Gerard’s hands were bound with Joce’s belt, and Joce had firm hold of it. Now he jerked on it viciously, and kicked Gerard’s shin, knocking the boy to the ground.
‘Don’t kill me!’
Gerard sobbed, petrified with fear. It felt as though he had escaped one danger only to fall into a still worse one. When he had felt that awful knife at his throat, he had thought that he was going to die. It struck him as ironic that, having escaped the clutches of Reginald and the abbot, he should have fallen among cut-throats and felons who wanted to kill him for the little money he had in his scrip. And then he had been startled as he recognised the voice: Joce!
He knew Joce, of course. Everyone did. The receiver was recognised by everyone in the town because he was so powerful. He was responsible for all the money paid in tolls and fines, for justice and the smooth running of Tavistock. No one could live in the area without knowing Joce.
But Gerard knew more about him, because Gerard knew Art, his servant. Art regularly cursed his master. All masters would beat their staff on occasion, of course, but according to Art, Joce took a profound pleasure in beating his charge that went beyond all the bounds of propriety. And even in the abbey, there were whispers about the recent heated argument between Joce and his neighbour over the midden heap.
If he were free of Joce, he could have giggled to recall that. The pile which had so incensed Joce had in fact been carefully put there by Wally and himself, making a decent pile of rubbish on which Gerard could climb to gain entry. Once he was inside, he went downstairs and let Wally in as well, and then the two searched out the pewter which had been stolen.
When Wally had seen Joce standing in the market for the coining, he had realised that the man’s house would be empty. And that led to his idea that he and Gerard could break in and steal back the pewter. They could share the profits, he said, although Gerard had refused his allotted portion. He had pointed out that he had no need of money. His reward was to ensure that the man who had ultimately led him to a life of felony would not benefit by it.
Wally had gone to Nob’s place and seized a sack, and then the two were inside. As soon as they found the locked cupboard, they forced it open and filled the sack with pewter. Then they heard the sound of a door. Fearing discovery, they swiftly shut the cupboard and bolted, and all but brained that foreigner out in the alley. Still, it had been good in a way. Wally had sold the stuff easily enough. Apparently the foreigner was looking for tin to mix with lead to make his own pewter, but he was soon persuaded to take the metal he was offered. He was not so scrupulous as to turn down an offer like that.
Scrambling to his feet as Joce lashed out again with his boot, Gerard gasped, ‘No, don’t hurt me, please!’
‘Where is it, you bastard?’ Joce grabbed Gerard’s shoulder, pulling him towards the knife.
‘I don’t know what you—’
‘Oh, you think I won’t dare to hurt a man of the cloth?’ Joce asked mildly, and then he slashed once, a long cut with the sharp blade.
There was no pain. That was the first thought in Gerard’s mind as he saw the blade, now bloody, dancing in front of his face. There was only a curious sense of disembodiment, as though he was watching actors on a cart. He felt as though there was a slap at his cheek, that was all, and then there was a warmth that spread from his cheekbone down his neck to his shoulder. The knife flashed again, red, as though it was itself angry now, and Gerard felt his nose break, then a dragging as the blade snagged on bone.
‘Stop! Stop!’ he cried, but Joce could scarcely hear him. His fist came again, this time thudding into Gerard’s shoulder, and the boy wept with the certainty that he was about to die. ‘Mother Mary! Sweet Jesus!’
‘Where is it?’ Joce demanded, his breath rasping in his throat. ‘I’ll kill you, you little toad, for trying to steal from me. Where is it? No one else could have got into my house. Where have you put all my pewter? What have you done with it?’
Gerard felt rather than saw the knife flash towards him, and in his terror, he fell before it could hit him. ‘It’s with the Swiss! Don’t hurt me again! Wally did it! He sold it to the Swiss on the moor.’
Joce stood over him, confused. He was so filled with rage against this thief who could steal all his carefully hoarded pewter that he felt he could burst, but at the same time he was overwhelmed at the thought of all the money which could be lost. He kicked Gerard once in the flank, then the leg, then the shoulder, short, brutal kicks meted out with an unrestrained fury.
‘Cheat me, would you? You little shit, I’ll kill you!’ he hissed.
He raised the knife to stab a last time, but as he did so, he heard a voice bellowing, ‘Hold, felon! Murder, murder, murder!’
There was a man on a horse, and he was cantering towards Joce. The great hooves looked enormous, and, struck with a fear for his own safety, Joce darted away, running for the safety of some trees nearby.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ were the last words Gerard heard as he slipped into the welcoming darkness.
* * *
They arrived at the grotty little chamber that comprised Emma’s home and stood outside. Baldwin eyed it grimly, the coroner with reluctance, thinking about the fleas inside. It was Simon who finally marched up to the door and pushed it open on its cheap leather hinges.
‘Who are you?’ Cissy looked up and demanded.
It was a small room, smoky, ill-lit from the small window high in the northern wall, and although the reeds on the floor were not too foul, there was an odour of decay and filth. A pile of straw with a cloth thrown over was the bed for the children, who snuffled and wept together like a small litter of pigs.
‘I am the stannary bailiff. Are you Nob’s wife?’
‘Oh, God! What’s he done now?’
Simon grinned at the note of fatalism in her voice. ‘Nothing, Cissy. But I would like to talk to you about the murders.’
‘Very well, but keep your voice down. I don’t want to upset her any more. It’s taken me ages to calm her this much.’
‘Of course. Just this, then: your husband said that Hamelin came here with money. Do you know where he said it came from?’
‘He said he had sold a debt to Wally. One of the monks owed him a lot of money. A bad debt. Wally bought it.’
‘Did he say who owed it?’
‘No.’
Baldwin interrupted them. ‘It makes no sense. Why should Wally have bought a debt he couldn’t have redeemed? If the owner of the debt was a monk, there was no legal means of recovering the money!’
Cissy gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You officials; you men! All you ever think about is simple things, like straight lines. Maybe Wally wanted to give his money to help Hamelin. Little Joel was ill, he was dying. Maybe Wally always wanted a child of his own and couldn’t bear to think that the child would die of starvation.’
‘It’s a leap of faith with a man like that Wally,’ Coroner Roger said cynically.
‘Is it?’ Cissy said. Then her jaw jutted and she faced him aggressively. ‘You say that when you don’t know the man? How dare you! I knew Wally for two years or more, and he was always polite and kindly. Never raised his voice to women, never caused a fight. When he got drunk he sat in a corner and giggled himself to sleep. Hah! And you reckon he was a violent, cruel man? I think that’s rubbish. He was quiet, shy, even, when he saw that old monk, but we know why now, don’t we? We’ve heard Wally had something to do with the monk’s wound. Well, I think Wally felt the shame of that, and I don’t think he’d have hurt another man in his life. So there!’
‘My lady, would you serve as my advocate, should I ever be accused of a crime?’ Baldwin murmured, and Cissy preened, grinning.
Simon said, ‘Tell me, before Hamelin was killed…’
At these words, there was a high, keening wail from the corner of the fire, and Cissy rolled her eyes. ‘Did you have to say that? I’ve only just got her to quieten down, and now you’ve started her off again.’
‘My apolo
gies. But can we ask some questions?’
‘Hamelin! Hamelin! He can’t be dead! Oh, Christ! Why him? Why us? What have we done to deserve this?’
Cissy shook her head. ‘You want to question people, you find someone who can talk without crying. Come back later. Better still, don’t bother.’
‘What of you? Can we talk to you?’
‘Why has he died?’ Emma burst out. ‘How could someone do it to a man like him?’
Simon was struck by the woman’s ravaged features. If he had been asked, he would have said that she was at least forty years old, and yet he was sure she was not much more than half that. It was the toll that bearing children had waged upon her, the toll of little sleep, of fear that her youngest might die, of her husband being taken from her so cruelly and without explanation.
‘I am sorry about your husband,’ he said with as much compassion as he could.
Cissy tried to hold Emma back, glaring furiously at the men. ‘Won’t you leave us? This girl is in no position to—’
‘Cissy, give me grace! I want to help these men if they can find the murderer of my man! Why should I sit here snivelling while he who has caused my misery dances and sings, knowing he is safe? Let me put the rope about his neck if I may!’
‘Do you know anything of your man’s death?’
‘All I know, I will tell you,’ Emma declared with force. She gently removed Cissy’s arm from before her and walked to her stool, sitting and composing herself as best she might. It was terrifying to have three such men in her room, but she drew strength from Cissy, and from the memory of the sight of her man’s body.
‘Gentlemen, Hamelin arrived here the night before last because he wanted to make sure that our son was well and hadn’t died. The last weeks have been hard for us. Joel has been suffering because we couldn’t afford good food. Then on Friday, Hamelin arrived with a purse of money which he said Wally had given him.’
‘I told them,’ Cissy said.
‘That money saved Joel’s life,’ Emma said with determination.
‘You say he saw you the day Wally died,’ Simon said. ‘Did he say anything about Wally’s death?’
‘Only that he saw the Brother Mark up there. Hamelin hated Mark for taking our money and gambling it away. It was because of Mark that he became a miner. He saw Mark with Wally that morning, arguing with him, and then Wally set off eastwards and the monk came back to Tavistock. Hamelin followed after him, and went to the tooth-puller, Ellis, to have a tooth out. Then he came back here to me.’
‘Do you not think he might have killed Wally to rob him?’ Baldwin asked quietly.
‘No! If he would have harmed anyone, it would have been that fat monk. No one else.’
‘What of the night before last, then?’ the coroner asked. ‘He came home to see how Joel was, as I said, and while he was here, the watchman arrived and told him to go to see the abbot in the morning – that would be yesterday. As soon as he had risen, he left me to go to the abbey.’
‘This watchman – who was it?’ Simon asked.
‘We didn’t see him. He told us the message and said there was no need to open the door.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’ Baldwin asked.
‘No,’ she said with a frown. ‘He didn’t sound familiar.’
‘Were there many routes your man could have taken to the abbey?’ Baldwin enquired thoughtfully.
‘No. He would have gone along this alley, across the road, then into the next alley. That would take him straight to the place. But he didn’t get there, did he?’
‘I doubt it,’ Simon said. ‘He was ambushed on his way.’
‘By the man who gave him the message,’ Baldwin muttered.
* * *
Joce could hear them. God! How many were there? He crouched low, his knife in his hand, listening intently, and it sounded like the whole of the King’s army had come to try to catch him. He still gripped his dagger, and held it out in front of him as he cautiously pressed his way onwards, trying to evade the men, but desperate to return down to the town where he would be safe.
He must clean his hand. The acolyte’s blood had stained him all the way up to his wrist, and he could see specks up his arm. That was from his cut to the lad’s nose, he thought with a flash of pleasure. There was something good in having punished the bastard like that. He might live, but he’d never forget Joce Blakemoor, Joce Red-Hand.
It was a complication he could live without, though, the thought that the lad might survive. Joce had kicked him hard: maybe he had broken his neck? A cracked rib could kill as easily as a sword-thrust, and Joce had managed at least one good stab with his dagger in the shoulder. Not enough, though, he reckoned. The boy had been fit and healthy, well-fed and strong. He could take a more severe punishment than that which Joce had handed out.
Would Gerard’s word stand? Joce was inclined to think it would. If the boy lived to tell his tale in court, that was the end of Joce. Not that it mattered. Without the pewter, nothing mattered. He had no life in the town, no money. Nothing.
He had no choice. Before anything else he must avoid these men looking for him. Cautiously, he made his way along a narrow gully, listening for shouts and knocking as search parties banged among bushes and ferns to see if he was hiding. It was like a great hunt, with beaters scaring the quarry onward. With animals there would be a line of huntsmen, with dogs or bows, or perhaps men on horses eager to give chase, but here the reason was more mundane. The beaters were hoping to push him forward, up the hill, and out into the open moorland beyond. There he would be easily visible.
That way was madness. He would need a mount to escape to the moors. Instead, he searched for a gap between beaters, and carefully made for it. The line was extended, but the gap between each man was fluid, and it took him some while to spot where he could go. There, a space between one youth and a forty-year-old peasant who looked like his head was built of moorstone.
Joce crawled over to a thick bramble patch and scrambled through it, feeling his woollen clothing snag and pull. Thorns thrust into his hands and knees; one caught his cheek and tore at him, and more became tangled in his hair. He had to bow his head and clench his fists against the pain. He couldn’t, he daren’t make a sound. The beaters were too close.
With a shock of horror he heard a dog. His heart stopped in his breast. Every facet of his being was concentrated on his ears and it seemed that the slavering, panting sound was deafening, smothering all other noise, even the steady whistling and banging of sticks. Then there was a clout across his back as a heavy staff crashed into the bushes above him, and he could have shrieked as a set of furze thorns were slammed into his back between his shoulders.
There was a louder panting, and he opened his eyes to see the dull-witted eyes of a greyhound peering at him, mouth wide, tongue dangling in a friendly pant. A man bellowed, and the dog curled into a fist of solid muscle, then exploded forward, shooting off like an arrow. Joce felt as though his heart had landed in his mouth, it burst forth into such powerful thumping.
Then the noise was past him. To his astonishment, the line had washed over him and now was carrying on up the hill. He was safe!
He carefully crawled from his hiding place, pulled off his coat and knocked as many bramble and gorse spikes away as he could, while walking swiftly down the hill towards the town. Once there, he could fetch clothes and a horse.
His blood was coursing through his veins with more consistency now. Yes, he would escape from this damned town. Over the moors on a horse, perhaps, or south, to the coast. He would be free again.
* * *
Sara had left her children with a neighbour while she went to buy bread, and she was there, outside the baker’s when she heard the raucous blast of a horn. Hurrying along the street, she came to the road where she could see the bridge, and there she saw the men bringing a body back from the hill. They trailed down to the bridge, and slowly crossed it before making their way past the Water Gate and on around
the town.
There was another blast from the horn, then a harsh bellow. ‘Havoc, murder! Help! All healthy men, collect your arms and help catch a murderer!’
At Sara’s side a woman gasped, ‘My Christ! The poor boy!’
Others had already stopped to stare, watching as the small group, Sir Tristram on his horse at the head, and four men carrying the stretcher of stout poles with a palliasse bound between them, made their way to the Court Gate. All could see the blood and pale features of the boy.
‘What have you done to the lad?’ came an angry voice from the crowd.
Sir Tristram whirled his horse about. ‘Don’t bellow at us, man! This is none of my men’s doing. One of my host saw this fellow being attacked, and we are up the hill now, trying to find the culprit, so any among you who are fit and healthy, grab a weapon, and go up there. We need all the help we can muster. Come on! All of you, up that hill and find this bastard before he kills someone else!’
* * *
Coroner Roger, Simon and Baldwin were walking back from Emma’s alley when they saw the men carrying the stretcher.
‘We found your man, Sir Coroner,’ Sir Tristram said with heavy amusement. ‘Although I fear he won’t be of a mood to help you yet awhile. He is a little punctured just now.’
‘Sweet Jesu!’ Baldwin burst out, and then he whirled around to Sir Tristram. ‘Why did you do this? The boy was no threat to you!’
‘We did nothing. My man was riding eastwards towards the moor, thinking that the lad might have tried to escape,’ Sir Tristram said, waving the stretcher-bearers on towards the abbey. ‘He saw a man striking this lad, kicking him and then preparing to give the fatal blow. He shouted and raised havoc, and the bastard ran away.’
‘Did he see who it was?’ Coroner Roger asked eagerly.
‘Alas, he doesn’t know the local folk,’ Sir Tristram acknowledged. ‘By the time the rest of my men responded to his call, the scoundrel was flown. He could be anywhere. Still, I have left my fellows up there to see if they can find him. It’s the best training for war, hunting a man.’
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