He knew which way Joce had gone, and he consciously took the opposite direction, walking to the abbey, then circling around it to the bridge and crossing over the Tavy. As soon as he did so, he knew he was committed. The river was his personal boundary. Now he had passed over it, he felt as though he was free, and it was with a joyful scampering gait that he set off on the steep roadway that led up to the moors.
At the top, he took deep breaths, surveying the view. This, he knew, was the last sight he would ever have of Tavistock. He was going to where the money was – Exeter, maybe, even London. Perhaps he’d take a ship and learn to be a mariner – that appealed. There were so many possibilities.
The lad was less fit than he had realised. Two years in Joce’s service had weakened his frame, and he had to stop often before he had covered five miles. There were occasional travellers passing by this important path, taking the direct route from Tavistock to Buckfast, but he avoided all. He had a small loaf, and this he ate when he was hungry, and then he realised that he had nothing else. It should not matter, he decided. He would arrive at Buckfast and ask at the monastery for charity, food and a bed. That would be sufficient for him.
Yet as he travelled, he grew aware of a great noise of men, and suddenly realised that he was near to the inquest. He had heard that there was to be one, but he hadn’t thought of it. Joce could be there! Without hesitation, he dropped into the path of a stream and followed it away from the noise, trusting to the water to keep him safe.
Cold, shivering and fearful, he continued miserably on his way. The early optimism which had fired him was gone, and now he was a bedraggled, weary and hungry soul.
When the strange man jumped up from behind a rock and drew his sword, Art felt only relief. A man meant fire and warmth.
Chapter Nineteen
Peter held on to his staff with that little, apologetic smile still on his face. He could see the raging anger in Sir Tristram’s eye and wouldn’t turn his back on the man, but he made no threatening gestures, simply stood peacefully, all the while gripping his staff, ready to defend himself should it become necessary.
Sir Tristram bit his thumb to Peter and turned away contemptuously, walking swiftly towards an alehouse.
Peter sighed in relief, but he knew that this wasn’t the end of the matter. There would probably be a complaint to the abbot; it might even be a good idea to remain in the abbey until the raggle-taggle of the King’s men had gone. That way he would save putting temptation in Sir Tristram’s path.
That wasn’t strictly true, though, he admitted to himself. There had been almost a hope in his heart that the man might indeed attack him. It would have been pleasing to strike down one of the most notorious of border reivers. It was against his religion to strike the first blow, but that wouldn’t have affected the sense of gratification which he would have felt from knocking Sir Tristram over. Like Joce, he, craved the opportunity of a fight.
He was offering up a prayer for better self-control when he heard a scream, a high, keening sound. His head snapped around in time to see a woman appear at the end of an alley, arms thrown out as though she was pleading for help, her clothing bespattered with blood.
‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’
Simon listened to the drawn-out procedures of the coroner’s inquest with a new sense of purpose. He watched the men of the jury and the witnesses as they gave their evidence, but there was little more to be told, Wally had left his home early on the Thursday morning with the small satchel but nothing else. He had been seen by plenty of men during the coining. Initially, people said, he had looked despondent, watching the tin being assayed, but by the time he arrived in the drinking houses, his mood had undergone a great change. He was laughing and joking with the other customers, chatting up the whores and offering them money to sleep with him. The last that was seen of him that night was him disappearing with two women into a back room.
‘Died happy, then,’ was the coroner’s sour comment.
The following morning, once most of the miners had spent the money they had earned from selling tin, on buying provisions and ale or wine, all began their slow, painful progress back to their workings.
‘What of Wally?’ Coroner Roger asked.
Ivo answered drily. ‘Coroner, we were marching under a grey, miserable cloud. We all had sore heads, and many had sore guts too. We weren’t looking out for one man who wasn’t one of us, not really.’
‘You must have noticed a companion like him.’
‘Why? I wouldn’t have known if my own brother stood at my side. We live out in the wilds, Coroner, and when we have a chance to get into town with money in our scrips, we don’t dilly dally. We drink! I got through more than a gallon of strong ale myself that night. Woke up in the kennel in the middle of a lane. By the time we set off for home, my head was like an apple in a press. Looking up was hard enough, my head was that heavy.’
‘Did any man see him?’ The coroner looked about the group. ‘What of anyone else?’
In the ensuing silence, the coroner declared that Walwynus had been murdered and stated the value of the fines to be imposed. Soon the men began to move away, muttering amongst themselves, swearing and complaining about the
