As he moved on toward the Abbey, he was in a contemplative mood. When almost there, he paused a while to watch the latest traders arrive. A long line of merchants was riding up from the western gate, and he could see that they had their wagons and carts filled. One face he recognized: Roger Torre, striding beside a friar. Roger scraped by panning for tin on the moors. He eked out a living by catching rabbits, and rented land from the Abbot to grow vegetables and herbs. He didn’t prosper, but he was not so poor as some of the men who inhabited the little stone sheds on the moors. Only the bigger miners seemed to make good money.
David waved to him and carried on. Torre was always keen to drink and exchange stories, and the port-reeve was determined to finish his work and join the moorman in the tavern. He had need of a companion who would not talk to him of garbage, fairs or whores.
Another man was watching Torre and the friar. He stood a little to one side of the port-reeve, partly obscured by drapery hung to celebrate the fair.
It was so many years ago, he had thought he would be safe here, but now his worst imagining was realized as he watched the cleric and his friend making their way to the fair. If he should be seen and recognized, he would be in danger of his life – but what could he do? He had tried to escape before, and that had ended in disaster.
Perhaps even that failure might show him how to avoid justice again. If he dared be bold once more, he might yet be able to get away. He preferred to remain hidden, but if he had no choice, he would act, he decided, and he slipped away down an alley.
3
Elias pulled on his hose and left the girl Lizzie in his chamber. Out in the street, he stood and surveyed his pile of garbage with exasperation. It was mad to expect people to clear away everything just because there was going to be a fair. Sourly pursing his lips, he stood for a while assessing how many barrow-loads it would take. He was sure there were more than ten, and the midden lay out at the western edge of the borough. That meant he had at least two hours’ hard work.
“God’s blood! I’d like to drop it all off on that damned port-reeve’s house.”
The idea was tempting, but he discarded it from reasons of practicality. David would be sure to know where it had come from, and too many other people had remarked upon all the muck over the last week or two; if he was to shift it from his alley to another’s house, it would take little time for him to be found out. Morosely he fetched his tools and began forking rubbish from the top into his barrow. When it was filled, he set his fork against the wall and started out for the midden.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun’s heat was concentrated by the white limewash of the buildings on either side. The walls gleamed so strongly he had to squint. Slouching along reluctantly, he could feel the sweat bursting from his skin. It formed a stream under his shirt, trickling down his spine and soaking into the seat of his hose. At the parish church dedicated the previous year by Bishop Stapledon to St. Eustace, he rested a moment, spitting on his hands and rubbing them. He was used to picking up sacks of flour or carcasses, but walking along pushing his wooden barrow was tiring in the heat. Reaching the midden, he emptied his load into the stinking pool. Then, resignedly pulling his shoulders back, he made his way homeward.
He was on his fourth load when he heard the Abbey bells, and he groaned when he saw the lengthening shadows. Vespers already, and he wasn’t halfway through the mound. His irritation made him careless. The wheel caught in a rut, and he froze, eyes wide, mouth pursed into a thin white line as he gripped the solid timber handles, desperately struggling to keep it upright. Then the wheel slipped treacherously on a stone and the whole reeking load slid from the overturned barrow.
Elias fumed. Fists clenched, he kicked the wheel in futile rage. Hearing a man chuckling, he was about to swear when he saw it was a monk. Elias carefully watched till the figure had disappeared through the Abbey’s great gate before letting out a hissed oath. He didn’t want another fine.
It was almost dark by the time he had completed the eighth trip, and when he got back to the alleyway he groaned. The pile looked as large in the diminishing light as when he had started. He wiped a hand over his brow. “Tomorrow. I’ll finish it tomorrow,” he muttered, too tired to carry on. He was hungry, but his belly craved beer. His attention was drawn up along the road, to where he could see the bush hanging out over the street to advertise the tavern. The alewife had brewed four times her usual quantity of ale in preparation for the fair, and Elias knew she would be happy to let him taste some for a reasonable amount.
He hefted the barrow’s handles and shoved it up the alley, round to the yard behind his shop. Then he made his way to the tavern, thrusting the door open with his shoulder and striding through the curtained screens into the room.
This tavern had been a farmhouse once, but over many decades it had been altered. Where a farmer would have sheltered his flocks and oxen, now customers sat at trestle tables on rough benches, while the alewife’s girls circled, halting momentarily at tables to dispense ale, then moving on to the next, like butterflies sipping at flowers. A fire glowed in the middle of the packed earth floor, ready to be kicked into life as the temperature fell.
When he walked in, the place was already crowded. Men and women stood talking, one or two children were asleep, wrapped in cloaks by the walls, and a pair of hounds scavenged for scraps among the rushes. He could see Lizzie in the far corner, and thought that after that afternoon she might serve him, but when he tried to catch her eye, the girl didn’t notice. There were few seats left, and Elias hesitated in the doorway before seeing someone he recognized: Roger Torre.
“Move on, Roger.”
“Elias? Take a seat. This is a friend of mine, friar. He owns a cookshop.”
“Peace be with you,” Hugo hiccupped happily, sliding up the bench to make space.
“And you, brother,” Elias answered automatically, waving to Agatha, the alewife.
“So, friar,” Torre said, continuing his conversation. “If the Abbot wants to demand money from me, is that right?”
Hugo had drunk several pints of good ale, more than he was used to, and was filled with good humor. He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Abbots and bishops don’t deserve your money, nor anyone else’s. Many don’t even deserve respect. Take the Bishop of Durham – he can’t read. He fumbled over his own consecration: couldn’t pronounce the word metropolitanus, and muttered, ‘Let’s take that as read!’ And when he presided over an ordination, he swore when he came to aenigmate, that is, ‘through a glass darkly,’ saying, ‘By St. Louis, whoever wrote this word was no courteous man!’ When we have prelates such as he, how can anyone respect the holy calling?”
“So you think I shouldn’t pay, friar?”
“I think… I think I have drunk enough!” Hugo stood unsteadily and climbed over the bench. “I need the privy.”
“Where did you pick him up?” asked Elias, watching the gray-clad cleric stumble round the room to the door, one hand touching the wall all the way for support.
But Torre was distracted before he could answer. As Agatha hurried over and thumped a mug before Elias, Torre motioned to the doorway. “Beware of them, mistress.”
The alewife tutted. “The watchmen from Denbury? They don’t trouble me.”