No one else had a horse behind him, but now he was committed, whether he wanted it or not. The road south was at the other side of the river. He could attempt to ford it further downstream, but that would be hazardous. No, he was better off trying to cross over the moors.
In any case, this was the way he should be taking, he realised. What had the lad said? That Wally, the shit, had sold the plate to some foreign bastard on the moors. That was what Gerard had said, and he’d said it in the extremity of his pain, when he was trying to save his life. Surely that was what Joce must do now, then. Find these travellers and retrieve his pewter.
With that resolve, he whipped the reins across the flanks of the horse and forced it to go faster.
Joce would go up by the main roadway, for none of the line of beaters would expect the murderer to be behind them. Then he would ride to the first mining camp and ask about strange-speaking foreigners and whether anyone had seen them. And if the foreign bastards refused to give his property back to him – Joce smiled coldly – he would kill them. Without compunction. He had tried to kill twice today already, with Gerard and then Sara, and he was keen to succeed the third time.
Simon waited until Baldwin had followed the stretcher through a doorway, and then wandered down to fetch an ale. Mark was sitting as usual on his little stool in the doorway to his salting rooms.
‘Bailiff! Who was that?’ he called out, staring after the stretcher.
Simon walked over to him. ‘That poor acolyte Gerard. He was caught and attacked by someone on the other side of the river. We don’t know who it was, but we’ll get him.’
‘It wasn’t me, Master Bailiff! I have been here all day. And an exciting one it has been too.’
Gratefully taking a mazer filled with an excellent spiced wine, Simon leaned against the doorway. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if you were to learn of a monk who’d been stealing from the abbey you’d want to punish him wouldn’t you?’
Mark eyed him curiously, then drained his cup. ‘Of course. No question.’
‘So what has been happening here, then?’
‘Nothing that would excite you, I daresay, Bailiff, but for a crowd of old women like we monks, it was quite thrilling. Young Reginald was discovered sprawled before the altar this morning, quite beside himself. Old Peter spoke to him last night, but it didn’t improve Reg’s mood. Poor fellow’s been put to bed in the infirmary to recover.’
‘You have not yet lost your sense of freedom, have you?’ Simon said suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’ Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Monks who have been brought up to the abbey are more cautious in their speech, especially with relative strangers – by which I mean any outsider, like, for instance, a bailiff.’
‘Aha! I have lived too long in the secular world, you mean,’ Mark said, picking up a jug and refilling his mazer. He waved it at Simon, who held up his hand in mild protest. ‘True, I can see further than the end of my nose, which makes me stand out a little. I mean, look at Brother Peter! A worthy, kindly enough man at first sight, but in reality, he has a terrible desire for knowledge about other monks. He cannot help but sniff out any little secrets, purely with the aim of satisfying his own inquisitive nature. If he had been apprenticed to a master like my old one, he’d have had that nosiness knocked out of him soon enough! Then there’s Augerus. He is less pious than he should be, but he has known only the cloister. How can a man respect the religious way of life if he can remember no other?’
Simon was tempted to remind Mark that his own faults included gossip and, imbibing too freely, but restrained his tongue.
Mark continued, ‘My own strength comes from the knowledge of the outside world and the way that real people live. To me, there can be nothing more sacred than this convent, because I have seen how people live outside. That,’ he sighed to himself, but giving Simon a sharp glance, ‘is why I revere this place so much more than some of my brother monks do.’
Simon said nothing but meaningfully raised an eyebrow.
‘I don’t suppose it matters now,’ Mark said. ‘I have seen Gerard about at night. I feel sure that he was the thief, although I imagine he passed his stolen goods on to someone else.’
‘Did you speak to him about his stealing?’
‘Good God, no! I told the abbot, though. And now, well, his guilt is proven, isn’t it? Why else should the boy have committed apostasy, if he wasn’t torn apart by guilt? Or unless he wanted to make off with his profits, of course.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Baldwin entered the room to find Peter standing at the side of the bed on which Gerard had been deposited.
‘How is he, Brother?’
Baldwin was struck, not for the first time, with the thought that a man with so extensive an injury to his face should not have survived. During his time as a Templar, both in the Holy Land and afterwards, Baldwin had seen men who had suffered less violent, less apparently lethal wounds, and yet they had died in hours or days, but this man had clung on. True, he had become an object of loathing or ridicule, but he was living, nonetheless. To Baldwin, it proved that he had a strong character and will to live. Many others would have scorned life and sought death.
Peter appeared to read his thoughts. He gave one of his odd, twisted smiles. ‘Perhaps he will be as fortunate as me, eh, Keeper?’
Baldwin
