Gerard grunted. The almoner’s words seemed a little too close for comfort. He had spent much of the previous night worrying, considering what he might do – what he could do – to get himself out of this mess, and flight had been one option which had appealed to him.
‘Strange about that miner found dead up on the moor,’ Peter continued.
‘Yes. God bless his soul.’
‘Aye. I doubt many will want to do that. Not when they hear about his trade, eh?’ Peter suddenly fixed him with an eye at once bright and knowing and sad.
Gerard stammered, ‘His trade? He was a tinner, wasn’t he?’
‘Aye, I suppose,’ Peter said imperturbably. ‘Odd, though. He spent a lot of time in the gardens here, not far from the walls.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Oh, nothing. Nothing,’ Peter said. ‘I just wondered why he went there so often at night. You know I don’t sleep for long? I often have to rise in the middle of the night and walk about the Great Court or along the walls. You’d be surprised what you see late at night.’
Gerard felt his heart begin pounding. He was sure that Peter was warning him obliquely, but he couldn’t speak. He knew Augerus would always tie the stolen goods in a small sack and dangle it by rope from a small window in the abbot’s own lodging, and Wally would come and collect it. Wally had told him so.
Their friendship had been short, but in some ways Gerard felt closer to Wally than to anyone else. Augerus had taken Gerard to a tavern one day, and Wally was there. While Gerard watched, the steward passed a small purse to Wally, and Wally filled it with coins. Later, when Augerus left to piss outside, Wally and Gerard spoke briefly, and found in each other a kindred feeling. Gerard missed his family and felt forced into the thefts, and somehow he got the impression that Wally felt the same.
‘You knew he hadn’t found tin for over a year?’
Peter’s words drew him back to the present. ‘Why should I know that?’
‘Common chatter, no more. Still, I thought you might have heard. It must be hard to keep body and soul together with no money. A man could turn to thieving.’
Gerard said nothing, but rebelliously averted his gaze.
‘Odd that he’s dead, up there so far from anyone, and on the Abbot’s Way, too. Just like Milbrosa. You’ll remember that story I told? About how the Abbot’s Way was created?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see what any of it’s got to do with me,’ Gerard blurted.
‘Ach, what could it have to do with a young laddie like you? You aren’t allowed out, are you? No, you couldn’t have killed that fellow, could you? I reckon,’ Peter said, glancing up at the sun to gauge the time, ‘it must have been those travellers.’
‘Travellers?’ Gerard stammered. ‘What… travellers?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’ Peter said as he led the way westwards to the Maudlin. ‘There were a gang of them up there. Probably came here for the coining, and killed Walwynus on their way – or on their way back. You can’t trust strangers on the moor, can you?’
‘Who would know about these folks? I don’t believe you. No one was up there, it was just an accident that Wally got killed. Someone thought he was a rich miner, that’s all.’
‘On his way to the coining, perhaps?’ Peter asked.
‘Where else would he have been going?’
‘Oh, I just wondered whether he could have been on his way back.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Maybe someone saw him here in town. Talked to him. And then he went home, and on his way, he was murdered,’ Peter said ruminatively.
Gerard asked quickly, ‘And who are these travellers? Has anyone seen them? I haven’t heard about them.’
‘I saw them. I was up on the moors that day,’ Peter said.
Gerard felt his heart stop within him on hearing the monk’s mild tone, and when he glanced at Peter’s face he saw a flash of keenness in the old man’s eyes which was soon followed by a knowing leer. He had spoken to provoke, and he had succeeded.
‘So you murdered Wally?’ was what Gerard wanted to say, but just now, looking into those bright, astute eyes, he found his throat drying.
He was terrified…
Chapter Seven
The pie-shop which Joce entered was a little single-storey building, with no upper chamber like so many of the other places in the street, but that didn’t affect Nob Kyng, also known as Nob Bakere and Long Nob, ironically, on account of his short and rotund shape. He didn’t care. People could call him anything they wished, he reckoned, so long as they left him alone to do what he was best at, which was cooking.
He and Cissy his wife had come here many years before, making the arduous journey from far in the north when they were both in their mid-twenties, intending to create a new life, and so far they had been very successful. Nob had found a little place in which to set up shop, and with his meagre store of pennies, had leased it from the abbot. At the time there were only two other pie-shops in the town, and although Nob had to work hard, he soon built up a good clientele and felt as though he had never lived anywhere but here in Tavistock.
Cissy was a jolly, constantly smiling woman who originally came from Devonshire, so returning to the county felt quite natural for her. Although people had looked askance at the pair of them when they first arrived, Tavistock was a friendly enough town, and in a short space of time the two felt entirely at home. Nob would remain in the back of his shop, sweating over his great cauldron, braziers and oven, while Cissy transferred the cooked pies from her trestle table to the hands of her customers. It was easy and lucrative. Never more so than during the five coinings each year. They had done well for themselves here, and their son and two daughters were testament to their happiness.
‘Come on, wench! I need to get these off the fire,’ Nob called.
A merry fellow with gleaming blue eyes and a ginger beard, he was dressed carelessly, in a short tunic that was marked by a thousand fatty explosions, while his arms were protected by his torn and frayed shirt. Through the rope that encircled his belly had been thrust a cloth to serve as an apron, ‘and to protect me cods!’ as he often happily declared.
Cissy called, ‘All right, all right, you old fool. I won’t be long,’ and returned to chatting with Sara.
Nob could see her talking, but he let her continue. Cissy attracted women who needed advice like a candle-flame attracted moths. Yesterday it had been Emma, and now apparently Sara wanted help.
Sara was always seeking the friendship of one man or another now she was widowed; and Nob had no doubt that his wife was offering some friendly and probably long overdue advice on how to disentangle herself from her latest admirers. There was always more than one, which was no surprise when a man considered her long, lithe body, slim haunches, tiny waist and swelling breasts. And all that, as Nob told himself, under a fair halo of strawberry-golden hair, slanted, humorous green eyes and those succulent lips, bright and red and soft as rose petals. Bloody good-looking, she was.
Cissy was going to be with her for a while, from the look of things, so Nob pulled the pies from the heat himself and set them on a large wooden tray to cool, taking them to the trestle.
‘Now then, lass,’ he called out. ‘Is it more talk about men or not?’
‘Shut up, Nob. If you want to be useful, fetch us a jug of water,’ Cissy snapped curtly.
Nothing loath, for at the side of the water barrel was a second one filled with ale, Nob hitched up his rope, sniffed, and walked out.
‘Nob!’
He poked his head around the doorway. ‘Yes, my little turtle dove?’
‘Enough of your smatter. And don’t empty the ale barrel while you’re there.’
Grunting, he tugged at his rope belt again. Since Cissy had already turned her back to him, the effect was somewhat lost, but he cocked an eye at Sara. ‘Eh, Sara? How comes you always have all these fellows drooling over you, eh? Tell ’em you’re mine, girl, and they’ll leave you alone. No
ne of ’em would mix wi’ me, lass.’
Sara gave him a weak smile, and he winked and grinned before walking out to his barrel, reflecting that she appeared more upset than she usually did when she was suffering from man trouble.
Sitting with his large pottery drinking horn in his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow and upper lip, then the back of his hair, using his cloth. Draping it over his shoulders, he sat back.
It was a long day’s work, cooking. Up before dawn to light the first of the fires, then mix the flour and water to make the paste, and leaving it to rest a while before rolling out the little pastry coffins and filling them. Some liked plain meats – beef, pork, chicken, lark or thrush; others liked thick gravies or jellies. He always had half a calf’s head and offal boiling in one pot ready to make gravy, while the animal’s hooves were simmering in another for the jelly. No matter, Nob liked his work, and with the profit of the coining last week, he and Cissy had made enough money to be able to survive through to the big coining in the late autumn. That would be the last for a while, and the money he saved from now, together with the profit from the next, would have to keep them going through the winter.
Not, he thought with a contented belch, that he had much to worry about. The wood for the winter was stored. Their last pair of pigs were ready to be slaughtered and salted down, and the chickens which had stopped producing enough eggs had already been marked off in his mind. There was enough for them this winter. Thank God, he thought, virtuously crossing himself and glancing upwards, the harvest was better this year. The last few summers had not been good. No one had starved, but the cost of food was still too high.
Finishing his ale, he filled a cup with water and, as an afterthought, picked up a second cup and pitcher of cheap wine. Poor Sara looked as though she could do with a drink.
But Sara was already gone when he re-entered his hall.
‘Trouble again, with that girl?’ he asked.
‘When isn’t she in trouble?’ Cissy said gloomily.
Nob nodded, waiting.
There were no customers in the shop to listen at the moment, so Cissy continued, ‘She thinks she’s got a babby on the way.’
‘How many will that be?’
‘You know. There’s Rannulf, Kate, Will, and now she reckons she’s going to have another. Missed her time this month and last. She’s beside herself, poor maid, because her man’s been dead two years and more, so people will know, and then what will happen?’
‘Who’s the father?’
‘Wouldn’t say. Someone who isn’t married, she said, but that’s no matter, is it? She thought he was going to offer to marry her, she said, but after he bedded her one last time, he turfed her out and laughed at the idea. His promise was nothing and there were no witnesses. Three kids already, and now this one,’ Cissy sighed. ‘She’s one of those who takes a compliment like it’s got to be paid for. Tell her that her hair looks nice, and she’ll ask whether you want her bed or your own.’
‘Never asked me,’ Nob said innocently.
‘Nob, the day you notice someone’s hair is the day I’ll become a nun,’ she said scathingly as she walked to wipe crumbs from the table in front of her.
Nob returned to his oven, taking a shovel and throwing fresh charcoal inside. He reached in with a long rake to pull the remaining old coals to join the fresh pile, and used his bellows to heat the lot to a healthy red glow. Once it had been in the oven’s centre for a while, he would rake the coals aside again and thrust fresh pies on to the hot oven floor.
Sara was a pretty girl, but she had her brain firmly planted between her legs, in Nob’s opinion. She’d been married to a young poulterer, but he’d died, falling into a well after a few too many ales one night, and she’d had nothing left, other than two of his children and a growing belly. With no money, she’d been forced to sell up and depend on the charitable instincts of her brother Ellis, her neighbours, and the parish. That was when she first started talking to Cissy.
Cissy was known by all the young women in the town to be possessed of a friendly and unjudgemental ear. Girls could, and did, walk miles to tell Cissy their woes, knowing that she wouldn’t usually offer advice, but would listen understandingly and give them a hug if they needed it.
Nob knew that Sara had received many of Cissy’s hugs. The trouble was, although she knew she was foolish to keep allowing men into her bed, she couldn’t stop herself.
‘She’s being called harlot,’ Cissy said thoughtfully, shaking her head and, a rare occurrence this, poured a goodly measure of wine into her cup, ignoring the water.
‘She’ll be all right, love,’ Nob said.
‘Don’t be so foolish. Haven’t you got pies to make?’
Nob grinned to himself. Cissy was on her usual fettle. He sauntered back to the ovens and began making fresh coffins, rolling out a little pastry, spooning his meats onto the middle, and putting the coffin’s lid atop. A few minutes passed, and then he saw her hand deposit another hornful of ale at his side. He smiled his thanks. After last night, he didn’t feel that he needed much ale; water would have been more to his taste, but he wouldn’t turn down anything today, not after keeping her awake all night. That was the trouble with going out and drinking. The bladder couldn’t cope as well as once it had, and then he farted and snored too, making Cissy sharp with him in the morning just when he needed a little comfort. And if he sought a little comfort when he got home from the tavern, he would soon learn that she wasn’t in the mood.
The thought made him feel a little better, and he was just grabbing her experimentally about the waist when a man called out from the shop.
‘I want a meat pie. You know my sort.’
Nob glanced over his shoulder. ‘Morning, Master Joce.’
‘Cook,’ Joce said, nodding. It was the nearest the town’s receiver would come to acknowledging the baker.
Pulling his apron from his shoulder, Nob hooked it back under his rope belt and turned to see to his fire. He must pump with his bellows to make the coals glow again, and then he scraped them all away, to the left-hand side of the oven’s opening, near the entrance, where-their heat would rise and sear the top of the pies. Grabbing his long-handled peel, he loaded it with uncooked pies and thrust them far inside, reloading the peel again and again until he had all but filled the oven. Only then did he set the peel down and rub his hands.
‘Thirsty work, that,’ he observed.
‘Will it be long?’ Joce asked sharply.
‘Sorry it’s not ready yet, Master. It’ll not be very long. Do you want an ale while you wait?’
‘No, I shall sit outside. Call me when it is ready.’
Cissy was watching Joce Blakemoor as he stalked from the room.
‘What’s the matter with him today?’ Nob said. ‘He’s usually more polite than that.’
‘Anyone would think he had something on his mind,’ Cissy said.
‘Hah! I think he probably does.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Come on! You know something. What?’
‘There was talk in the alehouse last night, that’s all.’
‘Oh! You men are worse gossips than all the women in the town. What did they say?’
‘Joce is the town’s receiver, isn’t he?’
‘You know he is. So what?’
Nob scratched at a blister on his wrist. A globule of fat had hit him there two days ago and it itched like the devil. ‘So he’s the receiver, and he has to take in all the fines and so on, keep the accounts and pay over what is owed to the abbey at the end of his term. Well, what if his hand got a bit close to the purses, and a little dribbled into his fingers? And once a little dribbled into his greasy mitts, he chose to take a bit more. What then, eh?’
‘Rubbish! Joce Blakemoor a thief? You’ve been drinking too much ale for breakfast.’
‘You can sneer if you like, but I know what I’ve heard,’ Nob said smugly.
‘And what h
ave you heard, Husband?’
‘Joce hasn’t submitted the accounts for the last couple of years. Why should he do that, unless he’s fiddled them?’
‘Just because he’s bad with paperwork doesn’t mean he’s stolen from the stannary, does it? Christ’s balls, you’ve got nothing better than moorstone between your ears, you!’
‘Oh, really? Then why doesn’t he just ask the abbot for the loan of a decent clerk, then?’
‘Nob, you great dollop, the man probably didn’t want his friends and other burgesses thinking he was as stupid as you! What if the gossip starts? Soon he couldn’t get credit with the traders in the town. He’d never be able to get food, would he?’
Nob was silent, staring at her with wide eyes. She returned his gaze with sudden sharpness, and both glanced at the door.
‘I’ll ask him for cash,’ Cissy promised, folding her arms over her immense breasts like an alewife blocking her door after throwing an alcoholically rebellious customer into the street. Yet while she stood there, she wondered. There was one thing that Sara hadn’t told her, and that was the name of the man who had got her pregnant. Usually if a woman was in her position, she would tell all if the man refused to support her, and Cissy had expected to have the man’s identity shared with her, but Sara had remained coy. Perhaps she still hoped he would look after her and the child; not that he was likely to, Cissy told herself. These men never did, They gave their lovers as much soft soap as they thought the girls needed, and then they ran like the devil.
Next time she saw Sara she’d ask his name. Not from nosiness; she wanted to know if he was preparing to try it on with another girl. Cissy wouldn’t have him doing that if she could stop him.
* * *
Simon had been woken a little after dawn by a small and nervous-looking servant. He hated waking in a strange bed, and he much preferred to come to life with the gentle insistence of his wife Meg than with his shoulder being prodded by a pimple-faced youth whose fore-teeth had fallen in or been punched out. Probably the latter, he thought uncharitably as the boy hurriedly withdrew.
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