“When we last spoke to you we thought the dead man was the one you were drinking with, and we didn’t believe you when you said you didn’t know who he was. Now we know it was Torre who was killed, and we can only assume that either you or your friend murdered him. Can you run fast?”
The question made the cook stare. “What?”
“If you can, I suppose it’s possible you could have stabbed him, ripped his clothes off, dressed him in new ones, hacked his head off, hidden it, and run back to the tavern, but I doubt it. No, I think it’s more likely that your friend killed him, with or without your help, that he carried out his revolting deed while you hurried back to the tavern and consumed several ales to soothe your shattered nerves. That seems more likely to me.”
Elias turned away again, his mouth shut. It was as he had feared: even without telling them who was with him, they had guessed enough to assume that both of them had been involved in killing Torre. There was nothing to be gained from Jordan confessing. It would only result in both of them dying. Better that he should keep silent. That way only he would die: his brother would live.
Baldwin glanced at his friend, who gave a helpless shrug. The knight stared up at the sky, searching for inspiration. “Elias, you are keeping quiet to protect someone else. Who, we don’t yet know, but we will. You must think he is guilty, for why else would you seek to keep his identity from us? Yet you know that you are putting your neck in a noose by doing so. That shows great courage and integrity, but consider if you had nothing to do with this murder, and you think your friend did it, what is the point of your dying? It would be better for all concerned that he should be caught. If he cut off the head and hid it, he was surely trying to leave the evidence pointing at you, wasn’t he? Why not become an approver and inform on him? If you tell us who did do this crazy act at least your neck would be safe.”
Elias remained mute, and Baldwin threw him an interested look: “Elias, we’re sure you didn’t do it. The shirt that the man was wearing was not yours – you’re too small to own something that large. So who was wearing it? We can only assume it was your friend in the tavern. Has he threatened you? If so, I will make sure you are protected, understand? But I can do nothing if you refuse to help me.”
“Elias, talk to us,” Simon said, almost pleading. “Let us help.”
“You can’t do anything.”
“What do you mean?” Baldwin demanded. “We don’t think you killed Torre. Tell us the truth and we will find the man who did. ”
But the cook would answer no more questions. He remained stubbornly mute, and at last even Baldwin gave up, irritably waving him away. Elias turned, once, and gazed at Baldwin as if tempted to speak, but even as the knight met his gaze hopefully, the moment passed. The cook disappeared inside, still silent.
“Look, if the damned fool wants to kill himself, why should we stand in his way!” Simon muttered angrily as Daniel relocked the door.
Baldwin shook his head. “For one simple reason: while Elias is in there, the real murderer is free. The law, and justice, demand that we bring the real killer to book. I just cannot understand why he insists on maintaining his silence.”
“There must be a powerful motive for him to keep his mouth closed when he knows it’s his neck at risk. I’d not have thought he’d be so brave.”
“No, it doesn’t seem in character.” Baldwin began to walk back to the fair, his brow wrinkled with concentration. “Something must have scared him into this crazy bravery. What, though?”
“Right now I don’t care!” said Simon positively. “I want to get my purse back from Margaret before it’s been completely emptied.”
They made their way along the alleys and streets, shoving past a crowd gawping at a group of acrobats. A little band of tin miners stood in a corner, trying to shout the lines of a mystery play over the gasps and claps of an audience who were watching men walking on their hands and leaping high into the air to land on one another’s shoulders. Simon gave them hardly a glance. He knew the tinners had paid to sponsor plays at the religious festival; they thought it would curry favor with their new warden, the Abbot. For the bailiff the plays were largely unintelligible, and he gave them a wide berth whenever he could.
At the fair once more they barged their way in among the crowd. With unfettered access to his purse, Simon was convinced that his wife would gravitate naturally back to the stalls selling cloth, so he headed in that direction.
The array of cloth on sale was a surprise to Baldwin; he had not expected such a choice. Expensive scarlets, woollen cloth that gained its particular softness from being dyed in grains, camlet made from scraps of wool, and coarse-woven russets were displayed hanging seductively to show off their colors. Dark blue, blue-black, green, red, violet-all colors were available, and trade was good, it appeared, from the number of people staggering away under the weight of bolts.
Baldwin acknowledged to himself that he had not seen such variety since his time in Paris. Linens, muslins, canvas, worsteds, fustians, even cloth of England, the hard blanket used under saddles, were hanging and limply fluttering in the light breeze. Peasant women and ladies huddled with bored husbands or excited, chattering maids to handle the offerings. A few even bought some.
In the lane, the daylight was excluded by awnings and the draped goods. It made the pathway somber, although the gay colors attempted to give it a festive air, and the knight found himself responding with a gloominess of spirit. Above and outside the fair, the sun shone brightly in a clear sky with only pale wisps of clouds that could not dim the heat of the sun, yet down here, with the chilly breeze from the south and the shade provided by the tradesmen’s stalls, all was different. It was as if the fair itself existed outside the reality of the world, was a distinct creature in its own right, one which could alter the brains of men and women alike. There was a hushed thrill in the crowd, a tension, which put Baldwin’s teeth on edge. He disliked crowds at the best of times, but this one, whose sole reason for assembling here was to buy fashionable gear, felt febrile and manic.
Two women clung to the same bolt of cloth and berated the seller, hurling imprecations as each tried to pull the bolt away from the other. At another stall Baldwin saw a lady shove a poor woman aside to buy the cloth she had been fingering. The woman stumbled and fell against a pole, and sat rubbing her flank, staring with huge scared eyes at the people pushing and shouting. The sight made his blood suddenly chill.
It was the fair. People had an urge to purchase things no matter what the cost. The atmosphere made women who usually would welcome each other with a polite greeting, see their neighbors as competitors in a struggle to the death.
Baldwin walked over to the fallen woman and helped her to her feet, then escorted her through the throng, back to the stall; he stationed her by the cheaper cloths which she would be more likely to be able to afford. She ducked her head in gratitude, but he did not notice, he was already on his way. He had an urgency about him; he wanted to find Jeanne and Margaret and leave this frenetic buying spree.
Further along the lane, things improved. Here the cloths were of a uniformly better quality, and although some peasants wandered by to investigate, clucking and shaking their heads in disgust at the prices like so many hens, most of the customers were more opulently attired women looking for material for new clothes for themselves, their husbands or children.
It was here that they found Margaret and Jeanne. At the entrance to a small stall, with a great trestle table laden with velvets and scarlets, they almost passed a quivering mound of cloths.
“Sir? Sir, don’t go!”
Simon halted and slowly turned to face the quaking pile. Round it peered the anxious face of his servant. “Hugh, what are you doing under all that lot?” he asked with disbelief.
“Your lady, sir. She told me to carry all these things back to the Abbey, for her and for Lady Jeanne.”
“Say nothing,” Simon told Baldwin.
“Me? I wasn’t going to!” t
he knight protested innocently.
“Where are they now, Hugh?’
The bailiff walked in behind the table. Here he found Hankin, and gave him instructions to help his servant as the cloth had been bought from his master. The boy scampered up, nothing loath, for the morning was proving very dull. When he had taken two of the smaller bundles from Hugh and lightened his burden, the pair wandered off to the Abbey.
Meanwhile Simon followed the sounds of excited chattering, and pushed through the materials hanging like curtains at the back of the stall, Baldwin and Edgar in his wake.
Today Jordan was more cautious. At the first sound of voices, he moved to the corner, and when he saw booted feet approaching under the draped cloth, he grabbed his cudgel. When Simon came through and saw his wife, he stopped dead at the sight of the armed stallholder.
“Who are you?” Jordan demanded.
“I am bailiff to the Warden of the Stannaries, who is the Abbot. Who are you?” Simon demanded gruffly, eyeing the cudgel suspiciously.
As Baldwin entered behind Simon he saw Jeanne give him a smile, and he returned it warmly. Her apparent pleasure made his sullen mood evaporate, and he could turn to the merchant with a new lightheartedness.
Jordan stood stock-still, his cudgel now negligently dangling, but he was in a turmoil. He recognized the bailiff’s tone of authority, and for a short moment, as the knight and his servant appeared behind him, he thought he was about to be arrested: a vision rose in his mind’s eye of the gibbet on the hill at Forches Field. Then he made himself relax as he saw the bailiff’s wife move to her husband, and Jeanne began to show Baldwin her latest purchases. Jordan took a short step back, increasing the space between him and them.
As he did so, Baldwin noticed his movement and glanced up. For an instant he saw naked fear in the stallholder’s face, and the sight made him wonder.
“Baldwin, this is the brave man who had to defend himself from those three bullies last night,” Jeanne said.
“You were fortunate, from what we heard,” Baldwin said. Ah, so that explained the man’s fear. It was caused by having three men, all strangers, appear in his stall only the morning after the last attack.
Jordan shrugged. “It’s one of those things.”
“Did you recognize who the men were?”
“Oh yes. They were all watchmen. I’ve seen them around here since. They want black rent-money to protect goods. If someone doesn’t pay, they’ll damage the stuff themselves – they’ve fleeced most of the other merchants here already.”
“Well, I think you’ve demonstrated that you don’t need help to protect your things, anyway,” Baldwin laughed, but he noted what the stallholder said. It bore out his thoughts on the men in the tavern.
Meanwhile Jeanne held up a heavy cloth. “Look at this. Don’t you think it would make a wonderful tunic?”
“Hmm?” He studied the bright red velvet. “It would suit you perfectly, my lady. The color would set off your complexion.”
“Then if my knight thinks so, I should buy it, shouldn’t I?” she said, dropping him a mocking curtsey.
Baldwin considered. “No, my lady. If I think so, I should buy it for you.”
“You can’t, Sir Baldwin. It’s far too expensive – I couldn’t allow it.”
“Then refuse it when I give it to you,” he said lightly, and pulled coins from his purse as he approached Jordan.
The stallholder took it from him. “The whole bolt?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes,” said Baldwin with reckless generosity.
“No,” said Jeanne with the determination of a woman who was used to counting her money. She instructed Jordan to cut off six yards, and watched as he began to unravel the material and measure it against his stick. When he had enough, he marked the cloth with a little piece of white chalk and called out to his boy.
“I sent him away to help my man with the other purchases,” Simon said.
“Ah, no matter,” Jordan said, hiding his annoyance that another should give orders to his assistant. He went to the trestle to fetch his scissors, but couldn’t see them. They weren’t on the table itself, nor under it, and he muttered angrily to himself. Scissors were expensive, and he was always going on at Hankin to look after them, but now once more they appeared to have disappeared. Returning to the waiting group, he gave an irritated shrug. “My lad seems to have taken my scissors with him.”
“Have you nothing else?” Baldwin said.
“Oh, yes, I have a knife.” Jordan pulled it from his belt, made a fold in the velvet where the chalkmark lay, and began to cut carefully along the line.
Baldwin counted out his coins with that faint shock that assails a man who after making a rash promise pays the reckoning. He had no idea that cloth could be so expensive. Jordan had separated the material from the bolt. He set the knife aside and folded up Jeanne’s piece, shaking out wrinkles and creases as he went. When he was finished, Baldwin took the bundle and passed him the coins.
While Jordan pushed them into his purse, Baldwin’s eyes dropped to the table. The knife lay on its left side, and the hilt was plainly visible to him. It was of wood, and there was a motif cunningly carved into it. “That looks a good blade,” he said.
“I’ve had it many years. I always carry it with me.”
“Oh? Is it English?”
“No, I bought it in a fair in Rennes from a Spaniard. I think it was made by a Moor.”
Baldwin picked it up. It had a good weight and feel to it, solid and balanced, and had a long blade, wide at the base and narrowing to a point.
It was hard to imagine it slicing through Torre’s neck, but Baldwin recognized the crest on the handle; it was the same as that on the sheath they had found with the body. “Edgar? Come here a moment,” he called, hefting the knife in his hand, holding Jordan’s gaze. “I have wanted to speak to you for some time,” he said quietly.
Peter shuffled through the long grass, head down as he contemplated the ground before him. After the last few days he couldn’t stay: he’d have to go. There was no choice involved: it was simply the inevitable consequence of his actions and the turn that events had taken. Although Avice had rejected him, he was too unsettled – and ashamed of his carnal weakness – to remain.
Out here, in the orchards beyond the perimeter wall of the Abbey, the sun dappled the ground through the apple, pear and cob trees. The grass would soon be cropped when the sheep were released back inside, but for now they had been removed so that the fruits could all be collected, the ones on the ground as well as those on the trees. The Abbey depended on the orchard to stock the undercrofts for the winter and fill the barrels with cider.
All round him was the crackling sussuration of the tiny, black and yellow pods of the vetch bursting. A cricket gave an experimental rasp, quickly accompanied by another, but both died as he came near.
This was one of the last days of summer, and Peter was reminded how gorgeous the world could be in the midst of his desolation. It felt as if God Himself was mocking him, sneering at his misery. The fault, Peter knew, was his own, and he cringed at the fact that his God was aware. He would have to leave the Abbey and the protection of the Abbot and find a way of earning a living somewhere else.
It was not easy to see how he could. Peter had been a student at the Abbey school for many years before he had taken the tonsure. Many boys from the town attended the school, although most went on eventually to become merchants or knights. Some even entered Parliament to help advise the King. For Peter, after seeing how the monks lived and served God, the decision to remain had seemed natural. Like the brothers, he wanted to dedicate his life to praying for the dead and ensuring that their souls were saved. That was the duty of the Abbey, to intercede for all Christians who had died; they were spiritual warriors, the saviors of the human race.
And now Peter had to accept that he wasn’t worthy. How often he had heard those words said of others, and felt the smugness that his own relative success gave him. Perh
aps, he wondered, this was all God’s punishment for his sinful pride. He should never have considered himself better than the unfortunates who failed by discovering their own weaknesses. He was no better than them; he’d simply managed to cling to his belief in his own vocation… out of arrogance.
Kicking at a stone, he watched it bounce and spin away. It reminded him of himself: insignificant, meaningless. He was of no more note than a pebble in the eyes of the world.
As he approached the river, a loud metallic clattering made him stop and look up. A dragonfly, vivid blue in the body, darted hither and thither, patrolling its territory near the pond which lay in a bend. It was perfect in design and beauty, and Peter was overwhelmed with the magnificence of a God Who could create so wonderful a creature. The novice had always wanted to understand more about the world around him, and it was a source of shame to him that he could not continue his studies within the Abbey.
Slumping at the river bank, he hugged his legs, morosely gazing out over the pasture opposite, contemplating his future. It was bleak. He had no craft or trade. There were few enough apprenticeships in the town, and he was too old already for most of them. For a man of nearly nineteen, the only career he was capable of taking on was probably that of soldier. At least with that he would have a guaranteed portion of food and ale, and a bed at night.
He stood and continued his aimless wandering. The idea of soldiering was not one that attracted him, and not only because his sedentary lifestyle unsuited him for the rigors of fighting. He had an aversion to the principle of making an oath to obey the orders of an earthly baron now that he had enjoyed serving an Abbot.
Another sudden noise drew his attention. There was shouting and banging coming from near the market. His feet had brought him back to the road that led westward from the town, and he gazed one way and then the other, undecided. There was a temptation to leave Tavistock behind, to simply disappear and seek his fortune, whatever it might be.
But he couldn’t. He had nothing – no money, no job, no enthusiasm; he had truly lost everything. There was nothing for him to do, nowhere to go. He felt utterly alone. Whereas he would gladly have given up his vocation to wed Avice and would have been content to live with her in poverty, her rejection of him was so total and uncompromising he felt that there was little reason for him to carry on living.
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