Joce knew it wasn’t like him to fly off the handle like that. Usually he could keep his temper under control, at least while he was in public, but today he felt as though there was a band about his forehead, tightening. The pressure was building in him, and it demanded release.
He tapped his foot on the floor. There was the trouble with Sara to begin with. That useless blubbering bitch couldn’t accept that their thing was over. She’d believed his declaration of love.
The poor slut had thought she’d be able to talk him into marrying her in exchange for sex – well, she’d learned her mistake there, aye. What did she take him for – some starry-eyed youth with his brain in his tarse? Well, he wasn’t. He was Joce Blakemoor, and he took what he wanted when he wanted. She’d tried to blackmail him, saying that she was pregnant, that she’d tell the whole town he was the father, and he had laughed. That was at the coining. The stupid wench. As if her threats could harm him!
And then that cretin Wally had tried to scare him off as well, the fool, on the morning after the coining. Joce had seen him first thing, in the street near Joce’s house, and had nodded to him as he would any other fellow. Wally had looked away, as though ashamed to be acknowledged by him, but then he looked like he took his courage in both hands, and beckoned Joce into an alley. Joce had thought he had some more pewter or something, but no, the son of a donkey just wanted to persuade Joce to leave Sara alone. Wally said he was playing with her affections.
It took that long for Joce’s anger to rise. He took Wally by the throat and pounded him. Ah, but it had felt good! He slammed Wally’s head against the stones of the wall, then thumped him about the face and breast.
‘Don’t tell me whom I may see, you bastard! I was your master once, and if you are disloyal to me, I’ll kill you. Remember that!’
There were other matters to concern him now, though. The whole town was buzzing with stories about Wally’s death. He was gone, and no bad thing. Joce had noticed his glances at the coining. He suspected. Fine, but that meant Joce must find a new courier from the Abbey. He daren’t stop his trade with Augerus, because he had a large shortfall in the Burgh’s accounts to make up. The money he had taken, he had also spent, and now he must acquire more in order to refill the Burgh’s coffers. Somehow he would have to contact Augerus. Perhaps he could go and collect the stuff himself, rather than employing someone else again.
Art had persuaded the fire to catch, and the pieces of wood crackled merrily. Over them he set one or two charred logs from the previous night and hurried off to fetch the griddle.
Joce watched him go with a sour expression twisting his features. He wanted a reason to be able to explode, but Art was giving him no excuse. In fact, Joce was more angry with himself than Art. His rush over to shout at Geoffrey’s door was insane; what’s more, it was unnecessary. He could see that now. Stupid. Much more sensible to wait until later, when Geoffrey was already up and about, and waylay him, beat the little shit half to death without his ever realising who it was, or why. Getting so enraged for no reason was ridiculous. He should never have allowed his neighbours to see him lose control. It was the lack of sleep, surely.
Art came back with more wood then set the griddle over the flames. While he worked, Joce watched him silently. And he saw Art’s eyes go to his cupboard.
‘Fetch my food, boy!’
Instantly Art rose and darted out to the pantry, returning with a tray on which he had set out a loaf, a jug with a drinking bowl, and some pieces of meat. Joce waited until the lad had put them all on the table, and then clenched his fist and slammed it into Art’s belly. He could hear the breath woosh from his lungs, saw the lad’s eyes pop wide, his mouth gape, his back curve over. Dispassionately, Joce observed his servant collapse to the floor, one arm reaching out to the table’s edge, clinging on, while he retched and coughed, desperately trying to suck in some air while his face reddened and his whole body shivered.
‘I am going out to get some real food, you useless cat’s turd. When I come back, I want this place clean.’ Joce kicked hard, once, and the lad crashed down, a hand clenching and releasing among the reeds and dirt that lay scattered all over. As he vomited, Joce smiled to himself. ‘And don’t stare at my sideboard like that, boy. If I ever find you’ve been inside it, I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to the cats. Understand me?’
Leaving his house, the smile remained fixed to his face. It was still there as he entered the little pie-shop at the top of his road. He felt much better for having punched someone. Violence was great for soothing the soul, he always found.
As Joce had begun thundering on his neighbour’s door, Gerard was leaving the church with the other members of the choir. While the monks went to the great octagonal chapter-house to discuss Abbey business, he walked to the bakery to collect the bread. As a mere acolyte, Gerard wasn’t permitted to witness the deliberations of the monks.
All the monks supported the poor of the Burgh. The lepers at the Maudlin were given tuppence each as their weekly pension, and there were generous donations of all the Abbey’s used clothes and shoes, as well as the excess food which was doled out to the poor at the gate, but also the Abbey distributed fresh bread, generally to the families of the monks and novices, and today it was Gerard’s turn to collect the food.
The bakery was a little building at the wall by the river, not far from the Water Gate, and Gerard scuffed his feet in the yard’s dirt, thinking over his problem as he walked towards it.
Peter the Almoner was at the bakery, and called to Gerard. His voice startled the acolyte and he glanced behind him, considering flight, but then realised that there were far too many people around for Peter to think of hurting him.
The monk gave him a twisted smile. ‘You don’t want to talk to an older man like me? Aye, and I suppose I wouldn’t either when I was your age, lad. No, there are too many other things to interest a young fellow like you, aren’t there?’
‘I am here to collect the bread, Brother.’
‘Then you can help me to take the loaves around to the needy, can’t you?’
‘I thought Brother…’
‘Aye, well, Brother Edward and I have agreed to change our duties. He wasn’t feeling very well, so he has gone to sit and pray and I shall take the bread with you. Why, you don’t mind me helping, do you?’
Giving an ungracious grunt of assent, Gerard picked up the basket full of loaves which the baker’s assistant had set before him, and followed the Almoner out through the main gate to where the beggars waited.
It was odd to watch the old man, Gerard thought. All the beggars could see him, apart from Blind Ban, of course, and they all flinched whenever he turned to them, avoiding his hideously wrecked features with that terrible scar. In fact, Gerard thought Peter looked as though he should be out here, living among the beggars, rather than being a monk inside. Somehow he looked too damaged to be one of God’s own Chosen.
As the motley flock of poor folk dispersed with their bounty gripped tightly in their filthy fists, Peter glanced at him. ‘Better get the rest of the loaves to the Maudlin, then, lad.’
‘Yes.’
Peter shot the acolyte a look as they bent their way towards the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene which lay out at the westernmost point of the borough; the leper hospital. The Almoner was Rector of the hospital, just another of the duties which fell to Peter.