The Armstrong clan had first arrived there six months before, but Sir Tristram de Cokkesmoor had all but destroyed them. They were feared all about the Marches. Brave they were, certainly, but
Peter knew that their courage was only the outward manifestation of their pagan attitude to life and God. He had heard that border men, not only the Armstrongs, routinely demanded that their
boy-children at their christenings were blessed with the exception of their right hands, that they might use them freely to kill.
There were many of them. Too many, when they arrived in the area. It was only the brutal raid against them, driven home with callous disregard for the understood rules of humanity, that
shattered the clan before they could devastate the whole area, and yet some men escaped the slaughter. Even as Sir Tristram rode back with the heads of his enemies dancing at his saddle, some few
remained and gathered together.
Wally had been terribly cut about and left for dead, probably because he managed to crawl away from the general bloodshed. Peter’s lovely Agnes found him, and the Scots lass bathed and
cleaned his wounds, sitting up with him for hours while he slowly recovered.
And the reward for Peter? He lived to see Wally again, but the next time, Wally was with two others. Martyn and another.
If it hadn’t been for Sir Gilbert, the Priory might have had a chance. Usually, refugees from the raids bolted into the castle, fleeing from the blood-maddened Scots, but because of Sir
Gilbert’s attack, there was no warning.
While Sir Gilbert’s men retreated southwards, pulling back towards their inevitable fate and Sir Gilbert’s own hanging, the small party of Scots who were all that remained of the
Armstrong clan approached from the north, seeking plunder of any sort.
The few men left had banded together under one leader, who was known only as ‘Red Hand’, a name that terrified all the peasants because it meant death to any who crossed his path. He
killed, it seemed, for pleasure. And beneath him were others who had grown to the nomadic, warrior culture of the March.
When they arrived, Peter himself was outside the Priory’s walls, searching for herbs with the infirmarer, and it was only when the pair tried to return that they were spotted.
Screeching their unnatural war-cries, the Scots spurred their sturdy little ponies towards the monks, who turned and fled as best they could, but it was an unequal race. The Scots soon ran down
the infirmarer and felled him with a single blow from a war-axe that split his head in two, the halves falling to his shoulders while his body kept on running. It was a scene from hell, a sight
which Peter would never forget.
The rider who dealt this blow was delayed while he retrieved his axe, but his companions chased after Peter, laughing like young girls, high and weird. Peter’s own terrified screams seemed
only to egg them on.
He almost made it. Not far away was a tiny vill with a stone house in the middle which would have given him ample protection, but even as he leaped a low wall, one of the men sprang over it on
his pony and cut him off. Smiling, he trotted on, facing Peter. God! But he could never forget that smiling face. It was the face of a demon; the face of the devil himself: Martyn Armstrong. Behind
Armstrong, he saw another pony, and caught a glimpse of Wally’s horrified expression; Wally whose life Peter had saved.
The monk was no coward, and he squared up to Martyn with his fists, but the third man was already behind Peter. He had jumped from his horse, and Peter turned in time to see the axe swinging at
him.
There was no time to deflect the blade, not even a moment to duck. He had instinctively swayed his body backwards, away from that grey steel, which perhaps saved his life, but it left him with
this mark. The blow, aimed for his throat, instead caught the angle of his jaw, shearing through bone, smashing his teeth together and knocking all into shards, jolting his head back so sharply he
thought he must be dead. He felt himself falling, as though in a dream. It didn’t seem real, somehow. The wound, the death of his friend, all had a sort of hideous unreality.
When he lay on the ground, his body was lifeless, like a machine that had been shattered. There was no ability to move. His arms and legs were no longer a part of him. Not even the sensation of
jerking as his attacker attempted to free his blade from Peter’s jaw could bring life to his limbs. He was quite sure that he was dead. His eyes registered only a cloaked figure, a curious
voice. Nothing more. His eyes would not focus.
At last the weapon was retrieved: the man planted his foot on Peter’s chin and yanked it free. Hands wandered over his body, stealing his little leather scrip, taking his rosary, pulling
him this way and that, before grabbing a handful of his robe and using it to clean the blade of the axe which had done this to him. None of the men appeared to think Peter could survive, and he
himself had no doubt that he was dead. In his mind, he said his prayers, begging forgiveness for his sins – and he could vaguely recall beginning the service of the dead, first for his friend
and then again for himself.
The three had gone. It was dark, and he found himself shivering awake, shaking with the cold, or perhaps not just the cold. He had seen men who were wounded after battles – my God in
heaven, there were always so many up on the Scottish Marches – and some were like him, shaking uncontrollably. Perhaps that was what had affected him. The fear of death – or of life. It
was with a certain thankfulness that he felt himself slipping away into oblivion again. One moment he had a hint of a thought, and then he felt himself falling away, as though the ground itself was
gently accepting him, letting him sink softly into its arms, and all became black.
He never met the peasant who found him. The man had realised he was not dead and had dragged the monk into his room, setting him before the fire before hurtling off to the monastery to call for
help. Soon gentle hands had come to rescue Peter, picking him up and carrying him back to the monastery’s infirmary, and it was there that he awoke again, more than a week later, coming to
life once more to find himself staring at the altar. The vision of the cross acted like a stimulant on his fevered and pain-racked body, and he burst out into sobs of gratitude, and of sadness, for
he had partly hoped to have died and reached heaven. But it was not to be. Not yet.
Even the memory of that rebirth, which was what it had felt like, was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he had to wipe his blurred eyes in the street, sniffing and muttering a quick prayer
of thanks, crossing himself as he cast his eyes upwards. Feeling calmer, he carried on. He was thankful, of course he was, that God had given him this second chance at life. It meant he had a
purpose. There must be a reason, surely, for his continued existence on the earth.
Perhaps He was right, but Peter couldn’t remain in Tynemouth. The terror of his attack, the constant pain in his jaw, were enough to persuade him to beg his Prior that he might be
permitted to move to a different monastery, somewhere further away from the Marches. His Prior, ever a generous-hearted man, understood perfectly and not only gave his permission, he also wrote to
friends in other Priories and Abbeys asking whether they could find space for his wounded monk. Soon he was told that there was an Abbey far away, down almost as far from Scotland as it was
possible to go, where the kindly Abbot had agreed to take him on, and shortly afterwards he had made the long journey southwards to this quiet, peaceful backwater of Tavistock.
Abbot Robert was a good man and had taken Peter to his heart as soon as they had met. There were few who could see the monk’s face without flinching, but when Abbot Robert saw him, he
welcomed him with open arms and made a point of giving him the kiss of peace as though he was unharmed. That single act made Peter break down and weep. It was the first time that a man or woman
hadn’t retreated before him, but Abbot Robert had made it clear that he cared only for the man himself, not at all for the damage done to him; more, that he accepted Peter unreservedly into
his Abbey.
Peter’s heart glowed at the memory. He loved Abbot Robert. The Abbot had proved himself to be a great master, and Peter would serve him until death.
Not that he could forget the attack. It was always there, every time he shaved, every time he caught sight of himself in a glass or in a pool. As was the face of the Scottish rider who had
blocked his escape. The grinning, fearsome features of Martyn Armstrong, and behind him, the appalled, deathly pale face of
Walwynus
.
He was only glad that he had not seen the face of the third man, the man with the axe. That man Peter could never forgive.
Simon sat on a bench next to the Arrayer and surveyed the men before him without enthusiasm. This lot came from one of the Abbot’s outlying manors; others would arrive
over the next day. As Simon looked at this, the first batch, he wondered how the Arrayer would react. It was obvious that these were not all the men between sixteen and sixty demanded by the
Commission of Array.
They were in the shelter of a tavern out at the western edge of the Burgh, staring at the scruffy and mostly, from the look of them, pox-ridden peasants. Simon had no wish to get too close to
most of them, and not only because of their diseased appearance. The Commission of Array offered inducements to tempt men into serving the King, for not only would they be offered money, they would
also be given a chance to win pardons for any past offences. Simon privately thought that those men who looked fit enough for service also tended to have fast-moving eyes which were filled with a
grim suspicion – the expression felons so often wore when in the presence of a King’s official.
All had brought weapons with them – a selection of bills, swords, axes, bows and arrows – while on their heads some wore cheap helmets or soft woollen caps. To Simon’s eye, the
healthiest men seemed to have the best-used weapons, another fact that spoke of misbehaviour. Still, the King wouldn’t want soft-hearted boys for his army. He would be after strong, capable
killers.
Looking about him, Simon was content with his first impression: these were the very dregs of the Abbot’s manor. Whether or not they would seriously alarm the vicious warriors of the
Scottish March, he had no idea, but he would be happier the sooner they were off and away from Devonshire.
‘Three and forty,’ Sir Tristram said. ‘Is this the best the Abbot can do for the King from his manor of Werrington?’
‘I’m sure you’ll find that the Abbot has not had anything to do with selecting the men here,’ Simon said. The Abbot would have made quite sure he had no direct
involvement with picking this lot. And yet a man like Abbot Robert could make his wishes plain enough without putting them in writing, and the manor had obeyed the unspoken message in his summons.
While men, women and children were still out with the harvest, no vill or hamlet was going to spare its strongest and fittest young men for service with the King. Instead they had picked all those
who could be sent without imperilling their crops.
Ignoring the obvious felons, Simon considered that, of the young and simple there were three, while of the old and stupid, seven; of the rest, all were undernourished and weak. One had a massive
goitre growing on his neck, making his throat look as though it had been taken from an ox and placed beneath his head in some cruel joke. Others had the thick lips and heavy, drooping eyelids of
the mentally subnormal. The few fit and healthy men looked hopelessly out of place.
‘This won’t do at all,’ Sir Tristram muttered. With him was a tough-looking, sandy-haired Sergeant called Jack of the Wood. This fellow stood grimly, staring at the recruits,
and then, when Sir Tristram began to call men forward, he shook his head as though in horror at the quality of them. Sir Tristram waved the more obviously dim or ill away and began to take the
details of the few he could use, discussing each with Jack, while a clerk sent by the Abbot scribbled his records down. He must note the name and weapons of each recruit.
There was little for Simon to do. He sat back, scratching at his head while Sir Tristram questioned the different men, telling each doubtful-looking villein that they had a duty to serve their
King, describing with a sort of enthusiastic boastfulness the rewards they could expect from their King: money, plunder, and many women, because women liked strong, virile soldiers. They always
did.
Simon had heard enough. He caught the eye of the innkeeper and nodded meaningfully, then rose and went in. Soon he was standing at a broad plank of wood which the keeper used as a bar counter,
and drinking deeply from a quart pot of strong ale. It tasted very good compared with sitting outside listening to Sir Tristram’s lies.
‘Do you think all those poor devils are going to be sent up north?’ the innkeeper asked, pouring himself a jug.
‘Could be. Let’s hope it’s all over before they’re needed.’
‘It is always the same, isn’t it, Master? The poor folk who are tied to the land are pulled away, while those who can afford to avoid it pay to stay safe.’
‘I don’t know that Sir Tristram there will be taking anybody’s money to avoid danger. I get the feeling he is serious about providing troops for the King.’
‘Do you think so?’ The innkeeper sank a quarter of his pot and sighed happily. ‘One of my best brews. Wonderful. I’ll never be able to duplicate it. No, Master Bailiff, I
reckon that fellow out there is going to make a good profit on this recruiting. Not that it’s unfair. If the King wants him to help, he ought to be paid, that’s what I’d say. Why
should a man do something for nothing? But what I meant was, what about all those bastards up on the moors? They should go as well.’
‘The miners are safe, you know that. They’re the King’s own.’
‘And a more murderous bunch of cut-throats you couldn’t hope to find,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Look at that poor devil killed up there.’
‘Wally? Did you know him?’
‘Of course. He was often here. I tend to get to know all the miners while they have money.’