‘And Sir Tristram was one of these?’
‘Sir Tristram!’ Peter said, and there was a chuckle in his voice, although his eyes didn’t reflect any humour. ‘I saw him once, you know. He had lost a pair of oxen, and he decided that reivers from the other side of the March were responsible, so he rode off with his men, great, fierce warriors, they were. I saw them come back. Sir Tristram was proud. He’d lost one man, but he’d killed three himself. Personally. Do you know how I know that?’
Simon shook his head.
‘Because that honourable knight had their heads dangling from his saddle, Bailiff. Tell me, how do you order the law here? Do you slaughter and bring the heads back?’
‘It is possible. If an outlaw is found, his head is forfeit.’
‘Come, Bailiff, how often does a man sweep off the head of an outlaw? The man is taken prisoner and brought back to the justices if possible, and if not, why then the fellow is fought, and his corpse brought to the justices. If not, the coroner would ask questions. Even if a felon’s head is needed for the city’s spikes in York or Exeter, so that all can see that the King’s justice and his laws are still functioning, it is carried in a sack. Not much of a distinction, I know, but at least that demonstrates a certain respect for the dead man’s soul. Not Sir Tristram, though. He kills, and enjoys the killing.’
He stopped and glanced up at the sky, which was darkening. ‘Perhaps I am just too old, Bailiff. I spent so many years trying to find peace where none existed, and then I received this, when the Scottish rebels came over the dale and attacked us in revenge for a raid that English reivers had launched on them. Where is the sense? Will the feuds never cease?’
‘I am sure they will,’ Simon said seriously. ‘Once the Scottish stop rebelling against the King’s rule, and we become one nation again as we should be, the border region must be pacified.’
‘Bailiff,’ Peter said, smiling now as he faced Simon. ‘You cannot pacify those men, only kill them. They won’t stop fighting until they are dead, or all their enemies are, and there is nothing more for them to steal.’
‘Then perhaps it is natural for Sir Tristram to want to fight them and protect his own,’ Simon said hesitantly.
‘Him? He is one of the worst of them,’ Peter said, and his voice was suddenly terribly cold, as though he had seen the ghosts of all his friends who had died on the Marches passing before him, ‘Few on either side of the border don’t know of Bloody Tristram.’ The old monk stopped and looked past Simon to the abbey’s church tower. ‘He doesn’t only attack the Scottish, our Sir Tristram. He is like the shavaldores – happy to rob any man for profit. No one may cross his lands without being attacked.’
‘Are you-sure?’ Simon asked doubtfully. ‘The King has sent him here as an arrayer. Surely he wouldn’t send a man who was untrustworthy?’
Peter looked at him; there was deep sadness in his eye. ‘You think the King would object to a man like him? Sir Tristram gives King Edward all he wants: a constant fight to irritate the Scottish, and a boundless zeal for killing Scots and terrorising the whole of the March. Whenever the King wants men-at-arms or archers, he can go straight to Sir Tristram and find a ready source.’
‘Yet he needs to send Sir Tristram here to fetch them?’ Simon queried.
‘At times the King needs more men. When he plans to slaughter even more Scottish than usual, or when the Scottish decide to raid more deeply into England, like a sword thrust, instead of their usual short stabs at the border, like daggers, then he needs more men. But whatever happens, Sir Tristram will not lose by it.’
Simon could say nothing. The pain in Brother Peter’s face was all too evident, and the bailiff wanted to distract him. ‘You have heard about the dead man on the moors?’
‘Poor Walwynus? Yes. Terrible to think of his being clubbed to death so far from friends, out on that bleak moorland. He lived out in the middle of the moors, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘In among the tin-miners, then. Do you think one of them could have killed him?’
‘It’s possible, although I can’t understand why.’
‘You know how it is. Feuds.’
Simon shot him a glance. The old monk was facing the ground now, but Simon was sure that he was watching him keenly from the corner of his eye.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘that will be for the coroner to discover.’
‘Who is the coroner?’
‘Sir Roger de Gidleigh,’ Simon said, adding, ‘He’s a very astute man. The killer should beware. If there is any sign of who was guilty, Sir Roger will find it.’
‘Well, shall I save you some trouble learning things, then, Bailiff?’ Peter muttered.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Wally, the dead man – he was one of the group that did this to me. My woman had saved his life only a short while before, nursing him. Then, when he was hale and hearty again, aye, and could ride, he and his friends found me. His companion, Martyn Armstrong, headed me off from my escape, and Wally came up. I think, perhaps, he was going to try to save me, but before he could, a third man caught me and did this with an axe.’
Simon winced. ‘You saw him swinging his axe at you? That must have been…’
‘No, I didn’t. He swung, but all I saw was a blur. And then I was down. But you know the worst, Bailiff? Aye, that was when I came to, and I was told that my girl was dead. Raped and murdered on the very same day. It was that which ruined me, more than this wound
