‘Perhaps,’ Simon said. ‘But I believe you are innocent of the murder of Walwynus and I can see no reason why you should have killed Hamelin, but by God Himself, I believe you could have murdered the girl Agnes – and instructed your sergeant to accuse another to protect yourself!’
‘Her death is nothing to do with you here, though, is it? She died in Scotland, not in England. Different country, different times,’ Sir Tristram sneered.
Baldwin looked at him. ‘Your smugness seems proof of your guilt. It may be true that we cannot pursue you here, but your soul will suffer if you don’t seek penance. Remember that, man! You may have succeeded here, but God will seek you out when you die, and punish you.’
‘Yes, well, if He wants, I’ll take His punishment, but not for something I didn’t do! In the meantime I won’t sit listening to lectures from another knight. You declare me guilty. I say I am not. I leave it up to Him to decide.’
Simon nodded. ‘If you weren’t the murderer and rapist, then who was?’
‘I still say it was Wally and his men.’
‘Under their leader, “Red Hand”?’ Simon asked.
‘That was his name. Why?’
‘Your sergeant said yesterday that this man was Joce Blakemoor. That Blakemoor and Wally and Martyn Armstrong came down here together, all fleeing from you and your men.’
‘Christ alive!’ Sir Tristram said, stunned.
‘So you see, if you are innocent, we’ll need to catch Blakemoor to prove it,’ the coroner said. ‘Could you lend us a few men to help catch him?’
‘You can have as many men as you need. All I ask is that you get him,’ Sir Tristram ground out. ‘And that you kill him.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Gerard stirred as he heard a crackle. All about him there were grunts and snores, the faint murmuring of the stupid or fearful young, the snuffling of the infirm, but the noises were comforting in some odd way; just the fact of the companionship of all these people made him feel a little safer.
It was odd to have had his head shaved. He hadn’t expected to have to have this done, but when he spoke to Cissy, she was certain it would make enough of a difference to save him from being recognised, and he wasn’t going to argue. Especially when he had been seen by Nob in the crowd. Far better that he should suffer from the cold for a while than be caught and made to pay the penalty for his thefts and apostasy. Mind, the shaving had hurt like hell. There was an almighty bruise on his head where that damn fool Reginald had caused him to fall and strike it in the dorter.
If only, he thought, there were a pie or a loaf here now. It would make such a difference. His belly felt so empty, and food would warm him. He had lain near enough to the fire to feel the warmth, but since then three men had rolled themselves up in their blankets between him and the embers, and now he was chilled to the marrow. Memories of piping hot pies and pasties came to mind, the rich gravy of beef, the heavenly scent of pepper. The mere thought made his mouth water.
He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the sky. It was deep grey, as Dartmoor mornings so often were, and he could see tiny orange sparks gleaming as they shot upwards from the fire, glowing for a moment before they expired. He sighed and put his arms behind his head. It was nasty, the thought that he was going north to war, but as Cissy had said, there was bound to be a way of earning a living once the battles were done. He grinned to himself. The trouble was, the only way he knew of earning a living was by thieving. And that wasn’t a good idea once he was out of the abbey. He could try to claim benefit of clergy, but that was no guarantee of safety.
There was always the possibility that he might become a decent man-at-arms or archer. Some lord might decide to retain him, and he could then give up his life of petty crime and become a professional man. Fighting always had a chivalrous aspect. The women loved men-at-arms, so it was said. Even lowly archers got their wenches, and that was an appealing idea. After the enforced celibacy of the abbey, a warm, fleshy woman cradled in the crook of his arm was a very attractive concept indeed.
Certainly better than the short life he could expect if he had remained in the abbey. Reginald had made that clear. He had said that the other acolytes knew Gerard was stealing their things, and that if he didn’t stop, they were going to break his head. In fact, even if he did, Reginald said, they might decide to punish him anyway. Gerard’s selfishness had made all their lives more difficult by taking away those little trinkets they valued most. They wanted him to suffer for his greed.
It had been little use trying to explain how it hadn’t been his idea to rob them. The time when he could have confessed was long past. Nor could he accuse another monk, for all would simply assume he was passing the blame to others to protect himself. Peter and Reginald believed Gerard, but who else would?
A man rolled over, broke wind loudly, and Gerard turned his face away. There was another crackle of twigs, and he gave a faint ‘tut’ of annoyance. Someone must be tiptoeing around – but Why? Perhaps they were searching for something to steal. Well, Gerard thought, they can take the whole of my bag, if they want. There’s nothing of value at all in there.
He felt his belly with a tentative hand. His bladder was so full, he felt about ready to piss himself. He rose, stepping carefully over the bodies of the still-sleeping
