shadows. Vespers already, and he wasn’t halfway through the mound. His irritation made him careless. The wheel caught in a rut, and he froze, eyes wide, mouth pursed into a thin white line as he gripped the solid timber handles, desperately struggling to keep it upright. Then the wheel slipped treacherously on a stone and the whole reeking load slid from the overturned barrow.
Elias fumed. Fists clenched, he kicked the wheel in futile rage. Hearing a man chuckling, he was about to swear when he saw it was a monk. Elias carefully watched till the figure had disappeared through the Abbey’s great gate before letting out a hissed oath. He didn’t want another fine.
It was almost dark by the time he had completed the eighth trip, and when he got back to the alleyway he groaned. The pile looked as large in the diminishing light as when he had started. He wiped a hand over his brow. “Tomorrow. I’ll finish it tomorrow,” he muttered, too tired to carry on. He was hungry, but his belly craved beer. His attention was drawn up along the road, to where he could see the bush hanging out over the street to advertise the tavern. The alewife had brewed four times her usual quantity of ale in preparation for the fair, and Elias knew she would be happy to let him taste some for a reasonable amount.
He hefted the barrow’s handles and shoved it up the alley, round to the yard behind his shop. Then he made his way to the tavern, thrusting the door open with his shoulder and striding through the curtained screens into the room.
This tavern had been a farmhouse once, but over many decades it had been altered. Where a farmer would have sheltered his flocks and oxen, now customers sat at trestle tables on rough benches, while the alewife’s girls circled, halting momentarily at tables to dispense ale, then moving on to the next, like butterflies sipping at flowers. A fire glowed in the middle of the packed earth floor, ready to be kicked into life as the temperature fell.
When he walked in, the place was already crowded. Men and women stood talking, one or two children were asleep, wrapped in cloaks by the walls, and a pair of hounds scavenged for scraps among the rushes. He could see Lizzie in the far corner, and thought that after that afternoon she might serve him, but when he tried to catch her eye, the girl didn’t notice. There were few seats left, and Elias hesitated in the doorway before seeing someone he recognized: Roger Torre.
“Move on, Roger.”
“Elias? Take a seat. This is a friend of mine, friar. He owns a cookshop.”
“Peace be with you,” Hugo hiccupped happily, sliding up the bench to make space.
“And you, brother,” Elias answered automatically, waving to Agatha, the alewife.
“So, friar,” Torre said, continuing his conversation. “If the Abbot wants to demand money from me, is that right?”
Hugo had drunk several pints of good ale, more than he was used to, and was filled with good humor. He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Abbots and bishops don’t deserve your money, nor anyone else’s. Many don’t even deserve respect. Take the Bishop of Durham – he can’t read. He fumbled over his own consecration: couldn’t pronounce the word metropolitanus, and muttered, ‘Let’s take that as read!’ And when he presided over an ordination, he swore when he came to aenigmate, that is, ‘through a glass darkly,’ saying, ‘By St. Louis, whoever wrote this word was no courteous man!’ When we have prelates such as he, how can anyone respect the holy calling?”
“So you think I shouldn’t pay, friar?”
“I think… I think I have drunk enough!” Hugo stood unsteadily and climbed over the bench. “I need the privy.”
“Where did you pick him up?” asked Elias, watching the gray-clad cleric stumble round the room to the door, one hand touching the wall all the way for support.
But Torre was distracted before he could answer. As Agatha hurried over and thumped a mug before Elias, Torre motioned to the doorway. “Beware of them, mistress.”
The alewife tutted. “The watchmen from Denbury? They don’t trouble me.”
Torre affably lifted his ale to the one called “Long Jack,” and chuckled when his welcome was ignored. “I’ll go and make sure my friar hasn’t got lost,” he said, rising to his feet.
He had only been gone a few moments when Elias saw Holcroft at the threshold. The cook shielded his face, but he was too slow, and the port-reeve sauntered over to him. “I see your rubbish isn’t gone yet.”
“I’ll have it finished tomorrow, I promise.”
Holcroft took Torre’s seat and waved to the alewife. “See you do.” As usual at fairtime, many of the faces were unfamiliar to him. He recognized the watchmen, though. They were drinking heavily, standing in a huddle near the fire, and he hoped they wouldn’t be drunk all the time. In fairness, he knew they had walked all the way from Denbury, so they must be thirsty.
Every year there were complaints about them. They felt that since they were in Tavistock to protect people, they should be able to demand fees from stall-holders. Sometimes a merchant would complain, but then he might find that his stocks became damaged, or his stall could unaccountably fall over, or perhaps the merchant would wake up the next morning in the gutter with a broken arm. David had heard it all from Andrew the year before, and had tried to get new men from Denbury this time, but as usual no one else was willing. Looking at the heavy-set figures, he thought their faces could have been carved from moorstone slabs. He knew why others didn’t put their names forward. Men like these knew how to deter volunteers.
Another group appeared, two rich men and their servant led by a young monk. Holcroft had heard of the anticipated arrival of the Venetians when he met the Abbot’s steward earlier, and he assumed these must be the Camminos. If their expensive foreign clothing didn’t give them away, the fact that a novice monk had led them to the tavern was proof enough. The Abbot only asked his monks to direct visitors when they were important.
Agatha passed him a mug and nodded to Elias. “Someone wants to speak to you.”
Nothing loath, Elias left Holcroft and followed after her. In a dark corner of the hall was a powerfully built figure, thickly bearded, dressed in red leather jerkin over his doublet and shirt, who watched Elias approach with glittering eyes.
“Hello, Elias.”
The cook stopped and stared, almost dropping his mug. “Christ’s blood! Jordan!”
The Camminos’ servant Luke pulled a bench over for his master, and waved to the monk. “Go on, sit, brother.”
“No, I – er – I should get back.” Peter was new to the town of Tavistock, and although his Abbot had asked him to direct the visitors to the tavern when they explained that they had to meet their fellow-travellers, he felt ill- at-ease in a drinking hall. There was too much ribald humor and singing, and the sight of the serving girls made him uncomfortable. “It’s late, I have duties…”
“Oh, sit, brother,” Antonio rumbled. “We may need help to find our way back to the Abbey later. Have a pot of wine.”
Luke rested on the bench gratefully and took a pot from the alewife. It felt good to relax, stretch his legs and drink good English ale. He had spent too many years with his master in Castile and Gascony, and these last few weeks in England had been like a holiday. It was nice to be back in his own country again.
He had been born north of London, near Huntingdon, the son of a cobbler. But he had seen more of the world than his father ever had, especially since he had worked for Cammino. The Venetian had saved his life; when Antonio had found him, Luke had been near the end of his money, and there was little chance that he would have been able to earn any more. The guilds in Gascony, where he had been living, were very strong, and finding work had been all but impossible as a foreigner. Cammino had taken him on and fed and clothed him, and Luke knew he owed his master a massive debt.
Luke’s muttered curse made Antonio turn sharply to the door. There, swaying slightly, a benevolent smile fixed to his face, was the friar again. “Oh, God’s blood!”
Hugo was feeling kindly to the world. “My friend, may I speak with you a moment?”
“No, I have business to attend to. I don’t need another lecture.”
“But I want to…”
“Enough, friar! Leave us in peace.”
The friar opened his mouth to continue, and this decided Antonio. He stood. “Come, Pietro, Luke.”
“Father!” his son protested. “What about Arthur and his daughter…”
It was too late, his father was already striding for the door. Luke took Pietro by the arm. “Come, master
