‘Then why d’ye not give the receiver here a piece of paper that confirms that you have bought food from him on behalf of the King, and that the King must pay the town later?’
Joce laughed. ‘A paper like that, unauthorised by the King, isn’t worth the cost of the ink.’
‘Well now, if it was confirmed by the King’s arrayer, so that if the King wouldn’t honour it, his arrayer himself would, that would serve, wouldn’t it, Receiver?’
‘I’d consider taking that, I suppose,’ Joce agreed cautiously.
‘You may take it, but I wouldn’t give it!’ Sir Tristram spat, his anger rising again. ‘What, give an assurance that I’d cover the debt myself? I might as well give you my purse and the key to my manor!’
‘Come, now,’ said Peter. ‘You tell us that it’s the King’s service you’re on, that these men are owed food from their service to the King. Surely since they’re in his service, any food they crave must be bought at his expense.’
‘It is the custom that towns feed the King’s Host.’
‘Then the King would seek to recover any money paid out, wouldn’t he?’ Peter said. ‘So you need have no fear on either account. If you are right, of course.’
‘You are threatening me?’
Joce smacked his hand against his sword-hilt. ‘No, Arrayer, I am threatening you. This good monk is trying to save you injury.’
He watched as the knight gave in with a bad grace. It was a pity, because Joce had expected, had craved, an opportunity to stab someone in the belly. He yearned for that moment of release. Yes, Joce regretted not being able to test himself against this knight. Sir Tristram didn’t look very competent. Not compared with some Joce had fought.
He nodded curtly to the brother, and set off homewards. At the steps which led to the entrance to his shop, he paused and glanced back at Sir Tristram, and in his angry, flat stare, he felt sure that he would soon have an opportunity to test himself against the knight. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come too soon.
* * *
Joce had only gone a few yards down the alley when a figure darted out from a doorway. He drew back, his hand falling on his dagger. Then he saw who it was.
‘Sara, what do you want?’ he sneered. ‘Come to ask me to wed you again?’
‘It’s not for me, Joce. It’s my brother. Won’t you help us?’
‘Piss off, wench! I’ve got business to see to.’
‘Joce, just a favour – please! You can help us.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because,’ Sara swallowed hard, ‘because I’ll swear to deny you fathered this child. I won’t cause you more expense.’
‘It means nothing to me. You can charge me with whatever you wish, but I don’t think your litigation would succeed,’ he said coldly. He thrust the dagger home in the scabbard with a flourish. ‘No, I don’t care to help.’
‘All I ask is that you use your influence, that’s all,’ Sara said hurriedly.
‘For what?’
‘Ellis! He went to see Wally the day that he died because Ellis thought Wally was the father of this child. I didn’t tell him about you.’
‘Does he still think that?’
‘No. I’ve told him the truth now. But Ellis was there, on the moors, and he saw Wally. People saw him; they could believe him guilty of the murder.’
‘Aye. I could myself, at that.’
‘But Ellis couldn’t do something like that – you know that full well! All I ask is that you speak for him if he goes to court. Tell the truth about him.’
Joce shook his head. ‘No. He could well have killed Wally. If he is accused, then damn his eyes. I don’t care whether he hangs or not.’
Sara felt her blood chill. She had thought that this man who, when he tempted her into his bed had been so suave and sophisticated in his flattery, would at least agree to help her with this. Although he denied that his oaths last Thursday had been made honestly, she had persuaded herself that he must hold some affection for her, but his face and demeanour denied it. He was as cold as a lizard.
He continued, ‘It seems my whole life is taken up with you. The last time I saw Wally, I had to thrash him. You know why? Because the fool sought to warn me away from you. He told me not to play with your affections. And now you say your brother went to see him? Perhaps all Wally’s bruises at my hand will be laid at your brother’s door!’
She could take no more of his gloating.
Suddenly she felt rage explode within her. She took the hilt of her little dagger and pulled it free, then with a wild shriek she launched herself at him.
He scarcely bothered to exert himself. As she aimed the point at him, he sidestepped, wrapping the edge of his cloak about his forearm with a rapid whipping motion, and clubbed her knife down. His other hand rose to her shoulder and thrust her back, hard, against the wall, then he took hold of her knife hand and wrenched it severely until she gasped and dropped her blade.
‘You pathetic little whore,’ he hissed. ‘Should I demand compensation for this? Maybe I should take you indoors now, get you to undress one last time for me. Or should I just kill you now?’ He chuckled unpleasantly. ‘Or leave you alone to think about what will happen to your brother? He’s a hothead. Maybe he did murder Wally. So, perhaps he’ll soon be in gaol, and when he is, and you have no money to support yourself, why maybe then I’ll let you come to my house every so often. You can warm yourself by my fire, for as long as you behave. Wouldn’t that be amusing?’
With a last effort, she snatched her arm from him and drew away. ‘Ellis won’t be hanged. Nobody could think he was guilty,’ she said in a voice that shook.
‘We’ll see,’ Joce jeered. He thrust her aside and entered his house, bellowing loudly for his servant.
* * *
But Art could not hear him.
As soon as Joce had left the house, the boy had put his plan into action. It wasn’t fair, that bully thrashing him every time he was angry. It wasn’t Art’s fault if he couldn’t read Joce’s mind and know what his master expected from him, and he was determined that he wasn’t going to suffer like this any longer. So when Joce was called away by the meat-seller, worried about whether he’d ever get paid if he supplied Sir Tristram’s men, Art packed his meagre belongings into a large cloth, tied his bundle together, took a stick from the pile lying ready to feed the fire, and left.
He knew which way Joce had gone, and he consciously took the opposite direction, walking to the abbey, then circling around it to the bridge and crossing over the Tavy. As soon as he did so, he knew he was committed. The river was his personal boundary. Now he had passed over it, he felt as though he was free, and it was with a joyful scampering gait that he set off on the steep roadway that led up to the moors.
At the top, he took deep breaths, surveying the view. This, he knew, was the last sight he would ever have of Tavistock. He was going to where the money was – Exeter, maybe, even London. Perhaps he’d take a ship and learn to be a mariner – that appealed. There were so many possibilities.
The lad was less fit than he had realised. Two years in Joce’s service had weakened his frame, and he had to stop often before he had covered five miles. There were occasional travellers passing by this important path, taking the direct route from Tavistock to Buckfast, but he avoided all. He had a small loaf, and this he ate when he was hungry, and then he realised that he had nothing else. It should not matter, he decided. He would arrive at Buckfast and ask at the monastery for charity, food and a bed. That would be sufficient for him.
Yet as he travelled, he grew aware of a great noise of men, and suddenly realised that he was near to the inquest. He had heard that there was to be one, but he hadn’t thought of it. Joce could be there! Without hesitation, he dropped into the path of a stream and followed it away from the noise, trusting to the water to keep him safe.
Cold, shivering and fearful, he continued miserably on his way. The early optimism which had fired him was gone, and
now he was a bedraggled, weary and hungry soul.
When the strange man jumped up from behind a rock and drew his sword, Art felt only relief. A man meant fire and warmth.
Chapter Nineteen
Peter held on to his staff with that little, apologetic smile still on his face. He could see the raging anger in Sir Tristram’s eye and wouldn’t turn his back on the man, but he made no threatening gestures, simply stood peacefully, all the while gripping his staff, ready to defend himself should it become necessary.
Sir Tristram bit his thumb to Peter and turned away contemptuously, walking swiftly towards an alehouse.
Peter sighed in relief, but he knew that this wasn’t the end of the matter. There would probably be a complaint to the abbot; it might even be a good idea to remain in the abbey until the raggle-taggle of the King’s men had gone. That way he would save putting temptation in Sir Tristram’s path.
That wasn’t strictly true, though, he admitted to himself. There had been almost a hope in his heart that the man might indeed attack him. It would have been pleasing to strike down one of the most notorious of border reivers. It was against his religion to strike the first blow, but that wouldn’t have affected the sense of gratification which he would have felt from knocking Sir Tristram over. Like Joce, he, craved the opportunity of a fight.
He was offering up a prayer for better self-control when he heard a scream, a high, keening sound. His head snapped around in time to see a woman appear at the end of an alley, arms thrown out as though she was pleading for help, her clothing bespattered with blood.
‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’
* * *
Simon listened to the drawn-out procedures of the coroner’s inquest with a new sense of purpose. He watched the men of the jury and the witnesses as they gave their evidence, but there was little more to be told, Wally had left his home early on the Thursday morning with the small satchel but nothing else. He had been seen by plenty of men during the coining. Initially, people said, he had looked despondent, watching the tin being assayed, but by the time he arrived in the drinking houses, his mood had undergone a great change. He was laughing and joking with the other customers, chatting up the whores and offering them money to sleep with him. The last that was seen of him that night was him disappearing with two women into a back room.
‘Died happy, then,’ was the coroner’s sour comment.
The following morning, once most of the miners had spent the money they had earned from selling tin, on buying provisions and ale or wine, all began their slow, painful progress back to their workings.
‘What of Wally?’ Coroner Roger asked.
Ivo answered drily. ‘Coroner, we were marching under a grey, miserable cloud. We all had sore heads, and many had sore guts too. We weren’t looking out for one man who wasn’t one of us, not really.’
‘You must have noticed a companion like him.’
‘Why? I wouldn’t have known if my own brother stood at my side. We live out in the wilds, Coroner, and when we have a chance to get into town with money in our scrips, we don’t dilly dally. We drink! I got through more than a gallon of strong ale myself that night. Woke up in the kennel in the middle of a lane. By the time we set off for home, my head was like an apple in a press. Looking up was hard enough, my head was that heavy.’
‘Did any man see him?’ The coroner looked about the group. ‘What of anyone else?’
In the ensuing silence, the coroner declared that Walwynus had been murdered and stated the value of the fines to be imposed. Soon the men began to move away, muttering amongst themselves, swearing and complaining about the expense. Simon kept his eye on Hal, and as the man walked off, Simon darted after him, catching him by the arm.
‘Come on, Hal. What’s this about?’
‘What? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. That club – what happened to it?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ Simon hissed. ‘Look at me, Hal. You’ve known me five or six years now, since I first came out here to the moors. I’ve never treated you badly or given you any problem, have I?’
‘I’d like to help, but…’ His eyes slid over to the coroner. Following his glance, Simon saw that Baldwin was watching them with interest. ‘Don’t worry about them. Anything you tell me will be between us and only us. All right?’
Hal met his gaze.
‘I swear on my oath before God,’ Simon added. ‘Now do you trust me?’
Hal gave a grudging nod. ‘I suppose so. Although I don’t know how much use it’ll be. I was with a group of the lads coming back on the Friday morning. There wasn’t much talk. Wally was ahead of us, and we gradually caught him up. When I saw his face, it made me feel a lot better. He was in a much worse way, poor sod and he’d been in a fight. I gave him a good day, but he only grunted. It didn’t take long to pass him, and we soon left him behind.’ Hal paused. ‘When I reached the Nun’s Cross, I stopped and took a look behind me, just to check if Wally was all right. I could see him coming over the brow of the hill, and this time he wasn’t alone. There was a monk with him.’
‘Which monk?’
‘The tall one, the one with the wound – you know, the scar along his jaw.’
‘Brother Peter!’ Simon breathed.
‘That’s the one. I couldn’t hear what they said. I was heading homewards, and I didn’t want to dither so I left them to it.’
‘Was there anybody else on the moors that day, Hal? Come on, man!’ he expostulated as he saw the miner look away. ‘Wally’s been killed. While his killer is free, he might strike again.’
‘There was a group of travellers out there. Just like the old story,’ Hal said quietly, and there was a shiftiness in his face. ‘Look, Bailiff, you may not believe the legend, eh? But when you live out here on the moors, you get to hear funny things at night, you see strange things you didn’t ought to. Sometimes things happen. If Wally was killed by the devil or one of his black angels, I don’t want to get in his way.’
‘I know what the moors can be like,’ Simon said. ‘But it’s rubbish to think that the devil killed Wally. Why should he? Wally couldn’t have sold his soul to the devil, could he? If he did, he made a poor bargain. I thought the devil offered worldly wealth.’
‘And Wally suddenly had all that money last Thursday.’
‘Bull’s cods!’ Simon said. ‘Why did you take the club away, Hal?’
‘What makes you think I did?’
‘Your friend who guarded the body after you had no interest in it, did he? He didn’t even seem to know there’d ever been one. Where did you put it?’
Hal squinted up at him, then shrugged. ‘I threw it in a bog.’
‘Why?’ Simon asked. ‘What good would that do you?’
‘It was a timber from my mine,’ Hal said gruffly.
Simon caught at his sleeve. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘You saw the marks. They were mine. When I bought it, I scratched my own sign into it. I always do that so others don’t try to steal from me. Someone must have tried to make me look like the murderer; me or my partner, Hamelin, who shares my workings and the timber.’
‘Not necessarily. It could have been someone who merely passed by and took up the first bit of wood he saw. Who could have found this timber and used it?’
‘I left for Tavvie early in the morning before the coining. The timbers were all there at my mine from that morning to the day after the coining, so for two or three days they were left unguarded. Anyone could have helped themselves.’
‘We know that Wally was alive at Nun’s Cross on the Friday – you saw him. Did you see him after that? Or see anyone else?’
‘No. Last time I saw him was breasting that hill with the monk.’
‘But you were heading towards your mine. Could the monk have run ahead, stolen the timber, run back, and stored it ready to kill Wally?’ Simon mused.
‘No, I doubt it. But someone else could have, a
nd left it there for Brother Peter to pick up and use to kill Wally.’
‘It’s all a bit far-fetched. Why should someone try to implicate you?’ Simon considered. ‘Not that they did that very well. After all, I didn’t recognise the marks myself. How many would have?’
‘Any miner who looked during the inquest.’
‘Maybe. In which case perhaps a devious mind thought fit to put the blame on you. But it’s more likely that it was someone else entirely, someone who wanted to kill Wally and who knew that your mine was empty. He could go there, hammer some nails into the timber, bring it up here and do the deed. Perhaps it was someone who lives up here and merely stole timber from you because your works were close or convenient.’
‘Yeah. Could have been. There are plenty of men up here, what with miners, travellers and others.’
‘You saw Peter walking up with Wally. I think that means he can’t have been the killer. Whoever did this must have got to your camp before you, stolen the wood and made a weapon out of it, then made his way back up here. He hid and watched until Brother Peter moved on, then he attacked Wally and killed him.’
‘Maybe.’ Hal shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell exactly what happened.’
But Simon was content with his reasoning. It was not a comfortable thought that a man like Peter could be a murderer, even after the terrible provocation he had suffered. The idea that a monk in the abbey could be involved in minder was unsettling. Members of the clergy were as prone to anger as any other man in the kingdom, but it was horrifying to think that a man in Holy Orders could stray so far from his Rule and the Commandments as to kill another man.
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