There and then Simon determined that he would learn all that Hal knew, and if he could, he would discover the murderer of Wally before anyone else.
Nob belched as he finished the last of his ale and glanced up the road. The kennel was filled with mud and filth, and even as he watched, he heard the familiar bellow of ‘Gardy loo!’ from Tan the cobbler’s place up the road. There followed a minor eruption of green liquid from an upper window, narrowly missing a well-dressed merchant who stopped in the middle of the lane to roar and shake a fist upwards with fury.
This was such a small street, it was no surprise that pedestrians would often get spattered, but there was little choice for housekeepers. They had to empty their pots somewhere.
Ordering another ale, Nob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and considered the place. It was only a little town, Tavistock. Not like other places he’d been. Mind, some of them weren’t so disorganised as this. The trouble was, Devonshire was so hard to get to. Most towns he’d been to, there was some sort of plan about them before the houses went up. Like Longtown in Herefordshire. Even newer towns in Devonshire had some thought invested in them; he remembered South Zeal as a pleasant place with a good broad road and pleasant plots set out regularly along it.
Tavistock was older, though. It had been a Burgh since the days of Abbot Walter, many folk said (although exactly how long that meant Nob didn’t know), and the lanes and streets wound their way untidily about the town. But there were advantages to it. Such as this, the quiet little alehouse not far from his pie-shop, hidden from the main roads by a bend where the lane was forced to curve around the back of Joce Blakemoor’s large house.
It was an imposing property, although Nob himself reckoned it gaudy. Joce was supposed to be a wealthy man, and this was one of the most impressive places in town. The front opened on to the main street, and there you could see that the owner was important. All Blakemoor’s goods were stored in the undercroft, a massive, stone-vaulted chamber that lay under the level of the road. Between the undercroft and the roadway was a large channel, like a moat, which must be traversed by a set of wooden steps, like a drawbridge, which led up to Joce’s shop, where he sold his bolts of cloth, everything from the coarse, cheap dozens to linens and fine wool materials. He even sold silks occasionally, the only cloth merchant to do that this side of Exeter.
Behind the shop itself was Joce’s hall, a high-ceilinged room with doors at the back which gave out to the parlour and service rooms, while a ladder led to the bedchambers at front and rear.
Nob knew the place well. On several occasions he had been instructed to bring pies here and set them out for Joce’s friends, and he and Cissy had been led through to the great hall, its fire roaring in the middle of the floor, then out to the parlour and storerooms beyond. While Cissy went through some final details in the arrangement of the pies, for she was never satisfied, Nob had taken the opportunity to go upstairs and have a look around.
Joce had made a lot of money, that was obvious. The tapestries hanging from the walls, the pewter and silver on his shelves, all spoke of enormous wealth. A merchant selling fine cloths to the men and women of a place like Tavistock could earn himself plenty. Yet the last time Nob had visited, there were fewer plates on the cupboard, less pewter. Joce was obviously selling or pawning his things for cash. He had made more money than Nob ever would from flogging pies, but then, as Nob told himself, he had enough for himself and his family, and that was all a man could ask for.
He was a fortunate soul, Nob told himself again. Good wife, good food, enough to buy himself ale whenever he wanted, and his children all doing well. What more could one want? Especially when the alternative was to live like Joce, always trying to keep up appearances, spending lavishly just to maintain his position in society.
Not that his position was that impressive, in Nob’s view. Nor was he highly respected. Especially now, since his temper seemed to be growing shorter.
Tavistock was a quiet town, and violence was a matter for conversation, so when a man like Joce went to his neighbour’s house and threatened him, that news was soon the subject of gossip up and down the place. And when a man beat his servant for no reason, especially a likeable young fellow like Art, that too caused much quiet speculation. After all, it only took one fool whose brain was in his fists, to lead to fines for all the people living nearby. It was every man’s responsibility to keep the King’s Peace.
‘Drinking so early?’ said a smooth voice, and Nob recognised the figure of Sir Tristram’s Sergeant.
‘Jack!’ He smiled broadly, partly because he wanted this man to look on him in as friendly a light as possible, but also from the hope that since Sir Tristram was thought to be done in the town, Nob himself should be safe from being recruited. ‘Fancy an ale?’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Jack said, taking his seat with a grunt. ‘I’ve been up half the night keeping an eye on the pitiful little company Sir Tristram’s hired. A drink would be welcome.’
‘Perhaps a game or two while we’re here?’
Jack smiled hawkishly. ‘Now wouldn’t that be fun?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Nob, gesturing to the host to fetch ale and dice. Soon they were throwing the cubes on the table-top, and before long a number of coins had transferred themselves from Nob’s purse to Jack’s.
Trying to distract him, Nob said, ‘You lot all off now?’
‘As soon as the men have been fed and have collected water, we’ll set off. Sir Tristram has more men waiting for us at Oakhampton and further north. We’ll have a long and weary march to get up to Scotland.’
‘It sounds a miserable land. Cold and wet all the time,’ Nob shivered. ‘I knew a man from up there – Wally, his name was, but he’s dead now.’
‘Aye?’
Nob winced as he caught sight of Jack’s throw. ‘Yes, he was murdered. The inquest is today.’
‘There’s a monk who came from up there, too, I’ve heard.’
‘That’ll be Peter. The wounded monk.’
‘Oh aye? How’s he wounded?’
Nob took up the dice with a sinking feeling as he eyed his losses. He explained about Peter’s jaw, and saw Jack nodding.
‘That’s what Sir Tristram told me. Peter, eh? Well, I’ll be buggered. Never thought he’d survive that one. We killed most of the men, but some of those bastards got away. And that bloody Brother had helped one of them.’
Nob listened with his mouth open wide as Jack told how Wally’s life had been saved and how he had then participated in hunting down Peter.
‘So Wally and these others escaped?’
‘Yes. I was with Sir Tristram even then, and we chased after the three as soon as Peter was found, but they split up. First we knew, we came across this hut where Peter’s woman had lived.’
Nob thought Jack’s face seemed to harden at the recollection. The Sergeant leaned both elbows on the table and grimaced. ‘She’d been raped, poor lass, and then she’d been killed – slowly. She was such a beautiful girl, too. I tell you, I’d seen the Armstrongs’ handiwork before that, but I’d never seen anything so… so pointlessly cruel.’
‘Did you never catch any of them?’
‘They all escaped into England and we couldn’t chase them. There were other clans rattling their swords. We sent to warn other towns and villages, but no one saw them again. I’d thought they’d died – maybe fallen into a bog or died from the cold. Not hard enough as a way to perish, but then nothing would be cruel enough for bastards like them.’
Ellis put his strop on the doorpost and began to stroke his razor up and down it. He was still standing there when his sister appeared at the doorway with her children. She sent them to play with some sticks in the alley, and walked to him.