Taking a drinking horn filled with ale through to the shop, he ensconced himself behind the table and pulled it back into place. Before long, Joce appeared at his door and demanded one of his meat-pies. Nothing loath, for Nob always liked to have someone to talk to, especially when he had a sore head, he served Joce with the juiciest and plumpest one on the table.
‘Terrible days. First poor Wally, now Hamelin. Who’ll be next, eh?’
‘Where’s Cissy?’
‘She went off last night to help poor Emma.’
Joce finished his pie and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Hamelin’s life or death had no interest for him. He was a cretin of a miner. A poor man who could achieve nothing but dig, dig, dig for tin. He might as well have been a serf. The man could be consumed by hellfire for all he cared. He grunted, ‘Have you seen my servant last night or today?’
‘What, young Art? No, why? Has he disappeared?’
‘Bastard’s vanished. Not there when I got home last night. There’s no food, nothing – and some little pieces of jewellery have gone missing, too. Small things, but enough.’
Nob whistled. ‘You think he stole them? That’s bad, that is. Where could he have gone?’
‘Have you seen him?’ Joce repeated through gritted teeth.
‘No, but I’ll tell you if I do. Have you told the watch?’
‘Oh, damn them and you!’ Joce raged suddenly and stormed from the shop.
All the pie-cooking fool could think about was that sick cretin Hamelin, as if the death of a miner was a matter of any consequence. And Cissy had run off to ‘help’ the widow, as though she could do anything useful. Emma was widowed, and that was it. Unless Cissy was prepared to offer her money, she would probably have to fall back on the support of the parish. Another damned pauper for men like Joce to maintain. As if there weren’t enough useless mouths to be fed.
Like his little shit of a servant. That bastard would regret the day he was born, when Joce caught up with him. Not that it should be too difficult to track him down. Joce had a good idea where the lad was. He strode along the roadway, out past the middens on the northern road, and over the bridge to the eastern riverbank. Turning left, he followed the water until he came into view of a large pair of barns. Seeing the flames flickering between the trees, he walked more cautiously now, until he could get a good view of the men.
It was Sir Tristram’s little army; they lay, still asleep, or sat and stared at the campfires while a guard leaned against a door and kept a wary eye upon them all, making sure none of them tried to escape.
Joce cast his eyes about them, but there was no sign of Art. Some bodies were sprawled on the grass, wrapped in blankets or coats, and he studied them in case Art might be among them, but he saw no figure that looked like him. One man was familiar, but Joce wasn’t sure why. The lad had a shaven head, like a penitent, and gripped a soft felt cap in his hands. He looked nervous, and every time that the sparks flew up, his eyes moved anxiously from side to side as if he was fearfully watching the men about him.
As well he might, Joce thought, his attention moving on again. Somewhere here, he was sure, was the thieving sod of a servant who had robbed him. That acolyte could have a hand in it, too. The bastard had enough balls to break into his house and steal all his pewter. Although what he would have done with it afterwards was another question. Like Augerus said, it would be difficult for him to carry away that much stuff. Perhaps he had hidden it in the town, and was planning to sneak back to collect it. That was the sort of thing that Joce would do. It would make sense – wait until the Hue and Cry had died down, and then sidle back and collect the lot. Only it suggested that this acolyte was brighter than he had thought. Brighter than Augerus had thought too, for that matter.
There was no sign of his servant, and he set his jaw. Art wasn’t bright enough to come here – or perhaps he was too bright. Anyone must think of coming here and taking a squint at the poor buggers all lined up in a row ready to march. Joining Sir Tristram’s group would be an easy means of escaping.
It was while he was leaving the camp that the bald lad’s face came back to him, the pale features with the large bright eyes. Why should someone shave his pate? Monks did it as a sign of their devotion; others might do it to change their appearance. Damn it! Even a monk might want to change his appearance, and how easy it would be to conceal a tonsure by shaving all the hair about it.
Especially, he thought with a dawning realisation, if the hair were red. Like Gerard’s.
That morning, Baldwin and Simon broke their fast with the coroner, and then spoke to a servant and requested Peter to join them in the guest rooms.
Without preamble, Baldwin asked the almoner, ‘Sir Tristram was in the Northern Marches at the same time as you and Walwynus, wasn’t he? He knew the dead man – we know that from the way he reacted to seeing Walwynus’ body. Could he have ridden out to the moors and killed him?’
‘I wouldn’t know. It’s possible. He knew of Wally in the north, and he hated all Scots. Aye, but didn’t Sir Tristram arrive here only after the coining?’
‘We have to verify that,’ Coroner Roger said.
Simon mused, ‘He wasn’t in the abbey, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t near. Maybe he was staying in Tavistock.’
Peter gazed at him. ‘Why so much interest in him?’
‘From
