They wound upwards, and then took a left fork. ‘No point climbing to the top,’ the Coroner muttered as he led the way. ‘This is the peat-cutters’ track.’
The track led between two walls, both of which had bushes and trees growing in them and reaching high overhead, creating a tunnel of verdure. At their feet, it was metalled with rocks of moorstone which had sunk to an even level, so that packhorses could pass up here even in the worst of the winter weather, and Baldwin was glad of it because at the side of the trail was a trickle of water. If there were no stones, this would soon become another quagmire.
The way climbed, but more shallowly, and at last they were out into the open, leaving the trees behind.
Baldwin took a deep breath. The last time he had been up on the moors he had seen another death, and it had touched his soul with sadness. That was partly why he was growing to detest the moors, because he could only ever associate them with death and murder. Not that this visit would make him feel any more content, with another murdered man at the end of the journey.
Here, though, it was hard to view the surrounding landscape with anything but awe and delight. The ground dropped away to their left, while on their right was the steeper rise to the summit, the side of the hill scattered with a thick clitter of stones. A tough climb on foot.
Coroner Roger took him on, past a strange little triple row of standing stones. ‘God knows what they’re doing here!’ and on to a lower hill. From here, he pointed south. ‘All this land is the King’s. He must have magnificent hunts over here, eh?’
Baldwin could not help but agree. As they trotted on, he marvelled at the odd, soft beauty of the place. It was as though the only people alive were he and the Coroner. No noise of axe or pick reached their ears, and no house could be seen. There was only the endlessly rolling little hills, mostly smothered in a bright mantle of purple heather.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ the Coroner said, smiling at the sight of Baldwin’s face.
‘Very!’ Baldwin twisted in his saddle to take it all in. Some hills were surmounted by great hunks of stone, while others were smooth, shallow ripples in the grass and heather. Here and there a stream cut through a hillside, casting a sharper shadow like a gash in the grass, but mostly it was all soft-looking undulations.
They stopped at the side of a stream, freeing the horses to drink their fill and crop the grass while the two men idled on the banks, and then remounted and rode on unhurriedly. The weather remained clear, and Baldwin could feel his trepidation falling away: as he had believed, it was superstitious in the extreme to blame the land itself for the evil actions of the men who trod upon it.
He hoped his attitude would not change again.
They followed well-trodden tracks for some more miles, but then Sir Roger began searching about, peering at the horizon.
‘What is it?’
‘Miners. There should be some near here. Aha! Over there!’
The Coroner pointed and Baldwin saw in the distance a thin plume of smoke rising. They rode towards it and found themselves in a small miners’ camp. Having asked for directions, they were soon on their way again, and this time they reached a larger camp where a well-built miner pointed over to a hill. ‘See where that stream is? You’ll find poor old Wally there. But don’t go straight. Head up that hillside west of here, then go south until you come to the cross. Then turn east again. Not until you reach the cross, though. The mire’s deadly down there.’
Hearing his words, both agreed that his advice was sound. Soon the two were walking their horses up a hill. The cross was not difficult to see – a tall, somewhat rough-hewn shape. There they turned east and crossed a pleasant ford.
‘If it’s true that he was beaten to death, surely another miner was responsible,’ Roger grumbled. ‘Those bastards are always quarrelling. And they’ve got so many potential weapons to hand.’
‘Quite so,’ Baldwin said.
‘Except you don’t mean it. What’s on your mind?’
‘I trust the judgement of my Lord Abbot. He would only call us both out if there was good cause. Otherwise he would surely only ask for you to be here.’
‘You mean he doesn’t trust my judgement?’
Baldwin smiled innocently. ‘I mean he probably has more than one concern. He knows how busy you are, Coroner. If there were another matter, he would hardly dare take up more of your time than he need, would he?’
‘Oh. You do mean he doesn’t trust my judgement!’
‘The little devil,’ Augerus said. ‘If he couldn’t be bothered to come and help me, the least he could have done was let me know.’
It was early afternoon, and the two were seated in the salsarius’ room amidst the odours of gently curing hams and sausages, and the sharp tang of sea and fresh wind from the open steeping barrels in which the salt fish had soaked yesterday. It could take many hours for the salt to be washed out, and Mark had other duties, so he tended to leave the fish to soak for as long as possible, sliding the slippery fillets into a wooden trough to wash off most of the salt, then dropping them into the barrels of fresh water as early as possible on the Tuesday, ready for cooking today, Wednesday, the fast day. The barrels were still full of the fishy water, waiting to be emptied.
‘Novices are not as respectful as they once were,’ Mark said.
‘I had thought Gerard wasn’t so bad,’ Augerus said. ‘He is the best-behaved acolyte I have had dealings with for many a year. Quiet, unassuming, quick to learn. He has been candle-bearer for months now, and never late for the Mass, always well-mannered. But this proves he’s just the same as the others. No doubt he thinks he can get away with sloping off back to his bed. He was kind enough to leave it for Nocturns, but as soon as Matins were finished, off he went.’
‘Maybe he was told to help another Brother and didn’t realise the time,’ Mark said charitably. He wasn’t really very interested, and he could afford to be generous: Gerard wasn’t his acolyte.
‘Well, he’s not turned up for me,’ Augerus said irritably. He had caught Mark’s tone and felt miffed: whenever Mark had a problem with his own charges, Augerus always listened to his complaints. ‘He was supposed to be in my undercroft to help me check the stores. I can’t do it on my own.’
Mark sipped at his wine and cast a glance at his friend. Augerus sounded quite het up; it seemed as though there was something else on his mind. ‘Don’t worry. Maybe you’ll find him waiting for you when you get back to the undercroft.’
‘I should hope he arrives before that – I’ve sent a servant to fetch him from his bed.’
Mark peered through his doorway. ‘Did you send him?’ he asked, pointing.
As Augerus joined Mark in the doorway, the tall figure of Reginald hurried across the court to them.
‘Where is that boy?’ Augerus grated. ‘If he’s pretending to be ill…’
Mark threw him another look. Augerus was always so calm and unflappable, but now there was a tone of real anxiety in his voice. It was most unlike him. Mark almost wanted to reach out and pat his shoulder.
‘Brother Augerus, Brother Mark, he’s not there.’
Mark gazed at the lad with patient good-humour. ‘Did you check in the reredorter?’
‘I did, Master, and he isn’t there either. I checked the calefactory, the dorter, the refectory, the church… I don’t know where else to look.’