‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now, if you learn of any reason why someone should wish to have had Wally killed, you will of course let me know.’
‘Walwynus?’ It sounded peculiar to hear the abbot using the diminutive. ‘Yes, certainly, my Lord Abbot. But I don’t know that I shall ever learn why he died. Probably it was a lone felon whom he met and who decided to kill him in case he had some money.’
‘Very likely. I fear that if I were personally to waste time on every stabbing or throttling that happened out in the wilds, I should never have time to go to church.’
It was a thought which resonated with Simon as he walked to the gatehouse to seek out his bed. He spent much of his life trying to soothe angry miners and prevent bloodshed, but all too often others were found stabbed or bludgeoned to death. Wally wasn’t alone.
The night sky seemed huge, and in it Simon could see the stars, so clear and bright that he found his feet slowing as if of their own accord. Entranced by their beauty, he gazed up at them, sniffing the clean air. It was so calm, he felt his tiredness fading, and he leaned against a wall near the chapter house, his arms folded. A dog was barking out in the town itself, the only sound he could hear. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a dark shadow creeping along the wall of the monks’ cemetery to his left, and he heard a plaintive miaow.
It was then, as the cat sprang down, that he heard a short gasp. Looking around, he saw a slight figure in the dark robes of a Benedictine. A monk who had been startled, no doubt, he thought to himself. Monks were known to be gullible, innocent and superstitious at the best of times. It was one thing to believe in ghosts and spirits, like Simon himself, and quite another to fear a cat in the dark, he told himself with a distinct feeling of superiority. Odd, though. He’d have thought that all the monks would have been abed by now. It was rare for them to be up so late, for they all had to rise for the Mass at midnight, and not many men could survive, like the good abbot, on only three hours of sleep each night. Most needed at least six.
He watched the monk hurry away, over the Great Court towards the Water Gate, and only when he heard a door quietly close did he carry on his way.
The gatehouse was a large, two-storey building with good accommodation over the gateway itself. Here, in the large chamber, slept all the guests. As Simon knew, the low timber beds were comfortable, with ropes supporting the thick palliasses, and he was looking forward to climbing back between the blankets. It felt like too many hours since he had been raised by that blasted acolyte, with the news of Wally’s murder.
Only a few of the others, Simon noted with grateful relief, snored. Walking carefully and quietly between the beds and bodies, he went to the bed in which he had slept the night before, hoping that it might be empty, but even in the dim darkness, he could sense that someone else was there. At least this was the first time so far since the coining. On other occasions when he had come to visit the abbot, he had been forced to share almost every night. However, there were no rumbling snores or grunts from his companion, and for that he was very grateful. As he untied his hose, pulled off his shoes, and doffed his shirt and undershirt, he sniggered to himself. He had wondered whether his sleeping partner might break wind during the night, but now he realised that if either of them were likely to, it would be Simon himself after so much rich food and wine.
With that reflection, he climbed under the blankets and lay with his arms behind his head. The other man in the bed grumbled a little in his sleep and rolled over, but Simon paid him no heed. He was wondering again about poor Wally. The dead man’s face and body sprang into his mind, and with a shiver of revulsion, he too turned over, as though he could so easily hide himself from the gaze of Wally’s ravaged eyes.
Gerard scampered across the court. Something told him that there had been someone out there who had seen him. He was sure of it. It was probably that blasted nuisance Peter. He was there, waiting for Gerard, just like he had been the other time. God! There was no escape, not in such an enclosed place as this. It was terrible; he felt as though his every waking moment was spent in planning to get away, to become apostate. He would have to, somehow.
Peter had caught him once before. Gerard had been about to enter the bakery, when the almoner appeared. It was just before he’d given that talk about Milbrosa, a day or two after he warned Gerard to stop stealing, and he had stood staring at the acolyte, saying nothing, until Gerard scampered away, feeling as though everyone knew his crimes. Maybe several of them did know his crimes. Gerard knew that Reginald, an older novice, had been watching him, and Brother Mark was on to him, too; he’d threatened to tell the abbot.
But it was all over and done with now. Gerard had spoken to Augerus. He’d told him that he wouldn’t steal any more. Augerus could do whatever he wanted – tell the abbot, tell the other brothers, Gerard didn’t care. There was nothing the steward could do which would make him feel worse. As far as Gerard was concerned, he would never steal again.
It had been a cleverly worked out scheme, though. He could admire Augerus’ cleverness while detesting the way the older man had entrapped him in
