But he knew that it was madness. There were so many men here. Any one of them could stop him, could grab at him as he tried to mount a horse, or could wrest the pewter from him. He needed a better plan.
At the sound of horses, Joce saw two of Rudolf’s men stand and stare back the way he had come, west, towards Tavistock, but he kept calm and sat quietly, listening intently. There were only a few riders, that was obvious. The ground didn’t vibrate as it would with ten or more heavy mounts, and the rumble of hooves was dissonant, a broken noise, in which almost every hoof beat could be discerned. Two, maybe three horses, no more, he reasoned.
They took little time to reach the travellers.
‘Who is your leader?’ came a hoarse voice, and Joce felt his belly lurch. Sir Tristram? What was that duplicitous arse doing up here?
Rudolf stood. ‘You are looking for someone?’
‘A man on foot who came past here today, probably late,’ Sir Tristram said. He noticed Joce sitting – now that Rudolf had moved away, Joce was alone. ‘Who are you? Are you with these travellers?’
Joce rose to his feet and faced him. ‘I am the Receiver of Tavistock, Sir Tristram. You remember me?’
Sir Tristram was tempted to snatch his sword from its scabbard and sweep his head from shoulders. ‘Of course I remember you. Have you seen a man coming past here?’ Joce shook his head. ‘No, no one.’
‘That is odd, then isn’t it?’ Sir Tristram said. He spurred his horse forwards. ‘We have had an exciting day today. A young novice, Master Gerard, from the abbey, was savagely attacked and lies close to death in the abbey. Then we learned of a girl who was threatened by a man who tried to strangle her, and just now we found my sergeant dead just a little way from Tavistock, his head taken clean off his shoulders. And the man who did it came this way, first on a horse, then on foot. We came across the horse further back that way. Yet you saw no one.’
‘He must have turned north or south.’
‘Did you know that Jack saw you at the argument we had in the town? He said he recognised you. Said you were the leader of the Armstrongs. He called you Joce the Red-Hand.’
‘He was dreaming,’ Joce laughed.
Coroner Roger smiled blandly, and then pointed to Joce. ‘Your sleeves are stained, man, as is your tunic near your dagger! You are the—’
Before he could finish his words, Joce had moved. He shot across the grass and grasped Anna about the waist, turning with her even as he drew his knife. Instantly he faced the men with the dagger at Anna’s throat. ‘If any one moves, she dies,’ he snarled.
He had forgotten the two crossbows. There was a hideous thump and grating friction at his shoulder. He felt his whole upper body jerk, his arm losing all power in a moment, and the knife flew from his hand even as his shoulder seemed to explode. As Anna staggered and fell to her knees before him, he was only aware of the sudden eruption from his shoulder: his tunic snapped away, ripped and shredded, and there was a violent effusion of blood which sprayed the grass for yards about, a solid mass in its midst. He could see it fly on, a blurred spot in the distance.
A moment later there was a second thud in his spine, and it slammed him down to the earth, where he lay, mouth agape, his remaining good arm scrabbling for purchase in the blood-clogged grass. He tried to speak, to bellow, but no words came. He could feel pain searing his breast like flames: the bolt had shattered in his spine, and fragments of wood and bone had pricked his chest, puncturing his lungs; now the blood was clogging his breath and as he opened his mouth to roar, a fine spray of crimson burst forth, staining the grass anew.
It can’t end like this, he thought. There was more astonishment at this than pain or shock. Of all ends, he had never anticipated this. He shivered, and suddenly he realised that his legs were shaking uncontrollably, quivering against the long grasses, and then the spasms spread upwards, to his groin, then his arms, and suddenly his eyes widened.
And then he was still.
* * *
When the coroner returned to the town, riding on ahead of Sir Tristram, who was bringing Joce Blakemoor’s body back on a sumpter horse, Simon and Baldwin listened with keen interest to his story.
‘So the Swiss men shot him? A kind end to a violent man,’ was Baldwin’s comment.
‘It explains some of the story,’ Simon said.
‘Yes. We know that the acolyte ran away from the abbey because he couldn’t cope with the pressure and fear. Augerus had made him steal for him, taking whatever he could from the abbey’s guests, and so he ran away, joining Sir Tristram’s men. He hoped to be able to disappear with them. But I suppose when he saw or heard all of us arriving and questioning Sir Tristram, he panicked and bolted, and somehow Joce caught him and tortured him to learn where the pewter was gone.’
‘Yes,’ said Simon absently, ‘except…’
Baldwin chuckled to himself. ‘Come, there is little enough unexplained! You can be content with the scope of your discoveries.’
Simon smiled, but he was still unhappy at the amount he did not know. The acolyte had somehow found clothing; he had been shaved; he had been helped into the lines of men joining the host, for he would have been spoken for. Someone must have confirmed his name and details when he applied to Sir Tristram.
And then he suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the pleasant, smiling face of Nob Bakere and his wife Cissy. ‘I think that we may learn a little yet,’ he said.
Leaving Simon’s faithful servant Hugh seated at the bedside of the wounded acolyte, Simon and Baldwin walked out through the abbey’s gates and strode into the town once more.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘There are some details we should learn,’ Simon said, and pushed open the door to Nob’s pie-shop.
It was empty apart from the cook and his wife.
‘Ah, um. Right, can we serve you gentlemen?’ Nob asked, trying to look innocent.
Simon ignored him, but spoke to Baldwin.
‘You remember when we came in here to look at sacks? I found a black tunic, and while I dropped it, unthinking, Nob came over and kicked it away from me angrily. At least, I thought he was angry at the time. We often kick out at whatever is near, don’t we? When Nob came to me, the nearest thing for him to kick at was the tunic. It flew into the corner. Where is it now, Nob?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Must still be there, if that’s where I kicked it, Master.’
Simon nodded at his cheerful attitude. ‘Well, I think it’s already burned. Which is a shame, because your son will have to buy a new one. Benedictine habits are not cheap, are they? Apostasy is one thing, but to burn a tunic – that is like burning your boats, isn’t it? Oh, Mark is being held by the abbot, I should tell you, and Gerard is back at the abbey. Much that was confusing us is now known. All we want is your story.’
‘Their son?’ Baldwin wanted to hit himself for being so dense. ‘I begin to comprehend. Their son is…’
‘Reginald the novice,’ said Cissy.
Simon snapped his mouth shut. He had been going to say that Gerard was their boy, and he was glad that he had been saved from making a fool of himself.
Baldwin was frowning intently at her. ‘Reginald!’
Cissy sighed and pointed with her chin to the ale barrel. ‘Nob, we might as well have a drink while we explain.’
‘All right, my little cowslip,’ he muttered.
‘And less of your smatter!’ she called after him. ‘Yes, Master Bailiff. I don’t know how you guessed, but our son is Reginald.’
‘And he is?’ Baldwin enquired.
‘Gangly, clumsy, dark hair. Oh, he’s his father’s son all right,’ Cissy laughed. ‘Reg is a fool. He got to thinking that Gerard was stealing, so he determined to talk to him and persuade him against his life of crime. Only, when he caught hold of the boy, he missed his hold and knocked him down. Reg was appalled. He was trying to help the boy, and when Gerard went down with a loud thud, he thought he’d killed him.’
‘You sho
uld have seen his face!’ Nob said, returning with the drink and passing pots to their visitors.
‘Anyway, Gerard confessed to him, and begged to be forgiven, but asked what Reg would do, and Reg didn’t hesitate. He said he’d ask his mum. Me.’
Baldwin lifted his mazer and saluted her. ‘And you advised?’
‘That he should stay where he was. But he said he feared Mark might kill him. That was what the monk had threatened – that he’d kill Gerard if he didn’t do as Mark wanted, and the same if he ever spoke about what he’d done.’
‘Yet he told you?’
‘He was so lost, the poor child. He didn’t know who to speak to, who to trust. By the time he came to us with Reg, he was almost past caring. The only thing he craved was certainty. And so the other possibility we suggested was that he should join the host.’
‘We gave him some of Reg’s old clothes to wear, and I personally shaved him bald. I reckoned that would make him hard to recognise,’ Nob said with some pride. ‘When he went to join the host, I spoke up for him, and I had paid some others to help, so that was no trouble. We thought he’d be far away by now.’
Cissy’s face hardened. ‘He hasn’t got away, has he? You’re not cheating us into telling you what happened?’
‘No, Cissy,’ Simon said quietly, and told her about the lad in the infirmary and the death of Joce.
‘Poor Joce. I never much liked him, but I wouldn’t wish that sort of death on any man,’ Nob shuddered.
‘Save your sympathy, you old fool! It’s Gerard you should feel sorry for,’ Cissy said scathingly. ‘The poor young fellow’s near death, from what these gentlemen say.’
‘Our Reg won’t be looked on with great favour, not once the abbot knows what he did,’ Nob said.
‘Oh!’ Cissy cried. There was a terrible lurch in her belly at the thought, although she couldn’t deny a certain hope that he might be thrown from the abbey so that he could marry and settle, just as she had always wanted.
‘We can only pray that Gerard recovers fully,’ Simon said.
* * *
‘I need hardly say how pleased I am with your work, Simon,’ the abbot said at breakfast the next morning. He had invited Simon, Baldwin and the coroner to join him, and he sat eyeing Reginald dubiously as the novice tried to serve the abbot and his guests with the same professional skill as Augerus. ‘You have discovered the secrets of so many with such skill, that even now I scarcely comprehend the full story.’
‘I am sure we should never have learned the full facts without his efforts,’ Baldwin said.
Simon glanced at Baldwin, who gazed back innocently. ‘I am glad you are pleased, my Lord Abbot. I try to serve you as best I may.’
‘You have always been a good servant.’
‘I am only sorry to have disappointed you so often this year, my Lord,’ Simon said with his head bowed.
‘What do you mean?’ The abbot looked baffled.
‘Simon is convinced you are so miserable with his abject inability to serve you,’ Baldwin said, ‘that he thinks you wish to remove him from his position. Especially after the mistake of the hammer.’
‘What, you mean the coining hammer?’ the abbot demanded, astonished.
Baldwin had thrown out the comment in the hope that he might tease the abbot into an admission that he was going to move Simon, however the tone of surprise sounded so authentic, he glanced up into the abbot’s face;
‘I believed that the coining hammer was the last straw, my Lord Abbot,’ Simon said. ‘What with the fiasco of Oakhampton’s tournaments, and the madness at Sticklepath.’
‘Them?’ The abbot waved his hand in genial dismissal. ‘Nothing! They had no effect upon me. And you managed to find who was guilty, didn’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Simon said. There was a lightheadedness, as though he had drunk too much of the abbot’s strong wine. Perhaps he had, he thought, but now the atmosphere of the abbey had lost its menace. It felt calm, friendly and compassionate again.
He need not fear for his post, he need not fear for his money, for his wife’s sense of well-being, for her happiness. All was well. All would remain well. He reached forward and poured himself more wine, picking up his goblet with a feeling of renewal, as though he had sat on the edge of a precipice, the soil slipping away from him, doom awaiting him, and the abbot had saved him, gripping his arms even as he toppled forth into the abyss.
‘No, Bailiff. I am very content with you,’ the abbot continued amiably.
‘Then what was it you were saying to me after the coining, my Lord Abbot? You appeared to be concerned about my work.’
‘Not about your work, no. About the workload. I didn’t want to keep loading you with more duties, in case you couldn’t cope with them all, but you seem to have the shoulders of an ox when it comes to bearing responsibility.’
‘I can certainly help with more duties,’ Simon said quickly. He dared not refuse any job, not after his concerns of the last few days.
‘Good! I am pleased. As you know, I have been granted the position of Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, and I need a good man to go down there and manage my affairs.’
Simon felt his face fix into a mask. ‘You wish me to go there and live?’
‘Of course. I need someone I can trust. There is a good little house, I believe, and the duties wouldn’t be excessively onerous, but well remunerated. Would you take it on for me?’
In his mind’s eye, Simon could see his wife’s face, Meg’s sadness at having to move home again. He could see his daughter’s dismay at the news, having to leave all the boys with whom she had flirted. When he believed that the abbot was disappointed in him, he had thought that the worst thing that could happen to him was that he and his family might have to quit their house and go back to Sandford, leaving their new friends behind. Now, ironically, due to his success, he was to be asked to move – but to yet another place where he knew no one! Meg would be upset, he knew. Edith too.
‘I am most grateful, my Lord Abbot,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘I should be delighted to do that job for you.’
He had no choice.
* * *
Over in the quiet morning light of the abbey sickroom, Gerard the acolyte lay huddled in his bed, his eyes on Christ on the cross hanging above the altar. Brother Peter sat beside him, a goblet of wine for the wounded boy and a cloth in his hands.
‘What will happen to me now?’ croaked the boy, slow tears sliding from his eyes.
‘Ah! Well, I think you will be asked to confess to our good Lord abbot, and then you will be given a penance of several “Hail Mary’s” and the duty of serving my needs. An almoner always needs a good helper.’
‘What of my crimes, though?’
‘You were forced into a life of theft – Augerus forced you. He will be made to understand the meaning of penance.’
‘And I made you help me leave the convent, just as I forced myself on Reginald’s parents.’
Peter shifted uncomfortably. ‘Aye, well, let us not dwell too deeply on that. I haven’t had a moment to confess to that particular offence yet. I’ll do so, though, aye, I’ll do it. I’m just not looking forward to the abbot’s face when I tell him.’
‘It was good of you – but why did you agree to help me get out? It was a crime,’ said the broken voice.
‘Aye. I know,’ Peter said, thinking again of his Agnes. ‘But if you weren’t suited to the abbey, do you see that you might be failing God? What if He truly intended you to be – oh, I don’t know – a stonemason, whose skills would show God’s glory to a congregation? Perhaps it would be better, if you mean to have a different life, to go and live it, rather than remaining here.’
‘I don’t think I can live here, not after all I’ve done.’
‘What you mean is, not knowing you’d have to face Augerus every day.’
‘Well, I suppose…’
‘Well, suppose again, lad. He’ll be long gone before you’re out of this room. He’s
in a cell now, and he’ll not be allowed out, other than during services, until his boat’s ready.’
‘What boat?’
‘The abbot has decided he will go to the islands. He’ll be going to the abbey’s house at the Island of St Nicholas.’
‘Good God!’ Gerard began to sniffle, and Peter caught his hand and held it. ‘Do you think I will be sent there too?’
‘Nay, lad. You have done little wrong. Augerus has murdered two men and forced you to become his slave-thief. He will suffer for his crimes. What have you done? You have been immature and young – but that is because you are immature. You will be all right.’
Gerard heard his voice, but the words were washing over him like shallow waves. He could discern little meaning. All he knew was, that the sympathy of this older monk showed that the wounds he had suffered were as truly appalling as he feared. He wanted to touch his face, where the dull throbbing at his nose and ear showed Joce had succeeded in wrecking him, or to scratch at the irritating itch at his cheek and shoulder. He had been a fool, and the memory of his foolishness would be with him every day of his life.
Sobbing, he wished that he had in fact died.
* * *
The next day, Nob threw open the shutters with a curious feeling of well-being. The sun was streaming down, for once, and with the slight breeze a few leaves blew along the alley outside. It was rare to wake to a clear sky and dry roadway, but today was one such, and Nob whistled cheerily, if tunelessly, as he collected flour from the miller’s and some more charcoal, carrying both on his old barrow.
Cissy was already in the shop and lighting a brazier on which to heat a couple of pies for their breakfast, he thought, but then he saw that she had several pies set out beside her.
‘Why so many?’
‘I’m taking some food to Sara. Her children need all the help they can get,’ Cissy said firmly. ‘I won’t have any arguments, Nob. She is eating for two again, remember.’
‘Who’s complaining? I’m not saying anything. I was just thinking, though. If she needs some ale, tell her my barrel’s always got a spare quart for her.’
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