vote was taken: the castle would not be attacked. Martin the miller sprang to his feet.
‘And what about my son?’
‘Leave that to the royal justices,’ Piers snapped. ‘Better still, I’ll approach Sir John.’
And on such words the meeting broke up. Some of the younger men gathered round the taverner; their muttered curses and surly looks showed they had not accepted what had been decided.
‘Come with us, Beatrice.’
Her hands were grasped. Robin and Isabella sped with her across the taproom and up the stairs to a chamber. The room was dark and dingy. An unemptied chamber pot stood in the corner covered by a filthy cloth. A rickety table, two narrow stools and a broken coffer were the only items of furniture in the room. A man was sitting on the bed. A tavern wench, a slattern, was kneeling on the floor before him; it was obvious that the greasy-faced, pockmarked young man was attempting a clumsy seduction. He was dressed in a scruffy brown jerkin with dark-blue sleeves unbuttoned to reveal a wine-stained shirt beneath. His fat legs were encased in blue kersey leggings. On the floor beside him were his scuffed boots and a rather battered war belt from which sword and dagger hung. Against the bolsters were two bulging leather panniers full of yellowing scrolls of parchment. The wench was pretty enough, narrow-faced, with long, black hair which reached to her shoulders. The bodice of her bottle-green dress had been undone, revealing swelling breasts beneath a white chemise.
‘Are you really what you say?’ the wench asked, smiling at the silver coin the man twirled between his fingers.
‘I have more power than you think,’ the fellow replied. ‘I am a summoner from the Archdeacon’s Court of Arches. I have powers both natural and supernatural.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I could have you summoned to the Archdeacon’s Court for whoring and lechery.’
‘Don’t be impudent!’ the wench snapped. ‘Master Taylis sent me up because you wanted some company.’
The summoner scratched at a red spot on his cheek, taking away the pus-filled scab. ‘How would you like to travel to Colchester and appear before the Archdeacon, eh? He is a terrible man. So,’ he patted the bed beside him, ‘why not sit here and entertain me?’
The wench obeyed. The summoner knocked his saddlebags full of writs and proclamations on to the floor and grasped the girl, rolling her on to the bed. He plunged a hand up her skirts, pulling back both kirtle and petticoat beneath. The girl kicked out long, brown legs, oohing and aahing as she thrust away his probing hands. Robin and Isabella were laughing but Beatrice did not like being here. It wasn’t so much spying on these two as the atmosphere in the chamber. Those shapes she had seen in the taproom below moved about, the air was tinged with a rank smell like the stench from an unclean latrine. Beatrice could see the wench was repelled by the scabby-faced summoner but attracted by his silver. She sat up on the bed, her dress awry, her hair almost covering her face.
‘Give me the silver piece,’ she demanded.
The summoner tossed it on to the table and grasped her by the arm.
‘It will stay there until I have had my pleasure.’ He paused at the sound of voices from the taproom below. ‘What’s happening below?’ he asked.
‘Oh, the usual grumbles.’
‘I heard rumours about a tax collector being murdered.’
‘Yes,’ the wench replied, enjoying the look of fear on the summoner’s face. ‘He came here collecting what he shouldn’t.’
‘Not like me,’ the summoner replied. ‘I pay for what I take.’
‘What about these powers?’ the wench asked. ‘What do you mean by supernatural?’
‘I have powers,’ the summoner replied, holding one hand up, fingers splayed.
Robin and Isabella were now giggling like two mischievous children.
‘I can call on the Dark Lords to do my bidding.’
‘And do what?’ the wench asked.
‘Things. I can make matter move without touching it.’
Isabella darted forward and knocked a tin cup off the table; Robin picked up the war belt and flung it across the room. The summoner stared, mouth open, eyes popping.
‘You can do it!’ said the wench, awed.
‘I… er…’ The summoner was alarmed.
Robin and Isabella were enjoying their game. They pulled a cloak off a peg and tossed it to the floor. They picked up the grimy towel from the lavarium and waved it like a pennant. The wench was now frightened. She climbed off the bed and retreated to the door. Isabella was ready for her, pulling across the bolts and turning the key. Other items were picked up and thrown like scraps of straw.
The summoner paled with fright, beads of sweat ran down his cheek. He was so taken by the terrors that he wet himself. He sat rigid, hands on his knees. The maid began to scream.
‘Stop it!’ Beatrice called. ‘For the love of God, stop it!’
Immediately Robin and Isabella became docile and stood with their hands at their sides, heads lowered, looking at her from under their brows. Their eyes seemed to have lost their colour. The tavern wench drew back the bolts, flung open the door and went screaming down the gallery. The summoner moved quickly, grasping at his possessions, putting the silver coin back in his purse. He threw himself through the open doorway. Robin and Isabella laughed.
‘You see, Beatrice,’ Isabella crowed, grasping her husband’s hand. ‘Brother Antony was wrong. You can cross the divide. You could intervene.’
‘How?’ she asked.
‘Let your hate flow,’ Robin replied with a smile. ‘Think of it as a stick or a dagger, put all your mind, heart and soul behind it.’
Beatrice stared at this precious pair. What they offered was tantalising but she sensed there was something dreadfully wrong about it, that if she accepted what they said, there would be no turning back.
‘I want to go,’ she said.
‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’
She looked through the window. Brother Antony stood in the street below, shaking a raised finger in warning.
Beatrice fled from the room, down the steps. But outside there was no high street, no Brother Antony, only a long, dark trackway fringed by trees. The chapman leading his sumpter pony, the two great mastiffs bounding before him, was coming towards her.
Words Between the Pilgrims
The clerk paused in his tale. The pilgrims clustered round the crackling fire beseeched him with their eyes to continue. The pardoner, clawing at his flaxen hair, was smirking mischievously at the summoner who sat, head down, shoulders hunched.
‘Have you ever been to Maldon, sir?’ The pardoner asked sweetly.
‘Never!’ this messenger of the Church snapped. ‘I’ve never been to Maldon. I know nothing of a tavern called the Pot of Thyme.’ Yet the way he moved his lips and a shift in his eyes showed the pilgrims he was lying. The man of law hitched his fur robes tighter round his shoulders. This tale disturbed him, and so did this God-forsaken wood, with the mist seeping in, the sounds of the night all around them. Only the fiery warmth of the fire kept the terrors at bay.
‘I’ve been to Maldon,’ the reeve announced, looking quickly at the knight. Sir Godfrey hid a smile behind his hand. He knew all about the reeve’s activities in the great revolt that had swept through Essex and Kent some nine years previously: the reeve had been high in the rebels’ council.
‘I recognise some of the names,’ the Reeve continued in his nasal whine. ‘The farmer, Piers, Taylis the taverner, though he’s now dead.’
‘These visions you describe, Master Clerk,’ Sir Godfrey said, ‘can you explain them?’
Surprisingly, the monk leaned forward, one bony hand extended as a sign that he wished to speak.
‘There are many worlds,’ he said in a deep, rich voice. ‘How do we know that five or six realities don’t exist at the same time? Even the great philosophers admit to such a possibility.’
