‘Well, Bailiff? What is so urgent?’
Simon explained briefly. ‘This man Joce must be caught.’
Sir Tristram threw him a contented smile. ‘Fear not but that he shall be back here this evening, whether dead or alive!’
Simon left him then, as he bellowed for a fresh horse, and made his way up to the infirmary. At the doorway, he stopped, looking back.
Sara and Ellis still stood in the same place, Ellis with his arm about his sister’s waist, she with her eyes streaming with tears for her lost future, while Ellis merely gazed about him dumbly, like a man who had known that the world was cruel, but who had still hoped for better. He looked entirely crushed.
Joce slapped the reins over the horse’s flanks, whipping the old beast onward, even though the brute was faltering.
‘Fucking thing!’
The owner must have ridden this nag miles already. It was so frustrating! All he needed was a good animal to get him away, and here he was astride this broken-winded, knackered bag of bones. It was only good for the tanner’s yard.
‘Hurry up or I’ll slay you,’ he hissed, kicking as hard as he could, wishing he had spurs.
They were almost at the moors now, and they hadn’t passed any sign of the men yet. He was hoping that they might have continued along the line of the trees, in which case he should have a clear run to the Swiss travellers, but even as he hoped this, he saw someone else on the road ahead, another rider.
The horse was close to collapse. Rather than see it expire beneath him, he yanked on the reins to slow it, then stood, panting a little.
If only that bitch had gone in with him so that he could have changed his clothes. Then he wouldn’t be in this state. Silly cow! He could have killed her inside, away from prying eyes, and got a fresh change of clothing, before escaping. Now, all because of her, he had to hide until he could steal a change of clothes and get rid of these tatters.
He trotted into the security of a small clump of trees near a cross, listening as the sound of hooves approached, but then they stopped. ‘Well, friend, are you going to come out here, or do I have to get you out?’ a voice bellowed.
Joce froze at the words. He didn’t recognise the voice, but there was unmistakable menace in the words, and to match them he heard the slithering sound of steel against wood as a sword was drawn.
‘I was only concealing myself in case you were a ruffian,’ he declared, allowing the horse to walk forth. ‘I am no villein.’
‘Joce Blakemoor?’ the man asked, peering at him.
‘Aye. That’s me.’
‘I’m Jack, Sergeant to Sir Tristram! I remember you, Joce Red-Hand!’
In a moment the sword was whirling through the air towards his head. Joce fell back against his horse’s rump, then slipped his weight to one side, avoiding the first thrust and slash, but then his own sword was out and he could parry the next blow.
‘Attack an innocent, will you?’ he roared, and turned his blade as Jack’s met it, slicing it down into Jack’s thigh. The Sergeant screamed, and his horse danced away nervously even as Joce’s backed, but Joce thrashed it with the flat of his sword. It stepped on reluctantly, and Joce whirled the sword about his head, swinging it at Jack’s neck. Jack brought up his own, but Joce could feel that the man’s strength was ebbing, and then he saw why. He had severed a blood vessel in the man’s thigh, and there was a spray of arterial blood pumping. Joce smiled, and snarled, then brought his sword round again, beating at Jack until Jack failed to move in time. There was a soft, shuddering contact through Joce’s arm, and his vision was blurred for an instant as blood fountained, and then he saw that Jack’s headless body was still mounted, but the hands were empty. The sword was fallen.
Joce wiped his face free of the blood, and reached for Jack’s horse’s reins, but the beast was maddened with fear. The smell of blood, the terror of death, combined to make it insane, and it bolted, running straight for Tavistock, the body lurching in the saddle. Joce swore as he watched it as it gradually sagged to the right and toppled to the ground. All he felt was rage, pure fury, that he should be thwarted again. He needed that mount, a strong, fresh horse that would take him farther.
Joce wearily pulled his horse’s head around until it faced east again. Beating it with the flat of his sword, he urged it into an irregular canter, eyes skinned for more enemies.
Baldwin was still sitting on the stool watching the boy when he heard footsteps approaching. He felt no need to rise, and merely nodded to Mark when the monk entered and bowed at the altar.
‘Brother.’
‘Peter told me he was here. How is he?’
‘Weak.’
‘Perhaps he will survive – but he looks terrible.’
Baldwin could not argue with that. ‘It is unlikely that he can live.’
Gerard was stirring again. He grunted, then shouted out, ‘Joce, please, no! Don’t kill me!’
‘That,’ Baldwin said, ‘appears to be proof of that man’s guilt. I had not suspected that Joce could have tried to do this.’
‘A town’s Receiver attacking an acolyte. It is almost unbelievable.’
‘As is the idea that a Receiver should try to force an acolyte to steal plate from the Abbey,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘I wonder why he felt he could do that?’
‘Has he been arrested?’
‘No.’ Baldwin stared sorrowfully at the figure of Gerard. Now that the blood had been washed away by Peter, Gerard’s wounds stood out more more horrifically. His nose was notched, almost cut in two, while his ear had been taken off. The obscene flap of cheek had been cleaned and rested back in place, but Baldwin doubted that it could remain. That cheek would remain a hideous scar for the rest of the boy’s life.
‘You go and rest, Sir Baldwin. You look very tired,’ Mark said understandingly.
‘That is very kind,’ Baldwin said, but then he grew aware of more feet ascending the stairs. ‘Simon? Did you learn anything?’
‘I think so, yes,’ Simon answered. He shot a look at Gerard, relieved to see that he was alive. Facing Mark, he said, ‘I am glad to have seen you again, Brother. I was thinking about the day when I had seen the Abbot and saw you at your room.’
Mark smiled but his face was largely blank. ‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘You will. I had been so tied up with the murders, I forgot all about the theft of the wine. The pewter being taken, and the dead miner – both seemed so much more important. Yet of course they were no more important. A man who is prepared to steal from the Abbot of a place like this, would be prepared to commit any crime.’
‘I could hardly disagree in principle,’ Brother Mark said politely, ‘but the theft of wine is surely very different from stealing pewter from the Abbey’s guests. Anyway, we know who the thief was: as I told the Abbot some days ago, it seems certain that the thief was Gerard.’
‘You told the Abbot?’ Baldwin exclaimed. ‘I thought Peter must have told Abbot Robert.’
‘I don’t know why you would think that. Heavens! Peter tell the Abbot something like that? I shouldn’t think so. He prefers to keep secrets from others, not blurt them.’
‘Perhaps he feels other men’s secrets are their own to keep or divulge,’ Simon said pointedly. ‘And the master of a thief might decide to surrender him in order to save his own hide.’
Mark gaped. ‘You think to accuse me of controlling the lad? You suggest I was his accomplice?’
‘Simon,’ Baldwin interrupted hastily, ‘Peter and I were here when we heard Gerard declare Augerus was the man who persuaded him to steal; Augerus and Joce Blakemoor.’
‘I am sure Augerus was,’ Simon said. ‘Guilty of taking the pewter and having Walwynus carry it away to Joce, more than likely. But I will say this: Augerus was not guilty of stealing the wine. Was he, Mark?’