‘She asked me to marry her. Well, anyone would promise that, for a chance to lie with her. So I did. But Christ’s Blood, only a stupid strumpet could believe in an oath like that! Marry her! I’d as soon wed a whore from the tavern. She’s a good slut, though. I’ve only once before enjoyed one more, and that was years ago in the north.’
Wally stumbled away from the market, feeling physically sick.
Somehow he had made an appalling mistake. The man with whom he had worked, with whom he had shared so much, was gone, and in his place was this new character, a man whom Wally should have detested and scorned – or slaughtered. The words ‘years ago in the north’ kept ringing in his mind. There was only one girl Joce could have meant by that. Suddenly Wally knew he hated Joce.
Wally leaned against a door and stared dully back the way he had come. He needed a drink, he thought, and then remembered the state of Hamelin. No, he’d go and get some grub instead. There was the pie-shop nearby, and he headed to it with feet that were suddenly leaden.
At the shop, he was welcomed by the scruffy cook.
‘Hello, Nob,’ Wally said distractedly, and bought a small, cheap meat-pie.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Nob cheerily.
At first Wally scarcely heard the amiable enquiry; he was too taken up with his feelings towards Joce. Wally and his pal Martyn had worked for the receiver for a long time. Admittedly, he was a man of careless violence, but had proved a good ally – and was a useful fellow when it came to disposing of stolen goods. When Wally had first met with the greedy Augerus at the abbey and found in him a man who might be able to arrange for trinkets to be stolen, Joce was the natural man to fence the goods. He might not pay the best price, but it was adequate, and the profits split between Wally and Augerus were enough to live on frugally.
But all this time Wally had never realised that Joce could have been the man who killed the girl. She had been raped, then murdered, and for ages Wally had suspected that it was Martyn who had done it, but now he wondered if Joce had been the guilty one, the killer of the woman who had saved Wally’s life.
His belly was full of bile, but he made a conscious effort to act naturally, to listen and chat as Nob spoke. He didn’t want to appear distraught. If he was to have revenge on Joce, he must seem innocent. How to hurt Joce, though? That was the question that nagged at him now.
‘I don’t understand how monks and farmers get so much from the ground,’ he said, forcing himself to speak conversationally to Nob, ‘All of my vegetables wither as soon as I plant the buggers.’
Nob gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘It’s a hard life on the moors.’
‘Aye. Down here there are women, ale and warm houses,’ Wally agreed. Out in the street, he bit into his pie and, when he looked up, he saw his young friend hurrying back towards the abbey, his ginger hair flaming in the wind. ‘Gerard!’ he shouted, and the lad stopped, staring about him with confusion.
When he caught sight of Wally, a smile spread over his face. ‘Oh, it’s you! Are you here for the coining?’
‘I was, but the sight of that arrogant oaf standing there so self-important makes me want to puke,’ Wally said.
‘Yeah, well. I have to get back,’ Gerard said, his eyes going to the church tower, gauging the time.
It was then that Wally had the idea that would cost him his life. ‘Wait! Do you have two minutes?’
‘Not really. I’ve got to—’
‘Two minutes to avenge your sins, Gerard? That’s all it will take,’ Wally said.
Gerard eyed him doubtfully. There was a brightness in the other man’s eye that was almost like madness. ‘What are you planning, Wally?’
Chapter Two
The messenger led the two men back to the court, and Simon was about to bend his steps towards the abbot’s rooms, when he was surprised to find that they were going over to the cloister itself.
‘The abbot’s not in his lodging?’ he enquired.
‘No, Bailiff. He’s in the undercroft. This way.’
Simon grunted. The lad who accompanied him was clearly not yet a brother, although he didn’t look new to the monastic life. He was probably in his mid-teens, a gangling youth with dark hair and a very pale complexion. Not someone who had spent his childhood on the moors or in outdoor exercise, Simon thought. A wealthy boy would have been out hunting, riding, practising with lances, swords and daggers. Some fellows, who were less likely to inherit their fathers’ estates because of older brothers, could be pale and weakly-looking, because they were trained up to be academics, lawyers or priests, but this boy had more the look of a serf’s child. His hands were calloused from heavy work. For all that he possessed a kind of boyish awkwardness, with his loose build and clumsy gait, Simon could see that he was no weakling. His shoulders were broad enough, and his arms looked as though they might have a certain sinewy strength.
‘Here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Simon pushed at the door. He recalled this place only too well from a previous visit. Then he had thought that his friend Baldwin could die in there. Something about the memory stirred him, and he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He was glad to know that Hugh was behind him.
The undercroft was a great long room, smelling strongly of fresh wine and preserved meats, but with the ever-present scent of rats. The ceiling was quite high overhead, well-built with neatly fitted stones mortared together to form the vaulting, and it needed to be because in this room were many of the stores for the
