‘Forgetting it could have led to three hundred miners milling about in Tavistock, all demanding that their metal should be coined, all drinking steadily until they were of a mood to riot,’ he said drily. ‘You haven’t seen the damage that ten happy miners can wreak after a few quarts of ale, so you can’t imagine a hundred angry miners on the rampage after a couple of gallons each. It doesn’t bear thinking about! So yes, the Abbot will fleece me as best he might if I don’t get this to Tavistock quickly.’
‘You must have been very distressed,’ she murmured, putting her arms about him.
‘I was.’
‘And now you have to leave again. So sad.’
She had turned her head from him, so that her cheek was against his breast, and he could smell the lavender in her hair. He stroked it, kissed her head and let his hands wander down her back to her waist. A shiver ran through her body, and then she stood back and slowly began to undress. ‘You don’t have to leave immediately, do you?’
It was while he was giving himself up to a pleasantly erotic recollection of the occasion, that the procession arrived.
There was a sudden quietness among the bearded, scruffily dressed miners. Up until then Simon had been aware of the rumble of low voices and the clatter of pots and trenchers as the girls from the local alehouse filled pots and served pastries. Not now. Suddenly the marketplace was silent, and when he looked up, he saw the Steward’s men roping off the centre, the crowds being pushed back by servants.
When a space was cleared, the King’s beam was brought out and adjusted, the Controller and Weigher carefully checking the machine with their standard weights, which were solemnly unsealed from their box while the whole crowd watched intently, witnessing the fact that there could be no cheating here. It was in the interests of the miners that the metal should be fairly weighed. All were to be taxed against the measured weight of the tin that they had brought, and until the miner paid the tax on his ingot, he could not sell the metal.
When all was prepared, the Assay-master sat at his small anvil, his hammer and chisels ready, while the other officials took their seats facing the beam where they could have a clear view.
The Receiver, a short, dark-haired man with the face and belly of a glutton, stood and called the crowd to witness the coining, and porters began bringing up the marked ingots of tin. Some were well-formed, neat rectangles of metal, but many were rougher, marked by their moorstone moulds’ irregularities. These heavy blocks of one or two hundredweight were placed on the scales and the true weight was shouted out and noted by the three clerks to the officials. Each ingot had the mark of the owner stamped upon it, and the name was called out at the same time, checked with the register held by the Receiver.
Simon knew of him. He was called Joce Blakemoor, a local Burgess, and Simon had never liked him. He seemed too smooth for the Bailiff’s taste.
The Assay-master, a slim, wiry man with the dark hair and features of a local, was chiselling chips from the first of the ingots and seeing that the metal was of the right quality. In front of him was a grim-faced miner with a filthy leather jerkin over a patched linen shirt, so heavily stained that it looked like worn leather. His lower face was hidden entirely by a thick, grey-speckled beard, and his head was covered by a hood, which gave him the appearance of peering out shortsightedly, rather like a suspicious snail. He watched the Assay-master with a keenness that told Simon he must be the owner of the tin, hoping against hope that his coinage wouldn’t be too expensive. Simon knew the man. It was old Hal Raddych.
There were many witnesses, from miners, to locals, to several strangers who Simon thought must be pewterers and agents. People from all over the country wanted tin.
One in particular caught his eye – a tall, well-made man with oddly-cut clothes. He was no local, Simon was sure. When a red-headed youth in a Benedictine novice’s garb bumped into him, he swore, but not in English or French. The youngster was profusely apologetic, and the man smiled and nodded.
Simon was leaning against a pillar and viewing things, his servant scowling ferociously at all about, for Hugh detested crowds, daring any cut-purse to try his luck, when the messenger reached them; it was to the noise of the stamps hammering the King’s arms into the ingot that Simon received his summons.
‘I must go to the Abbot now?’ he repeated, bellowing over the din, and as he spoke the noise suddenly stopped. By coincidence, the assaying of one ingot was complete, and the bill of weight charged against Hal Raddych was being scrawled on the bill sheet. Once the tax was paid, the tinner could sell his metal, so there was a short period of expectation while the interested merchants and pewterers’ agents witnessed the bill being signed, and it was into this void that Simon’s voice roared.
Every head in the place was turned to him. Ashamed, he wanted to scurry away like a rat, but he didn’t wish everyone there to see how upset he was at having to pay a fine, for he was sure that was the reason for the summons. The Abbot had decided to fine him for his incompetence and stupidity in forgetting the hammer, even though he had brought it here in good time. When he glanced about him, he saw that Hal Raddych was staring at him. Behind him, Joce Blakemoor too was watching him keenly.
Seeing him only made Simon irritable. ‘Damn the man’s eyes,’ he muttered, squaring his shoulders. ‘I hope he gets blinded by a chip from an ingot!’
It was only much later that he came to wonder whether the expression he had seen in Blakemoor’s eyes was less amusement at Simon’s plight, more fear for himself.
Joce Blakemoor’s expression hadn’t been missed by Walwynus, either. Wally was watching as the tin was gathered up and weighed, the metal gleaming in the sun where the Assay-master had chiselled off a corner.
A few yards away was the slightly gaunt figure of the Abbot’s Steward, Augerus. Wally nodded to him and tilted his head, and Augerus nodded. Wally didn’t like the man, but he was useful, he thought as he made his way to a table outside a tavern. There he held up a penny for the host, and when Augerus arrived, the landlord had already brought two pots of strong ale.
‘You wish to sit?’ Wally asked.
‘For a moment, friend,’ Augerus said gratefully. ‘My Abbot is returned, and he’s had me rushing all over the place, cleaning this, sharpening that, preparing his writing reeds and tablets… Ah! Life was so restful while he was away.’
‘I heard you had a good evening in the tavern,’ Wally said.
Augerus shrugged contentedly. While the Abbot was out of the town, he felt free to indulge himself, and it was good to relax with a few ales and a friend. ‘You have it?’
He watched as Wally produced a small lump wrapped in material, bound with a thong. ‘Here.’
Augerus pulled the knot free and glanced down at the pile of coins.
‘You want to count it?’ Wally asked.
‘No. But it’s not much for all the effort.’
‘You know our friend. He’s not generous,’ Wally said easily. There was little point, in his mind, explaining that instead of a fifty-fifty cut, he had taken four-sevenths of the money – eight shillings out of fourteen instead of seven. Augerus was expecting a full half, but Wally felt justified in awarding himself more. He took much of the risk, after all.
Augerus grunted discontentedly. ‘I’d best be back.’
‘Aye, well, see you later.’
‘I may have something then. A pewterer is in the Abbey.’
‘Not tonight. There will be too many wandering about the town drunk. Leave it till tomorrow. I’ll warn our friend.’
Augerus nodded and left. Soon Wally rose, and as he walked from the alehouse, he saw her again: Sara, the girl with the anxious eyes, as he had thought of her. Yesterday evening, when he had been hanging around outside Joce Blakemoor’s house, idling there for no particular reason, he had seen the girl rush up to the Receiver’s front door and hammer on it. An attractive little thing, Wally thought regretfully. Of course, she was far too good-looking for the likes of him, with her fine red gown with embroidered flowers at the hem and her silken fair hair shaken loose from her wimple and floating about her shoulders as the breeze caught it. She looked beautiful in her apparent distress.