The Dean stared at him long and hard. ‘Some of us have not yet forgotten the matter of Gilbert de Knovil’s money, Brother. I say to you, before you seek to — um — accuse others of possessing a splinter, look to your own plank.’
John’s face went almost purple with rage. ‘I am not here to bandy words about matters of no importance!’
‘So money is of no consequence? That is good. Perhaps, if you, ah, deposited Sir William of Hatherleigh’s money with us, then you could take his body back with you and all would be well.’
With an effort John calmed himself. ‘Oh, no, Dean. We shall be taking this matter further. You wish the affair done with? It shall be when we have debated it fully and the King’s own men have come here to listen to our pleas.’
He stood, gave the Dean a most unhumble and angry nod, and left the room, a very perturbed-looking Robert hurrying at his heels.
‘Dean? My lord? Are you all right?’
Waving a hand at his servant, Alfred smiled benignly and reassured him. But when he had sent his man out to fetch him a goblet of wine, he sat back contemplatively and considered all that had been said.
He should not have lost his temper, but perhaps it was no bad thing after all. He had roused John to rage with his reminder of the theft of Gilbert de Knovil’s money — the foolish fellow had deposited it in the friary, and Brother Nicholas Sandekyn had acquired it for himself. Three separate priors had sought to conceal the theft, which caused much embarrassment when their offences were uncovered. But that was old history now — what was more important was John’s reaction. The man was undoubtedly insanely jealous of the cathedral, and would do much to damage the chapter, if he could. Yet he had threatened to involve the King’s men. That was a curious peril with which to menace the chapter of Exeter Cathedral. After all, their Bishop, Walter de Stapledon, was trusted and honoured by the King. What sort of threat did the friars imagine the King could be to them?
The Dean was suddenly aware of a very unpleasant sinking feeling.
Chapter Ten
Saul was an older man who had spent much of his life working in the fleshfold not far from the Black Hog. His cheery smile and benevolent appearance could not entirely mask his sharp mind and the sense to use it.
‘So you want to know about Est in case he had anything to do with the murder of the sergeant? You’d have to be mad to think that!’
‘Why?’
‘He’s more than half simple. Couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. I don’t think he even carries a dagger now, not for his protection nor for cutting his food. He’s entirely innocent of violence. The thought of it would be enough to addle his mind.’
‘I have known some remarkably foolish men who took to murder,’ Sir Peregrine murmured.
‘I don’t move in your circles,’ Saul agreed easily.
Baldwin cleared his throat before the astonished Sir Peregrine could give vent to his anger, saying quickly, ‘What sort of man is he, then? Why do you say he is innocent of violence? Because he was born foolish?’
‘He was born as bright as you or me,’ Saul said. He saw no need to make mention of Sir Peregrine. ‘I knew him from the first, I suppose. Our fathers were both butchers, and although I was a little older than him, we were apprentices at more or less the same time and messed together quite often. He was fine.’
‘Why then is he a fool now? Did he have an accident? A blow to his head?’
‘Nothing like that. Poor fellow, he married quite young. Must have been ten years ago now, back in the sixth year of the reign of the King.’
Baldwin calculated. King Edward II came to the throne in 1307, so Est’s marriage was in 1313 or 1314. ‘Yes?’
‘They were obviously happy, and soon after, they were blessed. Emma, she was his wife, and a lovely girl. There was a lot of jealousy about when he caught her. Anyway, she fell pregnant a year or so after their marriage and they couldn’t have been more delighted, the pair of them. He was running his own business by then, and making good money, so when the baby was born in 1314, about the month of July or August, I remember, all seemed well. Except you never can tell, can you? You never know what’s round the corner.’
All the men sitting at that table knew well enough what had happened next, though. It was the great famine, the terrible time when everyone had friends or family who had died.
‘Yes, well, here in Exeter, we got it worse than most, I reckon. There was hardly a soul hadn’t lost someone. Well, you all remember it. Est, he fared worse than some, but it affected him badly. First his little baby girl died, only a year or so old, she was. So many of the little ones did. They couldn’t feed properly and their mammies couldn’t give them pap, so that was it for them. The little mite faded over a few days, and then was gone.
‘Est himself could have coped with that, I dare say, but then they couldn’t bury the little chit on consecrated ground. It had been a hard birth, and the midwife thought Cissy wouldn’t live, so she baptized the babe herself.’
‘That’s acceptable,’ Baldwin commented.
‘Normally, but this woman was no good. She just mumbled some nonsense about “God and Saint John bless this body and these bones,” and that was it. No one thought about it until Cissy was dead, and then it was too late. The priest told the midwife she’d consigned little Cissy to eternal suffering. The soul was lost. That was why Est’s wife lost the will to live, I reckon. He never got over the horror of burying his child. Then he lost her too, and in the worst way. She hanged herself. I was there with the jury when the Coroner heard the case. A bad business, a terrible business.’
Saul stopped and picked up his ale. He sat staring into it so long that Baldwin thought he was demanding a fresh quart, and was debating whether to order one for him when he realized that Saul was staring through the ale into the past.
Much of what he saw there was unpleasant. Saul could remember the carts carrying the dead to the cemetery, the houses with the shutters wide even at night because the whole family had died and been taken away. Burial pits dug by the fossors to encompass entire households, for when the food was gone there was nothing to be done. Women might whore for a few pennies, men might sell all their prized possessions, but when all wanted the same scarce goods — foods — the prices of bread and grain rose as those of silver, pewter and gold fell. No one could eat metal.
Even in Exeter there were murders, and once there had been a suggestion that a man had broken that ancient taboo: cannibalism. But stories of that nature abounded when all were so desperate. When a man was prepared to boil his boots for the sustenance the leather might hold, you knew that the fellow was starving.
‘Everyone suffered,’ Saul said quietly. ‘I lost a brother and a child, although my second son — God be praised! — lived. And now he’s a bone idle arse with turds for brains … still, I’d not lose him too. One was bad enough. And Est lost both. His wife and his child. And neither could be buried on consecrated ground.’
‘It must have been very hard,’ Baldwin said. ‘But most people recovered. Why did not this fellow?’
Saul shrugged. He had no answer for that.
‘The parents, surely, should have realized and had the baby baptized?’ Sir Peregrine commented in a hushed tone. It was still a source of profound pain to him that he had not been able to ensure his still-born child’s burial in the churchyard as a baptized Christian. ‘No parent could fail that responsibility.’
‘There were too few priests to go round … they were not educated like some. They trusted the midwife. Later, when their baby was screaming all night and all day because she was so hungry, and they were desperately trying to feed her, they had other things on their minds,’ Saul said sharply. ‘Even the best of parents can fail, Sir Knight! These two were good parents.’