Simon nodded. ‘If you weren’t the murderer and rapist, then who was?’
‘I still say it was Wally and his men.’
‘Under their leader, “Red Hand”?’ Simon asked.
‘That was his name. Why?’
‘Your Sergeant said yesterday that this man was Joce Blakemoor. That Blakemoor and Wally and Martyn Armstrong came down here together, all fleeing from you and your men.’
‘Christ alive!’ Sir Tristram said, stunned.
‘So you see, if you are innocent, we’ll need to catch Blakemoor to prove it,’ the Coroner said. ‘Could you lend us a few men to help catch him?’
‘You can have as many men as you need. All I ask is that you get him,’ Sir Tristram ground out. ‘And that you kill him.’
Gerard stirred as he heard a crackle. All about him there were grunts and snores, the faint murmuring of the stupid or fearful young, the snuffling of the infirm, but the
noises were comforting in some odd way; just the fact of the companionship of all these people made him feel a little safer.
It was odd to have had his head shaved. He hadn’t expected to have to have this done, but when he spoke to Cissy, she was certain it would make enough of a difference to save him from
being recognised, and he wasn’t going to argue. Especially when he had been seen by Nob in the crowd. Far better that he should suffer from the cold for a while than be caught and made to pay
the penalty for his thefts and apostasy. Mind, the shaving had hurt like hell. There was an almighty bruise on his head where that damn fool Reginald had caused him to fall and strike it in the
dorter.
If only, he thought, there were a pie or a loaf here now. It would make such a difference. His belly felt so empty, and food would warm him. He had lain near enough to the fire to feel the
warmth, but since then three men had rolled themselves up in their blankets between him and the embers, and now he was chilled to the marrow. Memories of piping hot pies and pasties came to mind,
the rich gravy of beef, the heavenly scent of pepper. The mere thought made his mouth water.
He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the sky. It was deep grey, as Dartmoor mornings so often were, and he could see tiny orange sparks gleaming as they shot upwards from the fire,
glowing for a moment before they expired. He sighed and put his arms behind his head. It was nasty, the thought that he was going north to war, but as Cissy had said, there was bound to be a way of
earning a living once the battles were done. He grinned to himself. The trouble was, the only way he knew of earning a living was by thieving. And that wasn’t a good idea once he was out of
the Abbey. He could try to claim
benefit of clergy
, but that was no guarantee of safety.
There was always the possibility that he might become a decent man-at-arms or archer. Some lord might decide to retain him, and he could then give up his life of petty crime and become a
professional man. Fighting always had a chivalrous aspect. The women loved men-at-arms, so it was said. Even lowly archers got their wenches, and that was an appealing idea. After the enforced
celibacy of the Abbey, a warm, fleshy woman cradled in the crook of his arm was a very attractive concept indeed.
Certainly better than the short life he could expect if he had remained in the Abbey. Reginald had made that clear. He had said that the other acolytes knew Gerard was stealing their things, and
that if he didn’t stop, they were going to break his head. In fact, even if he did, Reginald said, they might decide to punish him anyway. Gerard’s selfishness had made all their lives
more difficult by taking away those little trinkets they valued most. They wanted him to suffer for his greed.
It had been little use trying to explain how it hadn’t been
his
idea to rob them. The time when he could have confessed was long past. Nor could he accuse another monk, for all
would simply assume he was passing the blame to others to protect himself. Peter and Reginald believed Gerard, but who else would?
A man rolled over, broke wind loudly, and Gerard turned his face away. There was another crackle of twigs, and he gave a faint ‘tut’ of annoyance. Someone must be tiptoeing around
– but why? Perhaps they were searching for something to steal. Well, Gerard thought, they can take the whole of
my
bag, if they want. There’s nothing of value at all in
there.
He felt his belly with a tentative hand. His bladder was so full, he felt about ready to piss himself. He rose, stepping carefully over the bodies of the still-sleeping men, and in past a short
line of bushes. There he recognised voices, and turning back, he saw the three men questioning Sir Tristram. A brief panic overtook him, and he thrust himself through the branches and into a small
clearing.
Crouched over, he stared at the men, feeling certain that they were here to catch him. He mustn’t be found! His heart was thudding painfully, and he had a hollow feeling in his throat. His
attention was so strongly focused on the group that he didn’t notice the snap of another twig until it was too late.
And then he felt the ice-cold touch of a sharp blade at his throat.
‘Wake up, monk! We have business to attend to!’ Joce hissed.
The three men left Sir Tristram still fuming. As they untethered their horses, Simon glanced back and saw the knight pick up his mazer and hurl it at a tree.
Baldwin saw it too, and murmured drily, ‘I think we have seriously discommoded the good Sir Tristram.’
Soon four men on sturdy ponies had joined them, and the small party set off. They pulled their mounts’ heads back towards Tavistock, and Coroner Roger glanced from one to the other.
‘Well? What do you think? For my money, I somehow doubt he’s the killer.’
Simon nodded. ‘I agree. I think we have to look for another man.’
‘But whom?’ Baldwin said.
Simon was thinking furiously. ‘Surely the disappearance of the acolyte, the murder of Walwynus, and the thefts from the Abbey must all be linked. And probably the death of Hamelin as
well.’
‘The body of the acolyte has not been found,’ Baldwin said. ‘And yet the Abbot and I discovered bloodstains near his bed.’
Simon felt almost dizzy with the thoughts that whirled in his mind. He pulled his horse to a halt. ‘This Gerard would surely have been found by now if he had been killed. Wally and Hamelin
weren’t concealed, were they? There is no reason to suppose that Gerard would be either. He may simply have fled the place.’
‘Because he felt himself to be under threat,’ Baldwin supposed.
‘A novice who ran away would find himself caught again in no time,’ the Coroner said.
Simon gave a groan. ‘I am a cretin. The Arrayer’s hiring! I saw him, and I didn’t recognise him!’
‘Eh?’ the Coroner asked, but Simon had already turned his horse and was spurring it back towards the camp. He rode through the midst of the men, halting before Sir Tristram.
‘Sir, there was a recruit with no hair under his cap. You remember him?’
Sir Tristram gave a curt nod. ‘Large, gangling lad. Clumsy, but capable. What of him?’
‘You took him on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Here somewhere with the rest. Why?’
‘I think he could be a renegade,’ Simon said, but would say no more. Sir Tristram jerked his head at a man, sending him strolling casually through the recruits. Soon he came back
with a thin blanket in his hands, a scowl on his face. ‘He must have scarpered when he saw you lot get here.’
‘God’s Cods!’ Simon swore. ‘Sir Tristram – this man is an apostate. The Abbot demands his return.’
Baldwin put his hand on Simon’s arm. ‘There’s no need to search for him here. Sir Tristram can find him, and we’ll be able to talk to him later. For now, let us try to
see what might have caused the murderer of Walwynus to execute Hamelin as well.’
‘I will find him, you can assure the Abbot of that,’ Sir Tristram said.
‘I suppose you are right,’ Simon said unwillingly. He felt instinctively that it would be better to remain here with the Arrayer’s men, searching for Gerard, but Baldwin was
probably right. The lad could have gone in any direction. There was little to be gained by the three joining in the search. Sir Tristram had enough men at his disposal.
There were other people to see. ‘Who do you want to speak to?’
‘Joce first, but then somebody who knew Hamelin and Walwynus. I keep remembering what the Swiss said, that the pewter was sold to him by Walwynus in an alehouse. I see no reason to doubt
Rudolf’s word, and we know that later Walwynus was to spend a lot of money on women and wine, so that part of the story tallies.’
‘We know Walwynus collected the stolen goods from the Abbey?’ Coroner Roger said.
‘Yes, and yet we do not know who passed him the sack from the window, as Peter saw. Someone inside the Abbey stole the stuff and passed it to Walwynus, and the miner hid it. Then, once he
had a great enough stock, he sold it. Was it Gerard who entered the Abbot’s lodging to let the sack down to Wally?’
Simon nodded. ‘Gerard took the stuff and passed it to Wally – but why should Wally be there in the first place?’
‘Surely he must have.’ Coroner Roger said.
‘It would be easy enough to pass them through a window or over a wall as Peter said,’ Simon speculated. ‘If hurled over a wall, the metal would have been dented, and the noise
should have brought guards running. The things must have been passed out quietly.’
The Coroner grunted. ‘So what? Does it matter?’
Simon said nothing, but when they arrived at the bridge and had clattered over its rough timbers, he led the way past the Water Gate and up around the Abbey. While the Coroner grumbled about
guesswork, Simon carefully surveyed the perimeter of the main court, which was enclosed by the great wall. The northern, western and eastern walls were all high, and castellated, with no windows
through which to pass stolen goods. With all the folk who wandered about and guards at night, Simon was sure no one would throw things over the wall or dangle them from a rope. There was too much
risk of discovery. Only one wall was possible, the last they reached. From the road they could look over the low orchard wall at the final barrier.
‘It was all passed from the Abbot’s own lodging, according to Peter,’ Simon breathed. ‘He’s right. It’s the only way they could have got it out.’
Baldwin was frowning. ‘It is certainly possible,’ he conceded. ‘But how on earth would the acolyte have reached the Abbot’s rooms? Surely he could only hand Walwynus the
metal during the dark, for else the miner would have been seen.’
‘There was another accomplice inside the Abbot’s lodging,’ Simon said. ‘But at least that explains how the things were taken from the Abbey. As Peter told us, they were
passed from a window here, down to Wally, who carried them away with him.’
‘All the way to the moors?’ Coroner Roger shook his head. ‘No. Too much risk of being seen. Carrying stuff like that would be an invitation to the Watch. He must have kept the
things securely here in the town.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘You are right, of course!’
‘Let’s go and see Joce, this “Red Hand” and find out what he has to say for himself.’
They rode to the Abbey’s stables and left their mounts before hurrying out through the Court Gate towards the road where Joce’s house lay. Sir Tristram’s men eyed the trio as
though doubting their sanity.
Simon didn’t care. He was feeling the excitement of the chase now. All fears and insecurities were fading, leaving in their stead this thrilling in his blood. He felt as though they were
near to understanding the whole story, that there were only a few small details which needed to be teased out and fitted into their relevant positions. In reality, of course, there were still some
terrible blank spaces.
There was no hint of a motive for killing Wally, and the same went for Hamelin’s murder too. Money had appeared as though from nowhere, murderers had run down to Tavistock from Scotland
– and there was little sense to any of it. Why should Wally and Martyn have come here? And then light dawned. If Joce truly was ‘Red Hand’, Wally and Martyn, after fleeing from
Sir Tristram and his men, would have gone where their leader told them they should be safe: the place he himself knew, his own birthplace. And when they arrived at Tavistock, what could be more
natural than that they should take up spades to try their hand at tin mining?
But if their attempts met with little success, it would be easy to imagine small niggling annoyances growing into disputes or violent explosions. One such must have led to the argument during
which Martyn died. One man couldn’t mine successfully. What would Wally have done? Obviously he’d have gone to his master and asked for assistance.
They had reached Blakemoor’s door. Baldwin pointed to one of the men with them, who drew his dagger and hammered on it with the hilt, but there was no reply.
While they waited, Simon caught his breath. ‘Baldwin, do you remember what that Swiss said about the house he saw Wally and the lad jumping from?’
‘Yes, he said it was built of limed wood, and that there was a blue shield painted over the doorway.’ Baldwin followed Simon’s pointing finger. ‘So Wally and his
accomplice were robbing Joce.’
‘You lot stay here, two at this door, two at the back. Wait here until I send word you can go,’ Coroner Roger said.
Simon looked about him. Seeing Nob’s shop, he recalled his conversation with the innkeeper on the day when he was helping the Arrayer select his men. ‘Baldwin, that pie-shop there.
It’s owned by Nob, the man who spoke to us last night and took us to Hamelin’s corpse. Wally used to stay there. Let’s go and have a look. We might learn something.’
When the three marched inside Nob’s shop, they found it deserted. Simon strode to the table and thumped upon it with his fist, while the Coroner eyed the pies with an
interest that was not in the least professional. He reached out with a finger and experimentally poked at one.
‘Hoy! Don’t bugger about wi’ me pies’
The stertorian voice came from the open doorway at the back of the shop, and soon Nob came through, using his towel to wipe his head and face with one hand, while the other gripped a large
drinking horn.