If that realisation was terrible, having to go and see the abbot himself was worse. The latter was a cheery fellow, red-faced, with a thin grey circle of hair fringing his bald pate; there was no need for the good Abbot to have his tonsure shaved by the barber every so often. His fair complexion held a tracery of little burst veins, and his nose was mauve, but his voice was as loud and enthusiastic as ever as he welcomed Simon with a heartiness that was entirely unfeigned.
‘Bailiff, come in and sit down. Sorry not to have been here when you first arrived, but I have only just settled back myself. I have been over at Buckfast meeting my brother abbots and talking about the costs of our Benedictine House at Oxford.’
His eyes left Simon and slid across to the window. When Simon followed his glance, he saw a deer trotting through the trees and slipping down to drink from the river. The abbot was a keen huntsman, and Simon knew that the sight of a deer so near must have been sorely tempting. Abbot Robert’s fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of his chair. ‘We were kept talking for hours about finance, when the whole matter could have been agreed in moments. Why people insist on talking around and around in circles when they could be…’ He gave a slight cough and seemingly reminded himself of his duties. ‘Tell me, how was the journey from Lydford? And how is your lovely wife?’
All through the casual small talk, Simon was edgy, waiting for the right moment to broach the subject of the hammer. He took the proffered wine, drank deeply, answered his host’s searching questions about prisoners in the gaol and about a boundary dispute between two tin-miners’ claims at Beckamoor Combe, and then, when he saw the abbot’s eyebrow raised in enquiry, he confessed his error.
‘You left the hammer at your house! God help us, Bailiff, how could you be so careless!’ The abbot swallowed hard and gave him a long hard stare. ‘This is not the sort of behaviour I expect from you, Simon. You are my most trusted servant. You have failed me, and that is a great sadness to me. I had… But no. Enough.’
Simon squirmed. He hated making mistakes. Robert Champeaux was a kindly, generous-hearted man, but his years as abbot had not been easy. When he was originally elected in 1285, thirty-seven years before, he had found the Abbey finances in a disastrous state and had been forced to borrow two hundred pounds, but since then he had, through careful management and scrupulous care, been able to rebuild file monastery’s fortunes. Lands which had been lost were now regained, at Ogbear and West Liddaton; he had marvellously improved the farming and taken up new fisheries; while by his purchase of the wardenship of the stannaries he had brought in still more money which he had spent helping to found a house at Oxford in which Benedictines could study, and building the new church here in Tavistock. And even after doing all that, Simon knew that Abbot Robert had been able to save plenty. His abbey had grown to be one of the wealthiest in Devonshire.
Robert Champeaux was not the sort of man to leave a vital tool behind. Nor could he understand how someone else could. It was not mere anger that darkened his brow as he stared at Simon, but genuine incomprehension.
Although the abbot wasn’t avaricious for his own purse, Simon knew he wanted to leave Tavistock on a sound financial footing. Stupidity like this could endanger his legacy – and that was why he was intolerant of such lapses.
‘You had?’ Simon prompted him automatically. ‘You said, “I had”?’
‘Nothing. I shall have to consider. You have many duties already. Such as, sending a messenger to fetch the hammer before the coining,’ Abbot Robert said pointedly.
That was two days ago. Simon had ridden back yesterday with his servant as a foul-tempered companion. At his house he found Meg instructing two of their manservants in redecorating their little solar. She loved their house, and had recently had a new wall of timber panels installed to separate off a little store-area from their parlour. Now she was having the walls whitewashed and the wood limed in preparation for the likenesses of saints to be painted on them.
‘I thought Saint Rumon here and Saint Boniface there,’ she said. ‘To remind us of Tavistock, where you have been so fortunate and Crediton where we were so happy.’
The sight of her smiling face made him pause and stand in the doorway for a long moment.
Before moving here they had owned their own farm outside Sandford, near Crediton, where they had been content, and afterwards, when they had lived a short time in quarters at Lydford Castle itself, neither had been happy. The grim stone block was cold and hideously uncomfortable, not at all like their old home, and because of her unhappiness Simon had searched for somewhere else. Soon he found this little cottage with the enclosed garden and ample room for themselves; and their servants. Although Meg had been pleased with their place near Sandford, this one had attracted her from the first moment she saw it. Perhaps it was a reaction against the castle, or maybe it was her joy at giving birth to their first son Peterkin, who later died, to their joint despair, for she had begun
