Hamelin was nothing loath to see him tramp off towards Wally’s corpse. They had hardly exchanged a word since Hal’s return, and in any case, Hamelin had decided that he had to make
the journey back to town to see his boy. Hal wouldn’t know, because he would be at Wally’s place all night.
Filled with trepidation, Hamelin pushed at the door and heard the leather hinges creaking, the bottom boards scraping along the dirt floor. When he could sidle around it, he entered, and had a
glimpse of the room.
At the corner he could hear the thumping of a dog’s tail; there was the snuffling of a child with a cold; an irregular crackling from a good fire, and then a metallic tapping. As he walked
in, he saw his wife Emma standing at a good-sized cooking pot that rested on a trivet over the fire, and she was stirring a thick pottage. Hamelin felt saliva spurt from beneath his tongue at the
smell of meat and vegetables.
She turned, startled, and stood gazing at him for a moment, white-faced in the dingy gloom of the room, and then ran to him, throwing her arms about him. Silently, she pulled him away from the
door and down to their bed. There, lying well wrapped in an old woollen shawl, was their son. He looked so pale that Hamelin knew he was dead, and he felt a terrible emptiness open in his breast,
as though God had reached in and pulled out his heart.
And then Joel muttered, and rolled over in his sleep, and Hamelin felt the tears flowing down his cheeks with pure joy.
It was very peculiar, Baldwin thought as he strode back towards the Abbey, the youthful messenger skipping at his heels.
Baldwin had known Simon Puttock for six years or so, and in all that time the Bailiff had been easygoing and cheerful, except during that terrible black period when Simon’s first son had
died. That had affected Simon and his wife Meg, as it would any loving parent, but even through all that pain and anguish, Simon had tried to maintain his sense of humour, and to see him so
snappish about this killing was strange. Perhaps Simon had simply seen too many bodies?
No, it most surely wasn’t that! Simon wasn’t a weakling, he just had a weakness of belly when he found decaying human flesh; most of the population felt the same way. It was Baldwin
who was different, for he had no fear of dead bodies. To him they were mere husks, the worn-out and discarded shells of men who no longer had a need for them. But when those husks were the remains
of murdered men and women, Baldwin knew that they could still speak, and sometimes tell who had murdered them, and why. All it needed was an eye to look and a mind to notice – and an absence
of bigotry or hatred. Too often people jumped to conclusions based upon their own prejudices; after his experience as a Knight Templar, Baldwin had no intention of committing the same sin.
The Abbot was standing beside his table when Baldwin entered, his face troubled. ‘Thank you for returning so promptly, Sir Baldwin. I wanted to tell you as soon as I knew. After speaking
to you, I decided to approach the novice to ask him point blank about the thefts, but I couldn’t.’ For a moment his composure evaporated and his face showed his anger and concern.
‘The acolyte Gerard has disappeared.’
Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Disappeared? Do you mean he has simply vanished?’
‘As good as, I fear. There is no sign of him. I understand he hasn’t been seen all day, but my brethren didn’t tell me, thinking that he was misbehaving and would be back
soon.’
Baldwin was already moving towards the door. ‘Would you come with me? It would be easier to speak to your brethren if they know that I am acting on your behalf.’
‘Of course.’
‘Who was the last man to see him?’
‘I fear I don’t know,’ Abbot Robert admitted, his sandals pattering on the flags as they went along the short passage out to the yard beyond.
‘Do you know when he was last seen?’
‘No, I only heard about this myself a short while ago.’
Baldwin said nothing, but his mind was whirling as he took in the symbolic impact of this boy’s sudden disappearance. It would play into the hands of those who wanted to believe that the
theft of the Abbot’s wine was tied to the travellers on the moor, and to the murder of Walwynus. The lad’s going would make everyone assume that the novice had been involved in the
thefts and that the devil had taken him away, just as 150 years ago, Milbrosa had been spirited away. Baldwin didn’t believe that story, but he knew that others did, and he also knew that an
unscrupulous man would be keen to divert attention from his crime by blaming others. And who better to blame than the devil himself?
The Abbot walked hurriedly out through his door and down the staircase, leading Baldwin to the monks’ cloister. He entered and walked quickly up the steps which led to the
dorter
.
In the great long room with the low screens which separated each little chamber, ensuring that no Brother ever had total privacy, Baldwin could see that each little cot was made up carefully,
the blankets drawn up to the head of the bed. There were no Brothers here, for they would be talking and laughing in the
calefactory
or the brewery, preparing for an early night, ready to
rise at midnight for the first service of the new day.
‘Which was his cot?’
The Abbot beckoned to a young novice who was sweeping the floor while trying to appear uninterested in their conversation. ‘Reginald, come here.’
‘My Lord Abbot?’
‘Which is Gerard’s bed?’
The lad carefully set his besom against a wall and took the two to a cot that sat fifth along the wall on the right.
Baldwin studied it with a frowning gaze, silent except for a bark directed at Reginald to stand still, when the boy was about to return to his sweeping. Reginald froze, eyes downcast. He was
petrified with fear, convinced that they knew what he had done, too scared to confess. God! All he’d tried to do was frighten Gerard. The silly bugger had been filching too much, and he
couldn’t be allowed to go on. But when Reg pushed him, and he went over, that was that. All he could do was get rid of the mess. And get rid he had. But pushing Gerard in the first place was
sinful, and the result was worse. Reg hadn’t ever committed a mortal sin before, and now, knowing that the Abbot and the knight were here to investigate Gerard’s disappearance, his
marrow turned to jelly.
At length Baldwin spoke. ‘The bed has been made, just like all the others in this room. Who makes the beds?’
‘Each Brother makes his own.’
‘When?’
‘We rise very early, as you know, and go straight to church. When
Matins
is done, most will come to the cloister to read and study, and later they return to the
dorter
to
change their shoes, and then they will also make their beds. There is not much to do, after all. Only shake out the blankets and straighten them.’
Baldwin nodded. Each bed had its own blanket smoothed down over the palliasse, some more smoothly than others. Although they were not made of horse hair, the coverings were certainly thick and
rough-looking, hardly the material to provide a man with a good night’s sleep.
‘Reginald, did you see Gerard today?’ he asked.
Although tall and firmly built, more like a young squire than a monk, Reginald suffered from an explosion of acne. Baldwin could recall the mountain of Sicily as he passed by on board ship, the
glowing summit belching fumes, and somehow it looked less unpleasant than the eruption on Reginald’s face.
The boy must have read something in his gaze, for he dropped his eyes as though in shame. ‘I can’t remember. I’ve been busy.’
‘What of yesterday? Did you speak to him then?’
‘I might have done. It’s hard to bring it to mind.’
‘Did he look upset?’
Reginald couldn’t say anything immediately. The memory of the dull-sounding thud as Gerard’s skull hit the corner of the bed would never leave his dreams. He should confess his sins
to the Abbot or another confessor, but he couldn’t. It was too dangerous now.
At last he mumbled, ‘He seemed a bit upset about something, I reckon. Maybe that was it. He had something troubling him.’
‘So you do recall seeing him,’ Baldwin noted. His attention was moving about the room, covering first the wall, then the screens, and last the floor and ceiling. There was nothing to
indicate that anything had been amiss. ‘He was a tidy fellow?’
The Abbot nodded. ‘It is baffling. He was a neat young man, well-mannered and quiet, the perfect acolyte.’
‘Why did you ever suspect that—’
The Abbot stopped him with a raised hand, then ordered Reginald from the room. With the relief bursting in his breast, Reg took up his broom and bolted, shutting the door behind him as quietly
as his urgency would allow. Staring at the door, he thought he might be able to catch what the two men were saying, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to eavesdrop. Instead, he left his
broom and walked down the stairs to the chapel, and entered. Kneeling before the altar, he covered his face with his hands and suddenly, before he could stop himself, his entire body began to shake
from sobbing.
He was still in there, weeping, when Peter walked in later. The Almoner stood quietly watching, then walked to his side.
‘It wasn’t only you, boy,’ he said. ‘I helped you do it, and Gerard will find himself in a better place. If either of us should carry the guilt, it is I, not you. So calm
yourself. Let me carry the crime on my own soul.’
A step outside made one of the dogs growl softly, and Emma was startled awake in a moment. She silently sat up and motioned to the dog to be silent before he could wake her
children or husband, but she knew it was already too late when she felt Hamelin stirring at her side.
She stroked his cheek, liking the roughness of his stubble. Her love towards her man and her children was never stronger than when she saw them at night, sleeping. Even a mature man like Hamelin
had a childlike quality when he was asleep. Now his face twitched slightly, just like young Joel when he was dreaming. Emma smiled and cupped her open hand about his jaw, peering more closely in
the dim, unlit room. The only illumination came from the few logs which had been left to glow undamped at the middle of the fire. In the summer, the fire would be put out overnight for safety, but
at this time of year, with the cooler weather, she kept the room warm if she could, and now that they had the money, she was determined that the family wouldn’t suffer from cold. A friend of
hers had woken the last winter to find her boy-child frozen stiff and dead at her side, and it had unbalanced her mind. Emma wouldn’t have that happen to one of her own.
She looked about her at the children lying with them on the bed. Joel was cuddled up with a tangle of legs and arms, and Emma couldn’t see who it was, but it was no matter. Both were
breathing easily, and that was all that counted.
‘Can’t sleep?’
His low voice made her jump, unsettling Joel, who whimpered and snuffled in his sleep, but then she chuckled softly. ‘Not easily, no. Do you think we could afford a larger
palliasse?’
Rather than talk among their children, they rose from the bed and moved to the fireside. Emma had made a mat of pieces of material, and they sat on it, wrapping Hamelin’s great woollen
cloak about them. Hamelin prodded the embers into flame and added more logs, before staring into it.
‘Where
did
Wally get all that money?’ Emma asked after some while.
‘I just don’t know. Nowhere he should have. I got the feeling that he was keen to get rid of it. He was pleased to have found an excuse, I think, like it was stained with another
man’s blood or something.’
She shivered at the thought. ‘You don’t think it’s cursed?’
Hamelin was silent for a while. ‘You know, I felt today as though Wally and Joel were somehow connected. Like it seemed unfair that Joel should die so young, so perhaps God had taken Wally
instead, like there was some sort of balance of fairness. Wally had lived long enough, so he died. Especially since he’d been involved in something he shouldn’t have.’
‘But what?’
‘Haven’t a clue. He never had any money, that was certain, not from his farming and his attempts to grow vegetables, and yet he always managed to scrape together some pennies for
drinks whenever he came into town.’
The dog started to growl again, a low, menacing rumbling, and Hamelin threw a stone at it.
‘Husband, don’t you think you could find work in the town, rather than having to go up to work on the moors?’ Emma asked reluctantly. They had been through this many times
before.
‘No,’ he said uncompromisingly. ‘If Hal and me can only find another source of tin, we’ll be laughing. It’s just this early period that’s hard. We’ll
soon be on our feet again. Don’t you worry. And what else could I do here without money? That bastard Mark made it impossible for me to start a new business.’
The dog began again, and this time they could hear the steps outside. Soon there was a light tapping at their door.
Hamelin snatched up his knife. It was a good weapon with a foot-long blade, and he held it to the door as he went to it. ‘Who is it?’ he hissed.
‘Watchman. Is that Hamelin? Don’t open the door, there’s no need. I’ve been asked to tell you, the Abbot wants to see you first thing tomorrow. Go to the Court Gate when
it opens. That’s all.’
Hamelin relaxed as he listened to the footsteps leaving. He thrust his knife back in its sheath and returned to his wife’s side.
She was frowning. ‘What could the Abbot want with you?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Who cares? Maybe I’ve infringed one of his Burgh laws, spending too much time in the town when I should be out on the moors working.’
‘Not our revered Abbot, surely!’ she chuckled, nestling into his shoulder.
‘So long as he doesn’t want to fine me.’
‘That would be that overblown bag of pus Joce Blakemoor, wouldn’t it? He’s in charge of fining miners.’
Hamelin grunted. ‘I heard that no one ever liked him. Not when he was growing up here, not when he grew to be an adult. Everyone was delighted when he went away to learn to be a merchant,
and no one was pleased when he came back.’