‘You knew this man Walwynus?’
‘I’ve told the Bailiff all I know.’
‘And now you’re going to tell us as well,’ the Coroner said happily.
Hal glared at him, but said nothing.
Baldwin said, ‘Did he go to the town often?’
‘No. Hardly had a penny to spend. He only went for the coinings. Four, five times a year.’
‘Was he friendly with any of the monks?’
Hal shrugged, glancing at Simon, who was standing a short way off, listening intently. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Do you often see monks out here?’ Coroner Roger asked.
Hal tilted his head and flung an arm out towards a tall cross at the top of a nearby hill. ‘See that? That’s a way-marker for the Abbot’s path. There are always monks wandering
from Buckfast to Buckland to Tavistock. We see them all the time. When they aren’t walking about and being a nuisance, they’re talking to folk and getting in the way, or sometimes
preaching. They’re a pain in the cods.’
‘Are they always monks?’
‘What do you mean?’
Baldwin smiled reassuringly. ‘There are others who wear the habit, aren’t there? Friars, for example. And novices.’
‘Oh, yes. The Almoner, Peter, he sometimes has younger lads up here. I think it’s to teach them safety on the moors, in case they are ever sent out to Buckfast.’
‘This Almoner is a regular visitor up here?’
Asking the question, Baldwin heard Simon make a tiny sound, like a grunt, as though he was suddenly listening so carefully that he had all but forgotten to breathe.
‘Peter’s often up here, yes. There’s a shepherd boy over toward Ashburton – John, he’s called. Orphaned, he’s been looked after by the Abbot for some years.
Recently he was crushed by a falling tree-limb and broke his leg. The Abbot’s Almoner is often up that way to see him and pay him.’
‘Pay him?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Yes. He has a half-wage while he’s ill. The Abbot takes his charity seriously,’ Hal said without irony.
‘Are you aware of the Almoner or any of these novices talking to Walwynus?’
‘What would an Almoner have to do with a man like him?’
‘He was a poor man; a poor man is often provided for by alms.’
‘What, you think Brother Peter would give out his money to a miner who fell on hard times? Wally would have to have been beggared in the town itself for Brother Peter to consider him;
Wally had land and the ability to work.’
‘Perhaps one of the novices knew Walwynus before taking the tonsure?’
‘It’s possible. But if you reckon to suggest Wally was father to any of them, well, I’d guess you’d be wrong. He enjoyed the whores when he could, but I doubt he’d
have had a child without me knowing. If he had, it’d be living in Tavistock still, not out Ashburton way.’
There was no way to put that to the test, Baldwin noted, yet it could be a useful line of enquiry for the future. He was worried about the disappearance of the novice still; the idea of the lad
running away was attractive, if only because the other possibility, that he had been killed, was so repellent. That would surely mean that another novice, or monk, was a murderer.
That thought led him to muse, ‘This Peter . . . some monks have fathered their own children, and . . .’
‘Brother Peter only came here a few years ago,’ Simon said. ‘If this boy was a shepherd, he must be more than eight years old.’
‘He’s fourteen,’ Hal supplied.
‘Not his own, then,’ Baldwin said reluctantly. He glanced at Simon, acknowledging his help, and Simon tried to smile. He looked as though he was suffering from piles. What on earth
was the matter with his friend? Baldwin wondered. He swore to himself that he would tackle Simon as soon as he could.
He turned back to the miner. ‘Have you seen any monks or novices up here recently? Or just travellers generally who look out of place?’
Hal scowled up at him. ‘There was one fellow earlier during the inquest. I saw him, running as if the devil and all his hounds were after him. Straight up along the Abbot’s Way, past
us and on eastwards.’
‘Who was it?’
‘I’ve seen him before.’ Hal stuck out his jaw and scratched at his chin. ‘Lad called Art, who works as servant to Joce Blakemoor, the Receiver.’
Baldwin’s eyes followed his pointing finger. ‘What lies that way?’
‘Go far enough and you’ll get to Buckfast.’
‘Is there anything between us here and the town?’
‘Only the travellers. Don’t think there’s anything else.’
Baldwin smiled. ‘One last thing. These travellers. Where would we find them?’
Joce stalked across his hall still bellowing for his servant, but Art was nowhere to be seen. Feeling thwarted, Joce stormed through to the buttery and drew off a quart of
wine, himself carrying it back to the hall, where he sat down before his fire. The embers were smouldering pleasantly, and he threw some sticks onto it and sat back to wait until the flames should
begin to lick upwards.
It was good that he had managed to see off that cretinous fool of an Arrayer. It would be better still if Sir Tristram failed to win the King’s approval for his contract and had to pay for
the food for all those peasants out of his own pocket. Not that Joce cared much now. He had enjoyed the altercation while it lasted, had done his duty as he saw it. He drank and sullenly gazed at
the fire.
This had been a bad week, he thought. First there was the problem with the girl, then the neighbour, and finally the death of Walwynus. That was a problem, too.
With that thought, his eyes went to the cupboard. He hadn’t looked at it since that night when Sara had come here, he thought. When she arrived he had been counting all the pieces. Next
week he would ride off to Exeter with it all and sell it. That would settle his debts and turn him a handsome profit.
It was as he rose and was about to walk to the cupboard, that he heard the rapping on his door. In two minds whether to answer it or leave it, Joce stood a moment, but then swore and strode out
to the front of his house.
‘Thank God you’re here! I came as soon as I heard . . .’
‘Calm down, you fool! Jesus! What are you doing up here? You useless piece of donkey shit, what have you got between your ears – cloth?’
‘Let me in. It’s not me who’s going to be hanged, is it?’
Joce grabbed a handful of the man’s habit, hauled him inside and kicked the door shut. He thrust hard, and the man was forced against the wall, then up, with Joce’s hands beneath his
chin. He held his face close. ‘Are you threatening me, Brother?’
‘Let me down!’
‘Why, Brother Augerus,’ Joce said, leaning closer so that he could see the naked terror in the Steward’s eyes, ‘how nice of you to drop in. Would you like some warmed
wine? Or mulled ale? Or would you prefer me to throw you into my fire and leave you there to burn?’
‘Joce, let’s talk, all right? I came here as soon as I heard.’
‘Heard what?’
‘That the boy has bolted! Gerard, the acolyte we used to steal for us, he’s gone! Ran off last night, from the sound of it.’
‘So what?’
‘What will he live on, Joce?’ Augerus allowed a little sarcasm to enter his voice. ‘We monks are sworn to poverty, aren’t we? What if he takes money or plate from someone
else to pay for his escape?’
Joce wavered, drew his head back and eyed Augerus. ‘What are you saying?’
‘He’ll be caught. He will have to steal to live, won’t he? And he’ll get caught. Felons always do. And when he is, he’s bound to tell them everything, isn’t
he? He’s committed apostasy already, so there’s nothing to lose by telling the truth.’
‘Shit!’ Joce licked his lips. ‘I’ll clear it all tomorrow. It’s earlier than I intended, but I’ll have to. Once it’s all in Exeter, sold, no one can
appeal us.’
‘Good. Be quick, then. All that plate came from the Abbot’s coffers or the church. Christ Jesus! If they find it on you, you realise you’ll hang?’
‘Get out, you craven cur. Leave it to me as usual. I’ll get it sorted.’
Augerus nodded and slipped through the doorway like a wood-louse scuttling under a stone.
Joce locked the door and marched back to his hall. The cupboard was at the wall opposite, behind his table, and he went straight to it, fumbling with his keys. Then he pulled the doors open.
He was so astonished to find it bare that, although his mouth dropped open, he didn’t have the wherewithal to swear.
The camp was set out in the bend of a little stream, one of those few whose course had not yet been changed. So many were being diverted to feed the miners’ works, it
sometimes seemed as though there was nowhere which was left alone. There were times, when he rode over the moors, when Simon felt as if the place was being systematically raped rather than
farmed.
Here there were plentiful signs of mining. Small pits had been dug all along the plain before him, the smooth surface of the grass ruined, like a beautiful woman’s face scarred by the pox.
These were the results of prospecting. All miners were constantly searching for a new lode because either the existing workings were soon to be exhausted, or they already were. No miner could
afford to be complacent.
This place had been worked extensively. There were what looked like thousands of pits, some of which had grown to become great trenches, while others had deepened into shafts. Small piles of
rock showed where miners had stored their tools, and little turf-roofed sheds stood all about where the men had lived, but now all looked desolate. They had overtaken several miners on the way
here, but this area wasn’t empty because of the inquest, it was deserted because the area had been worked to extinction. Simon could remember when the miners had been here, four or five years
ago now. Wally had been here before that, six years ago, digging with his friend in a small claim. After the death of his companion, he had enjoyed some little success, Simon recalled.
But the place wasn’t empty now. Smoke curled up from the fires of the small band of travellers.
They were a colourful group. Men and women alike wore bright reds and greens, oranges and purples. Some of the younger women had their hair braided and unconcealed by wimple or veil, while the
men had their hair longer than was strictly fashionable. Simon grunted to himself, thinking that they looked like a band of actors or musicians on the move.
That they were not intending to remain here in one place for long seemed evident by the pony carts that created a defensive wall; one, with a badly broken wheel, sat in an ungainly manner, its
shafts pointing to the sky. The folk rested inside this palisade, their rear defended by the stream and, from the look of the cotton-balls dancing in the wind, a bog of some sort.
As the trio rode slowly down through the thicker grass, watching carefully for stones or pits which might harm their mounts, Simon could see that the people were wary and alert. Three men stood
and walked forward, all grabbing long staffs or axes; two youths stood behind them with crossbows strung, bolts held negligently, ready to be fitted in the slots. The women grouped near the stream,
children protectively gripped by the shoulders.
Glancing across at his companions, Simon acknowledged that they had good reason to suspect any visitors. This was too out of the way for most travellers, and it was always alarming to find
horsemen approaching, even when two of the three were clearly belted knights – or perhaps especially because two were knights: there were too many men of noble birth who were prepared to
resort to robbery and murder. No one on the road could afford to take the risk that the smiling face of the man next to him didn’t belong to the advance guard of a raiding party whose sole
intention was slaughter and pillage.
‘Godspeed!’ Baldwin called as they approached within hailing distance, lifting his hand to show he meant no harm.
Simon kept his eye on the two bowmen. They were still standing without pointing their weapons at the three, but the bolts were fitted now, ready to be fired.
‘God’s blessings on you.’
The man who spoke was dark-faced, with raven-black hair and clear, unblinking brown eyes. His lips were bright, like those of a woman, but although they made him look young, Simon saw that he
was older than he appeared at first sight. As he sat on his horse swatting the flies away, Simon could see that the man wore fine wrinkles at eyes and brow.
His accent was strong, but curious. Simon hadn’t heard it before. It was strangely guttural, quite thick.
It was clear that Baldwin had heard his accent before. The knight smiled and bowed to the man. ‘
Grüss Gott
. It is pleasant to hear a man from your land again. You are from
the mountains?’
The man bowed with a faint smile. ‘Yes, we are from the Forest Cantons.’
‘Then believe me when I say that you need have no fear of English knights,’ Baldwin said, introducing himself and the others. ‘We are here to ask your help.’
‘You are welcome. I am called Rudolf – Rudolf von Grindelwald. Would you like a little wine?’
Soon the three were dismounted, and they took their seats outside the little encampment on a group of rocks. The two men with crossbows removed their bolts and carefully released the tension in
the bows, while the others set their own weapons to rest on carts, although none of them let them far from their hands, Baldwin noticed. He would not have expected them to.
The woman who came to serve them as guests of the leader of the travellers was a buxom creature in her late thirties, with hair pulled back and tied in a bun. Her limbs were long and elegant,
her hips broad and swaying, her waist narrow. Her face was long, somewhat oval, with prominent cheekbones and full lips. Not beautiful, she was nonetheless extremely attractive, with the slow,
economic movements of a dancer, and Baldwin thought her great blue eyes calming. She wore a long tunic, but at the hem and on her apron there were a multitude of tiny embroidered flowers. When
Baldwin looked up at her, she smiled with her eyes, although not her mouth; it gave her a soothing expression that could calm a man’s nights for the whole of his life, he thought.