“She said she wanted nothing more to do with me when I asked her to leave the village and come away with me.”

“Yes,” said the knight and threw her a glance. She appeared to be gazing at the youth with a small contemptuous sneer. “I imagine she did. Anyway, feeling as you did, you went to the inn to get drunk. Half an hour later or so, Stephen arrived…”

Eagerly, the bailiff interrupted. “And he was cold, you said! You said he had no surcoat!”

“Yes,” the boy nodded with surprise.

“Look at Baldwin’s tunic, after killing Stephen’s horse!” said Simon triumphantly. “Stephen may have been able to clean his face at a stream in the woods, but he couldn’t clean his clothes. That was another thing that stuck in my mind!”

“Thank you, Simon,” said Baldwin with an imperceptible frown of irritation at the break in his tale. He paused, trying to regain the threads, but Simon was too quick.

“So,” he said, “Stephen appeared, heard what Angelina had said to you, and then started to speak about how the old woman would be sure to talk about such a wealthy woman going to see her, or something, yes?”

The boy nodded miserably. “He said that Agatha never could keep her mouth shut. He said she had told everyone in the village about me and Sarah Cottey. I had to do something to keep her quiet.”

“Yes, that was when you were overheard talking about silencing the old witch!”

“Yes. And Stephen offered to come with me.”

“That’s the interesting bit. I suppose he wanted someone to confirm that it was a shock to him to find her body there.”

“I don’t know. He came up to the cottage, but when I opened the door, and found her there, her dog came out and started to attack him. He said we’d better go, and I held the dog back, for it would have taken him by the throat otherwise. When he had gone, though, I began to think, and…”

“You thought Angelina had done it,” said Baldwin flatly. “So you chose to drag the old woman’s body to your field, so you could bury it and hide the proof of the murder.”

Nodding again, the boy looked up with frank sadness. “I went to the inn first, with Stephen. I left the body there at the house. I didn’t even tell him what I was going to do, I thought it would be wrong to involve him. Then, when we left the inn I took her back with me, through the woods, and left her in the field. I was intending to bury her the next morning. But Cottey found her first.”

“Why did you run away?”

“I still loved – I still love – Angelina. But she made it clear that she did not love me. I was going away. I was going to leave the area and find my fortune elsewhere.”

“I see.”

Simon musingly poured himself some wine. “Who suggested that you should go and see Angelina later? When Alan Trevellyn died?”

“Angelina did,” he said.

“I did not!” she declared hotly. “You asked to see me!”

“I assume, then,” interjected the knight suavely, “that Stephen told you, Harold, that Angelina wanted to discuss things with you, and told you, Angelina, that Harold must talk to you?”

They both nodded, and she seemed to consider as she said, “He threatened me. He said that Harold would tell all in the village about us if I did not agree to meet him one last time.”

“But you refused unless he came without a weapon?” asked Baldwin, leaning forward.

“That was Stephen’s idea. He said that Harold was so depressed he could do anything. He said I should be very careful, and he offered to take Harold’s knife if I agreed to see him. Stephen said he would stay nearby so that I should be safe.”

“So in that way he managed to get your knife, Harold. He used it to kill Alan Trevellyn. I don’t know how.”

“He came to the house and asked for wine. Maybe he told my husband that he had seen me with a man up in the woods? The servants were all terrified by my husband’s temper before he left to search for me. He was in a terrible rage.”

“It’s quite likely. Yes, he knew your husband well, as the partner of his father, so if Stephen saw Alan, Alan would probably have believed his story. And he could have promised to lead him to you, as well. It would not have taken much to drop back behind, and cut his throat as he stood in the trees. Then he covered the body with snow to hide it a little, and went back to see you two.”

“Why wasn’t he covered in blood this time?” asked Simon frowning.

“This murder was better planned. He knew that blood would cover the whole area after killing the old woman, so maybe he carried a fresh tunic with him, one that he only put on after leaving these two together. I don’t know, but he’s bright enough to manage that.”

“And then,” Simon finished, “he joined you, Harold, after your meeting with Angelina, and went home with you. It was his tracks and yours that we saw. Your feet, his horse.”

“Yes, he came back. He stayed with me a while, I think, but I hardly said anything to him. Angelina had confirmed that she would not leave her husband to live with me, not even if I could get us away, to over the sea. I felt that I had nothing to live for in Wefford any more. After he had gone, I packed and left. The rest, I think, you know.”

In the silence that followed, Margaret found it difficult to keep her eyes from the miserable figure of the farmer. He sat huddled, deep in thought, but none of the thoughts seemed to give him any joy. The woman was different, she could see. Angelina Trevellyn sat with a measuring gaze in her green eyes, and they were fixed intently upon Baldwin, who appeared to be unaware of her presence. The story of love and misery had struck him with its despair.

“Oh, don’t take her, Baldwin,” she found herself thinking with a shudder. To her surprise she found that the wish was so intense it struck her almost as a prayer. “She’s vicious, uncaring and grasping. Beware!”

As if he had somehow caught the drift of her thoughts, Harold Greencliff suddenly rose. Without a word, he swept from the room, his face downcast and his eyes avoiding meeting the gaze of any of the other people there. When she looked at her husband and the knight, Margaret saw the sympathy there, but the boy appeared not to have noticed as he slammed the door and stalked out into the open air.

After a moment, Baldwin stood and followed the boy.

Outside, the night was a grey curtain that hid the land around, and Greencliff was invisible in his dark tunic. But it was easy to find him from the sound of tortured sobbing that came from the side of the house. Baldwin stood undecided for a moment, not sure whether to go and interrupt the boy in his misery or not. He made up his mind. Steeling himself he strode on.

The boy was leaning against the log pile, eyes thrown upward at the star-filled sky, heaving great breaths and sobbing them out again in his despair and misery. He did not turn as the knight came up beside him, but continued his solitary skyward stare.

“What will you do, Harold?” asked Baldwin softly after a few minutes.

“Do? What can I do? What is there for me here? I’ve lost my only friends: my best friend is a murderer who tried to put all of the blame on to me; my woman, the one woman I thought wanted me as her husband, has made up her mind I’m not good enough for her! Not good enough to sweep her stables! What is there for me? What can I do, where can I go to find peace?”

Remembering Sarah Cottey and her spirited defence of him, Baldwin considered. He said slowly, “There are others who may be better friends or lovers, Harold.”

“There’s no one. I have no one. No friends, no family, nothing.” The tone was definite, the finality as certain as the slam of a tomb closing. In the face of it, Baldwin felt unequal to any further battle for the boy’s confidence. Turning, he stared away as he thought for a minute.

“Harold, if you need help, tell me. If you want to leave the area and go to Gascony like you said before, I’ll release you from your villeinage. But remember, you can only run from things you leave behind, not from things inside you. If you go but take the woman and your friend with you in your heart, you’ll never find peace. There must be another woman here that would be better for you, someone who can ease your life and…”