‘That’s right,’ the miner said. ‘Hal heard them and he asked Wally about it later. Wally told him this girl, she’d saved his life when he’d been at death’s door. She’d nursed him and protected him, and Martyn took her memory and insulted her. He was in his cups, of course, but he said something about her being a brave, eager slut, and that got Wally so angry, he was about to jump on Martyn, but Martyn saw he’d gone too far and pulled his knife first. And that was that.’
‘Did you ever learn where these two came from?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Christ! Miles away. Up northwards somewhere. They always spoke like foreigners. Scotland somewhere.’
‘Would anyone else know more accurately? A friend or someone?’
‘That monk, the scarred one. He knew them up north, I heard tell. Hal said so. Said Wally told him. They weren’t friends, though. Wally was terrified of the monk.’
‘You think he thought the monk posed a danger to him?’
‘Don’t know about that so much,’ the miner grunted. ‘But he was scared, right enough. Scared shitless.’
‘Did Walwynus have many enemies?’ Baldwin asked.
‘No. Most liked him.’
‘Then was he killed for money?’
‘Doubt it. He had little enough.’
‘Can you think of any other reason why someone might choose to kill him?’
The miner gave a sly grin. ‘There is a man might know.’
‘Who?’ Coroner Roger demanded. ‘Come on, fellow, this is like drawing teeth!’
‘True enough!’ the miner cackled. ‘You should ask Ellis the tooth-butcher. See what he has to say.’
They had arrived at a flat space, and Baldwin could see a body lying on the ground almost at the same time as he smelled it. A scruffy man in worn clothing stood blearily by, a long polearm in his hand as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. At his side was a small barrel which showed the cause of his lethargy.
The Coroner dropped from his horse and began to study the corpse without touching it.
While he was thus occupied, Baldwin leaned to the miner again. ‘Who is this Ellis? Why should he wish to see the man dead?’
‘Because Ellis reckoned Wally here was giving his sister one! You ask Ellis about his sister Sara.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because Ellis was here last Friday morning. I saw him, heard him shouting and threating Wally. Go on – you ask Ellis!’
Chapter Fourteen
After the previous day’s rainy beginning, it had been a relief to wake to bright sunlight. Simon hadn’t needed the prodding finger of the novice to wake him, for he could feel the warmth of the sun reaching out to him even through his closed eyes. Lazily, he had opened them to find himself gazing at Sir Tristram’s bare body. The knight had swung open the rough board shutter and was staring down into the yard. Seeing him thus naked in the morning light, Simon was surprised at the number of wounds on his body.
There were two star-shaped scars, both on his upper left shoulder, which looked as though they must have been made by arrows. The great barbed arrows of old would have done far more damage, but the modern ‘prickers’, designed to penetrate mail, were little more than square-sectioned steel needles. Simon had seen other men wounded by these arrows, and they always had this characteristic star-shape. On his flank there was a great gouge lined with sore-looking red flesh that probably resulted from a sword or axe blow; his left upper arm bore a long, raking slash; both legs were mottled with scars, some fine, thin ones like cobwebs, others deep-looking stab wounds or slashes, as though he had been in a hundred different fights with all different types of weapon.
Simon couldn’t help but let a low whistle pass from his lips, and Sir Tristram whirled round.
There were many knights whom Simon had met who had been suave and silky in movement as well as tone, men who would turn elegantly upon hearing someone behind them. Others, like his old friend Baldwin himself, were strangely precise in their movements. These were the masters of defence, men who had trained all their childhood and youth, men who could pick up any weapon and use it effectively, men who could fight as though dancing, while holding a seven-pound sword in one hand as if it was as light as a willow-wand.
This was not one such. Sir Tristram spun around like a man expecting death and the devil. His face was pulled into a snarl, his teeth bared, his whole being transfigured. From a tall man at a window he became a crouching, bestial creature, one hand forward, the other held back, ready to punch. But there was something missing. It was as though Sir Tristram had seen knights fight and knew how to emulate them, but lacked their skill; a man might, after all, pick up a hammer and beat at a piece of metal, but it took a smith’s experience to bend that metal to his will.
Then, in an instant, Sir Tristram had reverted to a tall man at a window. He stood again with a faintly sneering smile. ‘Aha, Bailiff. I didn’t realise you were awake.’
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Simon said carefully. ‘But I noticed your scars, and I was surprised to see so many.’
Sir Tristram’s face relaxed. He almost seemed to be listening to voices Simon couldn’t hear. ‘Perhaps you were just as surprised to hear how I spoke of the Scottish. This should explain why,’ he said, motioning at his flank and legs. ‘The Scots did all this. These fine scratches were from a razor. A Scot caught me on my own lands and sought to punish me. He intended to kill me, after torturing me, but I managed to get the better of him. A man of mine arrived and knocked him out, rescuing me, and I myself cut off his head, the bastard!’
‘What of the arrows? When were you hit by them?’
‘In the service of the King. One at Bannockburn, one at Boroughbridge. As you can see, places beginning with the letter “B” are not lucky for me!’
‘I have never seen so many scars as those which lie on your arms and legs.’
‘These are all from Scottish scum! They stole my inheritance from me, and whenever I have fought them to win back my lands, they have wounded me, but never have they conquered! Every encounter you see marked here upon my body, every one has been avenged. Not one man who marked me yet lives.’
‘And now the King wants more men to end the border fighting once and for all. That will be a good thing for you, I suppose. You can enjoy peace once the fighting is all done.’
‘Peace? Yes, I suppose so,’ Sir Tristram said, but without conviction. Simon had the impression that he was less interested in peace, more in the potential that his returned lands would give him for exacting punishment on those who had thwarted him over the last years.
He didn’t speak again while he and Simon dressed, but walked from the room as though sunk deep in thought. Simon was glad when he had gone. There was little pleasure to be gained from so morose a companion, and he groaned inwardly to think that he must remain with this man all day, surveying a crowd of grimy peasants all reeking of sweat, garlic and old ale.
When he found himself sitting at the table in the marketplace, inspecting all the men, the reality was even worse than his fears. The stench of unwashed bodies was almost overpowering in the still, hot air, and as each man stepped up to the table to be viewed and considered while his weapon was surveyed with greater or lesser contempt, the foul wafts from rotten teeth turned Simon’s stomach. It would be almost preferable, he thought, to be up on the moors at the side of the putrefying corpse.
He was here in a semi-official capacity, mainly to see that the Arrayer didn’t take too many of the Abbot’s men, and he found the task tedious, but knew that he couldn’t slip away. He must sit here and look intent, concentrating hard on serving the Abbot while also not appearing to help anyone obstruct the Arrayer. Waving at the innkeeper, he ordered a jug of ale and drank deeply as soon as it arrived.