“I think you’d better tell the dog that!” said Simon, “It’s already decided to stay, from the look of it, whatever you think. It’s not what I say that matters. I was thinking of Lionors.”

“Ah! Yes, I forgot. Your wife!”

Baldwin shot him a glare of irritation, but it slowly left his features, to be replaced with a self-deprecating grin.

Lionors was apparently no difficulty. As they walked through the screens, they saw that Lionors and their companion had already met, and the two were standing and cautiously sniffing at each other in front of the fire. As they watched, the mastiff obviously decided that the newcomer was no threat, and walked away to lie before the flames, and soon the black and brown dog joined her, snuggling up against her large frame like a puppy. The mastiff lifted her head once, grumbled twice, but then flopped back down again and ignored the stranger. “I’ll think of a name,” said Baldwin with resignation.

Later, when he walked into his hall, Baldwin was amused to see Simon still standing and defensively warming his back before the fire, Hugh beside him and tossing more wood on, while Margaret stood by, an expression of tight-lipped exasperation straining her features. From her face, and from the look of embarrassed self-justification on Simon’s, the knight knew his friend had been given sensible advice about not staying out too late in the dark when it snowed. In any case, Baldwin had heard the hissed fury in her voice – and the deference in her husband’s – through the wall.

When he saw the quick toss of Margaret’s head in his direction, the pained glance from Simon, and the straight back of the servant that seemed to imply that as far as he was concerned he would prefer to be anywhere other than with his master at the present, Baldwin smiled broadly.

“I suppose I could deny having heard your… Er, talk?” he said, looking from Simon to Margaret, catching sight of a fleeting wince on the bailiffs face.

She raised a cynical eyebrow as she turned to face him with her hands on her hips. “Are you going to tell me you didn’t know how dangerous it can be? How bad it is to try to travel at night? You know what the lanes can be like when the snow is heavy: are you both mad?”

“I am sorry, my lady,” he said, walking to his chair in front of the fireplace. Before sitting he poured a tankard of warm wine from the jug on the hearth, then sat comfortably and sipped, his eyes fixed on her.

He looked like a bishop, sitting in his small chair as if it was a throne, she thought. Although he was not mocking her, she felt sure she could sense derision in his attitude, and drew in her breath to berate him in his turn, but before she could, he began speaking softly.

“Margaret, I’m sorry you were worried, but you must understand: there’s been a murder. We could not just stop and come home as soon as it became dark. We had to see if we could discover any more.”

“Of course I know that,” she said sharply. “But how would it profit your investigation for you both to die on a journey home?”

“Not at all, of course, but…”

“Exactly!” she said, cutting him off. “Not at all! Two merchants and a monk have already died this year on the way from Tavistock. All because they carried on with their journey after dark. I will not have you two doing the same.”

“But Margaret,” Simon began, but she whirled, glaring, and he subsided.

“No more: I will hear no more!”

Baldwin grinned and inclined his head. “Very well, lady. I will ensure that we are back in time in future.”

“Do so.” She walked to a bench and sat, arms crossed. “And now, tell me about this woman who has died.”

The knight and Simon exchanged a glance, then, at a brief shrug from his friend, the bailiff quickly told her of their day and what they had found about the dead woman. Tentatively sitting beside her, he told of their discovery of the body, their talk with the Oatways and their visit to the empty cottage. As he spoke, the mastiff rose and walked to Baldwin, closely followed by her black and brown shadow.

“Poor woman,” Margaret mused when he finished, and Simon nodded. “And these Oatways think she was a witch?”

“Yes,” said Baldwin. “They seem to believe she could make her dog do as she wished. As if a dog needed any prompting to do mischief! Anyway,” he took Kyteler’s dog by the head, holding it in both hands and peering into its eyes, “how could they think this one was evil?”

“That’s what they do, though,” said Hugh, and at his sudden interruption, they all glanced at him. Under their gaze he hunched his shoulders as if he wished he had not spoken, but then continued sulkily, “Well, it is. They get animals and make them do what they want. They can call on wild animals if they want.”

Baldwin grunted, “Nonsense!”

“It’s true! And if they want, some of them can change into animals, too! There’ve been witches all over here since men first got here,“ said Hugh, hotly defensive. ”Ever since men came here and fought the giants away there’s been witches.”

“No, Hugh. There’s no such thing as witches,” said the knight. “There’s only superstition and fear – sometimes jealousy. Never witchcraft.”

“Then how did this old woman get her dog to go and eat these chickens, then?” asked the servant triumphantly.

Looking up, Baldwin smiled at him, but then his face grew sombre. “Just because some old woman has a dog, and her neighbour thinks it was that dog that attacked her chickens, does not mean it really was. I think the dog deserves the chance to defend itself. Likewise, just because somebody thinks a woman is a witch does not necessarily mean she is, and she deserves the chance to defend herself.”

“How can she? She’s dead!”

“Yes. She is.” The words came quietly.

Margaret stirred. “But, Baldwin, what if she was a witch?”

“Kyteler a witch? No, I don’t think so.” His face was as gentle as his voice as he looked over at her.

“Why not?”

“Because I do not believe such people exist. I cannot.”

Simon leaned forward and peered at him. “But surely on your travels you must have…”

“No. I never found any proof of a woman having been a witch. Oh, I found plenty of examples of old women accused of being evil, of being involved in magic. I have seen many of them being killed. But there was always another reason why they were accused, it was never because anyone really believed they were guilty.”

“What do you mean, ”another reason“?”

“I mean, whenever there was someone accused of being a witch, it was because the accuser wanted their money, their cattle, their house – something! Always there was something that would benefit the accuser. And, often, it would only turn up later, after the poor wretch had already died in the flames. Even the priests don’t usually believe they’re evil, which is why they rarely get to see the Inquisition even when they have been accused. They’re usually killed by the mob. No, I do not believe in witches.”

“But this old woman had all those herbs and roots,” said Simon doubtfully.

The knight shot him a quick look. “Don’t tell me you believe in witches?”

“Well,” the bailiff explained apologetically, “it’s not that I believe in them necessarily, or that I think Kyteler was one, it’s just that there are so many stories, and…”

“Oh, really!” The knight suddenly stood and strode to the fire, standing by the great lintel of the chimney, and when he spoke again his face was all in shadow, his body framed by the flames behind. “What is a witch?”

It was Margaret who answered. “Someone who uses magic to do what she wants.”

“And what does she want?”

“Wealth. Love. Power. Sometimes to stay young. There are many things a witch can desire.”

“Kyteler had none of these. What did she achieve?”

Simon stirred. “You say that, but surely witches use magic just to do evil? They don’t need any benefit, they do it to please their master?”