‘So, Master Bailiff, are you to be leaving us soon now the coining is done?’
‘I have other duties,’ Simon said as Ellis stropped the blade again. ‘Like finding the murderer of the miner.’
‘That bastard Walwynus?’ Ellis stopped and stared, then shrugged as he returned to Simon’s face. ‘He won’t be missed.’
‘Why?’ Simon asked, grasping Ellis’s hand to halt him.
‘He got my sister pregnant, that’s why. Probably told her she’d be his wife or something. You know how it is. And you know how often a man will renege on his word when he learns there’s a child to support.’
‘She told you this?’
‘No one has told me. I saw them, and when I spoke to him later, he denied it. Lying git! I saw them, the day of the coining. She reached up to kiss him. Won’t be long before people see she’s carrying his bastard. And then,’ Ellis continued, gently withdrawing his hand from Simon’s, ‘her shame will be complete.’
‘You realise that might have been the day he died?’ Simon said.
‘Well, not only I saw him that day.’
‘What does that mean? Did you see someone else with him?’
‘No – he had been battered. Someone had blacked his eye and split his lip. He’d been in a fight that morning.’
Simon was quiet as Ellis finished. Once the first shave was complete, the barber stood back and surveyed his work, then drew another towel from the fire and draped this too over Simon’s face while he restropped his razor. Before long Simon had been shaved a second time, and a third hot towel was used to clean away the excess soap. Where there were spots of blood from irregularities in his flesh, the barber used ice-cold water to pat them clean, and the chill stopped the bleeding in moments. Any shave would always cause a little bleeding as the blade cut off occasional pimples and bumps, but Simon had felt none, the blade was so sharp.
‘An excellent shave,’ he said, passing the man a few coins.
‘Master, I look forward to shaving you again,’ Ellis said, glancing into his hand.
‘That is fine, but one thing: did you hear that this miner had ravished other women?’
‘No. I wouldn’t have thought he was the sort. Well,’ Ellis gave a harsh bark of laughter, ‘not being such an ugly shit!’
‘You said you spoke to him after you saw him with your sister. Where was that?’
‘I saw him on the way to his house, the following morning. He denied anything to do with her, the lying bastard!’
‘You sound like a man who would be prepared to see him suffer for what he’d done.’
‘Whoever killed him, I’d shake his hand,’ Ellis said.
‘There was a morning star at his side. That was what killed him,’ Simon said.
Ellis winced. ‘A bad way to die.’
‘You sometimes have to keep your patients still, don’t you?’ Simon said.
Ellis laughed drily. ‘You think this killed him?’ he asked, taking up his lead-filled sleep maker. ‘I don’t think so.’
Simon took it and weighed it. It was heavy enough to kill, but it was more practical as a means of knocking a man down before finishing him off. Yet at Ellis’s belt was a knife. If he struck a man down, surely he’d stab his victim, not break open his head?
‘Would you have killed him if he refused to support your sister?’
Ellis gazed at him levelly. He could have lied, but he saw no point. ‘There was no way he could afford to support my sister. She’s widowed, and I have to support her and the children. Another child means more for me to pay, not him. But if you mean, did I kill him, well, no, I didn’t. But if I’d had an opportunity, I’d have paid someone else to do so.’ He looked at the coins in his hand again, and thrust them into his purse.
Simon left the barber’s room in a thoughtful mood. ‘If I were you, Master Ellis, I would keep my mouth shut,’ he murmured to himself. ‘You are the most vocal suspect I have ever spoken to.’
He would have to see what others thought, but Ellis was certainly a convincing enemy of the dead miner.
Chapter Eight
It was only a short while after dawn and Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was relaxing before his fire when the clattering of hooves outside announced that he had visitors. He listened attentively as he strode across the floor to where his sword hung on the wall.
This was not peace. War had threatened for years now, for with a feeble King and over-powerful and ambitious advisers, the realm was like a keg of dried tinder standing under a brazier. It was only a matter of time before a stray spark must fall and ignite the whole kingdom. That was how Baldwin felt, and although he knew that his little manor near to Cadbury was safer than many parts of the country, it didn’t make him feel any more secure. When armies began to march, there was no safety for anyone, great or small, city-dweller or countryman.
As he threw his sword belt over his shoulder, gripping the hilt, Jeanne, his wife, appeared in the doorway which led up to the solar. He shook his head once, firmly, and jerked it upwards. She was anxious, but she could see his concern. Quietly she pulled the door closed behind her and slipped the bar across.
It wasn’t easy, but she knew that her man needed to be sure that she was safe in her rooms before he could concentrate on fighting, and she had no wish to be a distraction. She was only glad that he had insisted upon installing this sturdy metal bar earlier in the year. It made her feel more secure, knowing that no trail-bastons could simply push it open. She walked back upstairs to the bedchamber, where her maid sat rocking her baby.
Petronilla looked up with a smile, but Jeanne didn’t notice. She was listening intently.
Downstairs, Baldwin walked through the screens passage and out to the back door. He was already confident that there was no threat out here. Experience told him that if felons had arrived and intended to plunder his home, he would have heard more shouting by now. Once outside, he saw his servant Edgar holding the reins of a shortish man’s horse. He bellowed a greeting and climbed down as he saw Baldwin.
Coroner Roger de Gidleigh was a shorter man than Baldwin, but he had a barrel chest and shoulders that spoke of immense strength. He also had a large and growing belly from the quantity of ale he drank, which often put people off their guard, making them take him for a happy-go-lucky soul, the sort of man who would always welcome a stranger with a cheerful demand that they might share a jug of ale – but then the stranger might notice the shrewd, glittering eyes and realise that the only reason for the Coroner to be so interested and conversational was because he held a suspicion against his flattered babbler.
‘Coroner! Thanks to God!’ Baldwin cried with real delight.
‘Sir Baldwin! Greetings and Godspeed, my friend. How are you? And Lady Jeanne?’
‘Well, I thank you.’
‘So you thought it might be outlaws?’ Coroner Roger de Gidleigh said, nodding towards Baldwin’s sword as the two entered the hall.
‘It is best never to take risks. The rumours of war are as vigorous here as anywhere in the kingdom.’
‘True enough,’ the big man said, walking to a bench at the table on Baldwin’s dais. ‘We live in dangerous times.’
Baldwin rehanged his sword, then rapped sharply on the door to his solar, calling to his wife. ‘I hear that anyone who wishes to talk to the King must pay the Despenser whelp.’
‘You should be careful to whom you speak like that, Sir Baldwin. Some could report your words and accuse you of treachery to the Crown.’
Baldwin smiled. The Coroner was a friend, and he took the warning in the way it was intended. ‘I know that, Roger. But while Hugh Despenser the Younger is Chamberlain of the Household, no man can speak to the King without his approval, nor without paying. It is not enough that Hugh Despenser the Elder has been made an Earl, nor that his son has acquired the Clare inheritance – they will seek ever more money and lands to enrich their lives.’
Coroner Roger took the jug of wine which Baldwin proffered. ‘I dare say that
may be true enough, but there is nothing we can do about it. It is human nature to enrich oneself, and that means depriving someone else.’
‘The priests would argue that case, my friend,’ Baldwin chuckled, but with little humour. ‘They tell us that God’s bounty should be shared, that no man should suffer or starve from want of money when his neighbour has enough to support both.’
‘True. But the Church isn’t exempt from making money. And although they talk about men sharing their wealth, I don’t notice the Bishop in Exeter selling his house in order to give the money to the needy.’
‘Coroner!’ Baldwin exclaimed in mock horror. ‘My friend, you have become infected with my own prejudices!’
At that moment Jeanne re-entered the room, and graciously welcomed their guest. Baldwin smiled and took his seat in his chair as his wife spoke gently and courteously, putting the traveller at his ease, soothing his tired muscles and bones with her cheerful chatter. Before long Sir Roger was smiling, and soon after he was laughing, and Baldwin allowed himself to relax.
It was not easy. Baldwin had been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, the Order of warrior monks which had been respected and revered by all those who were most religious. Pilgrims sought out Templars for protection wherever they travelled in the Christian world, and Kings were proud to call them friends.
Yet the greed of the French King and the Pope were sufficient to destroy the noble Order. They had hatched a plot between them, Baldwin believed, in order to share the fabulous wealth of the Order. The fact that their greed must result in the death of thousands of God’s most loyal warriors, that the future reconquest of the Kingdom of Jerusalem must be jeopardised, was nothing to them. They destroyed for their own benefit, and the Knights were tortured and burned to death.
It had given Baldwin an abiding hatred of political power and, most crucial, of any form of bigotry or injustice, and it was a mix of all of these that made him detest the Despenser family. Others hated them for their greed, while some loathed Hugh the Younger because of the rumours of his homosexual relations with the King. That was why, the stories said, the Queen was kept away from the King. Because he had no interest in her.
That was one aspect of the King’s life which did not concern Baldwin. He had lived for a while in the East, and there he had learned tolerance for the sexual activities of others. No, although his wife might despise such unmanly behaviour, he was unbothered. Much more worrying to him was the sheer greed of the Despensers. The family was pillaging the realm every bit as rapaciously as the appalling Piers Gaveston had done only a few years before. Gaveston’s acquisitions had only been halted when he was captured and beheaded, Baldwin recalled. He wondered whether a similar fate might await the Despensers. Somehow he doubted it. They had effectively destroyed all the powerful factions which sought to harm them. There were few left in the country who could challenge them now.
‘So what do you think, Sir Baldwin?’ Coroner Roger asked.
Baldwin realised that his mind had wandered so far from his guest as to be in a different county – or even country. He fitted a serious, intent expression to his face and turned to Jeanne, who was now sitting next to the Coroner. ‘What do you think, my love?’
‘I am sure I would not stop you,’ she said sweetly, recognising his dilemma from his demeanour. ‘I leave it up to you, Husband.’
‘Thank you,’ he said with a fixed smile.
‘It would please me to have your company,’ the Coroner said. ‘And of course, the Abbot was very insistent. He has some regard for your skills, I think.’
‘It is good that someone does,’ Jeanne said.
Baldwin cast her a glance. She was shaking with suppressed laughter. ‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Good, then we can ride for the moors this afternoon,’ Coroner Roger said. ‘For now, may I rest my limbs and head on a bench somewhere? I had to rise early to get here, and a short doze would do me wonderful good.’
‘Of course,’ said Jeanne. ‘And where is this body you need to investigate, Coroner?’
‘Out in the middle of Dartmoor! I am growing heartily sick of the wet, miserable, bog-filled place. It seems as though I must travel there every couple of months to view a corpse.’
At his words, Baldwin felt his stomach lurch, and when he looked to his wife, he saw her face had paled too.
He had paid well for a mere barber, but Simon was pleased. He felt clean and refreshed by the shave, and had learned a little more about Walwynus, or so he thought. No one else had mentioned that Wally was a man for the girls. It certainly sounded odd, though. Just as Ellis had somewhat cruelly said, most men wouldn’t think a man like Wally could have struck a chord with women.
Still, for the first time since he had arrived at the Abbey and realised that he had left the hammer behind, Simon felt clean and content. The removal of the stubble at his chin had given him a new confidence, and he actually felt capable of finding Walwynus’ murderer.
Walking along the lane towards the Abbey, Simon increased his stride. There was much to do today. He would tell Hugh to remain in the Abbey for the forseeable future, exercise their horses and see to their saddles. It was time they were both oiled and serviced. There were plenty of jobs for him to be getting on with, and there was no point in his joining Simon to watch a Commission of Array. Hugh might as well be doing something useful.
He was considering the idea of sitting all day with an Arrayer, a prospect which didn’t appeal, when he almost walked into a man who erupted from a cookshop.
‘Mind your step, you arse!’
Simon smiled grimly at the harsh greeting. ‘Receiver. How very pleasant to see you. I note you are in a hurry, as usual.’
‘Oh, it’s you, Bailiff,’ Joce said with no relaxation of his glower. ‘You should be careful where you walk.’
‘Have you heard of the murdered man?’ Simon said, ignoring his rudeness.
‘Who? I know nothing of this.’
‘Walwynus, a miner. He’s been beaten to death. Do you know of anyone who could have done that?’
Joce chewed steadily on his pie. This needed thought. It would be good to point the Bailiff in the direction of someone else, but Joce wasn’t aware of any credible enemy. ‘Could he have died in a drunken attack? That’s what happened to his friend, I believe. Two years or so ago, Wally had a fight with his companion – a fellow called Martyn – and the other died. Maybe this Martyn had another friend or relative who was horrified to learn that Wally was not hanged?’
Simon nodded. Joce’s voice, even when he spoke rather than blustering, had a grating quality. It was not like those who had lived in Devon all their lives. Joce had left the shire for some years to earn money as a merchant, and he had been successful, by all accounts. ‘Did you know this Wally?’
‘I saw him occasionally. No more than that. He was always at the coinings, but I doubt I exchanged more than three words with him in the last two years. He was not of my standing in the world, Bailiff.’
‘You were at the coining all day last Thursday, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, of course – you saw me yourself, I am sure. And then I went to the inn, before returning home. Why, do you suspect me?’
‘What were you doing on Friday?’
‘I was here most of the day, in town. I had the accounts to write up and check on Friday morning, and then I walked about the streets.’
‘Did you see anyone hurrying back from the moors, or acting oddly?’
‘Not really. I was closeted indoors most of the time. Sorry, Bailiff. I can’t help you much,’ Joce said with a leering grin. ‘You’ll just have to go and interrogate some other poor bastard!’
Simon watched him go with a shrug and sense of failing to meet Baldwin’s level of razor-sharp questioning. There was nothing more to be learned by standing in the street staring after him, though, and he bent his steps to the Abbey again.
By the time he had finished his meagre break
fast of bread and thin ale, he had come to the conclusion that he didn’t like the duty imposed upon him by the Abbot. The thought that he should support and assist some fool of a recruiter did not appeal to him at all.
The arrival of other guests to enjoy the Abbot’s hospitality reminded Simon that someone among them was an Arrayer, and he rose hastily and left the room. Outside in the cool air, he breathed in the freshness that comes only after a good downpour. It must have rained heavily overnight, he thought. He searched about for a place to sit, and finally picked upon the wall of the cemetery.
It was while he remained sitting there that he saw the Abbot’s Steward and groaned to himself when he realised that the man was making his way towards him.
‘Bailiff? I am Augerus, the Abbot’s…’
‘I know. What are you after?’
Augerus smiled thinly. Simon’s irritability early in the morning was known in the Abbey, for he had stayed here often enough on his Stannary duties, but Augerus was a proud man who was well aware of his own importance. ‘My Lord Abbot has asked me to introduce you to the Arrayer, Bailiff. But perhaps you are feeling a little tired still?’
Simon eyed the man. Augerus’ expression told Simon that confessing to tiredness would be pointless. ‘I apologise for being short, friend. It was just that my mind was on the murdered tin-miner.’
‘Walwynus? I suppose you have heard the rumours about the travellers? Everyone remembers the tale of Milbrosa.’
Simon listened as Augerus led the way to the Abbot’s lodgings. ‘Some of the monks here believe in that sort of story?’
‘Oh yes. Some are quite superstitious. Not me, I have to say. I believe that if God truly wanted to give mankind a message, He would pick a means which would be more easily understood. Surely He appreciates how often His creation manages to misunderstand Him, don’t you think?’
‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Simon admitted. ‘I find it’s hard enough trying to understand what all the men on the moors are doing without worrying myself about His plans.’
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