The Outcasts of Time

by Ian Mortimer

  ‘We owe him nothing,’ pleads the boy, hanging from his wrists.

  ‘Then that is what I will pay you,’ I say.

  Fulford draws his sword and turns to the boy. He stabs both of the boy’s legs, which are bare below the tunic. The lad screams with the pain, repeatedly, until he just sobs, swinging slightly. Blood trickles down into his boots; drops fall from the soles to the ground.

  Fulford turns the point of the sword to me.

  ‘You’ll give me whatever you’ve got,’ he says, stepping towards me rapidly. ‘Your friend has abandoned you. If you weren’t alone before, you are now. It’s three against one.’

  I back away, gathering my fardel ready to parry the sword thrust. I look around for some assistance but see nothing and no one.

  A dark-haired girl of about fourteen appears in the doorway to the cottage. She supports herself there, gazing at us. I hope she will do something to distract Fulford. I look from her to the sword’s point and back. She does not move. I continue retreating. The other men watch: John standing near the boy, Tom by the horses. They both seem amused.

  Fulford lunges forward and I shift to my right. I glance around again, looking for a weapon. I feel for my knife and draw it, but it is no defence against a man with a sword. Fulford lunges for my right arm, and I dive to my left. He does the same again, with something like a smile. I stumble backwards, and struggle to keep to my feet. His eyes light up. Like a fox watching rabbits, he knows his victory is just a matter of time.

  His next lunge is one of deadly intent. He jabs straight at my face and instinctively I raise my fardel to parry the blow but it is heavy, and he quickly withdraws the blade and stabs again low, aiming for my gut. Only by jumping backwards and falling to my right do I avoid the cut. On the ground I roll away as quickly as I can, abandoning my fardel, but the downward blow I fear does not come. I hear what sounds like two stones hitting each other and see Fulford turn sharply.

  Tom in the red surcoat crashes to the ground. William is there: I see him tossing away the rock with which he has just struck Tom’s skull and reaching to draw the sword from the man’s belt. Fulford and John both run at him but William is quick, and Fulford falters, suddenly staring at a sword-point himself. John too draws back. William moves to my side.

  The riders who went in pursuit of William return with their lord’s horse, and dismount silently, surprised at the scene they find. They tie up their mounts to a bough near where the bleeding boy is swinging.

  Fulford and his men are on one side of the clearing, William and I are on the other. They all now have their swords drawn.

  ‘Tom!’ shouts Fulford. But the fallen man does not stir.

  ‘See if he is dead.’

  John goes across to the body on the ground and puts his ear to his mouth.

  ‘He lives.’

  ‘Go now, Fulford, and take your wounded man, and I will spare you all,’ shouts William. ‘But stay here and I promise you no mercy.’ He adds to me, in a whisper, ‘Get ready to run. Go up through the woods. I will meet you at Hingston Rocks.’

  Fulford looks from us to the girl in the cottage doorway. He sees the boy still hanging by his hands and his own man still unconscious. ‘You think you are a bold hero,’ he shouts. ‘But how bold, I wonder.’ He points at William. ‘I’ll give five pounds to the man who brings me his head. Twenty shillings for that of his scrawny companion. And I want that sack too.’

  William and I do not hesitate. We turn and run straight up through the trees.

  The ground is firm with the cold but our feet sink into the piles of fallen leaves. I find myself searching for roots to step on as we climb the steep slope, ducking under boughs and pulling ourselves up on low branches. It seems stupid that a moment ago I declared that our last few days are guaranteed by fate.

  ‘Go that way, right,’ shouts William, and he runs to his left. I dart to my right and glance over my shoulder. The man in the grey and blue tunic is following me. But I am still a good enough runner to outstrip most men in their prime, even though I am still carrying my fardel. I know the lie of the land even if the paths have moved. My pursuer cannot keep up. Before long, I am running alone through the woodland, southwards, along the crest of the hill, away from Hingston.

  I turn again and run down to the road, and climb up the far side of the valley. Here I recover my breath and walk through the trees, heading back north. After half an hour I see Fulford and his men on the road again. Tom must have recovered, as all five of them are riding. But they have taken the girl; she is on the horse with John. I descend and follow them at a safe distance, to make sure they are returning to Fulford.

  William is sitting on a rock when I arrive up at Hingston. He seems unhurt.

  ‘You outran him?’ he asks.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I had to stand and fight both of mine. I disarmed the bald one, and then he and his ugly friend ran away. I bet they’ve never been in a battle. I have a present for you.’

  He passes me John’s sword.

  I notice a few notches in the blade. ‘Call this a present? Where’s the scabbard? Don’t tell me you forgot the scabbard?’

  William smiles. ‘I’ve been looking at the moor. Always thought of it as a bleak place before. But you called it “God’s Creation unchanged”. I like that. Although I dare say it has changed a bit over the ages. Just ninety-nine years have seen all the land around here laced with walls and fences.’

  ‘The moor itself doesn’t look any different.’

  ‘But it does. We are gazing on it with the fondness of two dying men.’

  ‘We are not in the churchyard yet.’

  ‘No, not quite. Which is just my point.’

  I look down at the church. No one alive knows where my wife and children lie buried. If Catherine married again, perhaps she is with her second husband. But I know that that is where they are.

  ‘I want to go down there,’ I say.

  ‘You’re stubborn,’ William says. ‘You never learn. The world does not care for your good works. While I was waiting, I thought about that cottage we just visited. The girl – she did not want us to help her. I could see tears on her face when she stood in the doorway – she was not happy to be ravished – but she said and did nothing. She did not try to run. It was as if this has happened before, and will happen again, and the best thing to do is just accept it. Then we blunder in, antagonise Fulford and his men, and the peasant children pay the penalty.’

  ‘They took her with them. I saw them on the road.’

  ‘And when their father gets back home . . . Sweet Jesus.’

  I sigh. ‘I am going to give Lazarus’s book to the church. Are you coming?’

  William gets to his feet. ‘Yes – if only to find out what can go wrong this time.’

  An hour later we are walking across the Sanctuary Field beside the church when I hear a voice behind us.

  ‘You two look as though you’ve been dragged through the parish backsivore. Pray, what is your business in visiting our town?’

  The speaker is a tall, lean man. He wears a flowing black cassock and white surplice with a black hood lying flat over his shoulders, and a high rope belt. His clothes look exactly like those that Philip de Vautort used to wear in our day. Also, his head is tonsured like a priest’s, with all the top shaved. But his manner is one I cannot quite determine. His voice is clipped and authoritative but his words are not threatening. His face is narrow and his brown eyes search us for answers.

  William responds. ‘My brother and I were both born in this parish, Father, but we’ve been travelling more years than you would believe. The town has changed almost beyond our knowing. When we left, there was no campanile attached to this church. Houses stood proud that now lie in ruins. There were stalls in the centre of the square. Folk dressed differently.’

  ‘Then you must have been travelling for most of your lives. That bell tower was built nigh on thirty years ago, in the sixth year of the reign of our most holy k
ing, Henry the Fifth. But you’ve not answered my question. Are you beggars?’

  ‘No, Father,’ I say. ‘We’ve returned to make a donation to the church where we were baptised.’ I open my travelling sack, reach inside, and feel the book. ‘It’s my wish to present this book of devotion to the church.’

  The priest takes the book reverently, opens it, and casts his eyes over several of the folios. Amid the innumerable black minims, I see a flash of gold leaf. And letters in red.

  ‘Who gave you this?’ he asks.

  ‘An unfortunate child,’ I reply. ‘His father was from Exeter.’

  The priest looks at us. ‘Well, what a strange pair you are. I was expecting to have to chase off a couple of vagrant rapscallions; instead you place in my hands a Book of Hours. Let me share this with our rector, Canon Precentor Walter Colles. He is visiting us today, from Exeter. Come.’

  Without waiting for an answer, the priest turns and starts walking back to the church, the black skirts of his cassock billowing around his legs. William and I follow.

  Inside the church, I look up. The near half of the building is much as we know it, with the painted walls and barrel-vault over the nave. On the north side, however, another aisle has been built. There are large windows there, filled with brightly coloured glass – quite unlike the narrow arched windows of the old church, which are a plain, greenish colour. There is a new altar set at the east end of this new aisle, with a carved altarpiece in alabaster, depicting Saint Margaret as a shepherdess. In the chancel, which is reserved for the burial of the rector, there is a single chest tomb.

  ‘There lies good Father Philip de Vautort.’

  I turn around. The speaker is an older priest, in a red cassock and white surplice, whose face is ample and ruddy. He has a thick neck, like a bull. His tonsured hair is very short and white so that he appears almost entirely bald. With him is a shorter, fat priest in a black cassock.

  ‘For fifty-three years de Vautort served as the rector of this church,’ says the priest in red. ‘And now he has lain here even more years than that, watching over the flock of this poor parish in death as he did in life. What a blessing.’

  The echo of his voice dies away. This priest has the blue eyes and the precise mannerisms of a royal judge. As he looks at me and William, he pulls out a pair of tiny glass-filled wooden frames, like two round windows, which he raises and holds on the bridge of his nose. He inspects us through these. Then he puts the eye-windows away.

  ‘Tell me your names.’

  ‘They call me Jean de Wrayment.’ It seems fitting to give the French form of my name when speaking to a man of high status. ‘This is my brother, whom they call Guillan Beard.’

  ‘Different surnames,’ says the priest in red, ‘even though you are brothers? Did you have a different father from him?’

  He looks from me to William, as if expecting an explanation. Surely it is obvious that our different names have nothing to do with our paternity and everything to do with the hair on William’s chin? Nevertheless, I answer patiently. ‘His name is Beard on account of his beard. Mine is due to my place of residence. So, now that you know our names, let us know yours.’

  ‘I am Canon Walter Colles, Precentor of Exeter Cathedral and servant of the Earl of Devon. I have been rector of this church for the last nine years. This man’ – and he gestures to the tall priest – ‘is Master Richard Ley, the resident vicar, who has special care of souls here, and this is Stephen Parleben, clerk of the chapel of Saint Margaret.’

  I hear the name Parleben and scrutinise the man’s face. I see a similarity with those I knew of the same name.

  Father Colles holds up the book, which Master Ley has given him. ‘This is a most unusual volume. Where did you find it?’

  ‘I did not find it, Father. I was given it by a boy called Lazarus. He died, and left it to me.’

  ‘I notice that it carries the coat of arms of the Keu family of Exeter. I presume that you also are familiar with Alderman Simon Keu?’

  ‘Well no, Father, I—’

  ‘Did that boy, Lazarus, know Alderman Keu?’

  I shake my head. ‘As I said, Father, he died.’

  ‘Could this Lazarus read?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘No, Father. But I can assure you that that book was not stolen.’

  The priest pauses, scrutinising my face. ‘Well, I am glad. I shall be taking it back with me to Exeter, and I shall ask Alderman Keu if his chaplain is missing a Book of Hours. And if all is well, then, I shall happily accept your donation. If not, I shall return it to its rightful owner.’

  His words are still echoing away when William speaks. ‘Father Colles, we are travellers, not thieves. My brother here is strangely moved to do good works and that is why we’ve returned to the parish of our birth. It’s plain to see that this church, although it’s blessed with a fine new bell tower, is small and dark in itself, especially this nave. I believe my brother was considering donating some money as well as that book to help with the rebuilding of the church.’

  The canon precentor looks at each of his fellow priests and then turns to me. ‘Well, your timing is excellent. The very reason for my being here is to discuss how we might fund the rebuilding of the remainder of the church. As you can see, it is no longer adequate, even for such a remote and backward parish as this. May I ask how much?’

  ‘I was hoping you would accept a donation of forty shillings, Father,’ I say.

  Father Parleben replies. ‘A generous sum for a man who looks as though he has come begging for a crust.’

  I hold his gaze for a moment. Then I turn to my sack, bend down and take out the purse. I count out a dozen gold coins and hand them to the tall priest, Master Richard Ley.

  William ruefully watches the gold change hands. ‘We would not turn down the offer of a good meal, Reverend Fathers. We’ve been on the road many days.’

  ‘But how did you come by these coins?’ asks Master Ley.

  ‘When travelling we mostly carry gold,’ says William. ‘It saves us from the carriage of so many silver pennies.’

  ‘But why not use English gold coins?’ asks Father Parleben. ‘Nobles and half nobles. Are not English coins fine enough?’

  William spreads his arms. ‘Good sirs, regard us. Does it appear to you that we would disdain the form of any English coin? The truth is that my last wool-fells were sold to an Italian merchant in the port of Southampton, and he paid me in florins.’

  ‘Then he overpaid you,’ says the canon precentor coldly. ‘Those are old Venetian ducats.’

  Master Ley breaks the awkward silence that follows. ‘I have a suggestion, Reverend Father. There is meat enough for all of us at my house, and wine too. I have something of a feast in preparation, in honour of your visit. So let us repair to my table board and these men can tell us about their travels.’

  At Master Ley’s house, a servant takes my bag and our swords. We pass into a lofty wooden hall with whitewashed stone walls. Fine timbers support a long roof and there are carvings on the lower beams. A fire is burning on the hearth in the centre of the hall. The shutters are open and the air enters freely, sending the smoke in all different directions. There is meadowsweet scattered over the floor in the rushes, giving the room a scent to counter the smoke. A black-bearded man in a long, dark-blue robe is waiting: Master Ley introduces him as Peter Veysi, the portreeve of the town. He greets us politely but is clearly unimpressed by our dirtiness.

  The servant reappears with a boy; they carry a ewer and basin between them, each with a towel over his left arm. The canon precentor washes his hands in the warm water. Our host does the same, and then Father Parleben, the portreeve and us. We are directed to the table: I have my back to the window and sunlight casts my shadow on the linen tablecloth before me. William sits opposite and gazes longingly at the trencher of thick brown bread set before him. Master Ley sits to my left and the canon precentor next to him, then the portreeve; Fat
her Parleben is next to William. The canon precentor says grace, and then we follow him in taking our napkins.

  The conversations naturally fall in pairs, leaving Master Ley to talk to me. Although his tone of voice is abrupt, and gives the impression of enormous strictness, his temperament is quite genial. He has a dry sense of humour, and clearly likes his wine: he announces the first sort as Rhenish and the second as from a Gascon barrel. His servants bring out a first course of two dishes suitable for the season, it being Advent: a pottage of herbs and salt fish, and roast pike in galantine sauce.

  I quickly grow to like Master Ley. He speaks and he eats, then stops to think, and when he does this, his eyes look up into the smoke-filled shadows of the roof, as if he is trying to find inspiration up there. Then, suddenly, he turns back to me, smiles, and continues talking. I understand that he is beholden to the canon precentor, who is both his second cousin and his employer, but I also sense that he is not entirely happy with the arrangement. No matter how hard he works, he does not get paid a penny more than his stipend by the canon precentor, who takes the tithes of the parish. Master Ley even has to pay rent for this house, as the canon precentor does not permit him to live at the rectory. He tells me all these things in a low voice so the canon precentor, who is speaking to the portreeve in serious tones, does not overhear. Later, the portreeve asks the canon precentor whether this is the fifth or sixth time that he has visited Moreton since he became rector. ‘The fifth,’ the canon precentor affirms. I am shocked that a clergyman can do so little for his flock. At least Philip de Vautort lived here. ‘But I did serve as the constable of Bordeaux for three years,’ adds the canon precentor, glancing at William and me.

  I turn back to Master Ley and ask him about recent events in Moreton.

  ‘Oh, doubtless, the singular piece of excitement here in recent years has been the commission set up to bring Baldwin Fulford to account. You remember Fulford, of course?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘He is still a headache to people around here but he is not half the force he was. His gang, the “Satellites of Satan”, have largely deserted him. They were at their worst several years ago. If anyone dared say a word, they’d go into the man’s house, drink his ale, eat his meat and bread, and ravish his wife or daughter in front of him.’