‘If you wanted,’ Os said haltingly, ‘I think I could persuade some men to help you.’
‘There is no need. They think this place is evil, but it’s not true. This is a house of God. With care and love, it can rise again. Especially if the monk who lives here can prove himself to the community.’
‘Will you remain?’
‘Come, Os! I married you, what more do you want from me!’ Scut laughed.
Osbert gave a fleeting smile. He had married Flora at the first opportunity.
After the attack on the castle, he had left the place and gone back to his old home. The news that Ben had given him, that Huward had been a cuckold and Flora was likely Sir Ralph’s and not the miller’s, had struck him dumb with horror. He had wanted her so badly. After discovering the power of his love for her, after wanting her sister for so long, learning that he was prevented by that most simple barrier from ever marrying her had all but destroyed him.
And then, soon after the battle at the castle, this same Scut had hurried to his home and berated him for being so feeble-minded that he couldn’t see that he himself looked in no way like Sir Ralph. It wasn’t something he’d have thought of.
As soon as the news had sunk in, he had dropped his tools and sped to the castle, where Flora had been living as maid to Lady Annicia. Scut had followed him, and with the priest at his side, he had stated his desire to marry Flora. Then, when he had fallen silent, he had stood gazing at her with mingled dread, at the thought of a refusal, and expectation. He was sure she wouldn’t refuse him. And at last, when she dropped her eyes and told him in front of the witnesses that she was pleased to marry him now, he had felt as though his breast would burst for sheer joy.
‘I am the happiest man in the world, monk.’
Roger Scut paused. He had been gulping a mazer of ale, and now he slowly lowered the cup. It was automatic. He couldn’t help but gaze down his nose at the lad, the great, lumbering oaf, who sat with that beatific smile all but splitting his head in two. His mouth opened to let slip a scathing comment, but he closed his mouth and instead, smiled in return. It was not his place to be contemptuous of peasants. He had no right.
That point had been made abundantly clear when he had met the representative of the Bishop. It was Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton, who appeared at the castle a day or two after Sir Baldwin himself had gone, and held a meeting with Roger. It had not been a pleasant meeting. Much of Roger Scut’s behaviour was known to the Dean, and Roger had not been able to deny the main thrust of the accusation, which was that he had been seeking to win money to the detriment of his holy duties. It would have to cease.
‘It is over, Dean,’ Roger had said. ‘I will not forget the lessons which I have learned here. In future, I shall be humble and obedient. Trust me, I do not intend ever trying to seek preferment. Rather, I would take a small church far from anywhere and live the quiet life of the recluse.’
The Dean had smiled at that. A thin, calculating smile, and at the sight of it, Roger Scut had felt his cods freeze.
‘Very well. But there is no need to find a church, when we have a chapel that needs repairing. See to that, and we shall be pleased enough. Let the rebuilding be your penance for your pride and greed. And when it is done, we shall consider where you may best serve the Church.’
Os was finished. He had to go to the castle now to speak to the carpenter and Lady Annicia’s steward about the timbers he needed for the mill, and he rose and gave a fond farewell to the priest. For him, Roger Scut was a generous, kindly man who deserved respect.
It was odd. Roger felt quite warm inside as Os left. It was as though a man’s wholehearted respect was enough in itself to cheer him. A curious thought. He went back to his chapel and stared up at the single beam. It was good to see the beginning of his efforts. Next he must set the roof trusses in place, each leaning at opposite sides of the main beam, and begin the laborious task of nailing each rafter in place. Someone else must bind the thatch.
So much labour. He had already ripped his tunic in three places, and there was no bath here. If he wished to clean himself, he must mortify his flesh in the freezing stream. Yet oddly enough, there was something about this place, something that had struck a chord in his breast…
Hearing a mew, he bent and picked up his kitten. Os had brought it a week ago. Strange, he’d never owned a pet, but this small, frail-feeling creature was oddly comforting.
In fact, if he wasn’t ever allowed back to Crediton… he wasn’t sure that he’d care.
Thomas sat in the alehouse feeling pleased with life. His arm still smarted from a long raking cut that had opened it almost to the elbow from the wrist, and there was a startlingly bright coloured bruise on his flank where a cudgel had connected during the battle at Gidleigh Castle, but apart from that he felt well enough.
As his ale arrived, he saw that another figure had appeared in the doorway – Godwen. This was the first time he’d seen him since the attack on the castle. Godwen had been badly pounded, even with Thomas guarding him, and he’d been taken to the Lady Annicia’s hall to be rested and nursed while Thomas had gone off to Crediton with messages for the Dean, and had been kept there. Other, unwounded messengers had been sent back.
Slowly, Godwen walked down the steps towards Thomas.
‘You want to sit?’ Thomas said.
‘Yes. Thanks.’
It was rare indeed to see Godwen short of a sharp comment or patronising remark, and Thomas felt his eyes widen. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Thanks.’
Thomas hailed the woman who owned the place and sat back, carefully avoiding Godwen’s red-rimmed eye. They had been friends for a little while, it was true, but their families had been on terms of near-hostility for many years; and then when Thomas was successful in his wooing of Bea, he had fallen out with Godwen. Shortly afterwards, Godwen had married another girl – as though to show that he was perfectly capable of winning whichever woman he wished, but the marriage was not a success. His Jen was a lively, attractive woman, but Godwen had always wanted Bea, and that was that. It was the end of their friendship.
‘I heard,’ Godwen said, grimly staring into his cup. ‘The Keeper told me today. You saved my life.’
Thomas shrugged his shoulders. If asked, he couldn’t have explained why he had leaped into the fray to rescue Godwen from those mercenaries, but there was a vague anger at the prospect that his own personal enemy, whose enmity had been forged in the hot fire of his youth, should be taken away by someone who had never even so much as thumbed his nose at Godwen before. That was unbearable. Even Godwen deserved to die at the hand of someone who truly hated him, rather than someone who simply saw him as an irritating obstacle.
‘Thank you.’
‘No matter.’
‘It is to me.’
‘Forget it,’ Thomas said. He lifted his cup and took a long draught.
His offhand manner irked Godwen. ‘There’s no need to be so ungracious. You jumped in there, when I’d been knocked down, and stood over me. You could have been shot… anything. I appreciate it, I tell you!’
‘It was nothing.’
‘You just can’t bear me thanking you, can you?’ Godwen hissed. ‘You great dough-laden tub of lard, why can’t I just say thanks?’
Thomas slowly turned to peer at him. ‘Tub of what?’
‘You heard me. God’s faith! You are intolerable.’
‘At least I don’t try long words and such to confuse folk.’
‘Aha! Yes, lack of education is a virtue in your family, isn’t it?’