The Merchant's Partner by Michael Jecks

country, and the Bourc let him search for his friends for a minute without interruption. There was no need to emphasize the fact. From here the moors fell down to the stream where he had caught the man, then rose to the trees a mile or so beyond. It was clear that no rescue was to be mounted from there. The Bourc watched as the man peered round to look up the hill, and grinned humorlessly. He knew that the country was as empty for nearly as far in that direction.
    Holding the dagger delicately between finger and thumb, point dangling, the Bourc glanced at him again. “Why were you trying to ambush me? And why did your friends not shoot to kill? They had bows. I saw.”
    The eyes snapped back to his face and the Bourc was surprised to see no fear there. The dark face stared at him with what looked like a vague sneer. “Why do you think?”
    â€œI have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?” There was no answer. The man hawked and spat contemptuously. Sighing, the Bourc tried again. “My friend, I don’t know. You don’t look hard done by—you aren’t starving or anything. You don’t seem poor: your tunic is good quality and not worn.”
    Now the scornful expression grew. “We aren’t footpads!”
    â€œAh! So why else attack someone you have never met? You have the look of a sailor, and yet I know no sailors…”
    Seeing a quick interest, he paused. “So you are a sailor. But I know no sailors…No, I do not understand why you should have tried to rob me. So…”
    â€œSo maybe I just hate Gascons.”
    â€œYes, that’s possible,” said the Bourc softly. With aflick he tossed the dagger up. It turned once in the air and he caught it again by the hilt. Reaching forward, he touched the point at the top of the man’s breastbone. As the eyes widened, he smiled, then dragged the blade gently downward, so lightly he left no mark on his prisoner’s skin, although it made the man squirm as it traced a mark of tickling terror down his chest. When it touched the top of his tunic, the Bourc angled it, so that it sliced through the cloth.
    Speaking conversationally, he said, “You don’t look worried about dying at my hands. I suppose you aren’t scared of a quick death. That’s fine. But it’s getting close to dark, and it will be very cold tonight. I think I might just leave you here once I have cut your tunic off. After all, maybe I don’t like sailors.”
    â€œYou can’t do that! I’m your prisoner, you must…”
    â€œ I must? I don’t have to do anything. You attacked me. I can do as I wish with you—I’m a knight. And I have little time to take you anywhere, my lord expects me home in Bordeaux. No. I think that leaving you here to freeze slowly will be best.”
    Now the fear was fighting to overcome the disbelief. “You can’t! What if someone finds me here and…”
    â€œFinds you? Here?” The Bourc smiled at him again, his knife stilled, and he made a show of gazing round. When his eyes came back to his prisoner, he began to move the blade again. “I think it’s a little unlikely, don’t you? We’re not close to a road here. I doubt whether anyone would come here before morning. Of course, a wolf might come along…”
    â€œStop!” It was a cry of panic. “I’ll tell you why we were there…Stop! Please! ”
    The Bourc paused, his dagger poised under the man’s heart. “Yes?”
    â€œWe were paid to attack you. Not to kill you, just to hurt you a bit…”
    â€œWho paid you? And why?” He stared. He only knew a few people here—who could have asked for him to be ambushed?
    â€œTrevellyn—Alan Trevellyn—he lives over north of Crediton—we work for him. He paid us to follow you today, after he pointed you out to us in the inn—told us he wanted you hurt. That’s