‘As good as his word, he packed his scrip with a little bread and set off. His friends, alarmed by his demeanour, went with him.
‘It was a good step, many miles from here. You have all seen the road that leads to the moors. It starts at the riverbank and climbs steeply, and once you have left the farming country, once you have passed through Walkhampton you are in it, but I daresay not many of you have climbed that way?’
On hearing the chorus of denials, Peter sniffed. ‘When I was a lad, I walked to meditate and pray. I used to cover twenty miles each day when my Abbot allowed me, and since coming here from the Northern Marches, I have already walked many miles on the moors, yet you haven’t even crossed the river, I suppose. Oh, aye, you modern youths are a feeble lot compared with my peers.
‘The road goes up and up until you feel as if your knees will crack. That was how Milbrosa felt, for he was pushing himself on as quickly as he could. He had to have money to buy the silver back from the travellers! When you breast the hill, there is a flat plain, and then you must pass on to the ancient cross called Siward’s, or Nun’s Cross, which marks the border of the moors.
‘There it’s much more soft and rolling,’ Peter told his audience, ‘with a few rocky outcrops in the distance, and heather and grasses that hide the clitter. There are boulders strewn about all over the place, and if you wander from the beaten track, you are forced to scramble up and down all the way. It is a broad, grey land, harsh and unwelcoming. There are no trees, they are all gone, and when Milbrosa stood on the edge of the moors that day and gazed before him, he thought that this could be the ends of the earth. It looked like a place blasted by God’s wrath. The only signs of civilisation were the fires rising from tin-miners’ homes and furnaces and the occasional pits dug all about, or the great heaps of spoil where miners had tipped rubbish from their work. It is a foul, chill, unwholesome land, especially in the depths of winter, with the freezing winds blowing in your face and piercing your robes. Milbrosa felt his courage fading as he stared ahead. His hangover was severe, his head felt as though it had been cracked open by a bill, and his belly wanted to spew up the vast amount of wine he’d drunk. Aye, he was a most unhappy monk.
‘But with all his friends there he had no choice but to carry on. They walked eastwards along the rough tracks and paths until they came to the turn which led to the Jew’s house and took it, going cautiously now, for there were many mires up there, great deep pools of bog in which a man could fall and disappear for ever.
‘At last they found the house. It was one of those rough miner’s dwellings. Ah, but you haven’t seen them, have you? intrepid lot that you are! It was a narrow, low place built of granite, with the walls protected from draughts by piling earth against them and letting the grasses grow. The roof was of timber, with turfs thrown atop to stop the rain seeping in. When you live so far from other people, you can’t always get straw to thatch, but grasses will keep out the worst of the wet.
‘There was no one there, but as they opened the door and gazed at the empty little hut, they heard the clop of hooves and a man’s voice, and there, behind them, they saw the Jew, leading a mule.
‘Milbrosa was struck dumb at the sight of the man. His mule was heavily laden; he must have been about to set off on a journey or perhaps was just returned from one, and Milbrosa felt sure this was a bad time to be asking him for favours. Aye, but although he was unwilling, his friends and companions urged him forward. If he was to save himself, they pointed out, he must gain the man’s favour and win a purse to rescue the silver before the Abbot returned and learned of his crime. They thrust him forward, and he stood shivering in the cold before the Jew, twiddling his fingers and licking his lips nervously.
‘ “What is it?” the old Jew snapped, for he was only just returned from the coining at Ashburton, and his legs were tired.
‘ “Master,” Milbrosa said hesitantly, “we are but poor monks from Tavistock, and we must beg for our food and drink. Have pity on us and give us some of your money.”
‘This man might have been a Jew, but he was no fool. “Poor monks? You have an abbey to live in, with great estates all over Devon, and more wealth than I could dream of. Look at my poor rude hut. I must live in that, and my only cup is a wooden one, whereas you drink from silver and pewter. Look at my bed, a palliasse of heather, while you sleep in good cots of timber with mattresses strung from ropes for your comfort. My fire is mean and smoky, while you live in warmth with roaring hearths and chimneys to draw away the fumes. For my living I must scrape and dig, while all you do is kneel and sit. Surely I should beg alms from you?”
‘Milbrosa didn’t want to dicker with him. He threw out his hands in appeal. “Master Tinner, we have nothing. Our buildings are God’s, our house is His, our beds are His. Our duty is to serve Him, and sometimes we needs must ask for more from the people whose souls we save and preserve, so that we do not die of cold and hunger.”
‘Now this Jew was a kindly man, and truth be told, he had plenty of money. His mule was heavy with a chest of it because his workings had been fruitful and he had sold plenty of good tin at the coining. He was of a mind to help this young monk, but even as he bent his head to pull some coins from his purse, Milbrosa found himself looking again at the mule.
‘ “Master Jew, your mule looks heavily laden. Are you off to the market?”
‘ “Just back from the coining, aye. I had to buy provisions.”
‘Milbrosa turned back and saw the heavy coins filling the Jew’s purse. He looked at the mule and noticed the chest. It was enough. He picked up a rock from the ground at his feet while the Jew was peering into his purse, and suddenly Milbrosa slew him, striking with his rock until the Jew’s head was crushed like an egg trodden underfoot.
‘His friends had stood incapable of moving with the horror of it, but now, with the Jew’s brains spilled on the moor, they took Milbrosa by the arms and pulled him away, calling to him, fearing he had become mad, thinking he was so distraught by his crimes that he had lost his senses. Yet he hadn’t. Oh, no. The clever, evil fellow smiled at them and said, “Friends, release me! You don’t realise what you are doing. You see me here and think I am mad because I killed that Jew, but hear me out.
‘ “That man lying dead is not worthy of your concern. Wasn’t he a Jew? Who need fear for a man such as him? He was not one of God’s chosen, for isn’t it known that all Jews renounced Christ and worship the devil? They are damned. How else could they have demanded that Our Lord be executed on the cross? Surely it is obvious that to kill a Jew is no more heinous than to squash a fly?”
‘The mad fools who were his friends were appeased. Although they knew that their companion had committed another grave sin, they permitted him to sway them with his words. And then, when some were yet wavering, he said this: “And it is fortunate for us that I have killed him, for look at the chest on his mule! It is heavily laden. It must be filled with money. Look at his purse, that too is massy with coins. We might take both and use them to retrieve our silver, and yet have enough to purchase more silver, to the greater glory of God, to place on the altar in our church. And if there is some spare, we can buy ourselves wine.”
‘That was enough for this greedy band. Eager hands tore at the mule and now Milbrosa took command. First he washed his hands of the Jew’s blood, and then he ordered that the body should be carried some little way to a mire and thrown in, and thus their crime would never be discovered. They loaded the Jew’s body on to the mule, and the patient creature carried its master to his grave. When the monks had hurled the Jew into the bog, the mule too was killed and pushed in, for Milbrosa had no taste for being accused of stealing it. At last they returned to their booty, and picking it up, made their way homewards, confident that no man would ever know of their crimes.