The Merchant's Partner Read Online Free PDF Page A

Only then did he turn and peer at the Gascon.
    â€œWho are you?”
    Keeping his anger under control at the rudeness, the Bourc smiled back, but his eyes were hard. “Friend, I am a traveller on my way to see the master of Furnshill manor for my lord. I am called the Bourc de Beaumont. What is your name?”
    â€œI’m Alan Trevellyn—merchant. Who’s this master of Furnshill?”
    The Bourc started and peered at him on hearing the name, then stared at the woman. She clearly felt that his gaze was in response to the man’s rudeness, and softened the harshness of the question by her gentle voice. Eyes on the Bourc, she said, “I think we have heard of him, Alan. He is named Sir Baldwin.”
    The landlord arrived with a tray of wine and handed pots to the man and woman. Other people were entering now, and he was soon busy going from one group to another.
    â€œSir Baldwin, eh?” said Trevellyn. “Yes, I think I remember him. He’s not been there for long, has he—his brother died or something.”
    â€œI had heard,” the woman said, “that Sir Baldwin came here just before the abbot was murdered last year.”
    â€œBut surely you have not lived here long yourself, madam?” asked the Bourc, leaning forward and peering at her.
    â€œShe’s been here long enough.” The merchant put himself between them and glared wide-eyed at the Bourc, as if daring him to continue talking.
    Staring back, the Bourc allowed himself a small smile and his eyebrows rose. “Do you object to me speaking to the lady?” he inquired softly.
    â€œYes, I do!” the merchant said, and suddenly his face contorted with fury. “She’s my wife! Leave her alone, or you’ll have to deal with me ! Understand?”
    The Bourc could not prevent a quick glance at her in open-eyed astonishment. That such a small, frail thing of beauty should be tied to so brutish a man seemed impossible, but even as he caught her eye, he saw the beginnings of the dampness as if she was about to weep, and she looked away quickly. When he unwillingly dragged his gaze back, the merchant’s lip was curled in a disdainful sneer.
    â€œMy apologies, sir, I had not realized,” the Bourc said, stiffly formal. A devil tempted him to say that he had assumed Trevellyn to be her servant he looked so poorly made, but he stopped himself. He had no wish to fight so soon after arriving here.
    â€œAnyway, I am here to see Sir Baldwin for my master, as I said, and then I have some personal business to see to. There’s a lady I must see. Do you know Agatha Kyteler?”
    It was not his imagination. At the name, Mrs. Trevellyn’s head snapped round to stare at him and the merchant paused with his pot halfway to his mouth. Glowering at the Bourc, Trevellyn brought the mug down with slow deliberation. “Agatha Kyteler?” hesaid, then spat into the fire. “Why do you want to see that old bitch?”
    He could feel himself bridling at this contemptuous treatment of the woman, but held his anger on a close rein. Sitting more upright, and resting his left hand on his sword, he said, “If you have something to say of her, share it with me. I know her to be an honorable lady.”
    â€œHonorable? She’s a witch, that’s what she is! She puts curses on people—you ask anyone around here,” Trevellyn said scornfully.
    Standing, his face white and taut with anger, the Bourc stared at Trevellyn. “Say that again. Say it again and defend yourself! I know her to be honorable—do you accuse me of lying?”
    There was silence for a moment, as if every man in the hall was holding his breath. “Sirs, please!” the publican called anxiously, but the three ignored him. The Gascon was still and watchful, but his rage was boiling beneath his apparent calm. Trevellyn suddenly realized how his words had affected the stranger, and now gaped with fear