Prologue

When they sat down in the old man’s room on that Tuesday evening, it was the scar that initially held them all spellbound, rather than his stories.

The room was only small, the fire resting in a slight hollow in the middle of the floor, and the novices seated around it. The Almoner hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head moving from side to side as he studied each boy. Gerard the young acolyte felt a shudder of revulsion pass through his frame as Brother Peter’s gaze passed over him. In this dim light, the Almoner looked like a demon viewing his prey. Gerard almost expected to see him sprout wings.

Away from the fire there was no light at this time of night, and the wind was gusting in the court outside, making a curious thumping as it caught ill-fitting doors and rattled them in their frames. This dismal sound was accompanied by the constant rumble and clatter of the corn mill next door; its low grumbling made itself felt through Gerard’s bony buttocks as he sat on the floor.

Gerard gawped at the Almoner’s terrible wound, knowing he shouldn’t, fearing that at any moment, the man would look up and catch him at it.

Old Peter was aloof mostly, far above the novices in his supreme authority, yet most of them rather liked him. He rarely had to raise his voice to command their respect, rarely had to offer them the strap; he could keep them obedient and quiet through the mere force of his will. Yet Gerard didn’t much care for Brother Peter. Not now. And the lad was incapable of averting his eyes. Even as the Almoner turned his gaze from them to the fire, his thin head nodding, his lip curled ever so slightly at the sight of the novices, as though it was hard to imagine that so pathetic a bunch of young males could have been selected from the length and breadth of Devon, Gerard fixed on that hideous mark, wondering anew how painful it had been.

Even after four or five years, Almoner Peter’s wound glowed in the firelight, a livid, six-inch cicatrice that began beneath his ear and ran along the line of his jaw to his chin.

It must have hurt like hell, Gerard told himself as the Almoner began his story. Most men would have died after receiving such a blow; it said something about Peter’s powers of endurance that he had not only survived it, but had managed to teach himself to talk again, even with his jawbone shattered and no teeth on that side. The boy shuddered as he imagined a heavy blade shearing through his flesh, his bone, his teeth.

Old Peter enjoyed talking, particularly when he was relating tales like this one. Gerard could see his eyes glinting, reflecting the sparks from the fire as the logs settled. To Gerard tonight, he looked mean and malevolent, cunning and cruel. It wasn’t Peter’s fault, it was the acolyte’s reaction to the threat he’d been given. He kept darting nervous looks at his neighbours: any one of them might be the agent of his ruin, simply by seeing him going about his business. Not that any of the novices looked too bothered right now. They were all busy listening open-mouthed to the Almoner as he related another of the old legends.

‘Aye, it was a miserable winter’s day, when Abbot Walter set off for Buckfast, many years ago now, and Abbot Walter had a long, hard way of it. Strong of character, he was. Brave. Off he went, aye, him with none but his advisers and a few clerks to take notes, and all because of an argument between Tavistock here and the Brothers at Buckfast.’

The Almoner paused and stared about him, mouth slightly open, tongue noisily burrowing at the gap where his teeth should have been. He often did this, as though it was an aid to thought, but Gerard privately believed that it was an affectation, one which Peter had cultivated to repel novices.

‘Aye, Abbot Walter was a good, holy man. He lived as the Rule dictated, and he expected his monks to do the same.’ He glowered at the boys as though expecting modern youths like them to dispute the justice of Abbot Walter’s attitude. Shaking his head he stared into the flames before continuing gruffly.

‘Like you, they were, some of them: always wanting more ale and wine and meat than they needed. And when the Abbot was gone, the bad ones among them decided to make the most of his absence. One in particular, there was – an acolyte called Milbrosa, learning the ways of the chantry, a happy, cheery fellow with a winning manner and an open, honest face, the sort of man who finds it easy to make friends. Bold, he was, and disrespectful – always prepared to make jest of older monks. He scoffed when he was told that his levity would lead to punishment – if not in this world, then in the next.

‘Aye, he behaved like many of you would. When a cat dies, they say that the rats will dance and sing, and that’s how Milbrosa and the younger monks were when Abbot Walter left. Before his packhorse had even crossed under the Court Gate, Milbrosa led a few of his friends down to the undercroft beneath the Abbot’s lodging, and there they broke into a barrel of his best wine.’

There was a subdued intake of breath. The novices listened intently, utterly absorbed as he spoke, not because his strange, slurred speech made him difficult to understand, but because Peter seemed to take an almost sadistic pleasure in seeing how badly he could terrify his young audience. And the youngsters loved to be thrilled by his fearsome tales.

His voice dropped, and all had to lean forward and strain to pick up his words as he said grimly, ‘You can imagine it. Five monks all vying to swallow more than any other, like so many Scotch gluttons set loose to pillage a tavern!’

Gerard could hear the hot fury in his voice, and he saw a small gobbet of spittle fly from Peter’s lips. It flew through the air, falling with a short hiss into the fire. Yet when he lifted his eyes to the old monk, Peter’s angry mood had flown. He was contemplatively tugging at a thread of his gown.

‘Aye. Drunks. A terrible thing. Milbrosa was the worst of them. He’d have emptied a whole pipe on his own if he could. They guzzled their fill, getting horribly, beastly drunk, befouling themselves, spewing and retching, and yet returning to wash away the taste, drinking more and more, forgetting their divine duties, ignoring the bells calling them to Mass, not attending the Chapter meetings. It was a terrible thing. Terrible.

‘But they couldn’t remain besotted for ever. After some days, they gradually stirred themselves among the wreckage and filth they had created there, and when they saw what they had done, the appalling truth of their crimes broke upon them like a thunderous wave smiting a ship.’

He sat with that characteristic twisting of his features as he imagined the scene in his mind’s eye. Gerard wondered whether the hideous grimace was in truth nothing more than a relaxation of his face – it was the nearest the Almoner could come to a smile since the Scottish reivers he so detested had attacked him and left him for dead.

‘You can just see it, can’t you? There they all were, bepissed with terror in the undercroft. They had stolen from the Abbot, and stealing is a terrible sin. But worse, they had taken his favourite wines! What more evil crime could a man commit? There they lay, moaning and groaning, waiting for the earth to open and swallow them, or for the ceiling to fall and crush them. That would be preferable to their pain… or living with the shame of their sins!’

Gerard shivered. ‘The shame of their sins,’ he repeated to himself. The boy knew instinctively that Peter was thinking of him as he spoke those words, because Peter had guessed he was a thief; he had seen Gerard at night, and later he had warned him, telling him to confess his crimes and stop his sinning. The Almoner’s scowling features had petrified the boy – although not so much as the man who had ordered him to steal just once more, or be exposed to the Abbot as the thief he was.

‘They set themselves to with a will,’ Old Peter resumed. ‘All went to the Chapter meeting and confessed their guilt – not that they needed to. Their brother monks were well aware of what had been done, and Milbrosa’s enemies were pleased, because they hoped this would be an end to him. But Milbrosa was no fool. He knew that he could avert the Abbot’s anger if he simply replenished the stores, but he had no money with which to purchase good wine. Like all of us, he had taken the vow of poverty.

‘What could he do? No more than what he did. First he cleaned the undercroft with his friends; they scrubbed and washed and scrubbed again until all the flagstones were shining and clean. Perhaps that would deflect the Abbot’s rage when he heard of their drunkenness at his expense. When their master returned, they must endure his chosen punishment, but that could be days away, Milbrosa hoped, and in that time anything could happen. Perhaps by some miracle he would see a way through the problem.

‘But once a man has submitted to an orgy of dissipation and fed the beast within him, it is hard for him to forego the pleasures he has enjoyed. Thus it was with Milbrosa. He craved more wine. Only used to ordinary ale like a monk should be, the heady stuff he had stolen had created a thirst he couldn’t appease.

‘It tore at him, this lust for wine, but how could he assuage it? Sunk deep in gloom he went to the frater and ate a meal with friends. They tried to persuade him that his sole hope was to pray to God for peace and await the Abbot’s return. He should submit to his master and accept whatever penance the good Abbot Walter should impose upon him.

‘Perhaps he would have listened to them and recognised the good sense in their words, but then travellers arrived, and in among them, walking with them for security, was a messenger. Abbot Walter had, he told them, completed his business and was travelling by ship to the Abbey’s possessions in the Scilly Isles, far to the west of Cornwall. He would not be coming straight back to the Abbey.

‘It was enough! Instead of going to the altar and opening his heart to God, this drunken, foolish sot went down to the undercroft again with his friends. Instead of praying for help, they worshipped their own gluttony with another barrel of wine. But this time, when Milbrosa awoke, his head pounding from the alcohol, he realised that he and his friends were truly lost. The theft of one barrel was a foul crime deserving of punishment, but for this second offence the penalty must be severe. Milbrosa might even be exiled to the Scillies. Glancing about him at the bloated figures of his friends, he acknowledged that their only crime was to have followed him, and he was racked with guilt.

‘He was still drunk, the fool, but he didn’t realise it. In his drink-bleared mind he thought he was wide awake and sober. Many a sotten oaf believes himself sensible and clear-thinking when he is thrown from his tavern, and Milbrosa was like them. He was no more sober than a peasant at the end of harvest when the last of the cider barrel is gone, aye, and it was while he was in this state that he thought he saw a way out of his shame.’

Almoner Peter’s voice dropped again, and he studied his audience still more keenly. ‘He left that undercroft, my lads, and stole silently and secretly to the court. Once he was there, he hesitated. It was night-time, and although the weather was chill and ice lay all about him, the moon showed him that the whole of the Abbey was asleep. Alas! If only his Brothers had woken and realised the vile crime he was about to commit! His breath hung in the air like a feather, and he shuddered; he thought from the cold, but no. It was his soul rebelling against the evil of his deed. Aye, the Good God tried to send him sense, to persuade him that his sins were none so foul yet that he should lose his soul if he prayed for forgiveness, but he was deaf to God’s entreaties!

‘For in the silence of that evil night, Milbrosa made his way to the Abbey church, entered, and walked to the chest, where he removed some silver plates and took them away with him.’

There was a gasp, and the old monk nodded grimly, acknowledging their horror. ‘Imagine! He actually dared to go into God’s house to plunder God’s own silver. Milbrosa must have lost his mind. He ran from the church, and secreted the plate beneath his bed, before returning to the undercroft and drinking himself to oblivion. At last falling into a troubled sleep at the side of his friends, he tossed and turned. Dreams came to him, as the Saints called to him to return the plate and save his soul, but to no avail. Saint Rumon himself, our patron saint, beseeched him to take back the plate and sin no more, but Milbrosa heeded none of them and pelted headlong to his doom.

‘The next morning he woke with a head still befuddled and as soon as the keeper had opened the gates, he collected the silver and made his way to the moors. There he found the travellers among whom the messenger had mingled, and offered them the silver if they would pay him for it. They agreed, for they had no idea that the stuff was stolen from the church, and before breaking his fast, Milbrosa had a full purse. He returned to the town and met with a merchant, who consented to send the money with a message to the Abbot of Buckfast asking for fresh supplies of wine, and then he made his way to his bed and flung himself on to it, wallowing in crapulous relief that he could again replenish the Abbot’s stores.

‘But when he awoke hours later, he realised what he had done and he was riven with anguish. Sober once more, he knew that he had committed a mortal sin. If an ordinary man were to steal from the church he would be named felon and would wear the wolf’s head; any man could execute him, and justly. Milbrosa was secure from that for he was a monk and could claim benefit of clergy, but his crime was nonetheless so foul that he could expect a terrible retribution when the Abbot returned.

‘There was nothing else for him to do. He went to his friends and told them what he had done. Head hanging, penitent as only a true sinner can be, he begged them to help him, but one by one as he appealed to them, they told him that they couldn’t help. How could they? None of them had any money. They couldn’t go and buy back the silver.

‘It began to look as though Milbrosa would after all be forced to confess his guilt to the Abbot and submit to whatever punishment he was given. It was plain enough that there was no way of recovering the silver.

‘But then one of his friends had an idea. Or maybe it was Milbrosa himself who mentioned it. Whichever it was, surely the devil himself put the idea into their heads.’

Peter’s voice dropped into a hushed monotone. There was no fidgeting among the boys in front of him, only an appalled silence. Gerard could see the whites of their eyes, their mouths open, fearful as the Almoner reached the final shocking chapter.

‘A voice suggested that they should go and beg money from a tin-miner. It said that there was this man who worked alone out in the wastes, a Jew – this was long before the Jews were thrown from the kingdom – and he was known to be wealthy. Milbrosa needed no second bidding. He proposed to march straight to the tinner’s house and plead with him for money.

‘As good as his word, he packed his scrip with a little bread and set off. His friends, alarmed by his demeanour, went with him.

‘It was a good step, many miles from here. You have all seen the road that leads to the moors. It starts at the riverbank and climbs steeply, and once you have left the farming country, once you have passed through Walkhampton you are in it, but I daresay not many of you have climbed that way?’

On hearing the chorus of denials, Peter sniffed. ‘When I was a lad, I walked to meditate and pray. I used to cover twenty miles each day when my Abbot allowed me, and since coming here from the Northern Marches, I have already walked many miles on the moors, yet you haven’t even crossed the river, I suppose. Oh, aye, you modern youths are a feeble lot compared with my peers.

‘The road goes up and up until you feel as if your knees will crack. That was how Milbrosa felt, for he was pushing himself on as quickly as he could. He had to have money to buy the silver back from the travellers! When you breast the hill, there is a flat plain, and then you must pass on to the ancient cross called Siward’s, or Nun’s Cross, which marks the border of the moors.

‘There it’s much more soft and rolling,’ Peter told his audience, ‘with a few rocky outcrops in the distance, and heather and grasses that hide the clitter. There are boulders strewn about all over the place, and if you wander from the beaten track, you are forced to scramble up and down all the way. It is a broad, grey land, harsh and unwelcoming. There are no trees, they are all gone, and when Milbrosa stood on the edge of the moors that day and gazed before him, he thought that this could be the ends of the earth. It looked like a place blasted by God’s wrath. The only signs of civilisation were the fires rising from tin-miners’ homes and furnaces and the occasional pits dug all about, or the great heaps of spoil where miners had tipped rubbish from their work. It is a foul, chill, unwholesome land, especially in the depths of winter, with the freezing winds blowing in your face and piercing your robes. Milbrosa felt his courage fading as he stared ahead. His hangover was severe, his head felt as though it had been cracked open by a bill, and his belly wanted to spew up the vast amount of wine he’d drunk. Aye, he was a most unhappy monk.

‘But with all his friends there he had no choice but to carry on. They walked eastwards along the rough tracks and paths until they came to the turn which led to the Jew’s house and took it, going cautiously now, for there were many mires up there, great deep pools of bog in which a man could fall and disappear for ever.

‘At last they found the house. It was one of those rough miner’s dwellings. Ah, but you haven’t seen them, have you? intrepid lot that you are! It was a narrow, low place built of granite, with the walls protected from draughts by piling earth against them and letting the grasses grow. The roof was of timber, with turfs thrown atop to stop the rain seeping in. When you live so far from other people, you can’t always get straw to thatch, but grasses will keep out the worst of the wet.

‘There was no one there, but as they opened the door and gazed at the empty little hut, they heard the clop of hooves and a man’s voice, and there, behind them, they saw the Jew, leading a mule.

‘Milbrosa was struck dumb at the sight of the man. His mule was heavily laden; he must have been about to set off on a journey or perhaps was just returned from one, and Milbrosa felt sure this was a bad time to be asking him for favours. Aye, but although he was unwilling, his friends and companions urged him forward. If he was to save himself, they pointed out, he must gain the man’s favour and win a purse to rescue the silver before the Abbot returned and learned of his crime. They thrust him forward, and he stood shivering in the cold before the Jew, twiddling his fingers and licking his lips nervously.

‘ “What is it?” the old Jew snapped, for he was only just returned from the coining at Ashburton, and his legs were tired.

‘ “Master,” Milbrosa said hesitantly, “we are but poor monks from Tavistock, and we must beg for our food and drink. Have pity on us and give us some of your money.”

‘This man might have been a Jew, but he was no fool. “Poor monks? You have an abbey to live in, with great estates all over Devon, and more wealth than I could dream of. Look at my poor rude hut. I must live in that, and my only cup is a wooden one, whereas you drink from silver and pewter. Look at my bed, a palliasse of heather, while you sleep in good cots of timber with mattresses strung from ropes for your comfort. My fire is mean and smoky, while you live in warmth with roaring hearths and chimneys to draw away the fumes. For my living I must scrape and dig, while all you do is kneel and sit. Surely I should beg alms from you?”

‘Milbrosa didn’t want to dicker with him. He threw out his hands in appeal. “Master Tinner, we have nothing. Our buildings are God’s, our house is His, our beds are His. Our duty is to serve Him, and sometimes we needs must ask for more from the people whose souls we save and preserve, so that we do not die of cold and hunger.”

‘Now this Jew was a kindly man, and truth be told, he had plenty of money. His mule was heavy with a chest of it because his workings had been fruitful and he had sold plenty of good tin at the coining. He was of a mind to help this young monk, but even as he bent his head to pull some coins from his purse, Milbrosa found himself looking again at the mule.

‘ “Master Jew, your mule looks heavily laden. Are you off to the market?”

‘ “Just back from the coining, aye. I had to buy provisions.”

‘Milbrosa turned back and saw the heavy coins filling the Jew’s purse. He looked at the mule and noticed the chest. It was enough. He picked up a rock from the ground at his feet while the Jew was peering into his purse, and suddenly Milbrosa slew him, striking with his rock until the Jew’s head was crushed like an egg trodden underfoot.

‘His friends had stood incapable of moving with the horror of it, but now, with the Jew’s brains spilled on the moor, they took Milbrosa by the arms and pulled him away, calling to him, fearing he had become mad, thinking he was so distraught by his crimes that he had lost his senses. Yet he hadn’t. Oh, no. The clever, evil fellow smiled at them and said, “Friends, release me! You don’t realise what you are doing. You see me here and think I am mad because I killed that Jew, but hear me out.

‘ “That man lying dead is not worthy of your concern. Wasn’t he a Jew? Who need fear for a man such as him? He was not one of God’s chosen, for isn’t it known that all Jews renounced Christ and worship the devil? They are damned. How else could they have demanded that Our Lord be executed on the cross? Surely it is obvious that to kill a Jew is no more heinous than to squash a fly?”

‘The mad fools who were his friends were appeased. Although they knew that their companion had committed another grave sin, they permitted him to sway them with his words. And then, when some were yet wavering, he said this: “And it is fortunate for us that I have killed him, for look at the chest on his mule! It is heavily laden. It must be filled with money. Look at his purse, that too is massy with coins. We might take both and use them to retrieve our silver, and yet have enough to purchase more silver, to the greater glory of God, to place on the altar in our church. And if there is some spare, we can buy ourselves wine.”

‘That was enough for this greedy band. Eager hands tore at the mule and now Milbrosa took command. First he washed his hands of the Jew’s blood, and then he ordered that the body should be carried some little way to a mire and thrown in, and thus their crime would never be discovered. They loaded the Jew’s body on to the mule, and the patient creature carried its master to his grave. When the monks had hurled the Jew into the bog, the mule too was killed and pushed in, for Milbrosa had no taste for being accused of stealing it. At last they returned to their booty, and picking it up, made their way homewards, confident that no man would ever know of their crimes.

‘The travellers were content to sell back the silver, and Milbrosa and his confederates soon recovered the plates and had some shillings besides, so when they were once more in the Abbey, they bought wine to celebrate.’

Almoner Peter’s eyes met Gerard’s and the acolyte felt his heart thunder. ‘Soon afterwards snow fell, and they were pleased that no one would be able to learn of their crimes. It covered the country with soft, clean powder and hid everything. To celebrate their success in concealing murder and theft, Milbrosa and his friends visited a low alehouse and drank some of the shillings which they had left over from their theft. In such a way can the weak fall prey to evil,’ he intoned.

A young fellow of some eight or nine years, whose eyes, Gerard considered, ran the risk of rolling from their sockets, gasped, ‘So their crimes were never discovered, Almoner?’

‘Of course they were discovered, you poor dolt! How else do you think I could be telling you the tale if they weren’t?’ Peter rasped.

‘The men had all but consumed their wine when a messenger arrived. He was from Buckfast, he said, and the good Abbot there had witnessed a miracle in the church. The bells had been rung to declare the wondrous event, but he asked that Milbrosa and his friends, since the Abbot was still abroad, should join him in a great feast there to celebrate the honour that had been done to the monastery.

‘Nothing loath, for the opportunity of participating in the festivities was as agreeable to them as ale would be to a blacksmith on a summer’s day, they set off with the messenger. Up the hill there,’ Peter said, pointing eastwards, and their eyes gazed at the solid wall as though they could look through it and see the group of monks toiling up the path beyond the river, ‘he took them, always in front, always a little beyond them, his head cowled and hidden. It was terrible weather, cold and gusting, and there was the smell of snow in the air. Milbrosa was happy that the guide knew the moors so well, but he began to grow concerned when a mist came down. Still they strode on, their heads bowed, their hands clasped, the thought of the fire at the Abbey helping to draw them on.

‘The mist grew thick and their steps faltered. None could see more than a few feet in front of them, and they were forced to walk close together, but still their guide led them on, until at last Milbrosa shouted to him, demanding that they should find a place to rest. The guide didn’t answer, but bent his steps northwards, and the monks stumbled along after him, muttering bitterly and complaining about the cold.

‘They didn’t have to worry about it for long. No. A low hovel appeared ahead of them and, their hearts bursting with relief, they hurried forward. Suddenly the mist cleared, and they could see where they were.

‘Milbrosa gaped. This shelter, this rude dwelling to which the guide had brought them, was none other than the Jew’s home. Here, before the door, Milbrosa could see that the place where he had struck down the Jew was still marked with crimson, which seeped through the snow as though a cauldron of blood boiled beneath it. He felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he called to the guide in a voice that was suddenly hoarse. Then the guide turned to face him, and Milbrosa felt his heart lurch in his breast as the man lifted his hood.

‘The monks screamed as one. Their guide was the Jew. His head was crushed and his eyes were dead, his tongue protruding, and even as he raised a finger to point to Milbrosa, his face melted away, and the monks could see that this was the devil himself, come to fetch them to make them pay for their crimes! Milbrosa and the other monks were lifted up by demons, their screams heard by the miners who lived all about there, and carried off to hell, where they yet burn, hundreds of years later.’

Peter sat back, eyeing his audience with satisfaction. One of the boys had given a little yelp of terror as he came to the climax, and the Almoner nodded sagaciously. ‘So that was why the Abbot’s Way came to be marked out.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Gerard said, and he spoke for them all.

‘After the disappearance of the monks, the Abbot of Buckfast refused to believe the tales of devilry. He had invited them to celebrate a miracle, and thought that his messengers and the monks must have lost their way in the mists, and had fallen by accident into a mire. No one would dare to stand against the Abbot, especially not in defence of the Jew, no. So the monks were prayed for, like any lost souls who go missing on the moor or who disappear at sea, and to try to prevent it happening again, the Abbot decided that there should be way-markers to help travellers. He had great moorstone crosses planted like trees all the way across the moor, avoiding the dangerous mires and taking a good direct route from Buckland to Buckfast, so that in future monks and other travellers would be safe.’

One of the boys relaxed visibly. ‘So there wasn’t really a ghost or the devil. They just drowned in a bog.’

Peter looked up at him, and his eyes narrowed into grim slits. ‘You think that, boy? You don’t believe in the devil? Perhaps you will go the same way as Milbrosa. He scoffed at dangers and took risks because he didn’t truly believe. Now you know what happens to men who laugh at the Rule, to felons dressed as monks. No man may know of your sins, but God does, and the devil too. He always takes his own. There is no escape. You may enjoy a short period of pleasure, but sooner or later, you will be found out and taken away like Milbrosa.’

He leaned forward, and his voice became a hiss.

‘And if that happens, my cockies, may God have mercy on your souls!’

The Almoner’s words struck at the children like a lash, and when the bell tolled for their beds, Gerard could see that they were relieved to be released from him. Rising with the others, Gerard was about to walk out with them when he felt his sleeve caught by the old monk’s hand.

‘So, did ye like my tale, boy?’

Gerard jerked his arm away. ‘It made them think.’

‘And what of you, lad? Did it make you think?’

‘Me?’ Gerard tried to laugh lightly, but as he left Peter’s room, he could feel those eyes on his back, as shrewd and far-seeing as a hawk’s, and he knew fear again. If he stopped thieving, he could be maimed, just as Peter was. Augerus had hinted as much, pointing to Peter and asking whether Gerard wanted to look like him. That was the alternative to continuing his stealing, Augerus meant, and the casual brutality of the threat left Gerard feeling sick.

Now, with Peter warning him to stop, he felt as though everyone knew about his stealing.


Earlier on that same grey and overcast Tuesday, Hamelin had been working in the cold mizzle. Groaning, he slowly stood upright and stared out over the moors with the exhausted gloom of a broken man.

‘You all right, Hamelin?’

‘Christ’s Ballocks!’ he murmured, leaning on his old spade. ‘How could a man be well in this, Hal?’ His tongue reached up to the sore lump in his gum. It was painful, hot to the touch, and he couldn’t speak too loudly because the swelling hurt like a cudgel-blow with every movement of his jaw.

‘Poor bastard!’ Hal, older and, to Hamelin’s eyes as cragged and tough as one of the dwarf oak trees from Wistman’s Wood, dropped his pick and walked to his side. ‘You’d best get a man to pull that tooth. Your whole cheek’s blown up.’

Hamelin gave a non-committal grunt. Although he was grateful for the sympathy he had no money for treatment.

The last tooth he’d had pulled had cost nothing; it had been done by another miner, a brawny man with thick, stubby fingers and no sense. He’d grabbed Hamelin’s jaw and jerked it down, then shoved the large pliers in and squeezed tightly before trying to drag the tooth out. That tooth and the one next to it had both broken off, leaving Hamelin in agony for weeks until the abscess which had grown beneath had finally burst, flooding his mouth with foulness. The mere memory of that was enough to put Hamelin off the idea of going to another tooth-butcher.

‘That barber, Ellis, he’s supposed to be good,’ Hal said after a while.

This was true, but Ellis was a professional and wanted money in return for his skill, and Hamelin had nothing. Anything he did have, he should save and give to his wife. Emma needed the money for food, for her and for their children.

Hal shrugged his shoulders and returned to his tool. ‘You should pay that Ellis a visit when we go to Tavvie for the coining on Thursday.’

Hamelin nodded slowly. Gazing about him at the scatterings of soil with the leat tumbling down its narrow way in the middle, he felt the desolation of the place sinking into his soul and infecting him with despair.

Hamelin was not born and bred on Dartmoor. His father had been a serf who had run away from his master in Dorsetshire and made his way to Exeter, where he had lived for a year and a day without being captured, thus securing his freedom. Hamelin had been brought up as a poor freeman with no training, for his father couldn’t afford to apprentice him, and yet he had managed to make himself a small sum of money by hard work. Then his little shop burned to the ground and he lost almost everything. All his spare money was tied up, but he was lucky, so he thought, that at least he had loaned cash to a local man who was plainly wealthy enough to repay the debt with a good rate of interest. Except he wasn’t. He had gambled the lot away, and then he went to the Abbey, so the debt couldn’t be enforced.

That was why Hamelin had hurried to this desolate place. Cold, wet and grim, he had a loathing for it that bordered on the fanatical. He had come here determined to find a rich lode of tin. From all he had heard in Exeter, it was easy. You walked about until you saw traces of the tin-bearing ore in a riverbed, and then traced the river back upstream until you found the source. You might have to dig a few times, exploratory little pits designed to see whether you had the main line of the tin, but that was it. It had seemed incredible to Hamelin that everybody didn’t run to the moors to harvest the wealth that lay beneath the soil.

But after six long years of intensive searching, after wearing through spades, after all but breaking his back moving lumps of moorstone and trying to bale water from pits he was trying to dig, he felt as though it was all in vain. Luckily Hal had taken him under his wing. Apart from Hal’s friendship, the only wealth he had found was Emma. She was the only source of joy in Hamelin’s life. The children he was fond of, but they were a continuing drain into which all his money was tipped, while Emma, with her smiling round face, was a comfort to him.

He had met her on one of his journeys to the Stannary town of Tavistock years ago. She had been serving in a pie-shop, and he had bought one pie, and then stayed there for the rest of the day, chatting and teasing her. He had adored her from that moment. It was something he had never thought could happen to him, but she was kind, generous of heart, and made him laugh; and he seemed to make her as happy in return. Soon they betook themselves to a tavern and drank, and that night they fell together on her bed. Within a week they were wedded, with many witnesses watching at the church door.

That happiness was blessed with children, as the priests liked to say, but Hamelin spat on the idea. Blessed! How could children be thought of as a blessing? They needed food, and that meant money. Hamelin had nothing. The children stared at him with their sunken eyes, their swollen bellies, each time he went to see them, every few weeks, and when he saw his lovely Emma and how wizened she had become, he felt as though his heart would burst. She was broken down with toil, her back bent, her face aged beyond her years. As he took his leave-taking to return to the moors he had grown to detest, she hugged him and kissed him and wept a little, as did he as his feet took him up the steep hill towards Walkhampton, over the common, and on to the Nun’s Cross at the edge of the Great Mire. Yes, he wept too, for the life that he should have been able to offer his wife. If he still had his money, he’d be able to, as well.

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 hell-hole.

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.

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