Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

There was little support for Roger in the de Grosse household. Since his mother had died, Roger had relied on friends among the servants, but that had changed over the years. His father had made him give up his childish companions when he was eight. At that age he should forget foolish playing and learn his craft. Most squires were taken on by their lords as pages at the age of five so that they could be properly taught in the arts they needed to acquire in order to become good knights. The pages had to be taught the correct ways to serve, to behave politely in company, how to sing and play music, box, wrestle and fence, until finally they were instructed in the most critical art of all: horsemanship.

Geoffrey had been taken away to live with the de Courtenay family when he was six, where he was soon favored among his contemporaries. It had come as a shock to Roger when he was also sent away, for he was to be taught his letters and raised for the priesthood. He was a sad boy, constantly reminded of his weakness and inadequacy, for his peers had no hesitation in bullying him unmercifully: they were to be soldiers, strong and bold men-of-war, while he would stay at home and preach to stupid parishioners.

If he had allowed the situation to continue, Roger might have become just another lonely rector in a provincial area, but his father’s blood flowed in his veins, and all too often down from his nose. He was an incorrigible fighter. The slightest hint of an insult would cause him to square up; the remotest suggestion that he was any weaker than the others led inevitably to a battle. His teachers looked on indulgently, for it was right that boys should defend themselves, and right that the strongest should lead the others, even with future priests, who would be expected to lead defenses in time of war. One boy in particular was Roger’s undeclared enemy, a heavy-set youth some two years his senior, but when Roger was discovered by a Bishop, rolling in the mud and soundly boxing his ears, Roger was finally given a thorough beating.

It left him sore but undefeated. His tormentors stopped teasing and jibing, and went warily when he was near.

Yet he knew in his heart that they were right. While they went on to become squires at thirteen or fourteen, riding larger and faster horses, practicing with lance and sword, he had to sit indoors and write pretty characters on parchment, or learn how to mix the powders to produce the right level of color for the pictures, or how to read the odd language that apparently was God’s own and allowed priests of all nations to converse easily.

His foot better, he hobbled along toward the church and Peter Clifford’s house. The training had been hard. Each failure to understand his work, each mispronunciation and inaccurate translation resulted in a thrashing, until he was word-perfect. He was not a natural speaker, and the idea of preaching before the population in Callington filled him with dread, but the post at least offered him freedom, and that was a sweet prize, one which he felt sure he could enjoy all the more since it involved being several days’ journey from any who wished to control him. It was made even more attractive by the fact that he was quickly coming to like Stapledon, who had so far proved to be a kindly and honorable man – unlike some who had trained him.

It would be lonely, though, and Stapledon had hinted that he might need help. Usually a new rector would have other staff to help, but in Callington there would be no one. Only Roger struggling to keep the congregation together.

He had to pause near the jail to rest his foot, for the ankle was swelling a little, and his toe ached horribly. Leaning against the wall, he glanced around phlegmatically. There was ribald laughter leaking out through a broken shutter at the inn, and the sound of someone singing. The pain receded again, and he tested his foot, staring at it dubiously. It should hold, he felt.

The dull thudding of hooves on dirt made him look up. From the street that led along the side of the butcher’s, he saw two men appear on horseback, leading a pack-mule. They slowed as they came to the main road, then walked off slowly on the Exeter road, seeming to increase their speed as they went, until they were cantering gently at the bottom of the slight hill.

Roger watched them impassively. It was a strange time to be beginning a journey, but he was not particularly interested. He was more concerned with getting himself back to Clifford’s house, so, sighing, he forced himself upright and started off again. At the entrance to an alley, he halted again. Leaning against the wall was a heavy stick; he took it and tested his weight on it. It held him, and he was about to move on when he heard noises.

The alley had no light, and in the dark he could only see for a few yards, but he was sure he could hear movement. There was a dull susurration, as of a group of people talking in whispers, nervous of being discovered.

He paused, concentrating hard, trying to see through the gloom, but the darkness was thickened by the smoke from a multitude of fires, which hung in thin streamers like watchful wraiths.

Suddenly feeling a chill which had nothing to do with the cold of the night, he hobbled back to Peter Clifford’s house as quickly as his game ankle would allow.

Margaret watched with fascination as Walter Stapledon held them to his face again, reading the paper carefully.

She had never been able to read herself: being a farmer’s daughter there was no point in her father investing in her education. As soon as she was old enough she would be married and become a mother. Her training was complete by the time she was fourteen, for by then she could brew and bake, and had learned the basic skills of looking after children. Simon was able to read and write, and it was not that skill which astonished her: it was the forked piece of metal which Stapledon held to his nose while he squinted at the page.

Catching sight of her expression, Stapledon smiled as he set the paper down. “It is an old man’s weakness to need help with those bits and pieces of his body which do not function as they once did.”

“But what does it do?” she demanded.

“It was designed for old and feeble men like me who find their eyes are not as efficient as they once were. I used to be able to see as clearly as you can, but now I need these two glasses held in their frame to make the words look bigger.”

“How do they do it?”

He laughed and passed them to her. “I look on it as a gift from God – a miracle that makes my work easier. I do not pretend to understand how! I merely accept them.”

The door slammed as Baldwin and Edgar returned from checking on their horses. “Is Simon not back yet?” the knight said, glancing at Stapledon with his eyebrows raised in faint alarm.

The Bishop shook his head. “Does it matter? He seems a strong enough man, more than a match for any footpad.”

“Yes. He must be all right.” Baldwin lowered himself into a seat and watched Margaret playing with the spectacles with the delight of a child, studying the woodwork on the table, the page before the Bishop, even the skin on the back of her hand, while the Bishop looked on indulgently.

For all his expressed confidence, the knight was concerned. Simon had been so out of sorts for the last few days that his disappearance after their meal was cause for worry. It was not that Baldwin expected his friend to harm himself intentionally. Simon was in no way capable of so foolish an act, and suicide for someone relatively God-fearing was unthinkable. No, Baldwin was not anxious on that score – but he was nonetheless unquiet. There were many dangers in a town during darkness, even at the lowest level of simply falling down in a darkened street. Baldwin had once found a man in the gutter. From the indications, it was clear what had happened: the man had tripped over a drunk at the roadside, but the unfortunate fellow had struck his head, then rolled into a ditch full of muddy water. Unconscious, he had drowned. The drunk had not even woken.