long years of intensive searching, after wearing through spades, after all but breaking his back moving lumps of moorstone and trying to bale water from pits he was trying to dig,
he felt as though it was all in vain. Luckily Hal had taken him under his wing. Apart from Hal’s friendship, the only wealth he had found was Emma. She was the only source of joy in
Hamelin’s life. The children he was fond of, but they were a continuing drain into which all his money was tipped, while Emma, with her smiling round face, was a comfort to him.
He had met her on one of his journeys to the Stannary town of Tavistock years ago. She had been serving in a pie-shop, and he had bought one pie, and then stayed there for the rest of the day,
chatting and teasing her. He had adored her from that moment. It was something he had never thought could happen to him, but she was kind, generous of heart, and made him laugh; and he seemed to
make her as happy in return. Soon they betook themselves to a tavern and drank, and that night they fell together on her bed. Within a week they were wedded, with many witnesses watching at the
church door.
That happiness was blessed with children, as the priests liked to say, but Hamelin spat on the idea.
Blessed
! How could children be thought of as a blessing? They needed food, and that
meant money. Hamelin had nothing. The children stared at him with their sunken eyes, their swollen bellies, each time he went to see them, every few weeks, and when he saw his lovely Emma and how
wizened she had become, he felt as though his heart would burst. She was broken down with toil, her back bent, her face aged beyond her years. As he took his leave-taking to return to the moors he
had grown to detest, she hugged him and kissed him and wept a little, as did he as his feet took him up the steep hill towards Walkhampton, over the common, and on to the Nun’s Cross at the
edge of the Great Mire. Yes, he wept too, for the life that he should have been able to offer his wife. If he still had his money, he’d be able to, as well.
Injustice! That was what tore at him. If he’d not made that damned loan to the bastard who’d fleeced him, he’d be able to support his family. Instead, he was out here, stuck in
the middle of this hell-hole.
From his vantage point at the top of Skir Hill, he could look all along the small valley that pointed northwards. His house was a huddle of stones, almost invisible among the clitter, with its
thick layer of turf for a roof. It was small and smoky, but at least it was warm in the winter, which was more than other miners’ places. His home was not too bad – but it was this
desert all about which appalled him. It was as though he had been convicted of a crime and punished with exile in this hideous land, all alone but for the occasional traveller passing by. If he
could only get at his money, he would be safe, but even the lawyers he had spoken to had laughed at the idea of appealing a monk. Who wouldn’t balk at the prospect?
He felt crushed by the unfairness. Today the sky was a grey blanket that smothered his soul. There was no pleasure here, only despair, he thought.
A sparkle caught his eye, and he frowned, peering northwestwards. There, on the track that led from Mount Misery towards the Skir Ford, he saw a tiny group of people and carts. Travellers. It
was tempting to go and speak to them, but he had work to be getting on with. Perhaps today he would find a rich seam, maybe enough to buy food for his wife and children.
Or maybe he would find a purse of gold, he thought cynically, and returned to his work.
Chapter One
When the messenger found Bailiff Simon Puttock, some few days after Brother Peter’s story-telling, the Bailiff and his servant, Hugh, were watching the routine of
Tavistock’s coining. Simon was doing so with more than his usual care, after the fiasco of the previous couple of days.
It was all because of his blasted daughter, he told
he felt as though it was all in vain. Luckily Hal had taken him under his wing. Apart from Hal’s friendship, the only wealth he had found was Emma. She was the only source of joy in
Hamelin’s life. The children he was fond of, but they were a continuing drain into which all his money was tipped, while Emma, with her smiling round face, was a comfort to him.
He had met her on one of his journeys to the Stannary town of Tavistock years ago. She had been serving in a pie-shop, and he had bought one pie, and then stayed there for the rest of the day,
chatting and teasing her. He had adored her from that moment. It was something he had never thought could happen to him, but she was kind, generous of heart, and made him laugh; and he seemed to
make her as happy in return. Soon they betook themselves to a tavern and drank, and that night they fell together on her bed. Within a week they were wedded, with many witnesses watching at the
church door.
That happiness was blessed with children, as the priests liked to say, but Hamelin spat on the idea.
Blessed
! How could children be thought of as a blessing? They needed food, and that
meant money. Hamelin had nothing. The children stared at him with their sunken eyes, their swollen bellies, each time he went to see them, every few weeks, and when he saw his lovely Emma and how
wizened she had become, he felt as though his heart would burst. She was broken down with toil, her back bent, her face aged beyond her years. As he took his leave-taking to return to the moors he
had grown to detest, she hugged him and kissed him and wept a little, as did he as his feet took him up the steep hill towards Walkhampton, over the common, and on to the Nun’s Cross at the
edge of the Great Mire. Yes, he wept too, for the life that he should have been able to offer his wife. If he still had his money, he’d be able to, as well.
Injustice! That was what tore at him. If he’d not made that damned loan to the bastard who’d fleeced him, he’d be able to support his family. Instead, he was out here, stuck in
the middle of this hell-hole.
From his vantage point at the top of Skir Hill, he could look all along the small valley that pointed northwards. His house was a huddle of stones, almost invisible among the clitter, with its
thick layer of turf for a roof. It was small and smoky, but at least it was warm in the winter, which was more than other miners’ places. His home was not too bad – but it was this
desert all about which appalled him. It was as though he had been convicted of a crime and punished with exile in this hideous land, all alone but for the occasional traveller passing by. If he
could only get at his money, he would be safe, but even the lawyers he had spoken to had laughed at the idea of appealing a monk. Who wouldn’t balk at the prospect?
He felt crushed by the unfairness. Today the sky was a grey blanket that smothered his soul. There was no pleasure here, only despair, he thought.
A sparkle caught his eye, and he frowned, peering northwestwards. There, on the track that led from Mount Misery towards the Skir Ford, he saw a tiny group of people and carts. Travellers. It
was tempting to go and speak to them, but he had work to be getting on with. Perhaps today he would find a rich seam, maybe enough to buy food for his wife and children.
Or maybe he would find a purse of gold, he thought cynically, and returned to his work.
Chapter One
When the messenger found Bailiff Simon Puttock, some few days after Brother Peter’s story-telling, the Bailiff and his servant, Hugh, were watching the routine of
Tavistock’s coining. Simon was doing so with more than his usual care, after the fiasco of the previous couple of days.
It was all because of his blasted daughter, he told
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