Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [289]
There were two orders of friars who had become a familiar sight at Sarum during his lifetime; the Dominicans – the black-robed order of preachers and intellectuals, who had set up their first house near Wilton – and the grey friars, followers of one of the church’s newest saints, Francis of Assisi. Unlike most of the priesthood or the monks, the grey friars were dedicated to a life of simplicity. They usually lived and worked amongst the poor, and they had already earned the respect of the people of Salisbury by their devotion to such humble tasks. When the first group from Italy had arrived at Sarum fifteen years before, the bishop had given them a modest house in St Ann Street just outside the close, and the king, too, was known to favour them.
Though he knew their reputation, Peter had never spoken with one of the friars before and he stared with curiosity as the grey figure now moved round the stocks and came to face him.
He was a young man – little older than himself – with dark hair and a clean-shaven, sallow face.
“What brings you to the stocks?” He spoke with a strong Italian accent.
“My sins,” Peter replied dismally. “And a girl,” he added. “What about you?”
The sallow young man smiled. He had very white, even teeth.
“The same two things,” he laughed. “I am Brother Giovanni.” And without being asked, he sat comfortably on the ground in front of the stocks. “What’s your story?” he demanded.
As the enquiry was friendly, and as he had nothing else to do, Peter told the friar his whole story, about the mill, his losing Alicia, and the night when he broke the window. “The funny thing is,” he confessed, “I may have been drunk, but I don’t remember throwing anything at the church window at all.”
The friar made no comment, but his cheerful presence was a comfort to Peter and soon they were talking easily. Giovanni told him about his own life in Italy, which was that of a merchant family very like his own, and though Peter did not realise it, over an hour passed without incident in this way.
“The worst of it is,” Peter told him, “my father won’t forgive me either now. He says I’ve disgraced the family.”
“He will,” the friar assured him. “Give him time.”
“What can I do to please him?” Peter asked.
“Work like hell, I should think,” Giovanni answered with a pleasant grin.
Eventually one of the other friars called his friend away, and Peter once again resumed his lonely stand.
The sun continued to rise slowly. Little beads of sweat formed on his forehead; but the market place was occupied with other matters and although there were people standing near the stocks, no one seemed to take any notice of him.
It was nearly midday when he saw William atte Brigge lope into the open.
The trader looked about him surreptitiously as he made his way slowly towards the stocks. Peter saw that he was carrying a basket of rotting vegetables and in his hands, a turnip, and that he was grinning quietly to himself. Two little boys, guessing his intentions, joined him.
Nothing had been thrown at him since the boy’s apple had hit him in the mouth; the presence of the friar had deterred the urchins from their usual sport of tossing whatever refuse they could find lying about at any victim in the stocks. But obviously William, with his hatred of the Shockleys, was determined to see that there was a little sport at his expense before the stocks were opened at noon.
When he was comfortably in range, William set his basket down and motioned the two children to take their pick of the contents; a moment later a large cabbage hit Peter in the face and the two boys hooted with triumph.
The rotting vegetables would do him little harm; but it was the turnip that William held that Peter’s eyes were fixed upon. There was something about it which looked odd, and suddenly he made out what it was: cunningly embedded in it there was a large lump of flint. Its edges were razor sharp.
His eyes grew wide with horror. He opened his mouth to shout for help; but before the cry was half out, he saw the trader from