‘Did you never catch any of them?’
‘They all escaped into England and we couldn’t chase them. There were other clans rattling their swords. We sent to warn other towns and villages, but no one saw them again. I’d thought they’d died – maybe fallen into a bog or died from the cold. Not hard enough as a way to perish, but then nothing would be cruel enough for bastards like them.’
* * *
Ellis put his strop on the doorpost and began to stroke his razor up and down it. He was still standing there when his sister appeared at the doorway with her children. She sent them to play with some sticks in the alley, and walked to him.
He looked tired, she thought. Weary, like a man who’s been working too hard without enough to eat. ‘Ellis?’
‘What is it?’
His tone was grumpy, and he didn’t meet her eyes as she stepped behind him and leaned against the wall, watching her children. ‘I’ m sorry, that’s all. I thought he loved me, and I thought he’d marry me, and that would be my life settled and secure. All I wanted was to look after the children. Was it so terrible that I slept with him? He had told me that he’d marry me. Ellis, please!’
‘What?’
‘Look at me! Put your razor down and listen to me. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You did, though. What will men call you now, eh? Slut, slattern, draggle-arse… whore!’
‘He swore he’d marry me,’ she said obstinately.
‘And you’d trust the word of a fucking miner?’ he spat.
‘Miner?’ It felt as though she was losing her grip on reality. ‘He’s no miner.’
‘No, but he was, wasn’t he?’
‘I don’t think so. Wasn’t he always a merchant?’
Ellis gazed at her. ‘You mean Wally, don’t you?’
‘Wally? What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘Wasn’t it him? The father?’
‘What do you take me for?’ she gasped. ‘You think I’d lie with… Good God!’
Ellis weakly grabbed a chair and sat. ‘But who, then?’
‘Joce, of course.’
‘But I went up to Wally and…’
Sara felt her heart stop in her breast. She put her hand to her throat as though to massage air into her lungs. ‘What? Ellis, what did you do?’
‘Nothing, Sara. Christ’s Bones! But I could have,’ he shuddered.
Sara was relieved to hear his denial. He had never, to her knowledge, lied to her. ‘What happened?’
‘The next morning – Friday morning – I went up to the moors first thing. I wanted to scare him away from you, and I shouted at him, threatened him.’
‘Did you hit him?’
‘No! I didn’t need to. Someone else had already laid into him. But I told him to leave you alone. He looked confused, denied anything, but then just agreed. Said he’d agree to anything if I’d just go.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘Only a monk.’
Sara pulled her tunic closer about her against the chill which had filled her. ‘You could be accused of killing him.’
‘Perhaps. If it happens, it happens.’
‘I’ll protect you,’ she whispered, and hugged him.
For the first time that day, he felt a little easier.
* * *
Nob grunted when Jack scooped up his coins – Nob’s coins – into his purse, said goodbye and thanked Nob for their game.
‘Bastard!’ Nob muttered. It was bad enough that Jack had taken his money – but he had played while drinking at Nob’s expense too. Never even offered to buy a round.
Jack had wandered up the alley, and shortly afterwards, Nob heard what sounded like shouting. Hoping that someone was beating up his opponent, probably, as Nob told himself, to avenge his cheating at dice and general tight-fistedness, he glanced that way. Immediately his eye was caught by a flash of metal up beyond Joce’s house. Throwing down some coins, he headed in that direction.
A fight was always worth seeing!
Chapter Eighteen
It was the arrayer. Nob had heard of him, and seeing Sir Tristram at the front of all the men, striding dong with a clerk at his side, talking loudly and slapping his hand on a piece of paper, it was easy to guess that he was a military commander. He appeared, from the sound of it, to be arguing about the amount of food that the town was going to provide for him and his men. Looking about him, Nob saw Joce, white-faced and furious, standing at a shop’s table at the edge of the men.
‘I will have none of it,’ Joce said, and although his voice was quiet, it carried marvellously. ‘You have your men, and the King demands that they be fed on the way – that is fine, but I will not give you food to take with you. If your men want food, they should bring it themselves from their own larders, not expect us to provide for them here. The King’s writ demands food for his Host while marching and when they have been marshalled at a battlefield, but this is no battlefield, and they haven’t been marching. If you had collected them from Cornwall and brought them here, then maybe you would deserve to take something, but you haven’t.’
Nob leaned against a wall with the contentment of a man who could recognise good entertainment when he saw it. A little way off, he could see Jack, who stood scowling at Joce with his hands thrust into his belt. He appeared to be shaking his head as though a little confused.
Sir Tristram continued.
‘You are deliberately preventing me from setting off, man, and that means you are thwarting the King in his aim of protecting his realm.’
‘No, l am not!’ Joce spat with fury. ‘Don’t you try to tell me that I am a traitor, you pig’s turd! I may not be a knight, but I am not stupid enough to hold up the King in his ambitions, so don’t you dare suggest I am! I am only standing up for the rights of this town, and I will not allow you to steal from the shops here just because you want to protect your own profits. You are the arrayer; you have your men. You feed them.’
‘You have a responsibility, Receiver! I demand that you—’
‘You can demand what you like – you’ll get nothing here, Arrayer! Ach! I have nothing further to say to you.’
Sir Tristram’s face was purple and Nob could see that the crowd was enjoying the sight of a King’s official almost apoplectic with rage. It was always good to see a lying bastard being roasted over the coals, and in Nob’s world any man who rose to the heights of political or administrative power was, by definition, corrupt.
Not that in his view Joce Blakemoor was any better. The sole difference was, the pool in which Joce swam was smaller. Both men were like pikes, vicious, always hungry, swallowing up any fish smaller than themselves. Sir Tristram moved in that huge pool the Royal Court, while Joce fed off the provincial town of Tavistock, but both were as willing to destroy anyone or anything that stood in their way.
Nob couldn’t understand it. Such men were always struggling to accrue a little more power to themselves so that they could cradle it to their hearts like a woman, but like any incontinent lover, as soon as they consummated their lust with that trophy, their eye was roving for the next.
There were many men who were like that with women, he knew. Men who were good fathers generally, who were kind and attentive to their wives, and who yet sought others. To Nob it was incomprehensible. His wife was his lover, friend, and a cheap housemaid too. What would he want with another? It was a right mystery.
But when there were two officials like these, there was bound to be fun. Nob could see that neither was going to withdraw; to leave the field now would be to lose face for ever, and that was one outcome that neither could tolerate. Except one man had an edge: a small army.
Sir Tristram barked an order. While most of the men were milling unconcernedly listening to the argument raging, there was one who looked on with more concentration.
When Nob glanced at Jack, he saw that the sergeant hadn’t immediately heard Sir Tristram’s command. He was standing stock still and staring at Joce. Then he
acknowledged the order and strode forward, gripping his sword. Nob saw the blade sliding free.
A young, shaven-headed man turned and paled at the sight of the sergeant heading his way. Nob opened his mouth to bellow a warning, but before he could do so, the fellow had melted away into the crowd. Nob breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Good lad, Gerard,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t get into trouble when you don’t need to.’
His attention flitted back over the crowd, and now he saw that Jack was heading directly towards Joce.
‘Joce!’ Nob bellowed.
It was impossible. Joce couldn’t hear, didn’t want to be distracted while he stood watching the arrayer, expecting the danger to come from that side. If he did nothing, Nob knew he’d die. He didn’t want that. No foreign bastard man-at-arms had the right to come here and kill the receiver for doing his duty. It wasn’t right!
Almost without thinking, Nob reached down and pulled his knife from the scabbard. He didn’t want to fight anyone, but he couldn’t let Joce get himself killed, and he started to hurry around the crowds, trying to get to Joce before the other man could.
But the man was gone. One moment Nob was hurrying around, keeping an eye on him, the next he was nowhere to be seen. And where he had stood, now there was a tall and apologetic-looking monk holding a long staff.
‘Brother Peter,’ Nob breathed. He swallowed, shoved his dagger away before anyone could notice he had drawn it, and offered a quick prayer of thanks. And then, as he glanced about the crowd, he saw Gerard’s frightened face, and whispered, ‘Godspeed!’
* * *
Sir Tristram hadn’t seen the collapse of his man, but he was aware of a certain confusion; having given his order, he expected it to be carried out. And then he saw the grim-faced monk and his face paled with a kind of fury that was near to madness. He turned on Joce again. ‘So you have the monks on your side as well, do you? Think you’ve got God with you?’
‘I have right on my side, that is all,’ Joce said, but a little uncertainly. He was convinced that he had missed something. There had been a shout, he was sure, from the crowd, as though he was in danger, but when he cast a quick look about him, all he saw was the stern-looking figure of the monk watching the arrayer, and now the arrayer seemed even more choleric than before.
He stood his ground, waiting for the arrayer to make a move. It was impossible for a knight to back down even in front of a crowd like this without losing the respect of his men.
His blood tingled. His hand was near to his sword and he felt the thrill of the moment keenly, ready to sweep the weapon loose and defend himself. The knight may have some skill, but Joce was trained as well, and by one of the best masters of defence in the whole of Devonshire. Joce was confident that he could win a straight fight, and excitement surged through his body, leaving a heightened awareness in its wake. It was as though he could feel the whole of his life balanced on a razor’s edge, teetering this way and that. If he were to lean to one side his entire future could be thrown away, and Sir Tristram would kill him, but if his fortunes swayed in the opposite direction, he would prevail. Either he would kill Sir Tristram, or there would be no fight, and it was time he fought Sir Tristram. This, Joce felt, was a fight that had already been too long delayed.
Yes: he wanted to fight. Joce was frustrated and that had always made him turn to violence. It had helped him in business, forcing other men to give him deals which they would not have considered had Joce not stood over them; his natural aggression had also prevented some from taking revenge on him when a smaller, weaker man would have been attacked. Sometimes men tried to – but when they did, each time Joce had defended himself.
It was a lesson he had learned early in life. He had been orphaned when he was but a lad, and it was the kindness of the abbey which had saved him. The abbot had generously taken him on and seen him educated in the school with other boys, but like so many children with an obvious weakness, they had picked on him. Initially he was an easy target because all they needed to do was call him names and he would burst into tears, or weep as older fellows bullied him, but then one day he had snapped.
Usually he had been a calm, self-contained lad, but that one day he had already been pushed about, tripped up by one fellow and kicked on the ankle by another, both boys bigger than him. He hadn’t dared do anything to protect himself, and the sense of inability to defend himself added to his feelings of inadequacy.
That was in the morning. Afterwards, he had gone to the frater for his meal and sat at the table with all the other boys, under the stern and watchful eye of the novice-master. The older boys sat at one end of the table, one of his chief tormenters, Augerus Thatcher, among them, and doled out the food for each of the boys.
With a smile of contempt, Augerus served Joce’s food while holding his eye. He slopped the weak pottage into Joce’s bowl and passed it along the table. It was mere water, with scarcely any barley or greens to colour it. Joce stared at it disbelievingly. Augerus must have carefully held the ladle to the side of the pot to prevent any meat or vegetables falling into it, just to be mean. Then the bread was passed along the table, but when it arrived at Joce, all that remained was a thin, meagre loaf, one with hardly enough to fill a mouth, let alone a hungry belly. Joce looked at Augerus, but Augerus stared back as though daring him to complain.
Joce was silent. He had been beaten so often that one more insult was easy to swallow in public. He drank his soup, used his bread to soak up the last traces of liquid, and sat at his place gazing hungrily at his empty bowl while the voice from the pulpit droned on, reading some text about turning the other cheek.
Afterwards the older boys left first, walking out to the cloister; Augerus went into the yard, and Joce followed him, Augerus made his leisurely way to the Water Gate and went out beneath it to the bridge. As soon as he was through the gate, Joce leaped.
That Augerus had been unsuspecting was evident from his squeak of alarm. Joce caught his habit at the shoulder and pulled him towards him; unbalanced, Augerus toppled, and with a little effort Joce could haul him to the abbey wall, shoving him hard against the unyielding rock. Augerus’ head struck the stone audibly, and his eyes opened wide as Joce’s fist thumped into his chest. His breath came in sobs, and his eyes clouded a little with pain and fear, then flinched as Joce drew his fist back a second time.
‘You’re not doing that again, you sod,’ Joce cried.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You gave me small measure; you did it on purpose! You do that again and I’ll really hammer you!’
‘I didn’t, I didn’t!’
Joce wavered. There was a note of conviction in his victim’s voice, but he didn’t care. He had suffered from the boys here long enough. ‘I didn’t!’ he whined mockingly, and drove his fist as hard as he could into Augerus’ nose.
It was so satisfying. He could feel the bone breaking and there was a loud crack which he could feel and hear simultaneously, almost as though it was his own knuckle breaking. Augerus’ eyes gleamed a moment, then dulled with shock and fear, and then, only a moment later, the dams broke. First Augerus’ nose gushed with a crimson stream, then his eyes flooded and his wailing started.
From that moment on, no one had ever bullied him again. Not at the school and not afterwards. Joce was powerful; he was strong, but he also enjoyed inflicting pain on others. It was an almost sexual pleasure; once tasted, it led to a hunger that couldn’t be assuaged.
Watching Sir Tristram, Joce saw the man’s anger flee, to be replaced by a certain anxiety. He could read the thoughts running through his mind as clearly as if Sir Tristram was, enunciating each one. Sir Tristram thought Joce a rough, uncultured bully, a fool who would be taught a lesson as soon as the King heard of this treatment; yet he couldn’t be sure that Joce didn’t have the law on his side. Perhaps it was Sir Tristram’s own failing, not having told the men to bring their own provisions. But Joce needed to be punished nevertheless. He should be beaten, maybe killed. That woul
d teach him to raise his voice to a knight and an arrayer. Especially since the arrayer had all his recruits with him, over forty of them. And yet all these men were from the burgh of Tavistock, and they all knew Joce. He was the receiver of the town, and they might feel that they owed more allegiance to him than to their new leader, Sir Tristram. The latter could have tested them, could have ordered one or more to arrest Joce, but would they obey him?
Then Joce saw the knight’s eyes flicker to one face in the crowd, and he heard Sir Tristram say, ‘Oh, so it’s you again, Scot-lover!’
* * *
Peter shifted his staff from one hand to the other. Joce was some distance away, but Peter could sense him thrusting his way forward to stand belligerently in front of Sir Tristram. The whole place was held in the grip of powerful emotions, Peter thought. Men squaring up to each other like game-cocks, both determined not to strike the first blow, both keen to be seen to be acting in defence, neither willing to back down. It was the sort of behaviour that led to feuds.
‘Lordings, calm yourselves,’ he said loudly with an enthusiastic, cheery tone. ‘This is a silly situation. What a fine kettle of oats! Look at you both. You’re here, both of you, to do your duty, one to the King, the other to the town. But the town is the King’s and the King loves the town, so why should his officials come to blows?’
‘We do not have to give up our profits to the arrayer. The men can fill their bellies once they are on their march, but they don’t get free food here,’ Joce grated uncompromisingly.
‘No more should they,’ Peter chuckled. ‘But there is no reason why they shouldn’t buy their own food, is there?’
‘They are the King’s men now,’ Sir Tristram blustered. He was staring past Peter, wondering what had happened to his sergeant. Jack had been there, Sir Tristram was sure he had seen him. Jack had moved as though about to draw his sword, and Sir Tristram had transferred his attention back to Joce, thinking all he need do was keep him talking and distracted so that Jack could stab him in the back for delaying the King’s arrayer, but he’d disappeared.
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