The Devil's Acolyte

Chapter Twenty-One

‘I have heard much about you,’ Simon said. He avoided the eyes of Baldwin and Coroner Roger, but instead leaned forward, holding Rudolf’s gaze. ‘I think you paid Wally money for a sack at an inn in Tavistock, but you have broken no laws. The trouble is, you are fearful of being accused of his murder because he died soon after you saw him – especially since you took his sack from him.’

Rudolf could feel Anna’s fingers tighten about his own hand, but he didn’t look up at her. She was reminding him that they had the two secrets to preserve now: there was the boy as well. Rudolf ignored her. He was measuring Simon, staring deeply into his eyes and gauging whether or not he could truly trust him. ‘It is easy to arrest a foreigner and convict him of crimes he knows nothing about,’ he said at last.

‘It is as easy to accuse a man wrongly as it is to allow an evil man to go free,’ Simon countered. ‘All it takes is for the innocent to hide the truth, for the innocent to be accused and the guilty to walk free. What would you do, friend? See the innocent hang, or see the guilty caught and made to pay?’

‘Make the bastards pay!’

Simon grinned. ‘We have no wish to see the innocent suffer, but we are all King’s men. We have to try to catch the guilty. Would you help us?’

‘What is all this?’ Coroner Roger asked silkily. ‘I have heard what you’ve said, Bailiff, but I confess, I am confused. You talk of pewterers and money, but this man tells us he is a mere actor and entertainer. Which is true?’

Simon smiled, but maintained his eye contact with Rudolf. ‘Friend, we do not want the wrong man, but to catch the right one we need to know the truth. How could we persuade a man to tell us the truth?’

Rudolf gave a deep sigh, then motioned to his wife to fetch more wine. ‘I met the dead man in an alley in Tavistock,’ he began, and Simon knew he was hearing the truth. ‘He was jumping from a window in a big house with limed woodwork and a blue painted shield above the doorway. In his hand was a sack, filled with metal. I caught his accomplice, but he was a monk. In my surprise, he escaped. When I captured the other man, people saw us together, and I had my knife out. I made sure he couldn’t run away, but he persuaded me to take him to a tavern and let him explain. It seemed a reasonable idea at the time. This man Walwynus told me that the plate had been stolen from others, and that if it were left in the house from which they’d taken it, it would be sold to the thief’s profit. He and the monk thought it better that the metal should be ‘rescued’, and so they took it. That was when I came across them. Then he told me that I could have the metal if I wanted, and he named a price which seemed to me to be ridiculous. So! I bought it and gave him coin in exchange.

‘I went back up to the moors with the sack. Next morning, Walwynus caught up with me and asked me to return the pewter. I refused, for a bargain is a bargain, but he swore at me and said that he would pay me more than the pewter was worth if I would only give it back. I refused again, for I wanted it. That was when he drew his dagger and made ready to attack me. I pulled my own knife out, and when he lunged at me, I stabbed at his knife hand. I caught him, and his hand lost some fingers. He stopped fighting, and started weeping. I left him. The pewter is in the back of my wagon. If you want it, you can buy it back.’

Baldwin had sat staring a while, and now he blinked in astonishment. He shot a glance at Simon, who sat nodding knowingly. ‘This pewter… may we have a look at it?’

Simon said, ‘I doubt whether that is necessary, Baldwin. No innocent burgher has reported the theft as yet. Any man who had all this plate stolen would notice immediately – unless it was already concealed. Concealed because it was stolen! This is all from the Abbey – that’s the point. Maybe Walwynus thought he was stealing some pewter from a wealthy man’s house, but he didn’t realise that it was all originally taken from the church. And as soon as he learned that, he hurried here to persuade Rudolf to give it back. He failed, so he tried to take it by force, but Wally was undernourished and slow, while Rudolf here was quick and assured. So Rudolf won and Wally lost his fingers.’

‘It was out by the cross just west of here,’ Rudolf confirmed. ‘The westernmost of the three. He fell when I had struck his fingers from his hand, and he collapsed beside the stone cross. I saw him stand, his hand resting on the cross itself to help himself up. I felt sorry for him.’

‘He left his blood there,’ Simon said.

‘There were no fingers,’ Baldwin observed.

The Coroner muttered, ‘There are enough scavenging animals here to take them. Magpies, crows, buzzards…’

Simon nodded. ‘Why did you fear to speak to us, Rudolf?’

‘I had been seen drawing my knife against him in the town, and then again out by the rock. It seemed natural to me to think that I would be viewed as the man’s murderer when I heard that he had died.’

‘Who saw you out by the cross?’ Simon asked.

‘It was a monk. I don’t know his name, he was just a man standing there with the cowl and habit. Oh, and he carried a stick.’

‘So! I suppose you’d defend this man’s murderer as well, would you?’ Sir Tristram sneered.

Peter hadn’t heard him walk up behind him, and now he turned, his lips still moving as he spoke the words of the viaticum. He refused to rise to the bait, and continued through the office until he had completed the prayers, and only then did he stand and confront Sir Tristram. ‘Well? Are you so offended that I should serve another?’

‘You! You serve your own ends at all times, don’t you? Scotch-lover!’

Peter felt his scar pull as he smiled. ‘You never understood how our faith demands that we should protect and serve even our enemies, did you?’

‘The Bailiff told me that there was a monk here from Tynemouth. At the time it never occurred to me that it could be you! I thought you were dead long ago.’

‘You would have preferred it. If you had swung this blow…’

‘I would not have missed your scrawny neck, monk.’

‘You have never forgiven me, have you? All I did was help a brother monk to save a man’s life.’

‘He was a Scots raider. You are lucky you weren’t found with him. If I’d found you, you’d have died.’

‘My woman found him,’ Peter said. He could remember her racing towards him, her braids flying in the wind, panic in her face. His friend and he had hurried to the man’s body. When he tried to turn his memory to her, he found himself seeing her broken body – although he had not seen it. She was buried while he lay near to death.

‘More evil. You are supposed to be chaste, yet you lived with your concubine.’

‘She was a good woman,’ Peter said defensively.

‘She was a Scottish whore.’

Peter’s anger flickered, but there was little energy to fan the flames. Not after so many years. ‘It was wrong. Yet it is also wrong to label her that way. She was an honourable girl.’

‘Honourable? Perhaps the slatterns in the alehouses are honourable, then. And what did the man you saved do, hey? He took her for himself, didn’t he? He took her and raped her and killed her. All because you saved him. You would deal with the enemy.’

‘She was no man’s enemy. She was a woman caught up in a stupid, irrational war of greed,’ Peter flared.

‘And she persuaded you to forswear your oath, Brother. You screwed her, didn’t you? And that makes you an oathbreaker.’

Peter looked away, his anger dissipating, trying to call her face to memory again. Somehow her smile was what came to him, and he thought of the girl in the tavern who had reminded him of her. With a flash of insight, he realised why Wally would have gone to that tavern, why he had tried to secure her for himself before he had any money. It was surely because he remembered that girl, high up on the Scottish moors in among the heather, Peter’s Agnes.

She had been a beautiful girl. Strong in the body, with long legs and powerful thighs, dark hair to her shoulders, a slim figure and small, high breasts. She was always laughing, although whether at herself or at him was difficult to tell. More often than not, Peter was sure her laughter was aimed at him. It was no surprise. Now he looked back on himself, he could see how stuffy he must have seemed. Agnes had lived for the moment, uncaring about what the next day might bring, while he was anxious every moment that he would behave as God would expect. His entire being was focused on the life after this – she was content that the present moment was pleasing, to her and to those whom she loved. It was that attitude, more than anything, which had made him adore her.

Walwynus loved her too, of course. Probably because she was such a good nurse to him. She had fed him with wine and bread while he suffered from his fever, and then helped him to take his first tottering steps when the wound was almost healed. It was only natural that Walwynus should love her. He had wanted her, but she refused him. Not that her refusal had stopped Wally. When he was well, he had left, but then the bastard repaid her kindness and Peter’s by returning. While Peter was lying wounded and waiting for death, Walwynus had gone and raped her, or led his friends to her, so that they all had a share in her murder.

There was no law in the Marches. That was the first thing that a man realised as soon as he was old enough. No one lived there apart from the peasants and a number of poor devils who were tied to the place, like the monks. Everyone else left as soon as they could.

Peter shook his head sadly. She was long dead now. And Walwynus had died too.

‘If she made me break my oath, so be it. It was many years ago.’

Sir Tristram spat into the dirt, sneering, ‘You blaspheme now! You think you can swear to God and then discard the oaths you choose? Which other oaths have you broken, monk?’ Then his eyes hardened and there was a cruel glitter in them. ‘What now, eh? Have you another little goose here? I suppose a lusty man like you would find it hard to live without your piece of skirt, wouldn’t you? I wonder which you have now. Perhaps the Abbot would like to know, too. Now there’s a thought. I wonder if he knows of your woman in Scotland?’

There was no need for Peter to answer. Sir Tristram’s smile showed that he could see Peter hadn’t told the Abbot.

‘So I wonder what the good Abbot would think of you, if he knew you had kept a whore, Brother?’

Nob had listened to their talk with increasing annoyance. Now he pushed the monk gently out of the way and stared up into the knight’s face. ‘Before that, what do you know about “Red Hand”? Was he an Armstrong?’

Peter glanced at him in surprise. ‘Why? How did you hear of him?’

‘He was the murdering bastard nearly killed this monk and then slaughtered his woman,’ Sir Tristram said shortly. ‘Why?’

‘Your Sergeant there reckons he saw this man in the crowd today,’ Nob said.

‘Sweet Jesus! He can’t be here!’ Sir Tristram said, looking about him as though expecting one of the crowd to confess to being the outlaw.

‘Did you ever see him?’ Peter asked sharply.

‘I don’t think so, no. Jack did, but only once. No,’ the knight said, ‘he must have been wrong. The man couldn’t have got so far down south.’

‘Wally did, and so did Martyn Armstrong,’ Peter reminded him. ‘Whom did this Jack accuse, Nob?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nob lied, glancing at Peter. He wasn’t going to accuse a man for no reason. Especially before Sir Tristram. Nob didn’t like the Arrayer. ‘Someone in the crowd.’

‘He must have been mistaken. Where is he?’ Sir Tristram demanded, and when Nob told him, he hurried away.

‘What do you think, Brother?’

‘The Sergeant must have been mistaken. Perhaps I hit him too hard!’ Peter was still gazing along the alley after the knight.

Nob nodded. ‘Ah well, that’s a relief.’

Something in his tone caught Peter’s attention. ‘Why?’

‘The man that Sergeant accused: it was the Receiver, Joce Blakemoor.’

‘Joce!’ Peter hissed. He stared at Nob a moment, then slowly turned and made his way back to the Abbey.

He felt his wound flashing with pain as though he had been struck again. All those years ago he had been hit by a man, and he hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of a figure, no face. It could have been anyone who swung the axe.

Wally had come here with Armstrong. Peter had thought that there was a curious coincidence in their arriving here, but perhaps a companion of theirs had advised them to return with him to his old home? Perhaps Joce had told his comrades that if they wanted to be safe, all they need do was pass south with him and declare themselves miners. Thus they would become the King’s men and be secure from capture.

Peter had reached the Abbey, and he turned to the Abbey Church, passing along the aisle in a daze, and then tumbling to his knees before the altar.

‘God, please don’t let this be so!’ he whispered. ‘Was it not enough that I had to live so near to Wally all this time? Didn’t you test me enough? Do you now tell me that the man who tried to kill me is here as well? Perhaps the man who murdered my Agnes? And you had me save his life today?’

It was late in the afternoon when the three men arrived back at the Abbey, and Simon dropped from his horse feeling filthy, sweaty and tired. The weather felt thundery, with heavy clouds forming in the west, and the humidity was almost intolerable. While he stood in the middle of the court, waiting for a stableboy to collect his horse from him, he glanced up at the hills to east and west, rising high above the line of the Abbey’s walls, and rubbing at his chin. It was rough and itchy, and he decided to have a bath and another shave with Ellis. That would take the worst of the dirt from his face.

The Coroner was hungry. Nothing would do but that he should be fed immediately, and he tried to persuade the others to join him, but to Simon’s dismay, Baldwin refused him and instead said he would go with Simon for a wash. Seeing Hugh loitering near the guest rooms, Baldwin called to him to fetch clean clothes for them both, and then led the way to the barber’s.

His companionship was not welcome, to Simon’s mind. He had looked forward to a few moments of peace, during which he could forget his worries, especially Baldwin’s apparent alliance with the Abbot and Simon’s own misery at the thought of his losing his job. It was painful to admit it, but this man Baldwin, who had become Simon’s closest friend in only a few years, had now become almost a rival, an enemy. Baldwin had the appearance of a friend, but his mannerisms seemed to show that he was edgy in Simon’s presence.

The sack of pewter was still bound to Simon’s saddle. The Swiss had appeared almost relieved to be shot of it, saying with a grimace that he had got nothing but bad luck since he had acquired it. Although he had paid good money for it, he was prepared to allow Simon to take it back to the Abbey if the Bailiff would swear to ask the Abbot to reimburse him, either by replacing it all with fresh tin, or if not, by giving him back the money he had spent with Wally to buy it. The Swiss party would head for Tavistock as soon as they might to claim their recompense.

Simon felt giddy with the heat. Perspiration was dripping from him, his hair was glued to his forehead, and his armpits were rank. He licked his dry lips, which were gritty from the dust kicked up by his horse’s hooves. Where the sweat was gathering on his forearm, he noticed a grey-black smear of dirt, and it revolted him. Then he wondered where it could have come from. Thoughtfully he touched the sack. It left a black mark on his finger, like coal dust.

‘Curious.’

It was a relief when Baldwin offered to take the pewter to the Abbot’s lodgings. For Simon it meant at least a few moments of peace. It was only when Baldwin had gone that Simon suddenly thought that the knight could have been taking it to the Abbot to curry favour. He rejected that idea almost instantly as being dishonourable and certainly unfair on Baldwin, and yet it was insidiously attractive, coming so soon after his suspicions. Baldwin still appeared edgy in his presence.

The bath was in the barber’s room near to the infirmary, close by the brewery. Water was boiled in the brewery fire, and taken by bucket to the great barrel that was the bath, a strong vessel cooped with strong copper bands. Simon called there for Ellis, and the barber soon appeared from a door that led to the brewery itself, wiping his mouth shamefacedly.

‘Ah, my Lord Bailiff! You wish for another shave?’

‘Yes, but first I need a bath. Have the thing filled.’

Simon felt considerably improved after soaking his body and washing away the filth of the moors. He sponged himself clean with water that was filled with fresh herbs, rubbing himself down with soap and rinsing it off with fresh, rose-scented water. He was almost finished when Baldwin arrived, his dark face drawn into a scowl.

Once Simon’s hair was washed, he felt greatly refreshed. Sitting on Ellis’s stool while the barber draped almost-scalding towels over his features, he felt renewed, and a curious sense of fatalism enveloped him.

This fear, this nervousness about Baldwin was ridiculous. If there was some suggestion from the Abbot that Simon was not to be trusted, that he was too incompetent to keep his job, that was not Baldwin’s fault. In fact, if Simon was fair, it was the Abbot’s alone. Baldwin was probably fidgety because he knew that Simon was to lose his position, and feared how the Puttock family would survive without the income that his post as Bailiff brought him. Perhaps that was all it was, Simon thought: Baldwin was consumed with compassion and sympathy for his old friend.

Anyway, Simon was no fool. He would soon find a new job even if the Abbot decided to dispense with him. There were always other masters. And if that didn’t work out, Simon should be able to live on the proceeds of his farming. Other men managed to, and he had a good property in Sandford still, the place to which he had brought his wife when they married. She had always adored it, with the far-off views of Dartmoor and the rolling hills surrounding it. They had been very happy there. It would be closer to Baldwin, too, and easier to see him and Jeanne more often. The life of a free yeoman farmer was not so bad. Good food was plentiful, if the harvest was kind, while there should always be ale and wine to be drunk. Yes, Simon reckoned he could live happily as a farmer. It would be different, there would be economies that he and Meg would have to make, but they would survive. And what else mattered, than that he and Meg should be able to live together in peace? Meg was a farmer’s daughter. She would be pleased to return to a farming life.

Although she was content where they lived now as well, he reminded himself, and it might not be easy to persuade her to move home once more. Still, when she saw it was necessary, she would no doubt agree.

Then his buoyant attitude underwent a change. He felt a cold emptiness in his belly at the thought of having to admit to his failure. It was no use telling himself that such things happened, that his position in life was owed entirely to the whim of the Abbot, that he had no more control over the direction of his life than a chicken in a yard: it was his duty to provide for his wife and family. Without achieving a stable, financially sound future for them all, his life was a failure. He knew that Meg would support him, of course, but that didn’t help. There would be hurt in her eyes when he told her that without his money as Bailiff, they would have to leave their home at Lydford, that they must be more frugal in future. That he might not be able to afford the dowry he had intended for their daughter.

Baldwin had climbed into the bath, and he lay back with his eyes closed while all this passed through Simon’s mind. There was silence in the room as the barber thumbed back Simon’s skin and brought the shining blade of his razor down around Simon’s cheek, along the line of his jaw, then under his chin and down to his neck. When he had relathered Simon’s face and repeated his operations, Baldwin spoke.

‘Simon, are you all right? You look anxious.’

Baldwin’s gentle voice broke in on his thoughts. He opened an eye as Ellis held the blade away. ‘Just tired, I think.’

‘Good. I am glad.’ Baldwin nodded, but he couldn’t help telling himself that his friend had appeared to be tired ever since he had arrived in Tavistock with the Coroner. ‘What do you think about the mystery of the dead miner?’

‘Someone met him and killed him. There appears to be nothing else to learn.’

‘Simon, please, forgive me for asking, but are you quite well?’

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

Baldwin gazed at him with exasperation. ‘Because you look away from me when I talk to you as though the sight of me pains you, you snap at me or don’t respond at all, you walk away from me as soon as we arrive anywhere, you go and question people as though trying to exclude me from your enquiries, and you sit drumming your fingers there as though you are waiting to have a tooth pulled!’

His last words made Simon give a dry smile. They reminded him of his own feelings about Baldwin.

Seeing that Ellis had finished Simon’s shave, Baldwin motioned the barber to leave the room. Nothing loath, Ellis left by the door and returned to the brewery. ‘Please, Simon, my friend, you would tell me if I had offended you?’

‘Of course. I would trust you with anything. Would you trust me the same?’

‘Me?’ Baldwin said with surprise.

‘You went to the Abbot and told me nothing about the meeting. Is it that you don’t trust me any more?’

Baldwin gave a low grunt. ‘Now I believe I understand. The Abbot asked me to keep this from you.’

‘Why should he do that?’ Simon asked sarcastically. He thought he knew the answer.

‘The Abbot didn’t want to spread the tale about the town. You have heard of Milbrosa?’

‘It’s an old story. The maids of Tavistock use it to scare their children,’ Simon said scathingly.

‘Some say that there are too many similarities between that tale and the things which are happening here now.’

Simon squinted at him. Baldwin was staring contemplatively at the doorway. The room opened westwards, and the sun was already quite low, shining directly in and lighting Baldwin with a warm, orange glow. It made him look tired, emphasising the deep lines of pain and anguish that Simon had all but forgotten, and reminding him that this man had suffered more in his life than he would be able to appreciate. Baldwin had not told Simon everything about his time as a Templar, but Simon knew enough about the way that the Order had been destroyed to know that almost all its members had been tortured and then slaughtered on the pyres. Baldwin had escaped because he had been travelling on the day that the arrests were made, but evading the physical punishments seemed only to have created feelings of guilt in him.

Simon asked tentatively, ‘There is nothing to tie the two stories, is there? Only the fact that Wally was found dead on the moors. In the tale of Milbrosa, the monks hid even that proof of their crime. The Abbot’s wine has been taken – but that may only be a thoughtless prank. How can the two be connected?’

‘The Abbot asked that I should keep this secret even from you,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I cannot maintain my silence. I cannot think of an explanation, not without your help.’

Simon listened with astonishment as Baldwin spoke about Gerard and his sudden disappearance.

‘So just as in the tale of Milbrosa, the Abbot’s wine was drunk and plate was stolen,’ he muttered. ‘And now the supposed perpetrator has been carried away? Was the Abbot sure that this boy Gerard was actually guilty? Perhaps someone else took the wine and things.’

‘The Abbot seemed quite convinced,’ Baldwin said. ‘Another Brother had suspected him.’

‘Did the Abbot say why the lad was suspected?’

‘Not that I recall, no.’

‘Then we should find out,’ Simon said firmly. ‘But before that, I had better reciprocate.’ He related all he had learned, although he refused to tell Baldwin who it was who told him about the club. He had promised Hal he would keep that silent, and he would not break his oath.

Baldwin was drying himself and pulling on fresh clothes, and Simon wiped his face and did the same, shouting for Ellis. When the barber put his head around the door, he passed him some coins.

Just as Ellis was about to leave the room, Baldwin held up a hand to stop him. ‘I am glad to have an opportunity to speak to you,’ he said quietly. ‘Barber, I have heard that you detested Wally because he had got your sister with child. Is that right?’

Ellis gave the knight a sickly grin. He had been expecting to be questioned ever since the two men appeared, and the anticipation had been terrible. When they had told him to leave them, he had thought he was safe, but they had only been lulling him.

‘It was, but I was wrong,’ he said in a choked voice.

‘Oh? Who was this mystery lover of hers, then?’

Ellis’s face hardened a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching. ‘Master, I have got myself into trouble once by saying who I thought was her man. I won’t say any more, since Sara herself asked me to keep her shame secret.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Back to Wally, then. At the time of his death, you still believed he was your sister’s lover?’

‘Yes. Look, I went up there on Friday morning to give him a warning, but I left him alive. He was in a state, because he had been drinking and whoring all night and he could hardly concentrate, his head was so bad, but he was alive. I just shouted at him to leave my sister alone, that was all.’ Ellis hung his head.

‘Did he deny an affair?’

‘Yes. But then I expected him to. Look – I didn’t lay a finger on him, all right?’

Baldwin eyed his razors and knives. ‘I rather think you’d have picked a more simple means of despatch, had you intended murder,’ he admitted.

‘Did you see anyone else up there?’ Simon asked.

‘Two monks. One was Mark, that salsarius. The other one, I don’t know.’

‘Could it have been Peter?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Might have been,’ Ellis agreed after a contemplative pause. ‘Don’t know, really.’

‘Where was this Mark?’

‘He was walking towards the middle of the moor. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but you don’t forget a man like him. He’s so big. You could practically see the glow from his red face!’

‘Did you see him again?’ Simon asked.

‘When I got back, yes. A little while before I pulled Hamelin’s tooth. Mark came back down from the moor alone, and I saw him hurrying off to the Abbey. He was there later when I went to shave some of the Brothers.’

‘So he was up on the moors while Wally was alive,’ Simon said. ‘And came back after you, when you had left Wally in good health?’

‘Yes.’

There was a sudden commotion outside, and Simon and Baldwin ceased their questioning. With Ellis trailing in their wake, they went outside to the court, to investigate.

Simon arrived there first, rubbing a hand over his smoothed cheeks and enjoying the sensation. At the Abbey entrance he saw a horse with the well-wrapped body of Wally thrown over its broad back. Some monks and lay brothers had wandered over to view this arrival, although several of them had retreated from the odour emanating from the blankets. A pair of stolid peasants cut the body free from the packhorse and allowed Wally to slump to the ground like a sack of grain, but the knife must have slashed the rope binding the blankets, for they opened and Wally’s bloated, discoloured face was exposed. Worse, the horse was startled by his load falling, and set to bucking and struggling, making everyone in the yard bolt, all but Ned, who walked over grimly and took charge.

It was just as Ned grabbed the horse’s reins and hauled his head down, gripping it with a finger in each nostril and a fist in its mane and swearing viciously into its ear, that Sir Tristram appeared in the entrance to the stable, looking about him to find the cause of the disturbance. Seeing the body, he peered at it a moment, and was about to walk away, when Simon saw him hesitate, turn, and stare at it more closely.

Simon was about to go to him, when a rotund fellow with an apron tied about his waist with a string came into the court. ‘Is there a Coroner here?’ he asked.

‘Who wants him?’ Baldwin called sharply.

‘I am Nob Bakere, and I’ve been sent by Brother Peter of this Abbey to ask for the Coroner. Hamelin Tinner’s dead.’

Baldwin immediately sent to find Coroner Roger, but Simon stood a moment. Sir Tristram had reached the body and now he stood over Wally, staring down with an expression of contempt twisting his features.

‘What is it, Sir Tristram?’ Simon asked, walking to his side. ‘Do you know this man?’

Sir Tristram looked up but barely acknowledged the Bailiff. ‘This man? Oh yes, I know him!’

‘Where have you met him?’ Simon asked with surprise.

‘He was a Scotch raider up in the March. I fought with him once, but failed to kill him. He was taken in by…’ His voice didn’t alter, but Simon saw that his eyes focused more firmly on him. ‘… by the man who lives here as Brother Peter, the Almoner. This man was one of those who attacked Brother Peter, and raped and murdered his woman. What’s he doing here?’

‘His name was Walwynus. He was the miner found dead up on the moors,’ Baldwin said. ‘Are you sure you recognise him?’ he added doubtfully. ‘His face is badly beaten.’

‘He was a Scotch raider, I tell you. A reiver. I would recognise him in the midst of the fires of hell – where his soul is burning even now,’ Sir Tristram said, and spat into Wally’s contorted face.