‘Who is it? What do you want?’ came Geoffrey’s sleepy voice.
‘Open this door, you shit!’ Joce roared.
‘I’m not opening it to someone who shouts like that at this time of the morning.’
‘Ye’ll open this door, or I’ll break it in!’ Joce’s temper, always short, was fanned by the recalcitrance of his neighbour. Weak, feeble-minded tarse! ‘You want to leave your garbage out here where it’ll wake your neighbours, do you? I’ll teach you to put it under my eaves, you great swollen tub of lard, you pig’s turd, you bladder of fart!’
There was a crowd of people near him now, all trying to watch while avoiding the worst of the rain, and he gestured with his club at the door. ‘This bastard son of a half-witted Winchester sow has no consideration. Listen to that! How could anyone sleep with a racket like that? This cretin should clear up his junk. Let him take it down to the midden, rather than leaving it here to irritate his neighbours.’
‘It’s not my fault.’ Geoffrey’s voice came as though disembodied. ‘I never put it there. Someone else did.’
‘You say it’s not your rubbish, you lying son of a fox?’ Joce roared.
‘It’s my stuff, but I never put it there. I left it by my door, but I’ll get it cleared up as soon as I have time.’
‘Come out here and do it now, you . . .’
Others in the crowd had heard enough. Two men exchanged a glance, and then went to Joce’s side. Under the terms of the Frankpledge, every man had a responsibility to keep the peace, both by their own behaviour, but also in preventing others from breaking the peace. If they didn’t, the whole community could be fined.
‘Come on, Master Blakemoor. Put up your club and return to your house.’
‘Keep your hands off me! I want that bastard out here, and I’ll beat his head in.’
‘I’m not coming out. I’m not!’
Joce gave a harsh snarl of rage. Exhausted, his eyes felt raw, his head light and dizzy, his belly queasy, and it was all because of this bastard. Leaping forward, brandishing his blackthorn, he swung it with all his strength at the door, and the wood cracked with an ominous splintering. Before he could swing a second time, the club was grabbed and wrenched from his fist, and he turned to find himself confronted by five men, all of whom watched him with stern expressions.
‘Leave him alone, Blakemoor. You may not like him, but he’s not doing any harm. What’s got into you?’
‘Hark at that racket! Could you sleep through that?’ Joce snarled.
‘It didn’t wake me,’ said Andrew, who lived opposite Joce. ‘You did, by all this shouting.’
‘Oh, well, I am sorry!’ the Receiver sneered.
‘If Geoffrey moves all this stuff today, will you be content?’ asked Andrew.
‘I want him out here now!’
‘You’ll only fight him and break the peace. We won’t have that, Joce.’
‘Get him out here!’
Andrew studied him. He was a big man, the sort who looked as though he would move only slowly, but although his mind tended not to race too speedily, his body was capable of surprising bursts of energy. His dark eyes were calm, rather than stupid, and now he nodded towards a man at Joce’s side. ‘We can ask him out, and you and he can make it up. I won’t have you fighting.’
‘I’ll do as I want,’ Joce said.
‘You’ll do as you’re told, unless you want to appear in the Abbot’s court, you fool,’ Andrew said firmly.
After promises of his safety, Geoffrey’s nervous features appeared around the side of the door. He was profusely apologetic, insisting that he’d had no idea that the mess outside the building would upset his neighbour, swearing that he would have it all moved later than day, and with all the folks about him, Joce allowed his hand to be taken while both agreed, Joce grudgingly, to keep the peace.
That done, Joce spat at the ground and jerked his arms free of the neighbours who had held him back, biting his thumb at Geoffrey’s door, and stomping back to his own house. His servant, Art, stood in the doorway, watching nervously. When Joce walked through to his hall and sat in his chair, Art scurried in and shed tinder and twigs on the fire, then began to blow, teasing a spark into flame.
Joce knew it wasn’t like him to fly off the handle like that. Usually he could keep his temper under control, at least while he was in public, but today he felt as though there was a band about his forehead, tightening. The pressure was building in him, and it demanded release.
He tapped his foot on the floor. There was the trouble with Sara to begin with. That useless blubbering bitch couldn’t accept that their thing was over. She’d believed his declaration of love.
The poor slut had thought she’d be able to talk him into marrying her in exchange for sex – well, she’d learned her mistake there, aye. What did she take him for – some starry-eyed youth with his brain in his tarse? Well, he wasn’t. He was Joce Blakemoor, and he took what he wanted when he wanted. She’d tried to blackmail him, saying that she was pregnant, that she’d tell the whole town he was the father, and he had laughed. That was at the coining. The stupid wench. As if her threats could harm him!
And then that cretin Wally had tried to scare him off as well, the fool, on the morning after the coining. Joce had seen him first thing, in the street near Joce’s house, and had nodded to him as he would any other fellow. Wally had looked away, as though ashamed to be acknowledged by him, but then he looked like he took his courage in both hands, and beckoned Joce into an alley. Joce had thought he had some more pewter or something, but no, the son of a donkey just wanted to persuade Joce to leave Sara alone. Wally said he was playing with her affections.
It took that long for Joce’s anger to rise. He took Wally by the throat and pounded him. Ah, but it had felt good! He slammed Wally’s head against the stones of the wall, then thumped him about the face and breast.
‘Don’t tell me whom I may see, you bastard! I was your master once, and if you are disloyal to me, I’ll kill you. Remember that!’
There were other matters to concern him now, though. The whole town was buzzing with stories about Wally’s death. He was gone, and no bad thing. Joce had noticed his glances at the coining. He suspected. Fine, but that meant Joce must find a new courier from the Abbey. He daren’t stop his trade with Augerus, because he had a large shortfall in the Burgh’s accounts to make up. The money he had taken, he had also spent, and now he must acquire more in order to refill the Burgh’s coffers. Somehow he would have to contact Augerus. Perhaps he could go and collect the stuff himself, rather than employing someone else again.
Art had persuaded the fire to catch, and the pieces of wood crackled merrily. Over them he set one or two charred logs from the previous night and hurried off to fetch the griddle.
Joce watched him go with a sour expression twisting his features. He wanted a reason to be able to explode, but Art was giving him no excuse. In fact, Joce was more angry with himself than Art. His rush over to shout at Geoffrey’s door was insane; what’s more, it was unnecessary. He could see that now. Stupid. Much more sensible to wait until later, when Geoffrey was already up and about, and waylay him, beat the little shit half to death without his ever realising who it was, or why. Getting so enraged for no reason was ridiculous. He should never have allowed his neighbours to see him lose control. It was the lack of sleep, surely.
Art came back with more wood then set the griddle over the flames. While he worked, Joce watched him silently. And he saw Art’s eyes go to his cupboard.
‘Fetch my food, boy!’
Instantly Art rose and darted out to the pantry, returning with a tray on which he had set out a loaf, a jug with a drinking bowl, and some pieces of meat. Joce waited until the lad had put them all on the table, and then clenched his fist and slammed it into Art’s belly. He could hear the breath woosh from his lungs, saw the lad’s eyes pop wide, his mouth gape, his back curve over. Dispassionately, Joce observed his servant collapse to the floor, one arm
reaching out to the table’s edge, clinging on, while he retched and coughed, desperately trying to suck in some air while his face reddened and his whole body shivered.
‘I am going out to get some real food, you useless cat’s turd. When I come back, I want this place clean.’ Joce kicked hard, once, and the lad crashed down, a hand clenching and releasing among the reeds and dirt that lay scattered all over. As he vomited, Joce smiled to himself. ‘And don’t stare at my sideboard like that, boy. If I ever find you’ve been inside it, I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to the cats. Understand me?’
Leaving his house, the smile remained fixed to his face. It was still there as he entered the little pie-shop at the top of his road. He felt much better for having punched someone. Violence was great for soothing the soul, he always found.
As Joce had begun thundering on his neighbour’s door, Gerard was leaving the church with the other members of the choir. While the monks went to the great octagonal chapter-house to discuss Abbey business, he walked to the bakery to collect the bread. As a mere acolyte, Gerard wasn’t permitted to witness the deliberations of the monks.
All the monks supported the poor of the Burgh. The lepers at the Maudlin were given tuppence each as their weekly pension, and there were generous donations of all the Abbey’s used clothes and shoes, as well as the excess food which was doled out to the poor at the gate, but also the Abbey distributed fresh bread, generally to the families of the monks and novices, and today it was Gerard’s turn to collect the food.
The bakery was a little building at the wall by the river, not far from the Water Gate, and Gerard scuffed his feet in the yard’s dirt, thinking over his problem as he walked towards it.
Peter the Almoner was at the bakery, and called to Gerard. His voice startled the acolyte and he glanced behind him, considering flight, but then realised that there were far too many people around for Peter to think of hurting him.
The monk gave him a twisted smile. ‘You don’t want to talk to an older man like me? Aye, and I suppose I wouldn’t either when I was your age, lad. No, there are too many other things to interest a young fellow like you, aren’t there?’
‘I am here to collect the bread, Brother.’
‘Then you can help me to take the loaves around to the needy, can’t you?’
‘I thought Brother . . .’
‘Aye, well, Brother Edward and I have agreed to change our duties. He wasn’t feeling very well, so he has gone to sit and pray and I shall take the bread with you. Why, you don’t mind me helping, do you?’
Giving an ungracious grunt of assent, Gerard picked up the basket full of loaves which the baker’s assistant had set before him, and followed the Almoner out through the main gate to where the beggars waited.
It was odd to watch the old man, Gerard thought. All the beggars could see him, apart from Blind Ban, of course, and they all flinched whenever he turned to them, avoiding his hideously wrecked features with that terrible scar. In fact, Gerard thought Peter looked as though he should be out here, living among the beggars, rather than being a monk inside. Somehow he looked too damaged to be one of God’s own Chosen.
As the motley flock of poor folk dispersed with their bounty gripped tightly in their filthy fists, Peter glanced at him. ‘Better get the rest of the loaves to the Maudlin, then, lad.’
‘Yes.’
Peter shot the acolyte a look as they bent their way towards the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene which lay out at the westernmost point of the borough; the leper hospital. The Almoner was Rector of the hospital, just another of the duties which fell to Peter.
‘It must be terrible to be a leper, to be declared legally dead,’ he said after a few moments, considering their plight. The poor souls had little enough to occupy their minds other than the slow disintegration and death which awaited them.
‘Yes, Brother,’ Gerard said.
‘They lose all family, all property. Their wills are enforced as though they were dead. I suppose an outlaw loses all as well, but at least a felon can run to another land and create a new life. A leper is unwelcome anywhere else. He must stay in his parish, where he knows he should receive a pension and food.’
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.
Gera
rd 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 clientèle 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.
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