Roger de Grosse was not the happiest man in Crediton that night. His errand to the merchant out to the west of the town had been dull, requiring him to confirm deliveries of wine and spices to the cathedral. It meant that he had to spend five hours closeted with the merchant’s steward while he checked off all the items on the list given him by the Bishop and cross-checked them with the steward’s copy; then he had to walk round the chests and barrels, sampling at random some of the wine casks, opening the chests and investigating their contents – all of which were immediately closed and marked with gobbets of wax carrying the Bishop’s seal to prevent tampering.
Five hours in the chilly storeroom without an offer of ale or food had worn away the young man’s normal good humor. He had expected to be back at Peter Clifford’s hall long before now, while there was still the chance of spiced ale and warm food, but he had to accept that all he would be likely to find was stale bread and cold meat.
Only four months before, he would have been astonished at having been given such a task, for to be the son of Sir Arnold de Grosse was to be used to issuing orders and expecting others to leap to obey. It was demeaning to be told to go somewhere and count up barrels like an ordinary steward, but he knew the reason why. Walter Stapledon had explained at the outset that he was to be given many of the more onerous and tedious jobs, not because Stapledon disliked him, but because the Bishop had to be convinced that this new rector would be capable of humility and dedication. The Bishop, ever an astute man, wanted to make sure that young Grosse would be prepared to serve his parishioners, and his method was to test Roger’s commitment; giving him the menial jobs which others tried to avoid.
The logic was simple. Roger had the chance of being given a good living; and once he was installed, removing him would be difficult, not least because his father was an important patron to Stapledon, sponsoring many services and building works. It would have been easy for Stapledon to have accepted Grosse’s son and ignored the pleas of the parishioners, if only for the money. But he was a cautious man, and he took seriously his responsibilities to the souls even in the more far-flung parts of his diocese, and he was unhappy that such a young man should be installed. Stapledon wanted to test him and make sure he was fit for the position his father wanted to buy for him.
Stubbing his toe on a misplaced cobblestone and twisting his ankle, Roger gritted his teeth against the rising temptation to curse, his face a grimace of pain as he hopped, holding the offended appendage in one hand. “Cooah!” he sighed at last as the first shock and pain receded a little, and he felt able to limp to a wall and lean against it, trying to guess how much further he had to go.
He could accept Stapledon’s thinking, but for now performing like a cheap servant was hard to accept. It would be different if it was regular service, if he had become the squire to a great master, serving his apprenticeship before he could earn the golden spurs and sword belt of knighthood, but all he could work toward now was the small church selected for him by Stapledon in Callington, and he was unsure he wanted it.
Setting his foot down, he wondered again about his father’s plan for him. He was the youngest of the brothers, and it was only natural that his father should try to acquire a reasonable living for him – why else would a man invest so heavily in patronage if there was no reward in the end? And Sir Arnold expected his reward to be a post for any of his male children who were not to inherit, so that they might have somewhere to live. It was essential, when the eldest would take the whole of the estates, the home and the wealth accumulated over the years, to find something for the other sons, if there were any surviving.
Roger had not at first been interested in the church or in being a rector. He had wanted to be a knight.
His brother Geoffroy had been knighted some two years before, and since then had deigned to speak to him only rarely, aware of his greater position in life and knowing that he would inherit the estates while “little Roger” would remain a poverty-struck village priest – for Geoffroy had the firm, if patronizing, belief that his brother was generally an incompetent whom no amount of teaching or training for warfare could help. In Geoffrey’s view, any man who was not in possession of property was weak and only existed to support those who did have money. Geoffroy was going to be the wealthy one, and Roger was not. Therefore Roger must accept his secondary status in life.
There was little support for Roger in the de Grosse household. Since his mother had died, Roger had relied on friends among the servants, but that had changed over the years. His father had made him give up his childish companions when he was eight. At that age he should forget foolish playing and learn his craft. Most squires were taken on by their lords as pages at the age of five so that they could be properly taught in the arts they needed to acquire in order to become good knights. The pages had to be taught the correct ways to serve, to behave politely in company, how to sing and play music, box, wrestle and fence, until finally they were instructed in the most critical art of all: horsemanship.
Geoffrey had been taken away to live with the de Courtenay family when he was six, where he was soon favored among his contemporaries. It had come as a shock to Roger when he was also sent away, for he was to be taught his letters and raised for the priesthood. He was a sad boy, constantly reminded of his weakness and inadequacy, for his peers had no hesitation in bullying him unmercifully: they were to be soldiers, strong and bold men-of-war, while he would stay at home and preach to stupid parishioners.
If he had allowed the situation to continue, Roger might have become just another lonely rector in a provincial area, but his father’s blood flowed in his veins, and all too often down from his nose. He was an incorrigible fighter. The slightest hint of an insult would cause him to square up; the remotest suggestion that he was any weaker than the others led inevitably to a battle. His teachers looked on indulgently, for it was right that boys should defend themselves, and right that the strongest should lead the others, even with future priests, who would be expected to lead defenses in time of war. One boy in particular was Roger’s undeclared enemy, a heavy- set youth some two years his senior, but when Roger was discovered by a Bishop, rolling in the mud and soundly boxing his ears, Roger was finally given a thorough beating.
It left him sore but undefeated. His tormentors stopped teasing and jibing, and went warily when he was near.
Yet he knew in his heart that they were right. While they went on to become squires at thirteen or fourteen, riding larger and faster horses, practicing with lance and sword, he had to sit indoors and write pretty characters on parchment, or learn how to mix the powders to produce the right level of color for the pictures, or how to read the odd language that apparently was God’s own and allowed priests of all nations to converse easily.
His foot better, he hobbled along toward the church and Peter Clifford’s house. The training had been hard. Each failure to understand his work, each mispronunciation and inaccurate translation resulted in a thrashing, until he was word-perfect. He was not a natural speaker, and the idea of preaching before the population in Callington filled him with dread, but the post at least offered him freedom, and that was a sweet prize, one which he felt sure he could enjoy all the more since it involved being several days’ journey from any who wished to control him. It was made even more attractive by the fact that he was quickly coming to like Stapledon, who had so far proved to be a kindly and honorable man – unlike some who had trained him.
It would be lonely, though, and Stapledon had hinted that he might need help. Usually a new rector would have other staff to help, but in Callington there would be no one. Only Roger struggling to keep the congregation together.
He had to pause near the jail to rest his foot, for the ankle was swelling a little, and his toe ached horribly. Leaning against the wall, he glanced around phlegmatically. There was ribald laughter leaking out through a broken shutter at the inn, and the sound of someone singing. The pain receded again, and he tested his foot, staring at it dubiously. It should hold, he felt.
The dull thudding of hooves on dirt made him look up. From the street that led along the side of the butcher’s, he saw two men appear on horseback, leading a pack-mule. They slowed as they came to the main road, then walked off slowly on the Exeter road, seeming to increase their speed as they went, until they were cantering gently at the bottom of the slight hill.
Roger watched them impassively. It was a strange time to be beginning a journey, but he was not particularly interested. He was more concerned with getting himself back to Clifford’s house, so, sighing, he forced himself upright and started off again. At the entrance to an alley, he halted again. Leaning against the wall was a heavy stick; he took it and tested his weight on it. It held him, and he was about to move on when he heard noises.
The alley had no light, and in the dark he could only see for a few yards, but he was sure he could hear movement. There was a dull susurration, as of a group of people talking in whispers, nervous of being
