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 would 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.
‘Then why d’ye not give the Receiver here a piece of paper that confirms that you have bought food from him on behalf of the King, and that the King must pay the town later?’
Joce laughed. ‘A paper like that, unauthorised by the King, isn’t worth the cost of the ink.’
‘Well now, if it was confirmed by the King’s Arrayer, so that if the King wouldn’t honour it, his Arrayer himself would, that would serve, wouldn’t it, Receiver?’
‘I’d consider taking that, I suppose,’ Joce agreed cautiously.
‘You may take it, but I wouldn’t give it!’ Sir Tristram spat, his anger rising again. ‘What, give an assurance that I’d cover the debt myself? I might as well give you my purse and the key to my manor!’
‘Come, now,’ said Peter. ‘You tell us that it’s the King’s service you’re on, that these men are owed food from their service to the King. Surely since they’re in his service, any food they crave must be bought at his expense.’
‘It is the custom that towns feed the King’s Host.’
‘Then the King would seek to recover any money paid out, wouldn’t he?’ Peter said. ‘So you need have no fear on either account. If you are right, of course.’
‘You are threatening me?’
Joce smacked his hand against his sword-hilt. ‘No, Arrayer, I am threatening you. This good monk is trying to save you injury.’
He watched as the knight gave in with a bad grace. It was a pity, because Joce had expected, had craved, an opportunity to stab someone in the belly. He yearned for that moment of release. Yes, Joce regretted not being able to test himself against this knight. Sir Tristram didn’t look very competent. Not compared with some Joce had fought.
He nodded curtly to the Brother, and set off homewards. At the steps which led to the entrance to his shop, he paused and glanced back at Sir Tristram, and in his angry, flat stare, he felt sure that he would soon have an opportunity to test himself against the knight. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come too soon.
Joce had only gone a few yards down the alley when a figure darted out from a doorway. He drew back, his hand falling on his dagger. Then he saw who it was.
‘Sara, what do you want?’ he sneered. ‘Come to ask me to wed you again?’
‘It’s not for me, Joce. It’s my brother. Won’t you help us?’
‘Piss off, wench! I’ve got business to see to.’
‘Joce, just a favour – please! You can help us.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because,’ Sara swallowed hard, ‘because I’ll swear to deny you fathered this child. I won’t cause you more expense.’
‘It means nothing to me. You can charge me with whatever you wish, but I don’t think your litigation would succeed,’ he said coldly. He thrust the dagger home in the scabbard with a flourish. ‘No, I don’t care to help.’
‘All I ask is that you use your influence, that’s all,’ Sara said hurriedly.
‘For what?’
‘Ellis! He went to see Wally the day that he died because Ellis thought Wally was the father of this child. I didn’t tell him about you.’
‘Does he still think that?’
‘No. I’ve told him the truth now. But Ellis was there, on the moors, and he saw Wally. People saw him; they could believe him guilty of the murder.’
‘Aye. I could myself, at that.’
‘But Ellis couldn’t do something like that – you know that full well! All I ask is that you speak for him if he goes to court. Tell the truth about him.’
Joce shook his head. ‘No. He could well have killed Wally. If he is accused, then damn his eyes. I don’t care whether he hangs or not.’
Sara felt her blood chill. She had thought that this man who, when he tempted her into his bed had been so suave and sophisticated in his flattery, would at least agree to help her with this. Although he denied that his oaths last Thursday had been made honestly, she had persuaded herself that he must hold some affection for her, but his face and demeanour denied it. He was as cold as a lizard.
He continued, ‘It seems my whole life is taken up with you. The last time I saw Wally, I had to thrash him. You know why? Because the fool sought to warn me away from you. He told me not to play with your affections. And now you say your brother went to see him? Perhaps all Wally’s bruises at my hand will be laid at your brother’s door!’
She could take no more of his gloating.
Suddenly she felt rage explode within her. She took the hilt of her little dagger and pulled it free, then with a wild shriek she launched herself at him.
He scarcely bothered to exert himself. As she aimed the point at him, he sidestepped, wrapping the edge of his cloak about his forearm with a rapid whipping motion, and clubbed her knife down. His other hand rose to her shoulder and thrust her back, hard, against the wall, then he took hold of her knife hand and wrenched it severely until she gasped and dropped her blade.
‘You pathetic little whore,’ he hissed. ‘Should I demand compensation for this? Maybe I should take you indoors now, get you to undress one last
time for me. Or should I just kill you now?’ He chuckled unpleasantly. ‘Or leave you alone to think about what will happen to your brother? He’s a hothead. Maybe he did murder Wally. So, perhaps he’ll soon be in gaol, and when he is, and you have no money to support yourself, why maybe then I’ll let you come to my house every so often. You can warm yourself by my fire, for as long as you behave. Wouldn’t that be amusing?’
With a last effort, she snatched her arm from him and drew away. ‘Ellis won’t be hanged. Nobody could think he was guilty,’ she said in a voice that shook.
‘We’ll see,’ Joce jeered. He thrust her aside and entered his house, bellowing loudly for his servant.
But Art could not hear him.
As soon as Joce had left the house, the boy had put his plan into action. It wasn’t fair, that bully thrashing him every time he was angry. It wasn’t Art’s fault if he couldn’t read Joce’s mind and know what his master expected from him, and he was determined that he wasn’t going to suffer like this any longer. So when Joce was called away by the meat-seller, worried about whether he’d ever get paid if he supplied Sir Tristram’s men, Art packed his meagre belongings into a large cloth, tied his bundle together, took a stick from the pile lying ready to feed the fire, and left.
He knew which way Joce had gone, and he consciously took the opposite direction, walking to the Abbey, then circling around it to the bridge and crossing over the Tavy. As soon as he did so, he knew he was committed. The river was his personal boundary. Now he had passed over it, he felt as though he was free, and it was with a joyful scampering gait that he set off on the steep roadway that led up to the moors.
At the top, he took deep breaths, surveying the view. This, he knew, was the last sight he would ever have of Tavistock. He was going to where the money was – Exeter, maybe, even London. Perhaps he’d take a ship and learn to be a mariner – that appealed. There were so many possibilities.
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