kept out as well, in an attempt to keep the streets moderately clean, but it was not only animals which blocked lanes, and as he went David noted who had allowed garbage to collect. Each would receive a fine if they did not clear it; another duty of the port-reeve was to ensure that those who allowed obstructions to accumulate were punished.
At one corner, near the bottom of the Brentor road as it approached the Abbey, he stopped dead and shook his head.
In a narrow little alley that led between a butcher and cookshop, there was a pile of rubbish. Tattered remains of cloth, ancient and part-rotted sacks, broken staves, and other scraps and debris littered the ground. Shards of broken pottery and poultry bones crunched underfoot, and he accidentally kicked a pot which smashed against the wall. A scrawny dog scavenged, crouching in the dark of the alley, anticipating a kick or hurled stone. Holcroft ignored it. Marching to the cookshop door, he hammered on it.
“Elias? Elias, I know you’re in there! Open this door.” He beat upon the timbers again and shouted, and when there was no response, he took a step back, staring upward thoughtfully. The little unglazed window above was unshuttered. David picked up a broken spar of wood, hefting it in his hand, gauging the weight, and then hurled it through the opening.
Almost immediately there was a high-pitched shriek, closely followed by a curse. David quickly moved a little farther from the building before his missile could return, as the cook appeared at the window gripping the wood like a cudgel. “Who the…?”
“You know well enough. Me!”
“Why, port-reeve! I’m sorry, David, did you knock? I didn’t hear, I’ve been busy, getting ready for the fair, you know. Anyway, what do you think you’re doing, throwing blocks of wood through people’s windows? It could have been dangerous, you might have hurt someone…”
“Shut up, Elias! The fair opens tomorrow, and you’ve left all your garbage out here in the street. I told you yesterday to clear it, but you’ve done nothing. If it’s still there tomorrow, I’ll personally take great pleasure in amercing you. With all this lot, it’s got to be worth a good six pennies.”
“Six pennies?” The cook gaped in dismay. “I can’t afford a fine like that, David. Look, couldn’t I just move it back in the alley? No one’ll see it if I shove it round the corner a bit.”
“No, Elias. Get it all out to the midden.”
“What if I…”
The door of the butcher’s shop opened, and David winked at its owner, Will Ruby. He was a plump man, and seeing the port-reeve, he leaned against his doorpost and cast an eye up at his neighbor. “I told you you’d have to clear it, you daft bugger, didn’t I? It does my business no good to have my customers walking past your rubbish every morning. I doubt it does much for you, either.”
“Shut up, Will. Why don’t you get on and sort out your stall? I’m talking to the port-reeve here.”
“Yes, well, if you’d listened to me in the first place, you’d not have to talk to the port-reeve, would you?”
“Six pennies, Elias,” David repeated. “That’s what it’ll be tomorrow, and seeing I’m on my way to the Abbot now, I’ll tell him to expect your money.”
The cook let his head droop disconsolately. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, David heard a muttered word. The cook glanced quickly behind him, and the port-reeve peered up with interest. Will edged closer and jabbed an elbow into his side, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “It’s that girl, Lizzie. He got her up to his room after drinking with her in the tavern,” he chortled, and strolled toward the fair.
“Elias, you do know all the rules of the fair, don’t you? You’ve got all your things set up in the fairground, have you?” The face above nodded quickly. “Good.” Then David added suavely, “Remember, too, that prostitutes are outlawed during the fair, won’t you?” Like all fairs, to prevent lewd or bawdy behavior, and disease, prostitutes and lepers were outlawed. Lepers must stay behind their doors, and prostitutes mustn’t ply their trade.
The cook shiftily avoided his eyes. The man was searching for something innocuous to say, and David had an overpowering urge to laugh while the cook squirmed, but before Elias could think of a safe comment, his eyes suddenly widened. He was yanked backward and disappeared, to be replaced by a young woman with loose brown hair that curled round her shoulders.
“Well, David, do you want me thrown from this house? Where could I go? Would you give me a room to sleep in?”
The port-reeve tried to maintain his dignified mien, but when the girl fluttered her eyelashes in mock supplication and held her thumb and forefinger a short distance apart, shaking her head in apparent disgust, he had to relent, relaxing his stern features. “No, Lizzie, much though I’d like to, I think my wife’d be upset. But remind Elias that Nick Turgys was amerced twelve pennies last year for having whores in his house during the fair. If Elias can’t afford six pennies for his rubbish, I doubt he could afford another twelve – not as well as your fee.”
As he moved on toward the Abbey, he was in a contemplative mood. When almost there, he paused a while to watch the latest traders arrive. A long line of merchants was riding up from the western gate, and he could see that they had their wagons and carts filled. One face he recognized: Roger Torre, striding beside a friar. Roger scraped by panning for tin on the moors. He eked out a living by catching rabbits, and rented land from the Abbot to grow vegetables and herbs. He didn’t prosper, but he was not so poor as some of the men who inhabited the little stone sheds on the moors. Only the bigger miners seemed to make good money.
David waved to him and carried on. Torre was always keen to drink and exchange stories, and the port-reeve was determined to finish his work and join the moorman in the tavern. He had need of a companion who would not talk to him of garbage, fairs or whores.
Another man was watching Torre and the friar. He stood a little to one side of the port-reeve, partly obscured by drapery hung to celebrate the fair.
It was so many years ago, he had thought he would be safe here, but now his worst imagining was realized as he watched the cleric and his friend making their way to the fair. If he should be seen and recognized, he would be in danger of his life – but what could he do? He had tried to escape before, and that had ended in disaster.
Perhaps even that failure might show him how to avoid justice again. If he dared be bold once more, he might yet be able to get away. He preferred to remain hidden, but if he had no choice, he would act, he decided, and he slipped away down an alley.
3
Elias pulled on his hose and left the girl Lizzie in his chamber. Out in the street, he stood and surveyed his pile of garbage with exasperation. It was mad to expect people to clear away everything just because there was going to be a fair. Sourly pursing his lips, he stood for a while assessing how many barrow-loads it would take. He was sure there were more than ten, and the midden lay out at the western edge of the borough. That meant he had at least two hours’ hard work.
“God’s blood! I’d like to drop it all off on that damned port-reeve’s house.”
The idea was tempting, but he discarded it from reasons of practicality. David would be sure to know where it had come from, and too many other people had remarked upon all the muck over the last week or two; if he was to shift it from his alley to another’s house, it would take little time for him to be found out. Morosely he fetched his tools and began forking rubbish from the top into his barrow. When it was filled, he set his fork against the wall and started out for the midden.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun’s heat was concentrated by the white limewash of the buildings on either side. The walls gleamed so strongly he had to squint. Slouching along reluctantly, he could feel the sweat bursting from his skin. It formed a stream under his shirt, trickling down his spine and soaking into the seat of his hose. At the parish church dedicated the previous year by Bishop Stapledon to St. Eustace, he rested a moment, spitting on his hands and rubbing them. He was used to picking up sacks of flour or carcasses, but walking along pushing his wooden barrow was tiring in the heat. Reaching the midden, he emptied his load into the stinking pool. Then, resignedly pulling his shoulders back, he made his way homeward.
He was on his fourth load when he heard the Abbey bells, and he groaned when he saw the lengthening
