‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Simon smiled.
Mark returned it with a grin that was both cheeky and tired. ‘I think perhaps that is for the best, Bailiff.’
The Bailiff grunted, and they spoke of other, less weighty matters for a while, until Simon had drained a second cup and left Mark with thanks for his hospitality.
The salsarius watched him go, his lips pursed. There were things he would have liked to have said to the Bailiff, but he daren’t, not yet. Perhaps later, once he had spoken to that thieving devil, the miner Walwynus.
There was no excuse for a man who stole from an Abbey. Yes, a thief who took property or money from a rich merchant and then distributed the wealth among the poor, thereby achieving Christ’s aim of sharing out the world’s riches with those who needed it most, allowing each man his own piece, that was honourable. But not when the profits were kept to enrich the thief.
Wally had willingly participated in stealing from the Abbey, taking things from guests, purely for his own profit. That was evil. It could only lead to harm in the long run, ruining the Abbey’s reputation. As soon as people learned that the Abbey had allowed it to go on, they would think again before donating funds; travellers would go elsewhere, and the Abbey would sink into the mire of speculation and foul, irreverent gossip.
Mark wouldn’t let that happen. He knew about Gerard, and he knew that Wally somehow acquired the goods from Gerard. It was Wally who made the profit. He must have forced the boy to steal for him. Mark would deal with the lad himself later.
It was time for Wally to pay for his impiety, for his crimes and his greed.
The Swiss stood at the edge of the crowd while the coining went on. It wasn’t the biggest tin market he had ever seen, but the number of ingots were breathtaking, and he watched with the hunger that only another craftsman can comprehend.
Rudolf von Grindelwald was a master pewterer, and the sight of so much top-quality material was making his fingers itch. He wanted to get his hands on the gleaming bricks of solid metal. To refine the tin, smelt it, mix in the proper quantity of lead and create beautiful plates, cups and mugs. He could do this, for he was an expert.
The process of purchase here was straightforward. Each of the miners stood anxiously while their tin was assayed, and then they had to pay their fine before offering it for sale. That was simple enough. Rudolf could follow that, although his understanding of the rough, rolling language here with its curious local dialect and odd words, made it all but impossible for him to make out a single sentence.
It was maddening. There were pewterers and agents from as far away as London and even Venice, but they could converse with these grubby, leather-skinned moormen. Rudolf had travelled here with his family to buy, but how can a man buy when he can speak none of the local language?
Although he attempted to offer money for metal, the miners eyed him askance, and when Rudolf tried to push his way in among a knot of buyers who had encircled the first few miners to haggle over the price of their tin, he was rudely shoved out of the way.
It was enough to drive a free man to draw his knife, and he almost did. Only the sober reflection that he was in a foreign country where the law would hardly miss one Swiss, made him leave it in its sheath.
In disgust, he spat at the ground and walked from the main square. There was no point in being here, watching while the choicest ingots went to other dealers. He would find the tavern where his son Welf was drinking the strange-tasting English ale, and sample some more himself, before they made their way back to their camp at the outskirts of the town. Later, perhaps, he might find a man with tin to sell, after the initial rush had died down. Tomorrow they would set off again, back to London.
Entering the alley in which the tavern stood, he found the sun was immediately shut off by the tall buildings at either side. Only a narrow streak of sunlight hit the wall on his left, struggling through from the roofs above. It was a narrow lane, this, with a good-sized kennel in the middle for the rubbish and faeces of men and beasts. Rudolf passed a sow rootling in scraps of waste, then had to follow the lane in a broad sweep around a large house. As he did so, he saw a figure drop from a window high in the wall. Rudolf grabbed at his knife again, stunned. Surely this man had just robbed a house! He was about to leap forward when another man appeared in the window above, a large sack in his hand.
Giving an inarticulate cry, Rudolf sprang forward, catching the first fellow before he could bolt. One brawny arm went round his waist while the other, holding his knife, went to the fellow’s throat. Only then did he see the tonsure.
‘Bruder!’ he grunted, and instantly pulled his blade away. ‘Brother, I am sorry.’
The lad was up and gone like a rabbit when the hound is after it. There was a clattering noise, and Rudolf found himself staring up at a swiftly falling sack. Too astonished to move, he gaped in horror as it struck him. He tottered, and then a man appeared at his side and grabbed the sack.
‘You threw that at me!’ Rudolf declared with rage. He was still in shock, and feeling bruised. The sack had been heavy, full of sharp objects.
‘Friend, I am sorry, it fell from my hand.’
‘You are a thief!’ Rudolf said. The stranger’s accent was at least easier to understand than the miners’ dialect.
‘No! Wait! You have scared off my companion. He’ll be at the Abbey now, but let me explain before you do anything.’
‘Explain? You steal from a house. There is nothing to explain!’ Rudolf thrust his hand into the sack. To his amazement, it was filled with fine pewter: plates and mazers and bowls were rattling together inside the bag, haphazardly intermingled. ‘You are a felon.’
‘No. I have rescued all this. Please – let me explain.’
The man’s face was filled with fear, and looking at him, Rudolf guessed that he was in no danger from him. A criminal he might be, but Rudolf had seen stronger-looking girls. And better-fed ones, too. That look made him waver.
‘Come, you have me,’ the man said persuasively. ‘What harm can it do for us to have a bowl of wine and talk about this? I shall explain everything.’
As he spoke, Rudolph heard other voices calling. A group of local men had entered the passage, and now stood eyeing the thief and Rudolph with grim-faced suspicion.
‘Wally? Are you all right?’
‘Look! That foreigner’s got a knife to him!’
Rudolf’s companion grinned. ‘I’m fine.’ Then, more urgently, ‘Quick! Let’s get away from here. And put that knife away, in God’s name! Do you want us both to hang?’
Chapter Three
Early that Friday morning, Hamelin woke with a shock as the tavern-keeper began rolling casks through his doorway. After sleeping all afternoon and night on the bench in the open air, Hamelin’s body had stiffened. His joints and muscles wouldn’t work, and he didn’t want to see what the world looked like anyway, so he lay back with his eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the row until it was impossible to do so any longer.
When his eyes met the daylight it felt as though someone had slammed a ten-pound hammer against his head and he snapped them closed again. Someone must have rammed a woollen mitten in his mouth, he thought, but then he reasoned that it was only his tongue, swollen and befurred. Gradually he dared open his eyes again, and his skull seemed on the brink of exploding. The pressure was awful. His tooth was now only one part of a whole chorus of agony; his head felt like a boil which was ready to be lanced; and Hamelin would have been glad enough to provide a blade to any kindly soul who would be prepared to use it. Death had to be preferable to this.