‘Then stay and farm with me!’
‘Do I look like I’d make a good farmer?’ Osbert said with a measure of contempt. ‘It’s not the life for a man who’s used to commanding others and taking what he needs.’
John Pasmere looked back into the fire. He appeared to shrivel into himself, misery etching his features. ‘Then go. And we won’t see each other again. I have no son.’
Osbert said no more, but drained his cup and finished his stale bread. He left soon afterwards, while Pasmere remained silent, his eyes glittering with the flames of the fire. Osbert took his father’s old barrow, and followed the track up north that led into the little coppice, and then out beyond to the thicker woods where the trails were harder to find.
The chest lay in the hollow under an old dead oak, and he went straight to it, pulling the heavy coffer out and staring at it with that odd tightness in his breast that he felt only when he had something like this, a valuable prize to enjoy. There was a lustfulness to his pleasure when he took a good one, and just now he felt the sensation like a fire burning in his belly.
He would have to make good his escape. And he knew exactly how to do that. He bent his legs, put his hands on either side of the chest, and then swiftly heaved it up, allowing it to drop into the barrow. It settled a little, and nearly fell sideways, but he managed to catch it in time, and propped it up with a branch. He had other work to do.
It was a good thing he hadn’t told his father about the monk, he thought, as he pulled the robes from a rotten, hollow tree. There was a bulge in the soil nearby. In the last few days leaves had piled up over the body, he saw. Soon the wild animals would have eaten all that remained of the fool. How any man could think that his life would be worth a bean after helping Os to take such a prize was beyond him, but the fool had, and now he’d paid the price in full for his stupidity. When they’d reached this place, Os had had Anselm help to thrust the chest into the hole, and while the monk was bending down, he’d taken a large branch and smashed it over his skull. Anselm had fallen like an axed steer, collapsing instantly. He didn’t even shiver or rattle his feet; he was alive one moment, and dead the next. Which was good, because Os had a use for his robes now. He pulled the habit over his own clothing, and bound it at his waist with the rope Anselm had used. His father should be proud: ballocks to praying at Jack’s church — he was as good as any priest now, he thought.
The idea made him chuckle as he pulled the hood over his head and took up the handles of the barrow. He pushed it hard, and before long he had reached the old, unused track. Still chuckling, he set off westwards.
The place was the same as Simon recalled it from the day before — was it really only yesterday that he and Sir Richard had come here trying to learn where the men had gone? It felt as though it was an age ago. A lifetime ago … a friendship ago.
He couldn’t look at Baldwin. The memory of his friend’s hesitance, or rather his refusal to let his weapon fall when the life of Simon’s daughter was at stake, was enough to make Simon feel sickly. It was foul, as though he had looked for a well-known and respected companion, only to find a stranger. The shock of that discovery made him question the entire basis of his friendship. It was as though a chasm had opened between them, undermining the relationship they had developed over almost a decade.
Simon and Baldwin were almost together, while Sir Richard rode behind them, throwing the occasional surly, suspicious glare at Roger, who jogged along beside him. As they reached Pasmere’s lands, Roger dropped from his pony and walked about the yard. After some while staring at the ground, he began a circuit around the house, while Sir Richard watched him from beneath his thick brows. At last, irritable at the lack of welcome, the coroner took a deep breath.
‘Pasmere!’ he shouted from the roadway. ‘Are you in there?’
There was a muttered oath from inside, and then Pasmere’s face appeared. He glanced at the faces before him, before scratching at his beard. ‘What?’
Simon could see that something had changed about the man. His face was paler, and for a moment Simon thought that the old man was struck down with a disease. There were stories of men and women who had succumbed, and not all had died of the famine that hurt so many in the last years, but then he saw the reddened eyes and realised that this was only a man who had been weeping.
‘Friend Pasmere, are you well?’ he enquired.
‘I’m fine. What’s the matter? You get lost yesterday or something?’
Sir Richard moved forward on his mount. ‘You should remember to be civil to officers of the king’s law.’
‘Why? A civil man can be killed as easily as a rude one,’ Pasmere snapped. ‘I am only a feeble old peasant, yet two knights, you, Bailiff, and these others can feel free to come and demand answers of me. Why should I answer if I don’t wish to?’
‘Friend, I only asked if you were well,’ Simon said soothingly. ‘Something has happened to you. Can we help?’
‘No. It’s nothing.’
For some reason Simon felt sympathy for the man. Perhaps it was the aura of general despair about him, or the feeling Simon had that he too was all alone now, having lost his friend in the last day, but he felt that there was a connection between his own misery and that of this old man. He said nothing, but dismounted and walked over to John Pasmere.
‘Pasmere, I cannot swear to be able to help you, but you are grieving. Let me help you if I may.’
‘You cannot help me.’
‘Tell him to speak about his son,’ Sir Richard said. ‘In God’s name, we have to find that murderous puppy!’
‘I have no son,’ Pasmere said. ‘He is dead to me.’
‘Why is that?’ Baldwin demanded from his horse.
Simon said nothing at first, but he held Pasmere’s gaze, and gradually he saw the anger pass from the older man’s face. ‘Master, I am sorry. There is nothing more painful than to lose a son.’
‘You have?’
‘My boy was younger. There is no day I don’t miss him.’
‘I will miss mine too,’ Pasmere said, and sighed. ‘He was a good boy when he was young, you know? Always loyal and keen. Clever, too, with his hands. He could fashion anything out of wood, if you gave him a good knife to work with. Aye, he had the brain of a man apprenticed as a craftsman, he did. But then all went sour.’
‘Why was that?’ Simon asked.
‘He went up to fight for the king at Bannockburn, twelve years ago. He got that wound and lost his eye up there in the Scots’ lands, and never trusted his lords again. The king was there, and his own master, but they fled when they saw the battle turn against them. All those men wallowing in the brooks and mud, and those who ordered them to go left them to die. It was a miracle that Os didn’t. Perhaps it would have been better if he had,’ he added musingly.
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, he was fortunate. Some Scot took him in and nursed him back to life, but from that moment he was bitter about people — especially the king and those who made wars and then ran away when it grew warm. The king did pay him a shilling for his service, and Sir Robert paid him the same, and he was welcomed back to Sir Robert’s household when he was healthy enough. And then the fool made enemies in the king’s court, and all were forced to turn outlaw. My boy stayed with his master in all that time, and when Sir Robert returned to Nymet Traci, he brought Os with him.’