As the motley flock of poor folk dispersed with their bounty gripped tightly in their filthy fists, Peter glanced at him. ‘Better get the rest of the loaves to the Maudlin, then,
lad.’
‘Yes.’
Peter shot the acolyte a look as they bent their way towards the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene which lay out at the westernmost point of the borough; the leper hospital. The Almoner was Rector
of the hospital, just another of the duties which fell to Peter.
‘It must be terrible to be a leper, to be declared legally dead,’ he said after a few moments, considering their plight. The poor souls had little enough to occupy their minds other
than the slow disintegration and death which awaited them.
‘Yes, Brother,’ Gerard said.
‘They lose all family, all property. Their wills are enforced as though they were dead. I suppose an outlaw loses all as well, but at least a felon can run to another land and create a new
life. A leper is unwelcome anywhere else. He must stay in his parish, where he knows he should receive a pension and food.’
Gerard grunted. The Almoner’s words seemed a little too close for comfort. He had spent much of the previous night worrying, considering what he might do – what he
could
do
– to get himself out of this mess, and flight had been one option which had appealed to him.
‘Strange about that miner found dead up on the moor,’ Peter continued.
‘Yes. God bless his soul.’
‘Aye. I doubt many will want to do that. Not when they hear about his trade, eh?’ Peter suddenly fixed him with an eye at once bright and knowing and sad.
Gerard stammered, ‘His trade? He was a tinner, wasn’t he?’
‘Aye, I suppose,’ Peter said imperturbably. ‘Odd, though. He spent a lot of time in the gardens here, not far from the walls.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Oh, nothing. Nothing,’ Peter said. ‘I just wondered why he went there so often at night. You know I don’t sleep for long? I often have to rise in the middle of the night
and walk about the Great Court or along the walls. You’d be surprised what you see late at night.’
Gerard felt his heart begin pounding. He was sure that Peter was warning him obliquely, but he couldn’t speak. He knew Augerus would always tie the stolen goods in a small sack and dangle
it by rope from a small window in the Abbot’s own lodging, and Wally would come and collect it. Wally had told him so.
Their friendship had been short, but in some ways Gerard felt closer to Wally than to anyone else. Augerus had taken Gerard to a tavern one day, and Wally was there. While Gerard watched, the
Steward passed a small purse to Wally, and Wally filled it with coins. Later, when Augerus left to piss outside, Wally and Gerard spoke briefly, and found in each other a kindred feeling. Gerard
missed his family and felt forced into the thefts, and somehow he got the impression that Wally felt the same.
‘You knew he hadn’t found tin for over a year?’
Peter’s words drew him back to the present. ‘Why should I know that?’
‘Common chatter, no more. Still, I thought you might have heard. It must be hard to keep body and soul together with no money. A man could turn to thieving.’
Gerard said nothing, but rebelliously averted his gaze.
‘Odd that he’s dead, up there so far from anyone, and on the Abbot’s Way, too. Just like Milbrosa. You’ll remember that story I told? About how the Abbot’s Way was
created?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see what any of it’s got to do with me,’ Gerard blurted.
‘Ach, what could it have to do with a young laddie like you? You aren’t allowed out, are you? No, you couldn’t have killed that fellow, could you? I reckon,’ Peter said,
glancing up at the sun to gauge the time, ‘it must have been those travellers.’
‘Travellers?’ Gerard stammered. ‘What . . . travellers?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’ Peter said as he led the way westwards to the Maudlin. ‘There were a gang of them up there. Probably came here for the coining, and killed Walwynus on
their way – or on their way back. You can’t trust strangers on the moor, can you?’
‘Who would know about these folks? I don’t believe you. No one was up there, it was just an accident that Wally got killed. Someone thought he was a rich miner, that’s
all.’
‘On his way to the coining, perhaps?’ Peter asked.
‘Where else would he have been going?’
‘Oh, I just wondered whether he could have been on his way back.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Maybe someone saw him here in town. Talked to him. And then he went home, and on his way, he was murdered,’ Peter said ruminatively.
Gerard asked quickly, ‘And who are these travellers? Has anyone seen them? I haven’t heard about them.’
‘I saw them. I was up on the moors that day,’ Peter said.
Gerard felt his heart stop within him on hearing the monk’s mild tone, and when he glanced at Peter’s face he saw a flash of keenness in the old man’s eyes which was soon
followed by a knowing leer. He had spoken to provoke, and he had succeeded.
‘So
you
murdered Wally?’ was what Gerard wanted to say, but just now, looking into those bright, astute eyes, he found his throat drying.
He was terrified.
The pie-shop which Joce entered was a little single-storey building, with no upper chamber like so many of the other places in the street, but that didn’t affect Nob
Kyng, also known as Nob Bakere and Long Nob, ironically, on account of his short and rotund shape. He didn’t care. People could call him anything they wished, he reckoned, so long as they
left him alone to do what he was best at, which was cooking.
He and Cissy his wife had come here many years before, making the arduous journey from far in the north when they were both in their mid-twenties, intending to create a new life, and so far they
had been very successful. Nob had found a little place in which to set up shop, and with his meagre store of pennies, had leased it from the Abbot. At the time there were only two other pie-shops
in the town, and although Nob had to work hard, he soon built up a good clientèle and felt as though he had never lived anywhere but here in Tavistock.
Cissy was a jolly, constantly smiling woman who originally came from Devonshire, so returning to the county felt quite natural for her. Although people had looked askance at the pair of them
when they first arrived, Tavistock was a friendly enough town, and in a short space of time the two felt entirely at home. Nob would remain in the back of his shop, sweating over his great
cauldron, braziers and oven, while Cissy transferred the cooked pies from her trestle table to the hands of her customers. It was easy and lucrative. Never more so than during the five coinings
each year. They had done well for themselves here, and their son and two daughters were testament to their happiness.
‘Come on, wench! I need to get these off the fire,’ Nob called.
A merry fellow with gleaming blue eyes and a ginger beard, he was dressed carelessly, in a short tunic that was marked by a thousand fatty explosions, while his arms were protected by his torn
and frayed shirt. Through the rope that encircled his belly had been thrust a cloth to serve as an apron, ‘and to protect me cods!’ as he often happily declared.
Cissy called, ‘All right, all right, you old fool. I won’t be long,’ and returned to chatting with Sara.
Nob could see her talking, but he let her continue. Cissy attracted women who needed advice like a candle-flame attracted moths. Yesterday it had been Emma, and now apparently Sara wanted
help.
Sara was always seeking the friendship of one man or another now she was widowed, and Nob had no doubt that his wife was offering some friendly and probably long overdue advice on how to
disentangle herself from her latest admirers. There was always more than one, which was no surprise when a man considered her long, lithe body, slim haunches, tiny waist and swelling breasts. And
all that, as Nob told himself, under a fair halo of strawberry-golden hair, slanted, humorous green eyes and those succulent lips, bright and red and soft as rose petals. Bloody good-looking, she
was.
Cissy was going to be with her for a while, from the look of things, so Nob pulled the pies from the heat himself and set them on a large wooden tray to cool, taking them to the trestle.
‘Now then, lass,’ he called out. ‘Is it more talk about men or not?’
‘Shut up, Nob. If you want to be useful, fetch us a jug of water,’ Cissy snapped curtly.
Nothing loath, for at the side of the water barrel was a second one filled with ale, Nob hitched up his rope, sniffed, and walked out.
‘
Nob
!’
He poked his head around the doorway. ‘Yes, my little turtle dove?’
‘Enough of your smatter. And don’t empty the ale barrel while you’re there.’
Grunting, he tugged at his rope belt again. Since Cissy had already turned her back to him, the effect was somewhat lost, but he cocked an eye at Sara. ‘Eh, Sara? How comes you always have
all these fellows drooling over you, eh? Tell ’em you’re mine, girl, and they’ll leave you alone. None of ’em would mix wi’ me, lass.’
Sara gave him a weak smile, and he winked and grinned before walking out to his barrel, reflecting that she appeared more upset than she usually did when she was suffering from man trouble.
Sitting with his large pottery drinking horn in his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow and upper lip, then the back of his hair, using his cloth. Draping it over his shoulders, he sat
back.
It was a long day’s work, cooking. Up before dawn to light the first of the fires, then mix the flour and water to make the paste, and leaving it to rest a while before rolling out the
little pastry coffins and filling them. Some liked plain meats – beef, pork, chicken, lark or thrush; others liked thick gravies or jellies. He always had half a calf’s head and offal
boiling in one pot ready to make gravy, while the animal’s hooves were simmering in another for the jelly. No matter, Nob liked his work, and with the profit of the coining last week, he and
Cissy had made enough money to be able to survive through to the big coining in the late autumn. That would be the last for a while, and the money he saved from now, together with the profit from
the next, would have to keep them going through the winter.
Not, he thought with a contented belch, that he had much to worry about. The wood for the winter was stored. Their last pair of pigs were ready to be slaughtered and salted down, and the
chickens which had stopped producing enough eggs had already been marked off in his mind. There was enough for them this winter. Thank God, he thought, virtuously crossing himself and glancing
upwards, the harvest was better this year. The last few summers had not been good. No one had starved, but the cost of food was still too high.
Finishing his ale, he filled a cup with water and, as an afterthought, picked up a second cup and pitcher of cheap wine. Poor Sara looked as though she could do with a drink.
But Sara was already gone when he re-entered his hall.
‘Trouble again, with that girl?’ he asked.
‘When isn’t she in trouble?’ Cissy said gloomily.
Nob nodded, waiting.
There were no customers in the shop to listen at the moment, so Cissy continued, ‘She thinks she’s got a babby on the way.’
‘How many will that be?’
‘You know. There’s Rannulf, Kate, Will, and now she reckons she’s going to have another. Missed her time this month and last. She’s beside herself, poor maid, because her
man’s been dead two years and more, so people will know, and then what will happen?’
‘Who’s the father?’
‘Wouldn’t say. Someone who isn’t married, she said, but that’s no matter, is it? She thought he was going to offer to marry her, she said, but after he bedded her one
last time, he turfed her out and laughed at the idea. His promise was nothing and there were no witnesses. Three kids already, and now this one,’ Cissy sighed. ‘She’s one of those
who takes a compliment like it’s got to be paid for. Tell her that her hair looks nice, and she’ll ask whether you want her bed or your own.’
‘Never asked me,’ Nob said innocently.
‘Nob, the day you notice someone’s hair is the day I’ll become a nun,’ she said scathingly as she walked to wipe crumbs from the table in front of her.
Nob returned to his oven, taking a shovel and throwing fresh charcoal inside. He reached in with a long rake to pull the remaining old coals to join the fresh pile, and used his bellows to heat
the lot to a healthy red glow. Once it had been in the oven’s centre for a while, he would rake the coals aside again and thrust fresh pies on to the hot oven floor.
Sara was a pretty girl, but she had her brain firmly planted between her legs, in Nob’s opinion. She’d been married to a young poulterer, but he’d died, falling into a well
after a few too many ales one night, and she’d had nothing left, other than two of his children and a growing belly. With no money, she’d been forced to sell up and depend on the
charitable instincts of her brother Ellis, her neighbours, and the parish. That was when she first started talking to Cissy.
Cissy was known by all the young women in the town to be possessed of a friendly and unjudgemental ear. Girls could, and did, walk miles to tell Cissy their woes, knowing that she wouldn’t
usually offer advice, but would listen understandingly and give them a hug if they needed it.
Nob knew that Sara had received many of Cissy’s hugs. The trouble was, although she knew she was foolish to keep allowing men into her bed, she couldn’t stop herself.
‘She’s being called harlot,’ Cissy said thoughtfully, shaking her head and, a rare occurrence this, poured a goodly measure of wine into her cup, ignoring the water.
‘She’ll be all right, love,’ Nob said.
‘Don’t be so foolish. Haven’t you got pies to make?’
Nob grinned to himself. Cissy was on her usual fettle. He sauntered back to the ovens and began making fresh coffins, rolling out a little pastry, spooning his meats onto the middle, and putting
the coffin’s lid atop. A few minutes passed, and then he saw her hand deposit another hornful of ale at his side. He smiled his thanks. After last night, he didn’t feel that he needed
much ale; water would have been more to his taste, but he wouldn’t turn down anything today, not after keeping her awake all night. That was the trouble with going out and drinking. The
bladder couldn’t cope as well as once it had, and then he farted and snored too, making Cissy sharp with him in the morning just when he needed a little comfort. And if he sought a little
comfort when he got home from the tavern, he would soon learn that she wasn’t in the mood.