those who could not escape together with the remainder of their protectors, the last of the Templar Knights in the Holy Land. They were all buried together, in the one massive tomb.

“And you said that the ring you wore was the token of your position?” asked Baldwin.

“The ruby? Oh, yes. My father gave it to my mother, she gave it to Agatha, and she used it to prove who I was when she finally got me to my father.”

“You are not wearing it…”

“No, I gave it to her when I saw her on Tuesday.”

“You gave it to her?”

The surprise in the knight’s voice made the Bourc glance up at him. “Yes. She was not wealthy, and I thought it could be useful to her. I gave it to her as a token that my family would always remember her protection of me. Now… Well, now I wonder whether that is why she died.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps Greencliff saw the ring and killed her for it. She might have died because of the present I gave her.”

Baldwin untied his purse and withdrew the ring, setting it on the table before the Bourc, whose eyes grew large and round as he stared at it.

“But… How did you find it?”

“It was not stolen. Greencliff did not see it – or did not care about it. We found it in her house after her death.”

The Gascon gingerly picked it up and studied it for a moment. “That is a relief, I suppose,” he said at last and passed it back to Baldwin. “At least I know I was not responsible for her murder.”

“I’m sure you were not,” said Baldwin. “But the ring is yours. Take it!”

“No. Let it be buried with her. She has little else. At least that way her act toward me will always be with her.” Baldwin nodded and replaced it in his purse.

“Why were you here to see her?” asked Simon frowning thoughtfully. “Was it just to give her the ring?”

“I have no reason to hide it. For many years I have sworn to find the woman who saved me, to thank her and to find out more about my mother. But where do you begin to search? She had left my father’s court when I was weaned, many years ago. Where she had gone seemed a mystery to all, but then a letter arrived.”

“A letter?”

“Yes. It said that Agatha Kyteler was here. As soon as I heard, I set off to find her. It did not take so very long.” he settled back in his seat as if that explained everything.

Now Baldwin leaned forward. “This letter,” he said. “Who was it from?”

“We weren’t supposed to know,” the Bourc said smiling, then shrugged. “It was not signed, but it came from England, that much we found from the messenger.”

“And the messenger came from…?”

“He came from a town just outside Bordeaux, from a wealthy family. I asked them. They said it had come to them in a letter from their daughter, with a note asking them to send it on to me.”

The knight mused, wrapping his right arm around his chest and resting his chin in the palm of his left so that it covered his mouth. Shooting a quick glance at the Bourc, who sat imperturbably sipping at his pot, he said, “There’s more, isn’t there? Why did you disappear? And why did you go down to the moors?”