‘Your Sergeant there reckons he saw this man in the crowd today,’ Nob said.
‘Sweet Jesus! He can’t be here!’ Sir Tristram said, looking about him as though expecting one of the crowd to confess to being the outlaw.
‘Did you ever see him?’ Peter asked sharply.
‘I don’t think so, no. Jack did, but only once. No,’ the knight said, ‘he must have been wrong. The man couldn’t have got so far down south.’
‘Wally did, and so did Martyn Armstrong,’ Peter reminded him. ‘Whom did this Jack accuse, Nob?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nob lied, glancing at Peter. He wasn’t going to accuse a man for no reason. Especially before Sir Tristram. Nob didn’t like the Arrayer. ‘Someone in the crowd.’
‘He must have been mistaken. Where is he?’ Sir Tristram demanded, and when Nob told him, he hurried away.
‘What do you think, Brother?’
‘The Sergeant must have been mistaken. Perhaps I hit him too hard!’ Peter was still gazing along the alley after the knight.
Nob nodded. ‘Ah well, that’s a relief.’
Something in his tone caught Peter’s attention. ‘Why?’
‘The man that Sergeant accused: it was the Receiver, Joce Blakemoor.’
‘Joce!’ Peter hissed. He stared at Nob a moment, then slowly turned and made his way back to the Abbey.
He felt his wound flashing with pain as though he had been struck again. All those years ago he had been hit by a man, and he hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of a figure, no face. It could have been anyone who swung the axe.
Wally had come here with Armstrong. Peter had thought that there was a curious coincidence in their arriving here, but perhaps a companion of theirs had advised them to return with him to his old home? Perhaps Joce had told his comrades that if they wanted to be safe, all they need do was pass south with him and declare themselves miners. Thus they would become the King’s men and be secure from capture.
Peter had reached the Abbey, and he turned to the Abbey Church, passing along the aisle in a daze, and then tumbling to his knees before the altar.
‘God, please don’t let this be so!’ he whispered. ‘Was it not enough that I had to live so near to Wally all this time? Didn’t you test me enough? Do you now tell me that the man who tried to kill me is here as well? Perhaps the man who murdered my Agnes? And you had me save his life today?’
It was late in the afternoon when the three men arrived back at the Abbey, and Simon dropped from his horse feeling filthy, sweaty and tired. The weather felt thundery, with heavy clouds forming in the west, and the humidity was almost intolerable. While he stood in the middle of the court, waiting for a stableboy to collect his horse from him, he glanced up at the hills to east and west, rising high above the line of the Abbey’s walls, and rubbing at his chin. It was rough and itchy, and he decided to have a bath and another shave with Ellis. That would take the worst of the dirt from his face.
The Coroner was hungry. Nothing would do but that he should be fed immediately, and he tried to persuade the others to join him, but to Simon’s dismay, Baldwin refused him and instead said he would go with Simon for a wash. Seeing Hugh loitering near the guest rooms, Baldwin called to him to fetch clean clothes for them both, and then led the way to the barber’s.
His companionship was not welcome, to Simon’s mind. He had looked forward to a few moments of peace, during which he could forget his worries, especially Baldwin’s apparent alliance with the Abbot and Simon’s own misery at the thought of his losing his job. It was painful to admit it, but this man Baldwin, who had become Simon’s closest friend in only a few years, had now become almost a rival, an enemy. Baldwin had the appearance of a friend, but his mannerisms seemed to show that he was edgy in Simon’s presence.
The sack of pewter was still bound to Simon’s saddle. The Swiss had appeared almost relieved to be shot of it, saying with a grimace that he had got nothing but bad luck since he had acquired it. Although he had paid good money for it, he was prepared to allow Simon to take it back to the Abbey if the Bailiff would swear to ask the Abbot to reimburse him, either by replacing it all with fresh tin, or if not, by giving him back the money he had spent with Wally to buy it. The Swiss party would head for Tavistock as soon as they might to claim their recompense.
Simon felt giddy with the heat. Perspiration was dripping from him, his hair was glued to his forehead, and his armpits were rank. He licked his dry lips, which were gritty from the dust kicked up by his horse’s hooves. Where the sweat was gathering on his forearm, he noticed a grey-black smear of dirt, and it revolted him. Then he wondered where it could have come from. Thoughtfully he touched the sack. It left a black mark on his finger, like coal dust.
‘Curious.’
It was a relief when Baldwin offered to take the pewter to the Abbot’s lodgings. For Simon it meant at least a few moments of peace. It was only when Baldwin had gone that Simon suddenly thought that the knight could have been taking it to the Abbot to curry favour. He rejected that idea almost instantly as being dishonourable and certainly unfair on Baldwin, and yet it was insidiously attractive, coming so soon after his suspicions. Baldwin still appeared edgy in his presence.
The bath was in the barber’s room near to the infirmary, close by the brewery. Water was boiled in the brewery fire, and taken by bucket to the great barrel that was the bath, a strong vessel cooped with strong copper bands. Simon called there for Ellis, and the barber soon appeared from a door that led to the brewery itself, wiping his mouth shamefacedly.
‘Ah, my Lord Bailiff! You wish for another shave?’
‘Yes, but first I need a bath. Have the thing filled.’
Simon felt considerably improved after soaking his body and washing away the filth of the moors. He sponged himself clean with water that was filled with fresh herbs, rubbing himself down with soap and rinsing it off with fresh, rose-scented water. He was almost finished when Baldwin arrived, his dark face drawn into a scowl.
Once Simon’s hair was washed, he felt greatly refreshed. Sitting on Ellis’s stool while the barber draped almost-scalding towels over his features, he felt renewed, and a curious sense of fatalism enveloped him.
This fear, this nervousness about Baldwin was ridiculous. If there was some suggestion from the Abbot that Simon was not to be trusted, that he was too incompetent to keep his job, that was not Baldwin’s fault. In fact, if Simon was fair, it was the Abbot’s alone. Baldwin was probably fidgety because he knew that Simon was to lose his position, and feared how the Puttock family would survive without the income that his post as Bailiff brought him. Perhaps that was all it was, Simon thought: Baldwin was consumed with compassion and sympathy for his old friend.
Anyway, Simon was no fool. He would soon find a new job even if the Abbot decided to dispense with him. There were always other masters. And if that didn’t work out, Simon should be able to live on the proceeds of his farming. Other men managed to, and he had a good property in Sandford still, the place to which he had brought his wife when they married. She had always adored it, with the far-off views of Dartmoor and the rolling hills surrounding it. They had been very happy there. It would be closer to Baldwin, too, and easier to see him and Jeanne more often. The life of a free yeoman farmer was not so bad. Good food was plentiful, if the harvest was kind, while there should always be ale and wine to be drunk. Yes, Simon reckoned he could live happily as a farmer. It would be different, there would be economies that he and Meg would have to make, but they would survive. And what else mattered, than that he and Meg should be able to live together in peace? Meg was a farmer’s daughter. She would be pleased to return to a farming life.