‘You’re not doing that again, you sod,’ Joce cried.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘You gave me small measure; you did it on purpose! You do that again and I’ll really hammer you!’
‘I didn’t, I didn’t!’
Joce wavered. There was a note of conviction in his victim’s voice, but he didn’t care. He had suffered from the boys here long enough. ‘I didn’t!’ he whined
mockingly, and drove his fist as hard as he could into Augerus’ nose.
It was so satisfying. He could feel the bone breaking and there was a loud crack which he could feel and hear simultaneously, almost as though it was his own knuckle breaking. Augerus’
eyes gleamed a moment, then dulled with shock and fear, and then, only a moment later, the dams broke. First Augerus’ nose gushed with a crimson stream, then his eyes flooded and his wailing
started.
From that moment on, no one had ever bullied him again. Not at the school and not afterwards. Joce was powerful; he was strong, but he also enjoyed inflicting pain on others. It was an almost
sexual pleasure; once tasted, it led to a hunger that couldn’t be assuaged.
Watching Sir Tristram, Joce saw the man’s anger flee, to be replaced by a certain anxiety. He could read the thoughts running through his mind as clearly as if Sir Tristram was enunciating
each one. Sir Tristram thought Joce a rough, uncultured bully, a fool who would be taught a lesson as soon as the King heard of this treatment; yet he couldn’t be sure that Joce didn’t
have the law on his side. Perhaps it was Sir Tristram’s own failing, not having told the men to bring their own provisions. But Joce needed to be punished nevertheless. He should be beaten,
maybe killed. That would teach him to raise his voice to a knight and an Arrayer. Especially since the Arrayer had all his recruits with him, over forty of them. And yet all these men were from the
Burgh of Tavistock, and they all knew Joce. He was the Receiver of the town, and they might feel that they owed more allegiance to him than to their new leader, Sir Tristram. The latter could have
tested them, could have ordered one or more to arrest Joce, but would they obey him?
Then Joce saw the knight’s eyes flicker to one face in the crowd, and he heard Sir Tristram say, ‘Oh, so it’s you again, Scot-lover!’
Peter shifted his staff from one hand to the other. Joce was some distance away, but Peter could sense him thrusting his way forward to stand belligerently in front of Sir
Tristram. The whole place was held in the grip of powerful emotions, Peter thought. Men squaring up to each other like game-cocks, both determined not to strike the first blow, both keen to be seen
to be acting in defence, neither willing to back down. It was the sort of behaviour that led to feuds.
‘Lordings, calm yourselves,’ he said loudly with an enthusiastic, cheery tone. ‘This is a silly situation. What a fine kettle of oats! Look at you both. You’re here, both
of you, to do your duty, one to the King, the other to the town. But the town is the King’s and the King loves the town, so why should his officials come to blows?’
‘We do not have to give up our profits to the Arrayer. The men can fill their bellies once they are on their march, but they don’t get free food here,’ Joce grated
uncompromisingly.
‘No more should they,’ Peter chuckled. ‘But there is no reason why they shouldn’t
buy
their own food, is there?’
‘They are the King’s men now,’ Sir Tristram blustered. He was staring past Peter, wondering what had happened to his Sergeant. Jack had been there, Sir Tristram was sure he had
seen him. Jack had moved as though about to draw his sword, and Sir Tristram had transferred his attention back to Joce, thinking all he need do was keep him talking and distracted so that Jack
could stab him in the back for delaying the King’s Arrayer, but he’d disappeared.
‘Then why d’ye not give the Receiver here a piece of paper that confirms that you have bought food from him on behalf of the King, and that the King must pay the town
later?’
Joce laughed. ‘A paper like that, unauthorised by the King, isn’t worth the cost of the ink.’
‘Well now, if it was confirmed by the King’s Arrayer, so that if the King wouldn’t honour it, his Arrayer himself would, that would serve, wouldn’t it,
Receiver?’
‘I’d consider taking that, I suppose,’ Joce agreed cautiously.
‘You may take it, but I wouldn’t give it!’ Sir Tristram spat, his anger rising again. ‘What, give an assurance that I’d cover the debt myself? I might as well give
you my purse and the key to my manor!’
‘Come, now,’ said Peter. ‘You tell us that it’s the King’s service you’re on, that these men are owed food from their service to the King. Surely since
they’re in his service, any food they crave must be bought at his expense.’
‘It is the custom that towns feed the King’s Host.’
‘Then the King would seek to recover any money paid out, wouldn’t he?’ Peter said. ‘So you need have no fear on either account. If you are right, of course.’
‘You are threatening me?’
Joce smacked his hand against his sword-hilt. ‘No, Arrayer,
I
am threatening you. This good monk is trying to save you injury.’
He watched as the knight gave in with a bad grace. It was a pity, because Joce had expected, had craved, an opportunity to stab someone in the belly. He yearned for that moment of release. Yes,
Joce regretted not being able to test himself against this knight. Sir Tristram didn’t look very competent. Not compared with some Joce had fought.
He nodded curtly to the Brother, and set off homewards. At the steps which led to the entrance to his shop, he paused and glanced back at Sir Tristram, and in his angry, flat stare, he felt sure
that he would soon have an opportunity to test himself against the knight. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come too soon.
Joce had only gone a few yards down the alley when a figure darted out from a doorway. He drew back, his hand falling on his dagger. Then he saw who it was.
‘Sara, what do you want?’ he sneered. ‘Come to ask me to wed you again?’
‘It’s not for me, Joce. It’s my brother. Won’t you help us?’
‘Piss off, wench! I’ve got business to see to.’
‘Joce, just a favour – please! You can help us.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because,’ Sara swallowed hard, ‘because I’ll swear to deny you fathered this child. I won’t cause you more expense.’
‘It means nothing to me. You can charge me with whatever you wish, but I don’t think your litigation would succeed,’ he said coldly. He thrust the dagger home in the scabbard
with a flourish. ‘No, I don’t care to help.’
‘All I ask is that you use your influence, that’s all,’ Sara said hurriedly.
‘For what?’
‘Ellis! He went to see Wally the day that he died because Ellis thought Wally was the father of this child. I didn’t tell him about you.’
‘Does he still think that?’
‘No. I’ve told him the truth now. But Ellis was there, on the moors, and he saw Wally. People saw him; they could believe him guilty of the murder.’
‘Aye. I could myself, at that.’
‘But Ellis couldn’t do something like that – you know that full well! All I ask is that you speak for him if he goes to court. Tell the truth about him.’
Joce shook his head. ‘No. He could well have killed Wally. If he is accused, then damn his eyes. I don’t care whether he hangs or not.’
Sara felt her blood chill. She had thought that this man who, when he tempted her into his bed had been so suave and sophisticated in his flattery, would at least agree to help her with this.
Although he denied that his oaths last Thursday had been made honestly, she had persuaded herself that he must hold some affection for her, but his face and demeanour denied it. He was as cold as a
lizard.
He continued, ‘It seems my whole life is taken up with you. The last time I saw Wally, I had to thrash him. You know why? Because the fool sought to warn me away from you. He told me not
to play with your affections. And now you say your brother went to see him? Perhaps all Wally’s bruises at my hand will be laid at your brother’s door!’
She could take no more of his gloating.
Suddenly she felt rage explode within her. She took the hilt of her little dagger and pulled it free, then with a wild shriek she launched herself at him.
He scarcely bothered to exert himself. As she aimed the point at him, he sidestepped, wrapping the edge of his cloak about his forearm with a rapid whipping motion, and clubbed her knife down.
His other hand rose to her shoulder and thrust her back, hard, against the wall, then he took hold of her knife hand and wrenched it severely until she gasped and dropped her blade.
‘You pathetic little whore,’ he hissed. ‘Should I demand compensation for this? Maybe I should take you indoors now, get you to undress one last time for me. Or should I just
kill you now?’ He chuckled unpleasantly. ‘Or leave you alone to think about what will happen to your brother? He’s a hothead. Maybe he did murder Wally. So, perhaps he’ll
soon be in gaol, and when he is, and you have no money to support yourself, why maybe then I’ll let you come to my house every so often. You can warm yourself by my fire, for as long as you
behave. Wouldn’t that be amusing?’
With a last effort, she snatched her arm from him and drew away. ‘Ellis won’t be hanged. Nobody could think he was guilty,’ she said in a voice that shook.
‘We’ll see,’ Joce jeered. He thrust her aside and entered his house, bellowing loudly for his servant.
But Art could not hear him.
As soon as Joce had left the house, the boy had put his plan into action. It wasn’t fair, that bully thrashing him every time he was angry. It wasn’t Art’s fault if he
couldn’t read Joce’s mind and know what his master expected from him, and he was determined that he wasn’t going to suffer like this any longer. So when Joce was called away by
the meat-seller, worried about whether he’d ever get paid if he supplied Sir Tristram’s men, Art packed his meagre belongings into a large cloth, tied his bundle together, took a stick
from the pile lying ready to feed the fire, and left.
He knew which way Joce had gone, and he consciously took the opposite direction, walking to the Abbey, then circling around it to the bridge and crossing over the Tavy. As soon as he did so, he
knew he was committed. The river was his personal boundary. Now he had passed over it, he felt as though he was free, and it was with a joyful scampering gait that he set off on the steep roadway
that led up to the moors.
At the top, he took deep breaths, surveying the view. This, he knew, was the last sight he would ever have of Tavistock. He was going to where the money was – Exeter, maybe, even London.
Perhaps he’d take a ship and learn to be a mariner – that appealed. There were so many possibilities.
The lad was less fit than he had realised. Two years in Joce’s service had weakened his frame, and he had to stop often before he had covered five miles. There were occasional travellers
passing by this important path, taking the direct route from Tavistock to Buckfast, but he avoided all. He had a small loaf, and this he ate when he was hungry, and then he realised that he had
nothing else. It should not matter, he decided. He would arrive at Buckfast and ask at the monastery for charity, food and a bed. That would be sufficient for him.
Yet as he travelled, he grew aware of a great noise of men, and suddenly realised that he was near to the inquest. He had heard that there was to be one, but he hadn’t thought of it. Joce
could be there! Without hesitation, he dropped into the path of a stream and followed it away from the noise, trusting to the water to keep him safe.
Cold, shivering and fearful, he continued miserably on his way. The early optimism which had fired him was gone, and now he was a bedraggled, weary and hungry soul.
When the strange man jumped up from behind a rock and drew his sword, Art felt only relief. A man meant fire and warmth.
Peter held on to his staff with that little, apologetic smile still on his face. He could see the raging anger in Sir Tristram’s eye and wouldn’t turn his back on
the man, but he made no threatening gestures, simply stood peacefully, all the while gripping his staff, ready to defend himself should it become necessary.
Sir Tristram bit his thumb to Peter and turned away contemptuously, walking swiftly towards an alehouse.
Peter sighed in relief, but he knew that this wasn’t the end of the matter. There would probably be a complaint to the Abbot; it might even be a good idea to remain in the Abbey until the
raggle-taggle of the King’s men had gone. That way he would save putting temptation in Sir Tristram’s path.
That wasn’t strictly true, though, he admitted to himself. There had been almost a hope in his heart that the man might indeed attack him. It would have been pleasing to strike down one of
the most notorious of border reivers. It was against his religion to strike the first blow, but that wouldn’t have affected the sense of gratification which he would have felt from knocking
Sir Tristram over. Like Joce, he craved the opportunity of a fight.
He was offering up a prayer for better self-control when he heard a scream, a high, keening sound. His head snapped around in time to see a woman appear at the end of an alley, arms thrown out
as though she was pleading for help, her clothing bespattered with blood.
‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’
Simon listened to the drawn-out procedures of the Coroner’s inquest with a new sense of purpose. He watched the men of the jury and the witnesses as they gave their
evidence, but there was little more to be told.
Wally had left his home early on the Thursday morning with the small satchel but nothing else. He had been seen by plenty of men during the coining. Initially, people said, he had looked
despondent, watching the tin being assayed, but by the time he arrived in the drinking houses, his mood had undergone a great change. He was laughing and joking with the other customers, chatting
up the whores and offering them money to sleep with him. The last that was seen of him that night was him disappearing with two women into a back room.