issue: the lonely and sad, the bereaved and desperate, promising them preferential
honours in the afterlife, provided that they gave over their wealth to the friary in the here and now.
Of course it had worked. It had been so successful that in Exeter, where he had ended up, he had caused a certain amount of
friction between the friary and the cathedral. Still, that was all in his past now. He had left when he saw some of the corruption
of the city, and he was well out of it.
It had been shortly after he had joined the priory that he had heard from his mother that his older brothers were both dead,
killed in the wars that ran up and down the marches at all times. The Welsh were a froward, cunning foe, and his brothers
had been tricked into a narrow valley by the offer of treasure before being slaughtered by Welsh arrows. Ach, the Welsh were
ever cowards. They wouldn’t stand and fight.
By then, it was too late to tempt him home. His life had the purpose it had lacked before, and he was content. The manor would
go to his remaining sibling, a sister. At leastthe estates would make for a good dowry when she was married.
His reflections were cut short by a pebble. He was wearing boots which a kind donor had given him, but the thin leather was
little protection against the ragged stones. The soles of his feet were cracked and throbbing, and every so often he would
stub a toe on a lump of moorstone or semi-frozen mud, which would give him a stab of exquisite pain.
It was as he leaned on his old staff with his face twisted, having managed to do this yet again and stemming the tide of curses
only with an effort of will, that he saw the light up ahead.
There were many places out here where a man should be cautious, but even the most devil-may-care felon would think twice before
harming a friar. In the first place a friar was useful because he might take a man’s confession and shrive him; in the second,
he had no possessions. There was no point in trying to rob him.
Still, thieves were not the only threat to a man in the darkness. A law-abiding farmer could be as dangerous if he thought
that a dark figure in the shadows was possibly a man come to ravish a wife or daughter. Many out in assarts miles from any
neighbours would strike first and ask questions later if practicable. John had little desire to court any more grief than
he already endured, so he peered ahead, his narrow face screwed into an expression of intense concentration, while his sharp
eyes gazed from under his beetling brows. There were no signs of dancing shapes, no screaming or shouting thieves, only a
warm glow amidst the trees, and overhead, now he glanced upwards, a thick pall of black smoke. Occasionally a shower of glinting
sparks would rise in a rush, only to disappear.
John gripped his staff and started to make his way towards the blaze. The hour was late for a fire in the woods. People tended
to douse the flames so that the trees were protected from stray sparks. Even now, when winter had not yet given way to spring,
there was still the threat of wholesale conflagration if men were careless, and men were rarely careless.
It was a good half-mile to the fire, and he had plenty of opportunity to survey the area on his way.
He had come from Upcott towards a place he was told was called Whitemoor, in the hope that the tavern at Iddesleigh might
offer him a space on the floor for the night. The fire appeared to be close to the vill itself, set away from the path by
a short distance, and he approached it slowly and reluctantly, his staff tapping on the ground firmly with every step he took,
until he reached the burning buildings and saw the bodies lying all about: chickens, a dog, cats, and then, last of all, the
body of a man.
‘Sweet Mother of Christ,’ he breathed.
Chapter Five
As he stood at the door to his cottage, Pagan could see the men moving about at the big house, and he felt himself slump
honours in the afterlife, provided that they gave over their wealth to the friary in the here and now.
Of course it had worked. It had been so successful that in Exeter, where he had ended up, he had caused a certain amount of
friction between the friary and the cathedral. Still, that was all in his past now. He had left when he saw some of the corruption
of the city, and he was well out of it.
It had been shortly after he had joined the priory that he had heard from his mother that his older brothers were both dead,
killed in the wars that ran up and down the marches at all times. The Welsh were a froward, cunning foe, and his brothers
had been tricked into a narrow valley by the offer of treasure before being slaughtered by Welsh arrows. Ach, the Welsh were
ever cowards. They wouldn’t stand and fight.
By then, it was too late to tempt him home. His life had the purpose it had lacked before, and he was content. The manor would
go to his remaining sibling, a sister. At leastthe estates would make for a good dowry when she was married.
His reflections were cut short by a pebble. He was wearing boots which a kind donor had given him, but the thin leather was
little protection against the ragged stones. The soles of his feet were cracked and throbbing, and every so often he would
stub a toe on a lump of moorstone or semi-frozen mud, which would give him a stab of exquisite pain.
It was as he leaned on his old staff with his face twisted, having managed to do this yet again and stemming the tide of curses
only with an effort of will, that he saw the light up ahead.
There were many places out here where a man should be cautious, but even the most devil-may-care felon would think twice before
harming a friar. In the first place a friar was useful because he might take a man’s confession and shrive him; in the second,
he had no possessions. There was no point in trying to rob him.
Still, thieves were not the only threat to a man in the darkness. A law-abiding farmer could be as dangerous if he thought
that a dark figure in the shadows was possibly a man come to ravish a wife or daughter. Many out in assarts miles from any
neighbours would strike first and ask questions later if practicable. John had little desire to court any more grief than
he already endured, so he peered ahead, his narrow face screwed into an expression of intense concentration, while his sharp
eyes gazed from under his beetling brows. There were no signs of dancing shapes, no screaming or shouting thieves, only a
warm glow amidst the trees, and overhead, now he glanced upwards, a thick pall of black smoke. Occasionally a shower of glinting
sparks would rise in a rush, only to disappear.
John gripped his staff and started to make his way towards the blaze. The hour was late for a fire in the woods. People tended
to douse the flames so that the trees were protected from stray sparks. Even now, when winter had not yet given way to spring,
there was still the threat of wholesale conflagration if men were careless, and men were rarely careless.
It was a good half-mile to the fire, and he had plenty of opportunity to survey the area on his way.
He had come from Upcott towards a place he was told was called Whitemoor, in the hope that the tavern at Iddesleigh might
offer him a space on the floor for the night. The fire appeared to be close to the vill itself, set away from the path by
a short distance, and he approached it slowly and reluctantly, his staff tapping on the ground firmly with every step he took,
until he reached the burning buildings and saw the bodies lying all about: chickens, a dog, cats, and then, last of all, the
body of a man.
‘Sweet Mother of Christ,’ he breathed.
Chapter Five
As he stood at the door to his cottage, Pagan could see the men moving about at the big house, and he felt himself slump
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