At length Baldwin spoke. ‘The bed has been made, just like all the others in this room. Who makes the beds?’
‘Each brother makes his own.’
‘When?’
‘We rise very early, as you know, and go straight to church. When Matins is done, most will come to the cloister to read and study, and later they return to the dorter to change their shoes, and then they will also make their beds. There is not much to do, after all. Only shake out the blankets and straighten them.’
Baldwin nodded. Each bed had its own blanket smoothed down over the palliasse, some more smoothly than others. Although they were not made of horse hair, the coverings were certainly thick and rough-looking, hardly the material to provide a man with a good night’s sleep.
‘Reginald, did you see Gerard today?’ he asked.
Although tall and firmly built, more like a young squire than a monk, Reginald suffered from an explosion of acne. Baldwin could recall the mountain of Sicily as he passed by on board ship, the glowing summit belching fumes, and somehow it looked less unpleasant than the eruption on Reginald’s face.
The boy must have read something in his gaze, for he dropped his eyes as though in shame. ‘I can’t remember. I’ve been busy.’
‘What of yesterday? Did you speak to him then?’
‘I might have done. It’s hard to bring it to mind.’
‘Did he look upset?’
Reginald couldn’t say anything immediately. The memory of the dull-sounding thud as Gerard’s skull hit the corner of the bed would never leave his dreams. He should confess his sins to the abbot or another confessor, but he couldn’t. It was too dangerous now.
At last he mumbled, ‘He seemed a bit upset about something, I reckon. Maybe that was it. He had something troubling him.’
‘So you do recall seeing him,’ Baldwin noted. His attention was moving about the room, covering first the wall, then the screens, and last the floor and ceiling. There was nothing to indicate that anything had been amiss. ‘He was a tidy fellow?’
The abbot nodded. ‘It is baffling. He was a neat young man, well-mannered and quiet, the perfect acolyte.’
‘Why did you ever suspect that—’
The abbot stopped him with a raised hand, then ordered Reginald from the room. With the relief bursting in his breast, Reg took up his broom and bolted, shutting the door behind him as quietly as his urgency would allow. Staring at the door, he thought he might be able to catch what the two men were saying, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to eavesdrop. Instead, he left his broom and walked down the stairs to the chapel, and entered. Kneeling before the altar, he covered his face with his hands and suddenly, before he could stop himself, his entire body began to shake from sobbing.
He was still in there, weeping, when Peter walked in later. The almoner stood quietly watching, then walked to his side.
‘It wasn’t only you, boy,’ he said. ‘I helped you do it, and Gerard will find himself in a better place. If either of us should carry the guilt, it is I, not you. So calm yourself. Let me carry the crime on my own soul.’
* * *
A step outside made one of the dogs growl softly, and Emma was startled awake in a moment. She silently sat up and motioned to the dog to be silent before he could wake her children or husband, but she knew it was already too late when she felt Hamelin stirring at her side.
She stroked his cheek, liking the roughness of his stubble. Her love towards her man and her children was never stronger than when she saw them at night, sleeping. Even a mature man like Hamelin had a childlike quality when he was asleep. Now his face twitched slightly, just like young Joel when he was dreaming. Emma smiled and cupped her open hand about his jaw, peering more closely in the dim, unlit room. The only illumination came from the few logs which had been left to glow undamped at the middle of the fire. In the summer, the fire would be put out overnight for safety, but at this time of year, with the cooler weather, she kept the room warm if she could, and now that they had the money, she was determined that the family wouldn’t suffer from cold. A friend of hers had woken the last winter to find her boy-child frozen stiff and dead at her side, and it had unbalanced her mind. Emma wouldn’t have that happen to one of her own.
She looked about her at the children lying with them on the bed. Joel was cuddled up with a tangle of legs and arms, and Emma couldn’t see who it was, but it was no matter. Both were breathing easily, and that was all that counted.
‘Can’t sleep?’
His low voice made her jump, unsettling Joel, who whimpered and snuffled in his sleep, but then she chuckled softly. ‘Not easily, no. Do you think we could afford a larger palliasse?’
Rather than talk among their children, they rose from the bed and moved to the fireside. Emma had made a mat of pieces of material, and they sat on it, wrapping Hamelin’s great woollen cloak about them. Hamelin prodded the embers into flame and added more logs, before staring into it.
‘Where did Wally get all that money?’ Emma asked after some while.
‘I just don’t know. Nowhere he should have. I got the feeling that he was keen to get rid of it. He was pleased to have found an excuse, I think, like it was stained with another man’s blood or something.’
She shivered at the thought. ‘You don’t think it’s cursed?’
Hamelin was silent for a while. ‘You know, I felt today as though Wally and Joel were somehow connected. Like it seemed unfair that Joel should die so young, so perhaps God had taken Wally instead, like there was some sort of balance of fairness. Wally had lived long enough, so he died. Especially since he’d been involved in something he shouldn’t have.’
‘But what?’
‘Haven’t a clue. He never had any money, that was certain, not from his farming and his attempts to grow vegetables, and yet he always managed to scrape together some pennies for drinks whenever he came into town.’
The dog started to growl again, a low, menacing rumbling, and Hamelin threw a stone at it.
‘Husband, don’t you think you could find work in the town, rather than having to go up to work on the moors?’ Emma asked reluctantly. They had been through this many times before.
‘No,’ he said uncompromisingly. ‘If Hal and me can only find another source of tin, we’ll be laughing. It’s just this early period that’s hard. We’ll soon be on our feet again. Don’t you worry. And what else could I do here without money? That bastard Mark made it impossible for me to start a new business.’
The dog began again, and this time they could hear the steps outside. Soon there was a light tapping at their door.
Hamelin snatched up his knife. It was a good weapon with a foot-long blade, and he held it to the door as he went to it. ‘Who is it?’ he hissed.
‘Watchman. Is that Hamelin? Don’t open the door, there’s no need. I’ve been asked to tell you, the abbot wants to see you first thing tomorrow. Go to the Court Gate when it opens. That’s all.’
Hamelin relaxed as he listened to the footsteps leaving. He thrust his knife back in its sheath and returned to his wife’s side.
She was frowning. ‘What could the abbot want with you?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Who cares? Maybe I’ve infringed one of his burgh laws, spending too much time in the town when I should be out on the moors working.’
‘Not our revered abbot, surely!’ she chuckled, nestling into his shoulder.
‘So long as he doesn’t want to fine me.’
‘That would be that overblown bag of pus Joce Blakemoor, wouldn’t it? He’s in charge of fining miners.’
Hamelin grunted. ‘I heard that no one ever liked him. Not when he was growing up here, not when he grew to be an adult. Everyone was delighted when he went away to learn to be a merchant, and no one was pleased when he came back.’
‘How did he get to be elected receiver if no one liked him?’
‘It’s one of those jobs. You buy it, and then get to cream off all the profits for your
own pocket. He had money when he came back.’
‘It’s easy to make money when you have some.’
Hamelin turned to kiss her, then he gently laid her down on her back. ‘We’ll have money too, my love. Trust me. Nothing can go wrong for us now our little Joel is all right.’
* * *
Up in the dorter, the abbot lowered his voice, When he was young, he would have been sorely tempted to stop outside and listen, and he only hoped that Reginald wouldn’t submit to the same temptation.
‘The matter of theft is repellent in a place like this, Baldwin. In a close-knit community like this, where the brothers all sleep, eat and pray together, supposedly in one large family, the family of Christ, it is uniquely abhorrent to think that one of your companions is prepared to flout the laws of God and steal from his own brothers. I do not wish to spread such a rumour. Especially, I should say, among the novices like Reginald. They talk so much, and they believe all they hear. Something like this – well! To think that a lad like Gerard is capable of stealing is, is… It is dreadful.’
Abbot Robert looked so upset that Baldwin wanted to open his heart to the man, to explain that he could easily understand the revulsion – he had himself been a Knight Templar, a warrior monk, and had taken the same three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience as the monks in this abbey – but he knew he could not. That would mean confessing to his membership of the Order, which would inevitably colour Abbot Robert’s opinion of him, and might even lead to the abbot insisting on his being evicted from the guest room. Hospitality was one thing: harbouring a man whom the Pope had branded a heretic was quite another. Whether the abbot believed, as some few English prelates did, that the Templars could be guilty, was beside the point, as Baldwin knew. The main thing was, Abbot Robert would be exposing himself and his abbey to danger.
‘I think I understand,’ Baldwin said kindly.
‘In that case, you will understand, too, that accusing a brother of theft is an equally serious matter. Especially one who is so young.’
‘Yet one of your monks did accuse him,’ Baldwin said.
‘He is an older man, Sir Baldwin, neither a bigot, nor a fool, and when he came to me and told me that one of my novices could be responsible for the thefts, I could not ignore his words.’
‘Did he not seek to talk to the youth himself?’ It was more common, Baldwin knew, for those who suspected a comrade of an infraction of the rules to speak to that person and give them a chance to put matters right before setting the facts before someone of the abbot’s stature.
‘I think he would have tried, but he didn’t feel that the novice Gerard took note.’
‘Who is this paragon of virtue?’
The abbot licked his lips. ‘I shouldn’t tell you without letting him know first. It’s a matter of courtesy, you understand…’
‘Yes, naturally,’ Baldwin said, and he did not mind. Other issues were more crucial at present, such as what had happened to the acolyte. Yet there was another point, surely. He looked at the abbot. ‘My Lord Abbot, this is hardly a matter for me. A youth has been accused of theft by someone, and has decided to run away. How can I help?’ Apostasy was considered a vile crime, and those who committed it were liable to be sought out and dragged back, but that was no reason for a secular official to become involved.
‘It’s that story of Milbrosa.’
‘Ah, I see. You want me to find the lad because otherwise people will say he has been carried away by the Prince of Darkness.’
‘Yes. I know it is ridiculous, but it is precisely that kind of rumour which could ruin us. I have dedicated my life to this abbey, Sir Baldwin – all my adult life. I have converted a bankrupt institution into a tool for God. We give regular pensions to the poor of Tavistock and the lepers in the Maudlin, we provide comfort and safety for travellers, we work day and night for the protection of the souls of those living and the dead, and all this work depends upon money. It is no use telling me that money is irrelevant and despised by God, it is an asset like any other, and we depend upon our patrons for it. If a rumour should escape from within these walls that there was a second monk whose behaviour was so corrupt that his soul was taken away by the devil, how would that chime with the men who support us? Who would want to give us their money, if they felt that our behaviour was so foul that the devil looked upon us as his natural prey?’
Baldwin screwed up his face as he considered the task ahead. ‘You want me to concentrate on finding this lad, then?’
‘Yes, Sir Baldwin. I want you to find him, but I also want you to make sure that the murderer of the tin-miner is found as well, for while no man confesses to that crime, people’s tongues will wag. And if people gossip, which would they prefer to talk about, a chance encounter with an outlaw, or an evil monk who has a heart as black as his Benedictine habit, and who is the prey of the Evil One?’
Baldwin smiled, then reached down to Gerard’s bed and pulled the covering aside. ‘There’s nothing to see here,’ he said. He sat on the bed and looked about him, but while he sat there, he became aware that something was wrong. There was nowhere to hide anything. All the brothers swore themselves to poverty, so there was nothing, not even a small casket, for private belongings.
‘If he had stolen anything, where could he have hidden it?’ he asked.
The abbot gazed about him distractedly. ‘I have no idea! There are so many places all over the abbey where someone could store things. It would be impossible to find them all.’ Baldwin nodded. It was as he expected. Standing, he picked up the rough base of the bed and tipped it, so that the palliasse was turned over, before setting the base back on the ground.
‘Dramatic, I know. But if there are so many places all over the abbey to hide things, why ever should he have left these here?’ Baldwin asked as two plates bounced across the floor.
The abbot gasped. ‘What sort of fool was he, that he would conceal them in his bed?’ he demanded, bending to pick up one of the plates.
‘I should think the most innocent fool,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘Someone was determined to make him take the blame for something. Pah! Plates under his palliasse?’
‘You think that the lad could be innocent? In truth?’ Baldwin smiled at the hopeful tone. ‘Yes, indeed, my Lord Abbot. But do not blind yourself to the fact that only one of your congregation could have got in here, I assume.’
‘I fear so. Only the choir itself could enter here – and one or two of the lay brothers, of course.’
‘Then it is among them that we must seek the thief.’
‘Sir Baldwin…’
‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked, seeing his sudden stillness. Abbot Robert went over and touched the bed in the opposite partition. When he stood up, his face was anxious. ‘l am no expert in death like you, but this stain… could it be dried blood?’
The knight’s face was serious. ‘I think we may have to prepare to find another body, Abbot.’
He had no idea that his words would prove to be correct so soon – nor that they would also prove to be so wrong.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning Baldwin saw that there was another guard at the corpse when they all reached the scene of the murder.
A crowd of miners had gathered, a grim band of men with the uniform of peat-stained, ragged clothing and eyes bright from malnutrition and overwork. Some were staring at Wally’s body, but for the most part they appeared content to stand as far from it as was possible. When Baldwin and the others drew nearer, it was easy to see – or, rather, to smell – why.
Simon had said nothing about his concerns to Baldwin. Indeed, the two men had scarcely spoken. When Baldwin had returned from his private meeting with the abbot, Simon had hoped that he would say something – but Baldwin made no reference to the lengthy interview. This made Simon think the worst – that the abbot must have wanted to talk about Simon, probably warning Baldwin that he wasn’t capable of doing his job any more.
It was terrible, this c
ertainty that his best friend was aware of his position; Simon felt as though he was marked out, like a felon waiting to be caught. Not that there was any guilt, as such – it was more a deep sense of failure. He wanted to shout, to punch someone, to take control of events which seemed to be conspiring against him, to show that he was the same man, unchanged, as able as any other. But he couldn’t.
He rode silently to a gorse tree that stood a few yards from the body, thankful that it was upwind of Wally’s remains. Dropping from his mount he gave Baldwin a pleading look, and the knight gave him a nod as he too dismounted.
In the past Baldwin would have smiled or winked at his old friend, but his sympathy was beginning to wear thin. It wasn’t a bit like Simon to be so… what, sulky? It was the best word Baldwin could find to describe his morose temper.
Occasionally, it was true, Simon could be pensive, such as when something occurred to him that might have a bearing on a matter that they were investigating, but more usually they enjoyed an open, easy relationship. When the coroner was with them, all three relished telling jokes or stories about the fire. They were comfortable with each other, unworried about hurting feelings, but last night Simon had been gruff and all but silent. Soon after they had returned from the alehouse, he complained of being tired and went to his bed, but Baldwin knew it was not to sleep. There was no grunting and snoring, but a deathly silence.
It wasn’t only he who felt the atmosphere. The coroner himself had spoken in a hushed voice, with many a glance at Simon, as though wondering whether Baldwin and he had fallen out. It was almost as though Simon suspected Baldwin of molesting his wife – a ridiculous thought, but that was the only comparison Baldwin could think of that in any way reflected Simon’s attitude.
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