Injustice! That was what tore at him. If he’d not made that damned loan to the bastard who’d fleeced him, he’d be able to support his family. Instead, he was out here, stuck in the middle of this hellhole.
From his vantage point at the top of Skir Hill, he could look all along the small valley that pointed northwards. His house was a huddle of stones, almost invisible among the clitter, with its thick layer of turf for a roof. It was small and smoky, but at least it was warm in the winter, which was more than other miners’ places. His home was not too bad – but it was this desert all about which appalled him. It was as though he had been convicted of a crime and punished with exile in this hideous land, all alone but for the occasional traveller passing by. If he could only get at his money, he would be safe, but even the lawyers he had spoken to had laughed at the idea of appealing a monk. Who wouldn’t balk at the prospect?
He felt crushed by the unfairness. Today the sky was a grey blanket that smothered his soul. There was no pleasure here, only despair, he thought.
A sparkle caught his eye, and he frowned, peering northwestwards. There, on the track that led from Mount Misery towards the Skir Ford, he saw a tiny group of people and carts. Travellers. It was tempting to go and speak to them, but he had work to be getting on with. Perhaps today he would find a rich seam, maybe enough to buy food for his wife and children.
Or maybe he would find a purse of gold, he thought cynically, and returned to his work.
Chapter One
When the messenger found Bailiff Simon Puttock, some few days after Brother Peter’s story-telling, the bailiff and his servant, Hugh, were watching the routine of Tavistock’s coining. Simon was doing so with more than his usual care, after the fiasco of the previous couple of days.
It was all because of his blasted daughter, he told himself again. She had no consideration for others. Two days ago, when he was due to set off for Tavistock, she had disappeared without telling him or Meg, his wife, where she was going. When he realised that she had been gone most of the morning, he nearly went out of his mind. It was all very well for Meg to point out that she herself had gone for walks with men when she was fourteen and fifteen, as Meg had probably been more mature in nature and outlook even when she was Edith’s age; and in any case, boys today weren’t the same as when Simon was younger. They were less respectful, less well behaved, more likely to ravish a beautiful young girl like his Edith. The little sods.
As usual when she came back, there had been an almighty row. She couldn’t understand, Edith sulked, why her parents should be so overprotective. She wasn’t a child any more.
That was when Simon saw red. He bellowed at her and was near to thrashing her for her insubordination and lack of regard for his and her mother’s feelings; if he hadn’t been due to travel here to Tavistock, he would have done just that. He knew his neighbours all believed that women needed a beating now and again, and Simon was a source of amusement for his tolerance, but that day his daughter had gone too far.
Just when he had wanted to set off early, the arguments and wailing and weeping had held him up, and he gathered up everything in a rush, stuffing it any old how into the bags on his packhorse. His servant helped moodily – for Hugh was always grumpy when there were voices raised against his favourite, little Edith. Simon then gave his wife one last hurried kiss before throwing his leg over his mount and setting off at speed. Hugh desperately hopped along at the side of his own pony, trying to hold it still long enough to clamber atop. After so many years of riding alongside his master, he was less like a sack of sodden oats in the saddle these days, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the experience, and he still eyed horses as nasty, vicious creatures whose only pleasure was to unseat him as soon as possible.
Simon had been forced to wait while his servant caught up, as Hugh refused to urge his horse on to what he considered a dangerous speed. If they had set off when Simon had intended, they would have had plenty of time, even allowing for Hugh’s slower pace, but as it was, with Edith’s little performance delaying their departure, he hadn’t bothered to check the things he had packed.
Yes, Simon considered. It was all his daughter’s fault.
He could remember his mood as he arrived at Tavistock, as black as the clouds in the sky, brooding on the ingratitude of daughters in general and his own in particular, with Hugh scowling bitterly on his own little mount and answering only with a grunt whenever Simon spoke. A tedious, wet and miserable ride it had been.
However, it was as nothing compared with the grim realisation which struck him that evening before
