For the Love of Old Bones - and other stories (Templar Series) by Michael Jecks

on, then,’ Reeve Miria said. ‘I have other matters to deal with at Tavistock.’
    ‘You always were a busy man,’ Peter said, scanning the land ahead.
    ‘A merchant needs to be busy. It’s people like me who keep the town alive. Without burgesses, there’s be nothing. And that would mean nothing to keep you lot in the abbey alive either!’
    ‘Oh, I think we could survive,’ Peter responded, checking his sandals. ‘Our manors would keep us going. It’s not as though the town shares all its profits with us.’
    ‘The abbey gets the rents,’ the Reeve snarled. ‘And extortionate they can be, too.’
    ‘But they are not usury,’ Peter said.  
    The Reeve stared at Peter as the monk carried on. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
    ‘Nothing. I’d heard that someone was charging interest on money loaned, that’s all. Illegal, of course, but some folk will try to make money they don’t need. It’s as bad as a doctor charging money from a poor man: the doctor should value life more highly than money. God in his goodness gave the doctor the skills necessary to save life, so the doctor is charging for God’s gift of knowledge - it’s obscene! Therefore a merchant shouldn’t ask profit from lending money. If he has money to lend, he must have sufficient already; only a thief would demand profit from lending it.’
    ‘You’re talking crap!’
    ‘Christ’s teaching?’ Peter asked with apparent interest. His lisp, caused by the crushing of his jaw and the loss of almost all the teeth on one side of his mouth, sounded almost like a laugh, and John wondered what the point of the conversation was. He was convinced that Peter wouldn’t have raised the matter had there not been a reason.
    ‘Come on, I don’t have time for all this shit!’ the Reeve said dismissively.
    ‘Of course. Oh, I should warn you: I asked Ivo Colbrok and Eustace Joce to meet us up near the place.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Oh, I just have a feeling that they might be able to help,’ Peter said, setting off again.
    He was right. At the entrance to Dennithorne a small group had gathered. The men John recognised: Eustace Joce, the tenant who farmed Dennithorne, and Ivo Colbrok, who looked after the Abbot’s warrens in Dolvin Wood. There was also a woman, whom John did not recognise, but whom he thought must be Eustace’s wife, from the familiarity with which he treated her.  
    Peter stood among the group, looking at them all. ‘Lordings, I am sorry to have asked you to meet us here, but we have a solemn duty. A man’s body has been found, and we must report on it for the Coroner when he arrives.’
    ‘D’you know who it is?’ Eustace asked. He was a large, leathery skinned man, dressed in a strong rather than fine linen shirt, with a leather jacket atop. His massive biceps were as thick as a maid’s waist, John thought.  
    ‘Ralph atte Moor.’
    Eustace Joce said nothing, but looked at the woman, who had given a startled cry and her hand went to her face on hearing the name. ‘Not poor Ralph?’
    Peter’s voice became more gentle as he said, ‘I am afraid so, maid. He is a little way further up here.’
    She shook her head and tears began to run slowly down her cheeks.  
    ‘Typical of the fool. Dry your eyes, Anastasia! Anyone would think he was close to you, eh?’ Eustace watched his wife with small, suspicious eyes.
    ‘It’s only right that a man should be mourned,’ Peter said quietly.
    ‘I don’t see why. A fool like him doesn’t deserve sympathy. He was a shit when he lived, and I don’t give a fig what anyone else says.’
    ‘That is not a very compassionate attitude,’ Peter remonstrated.
    ‘He made one enemy too many,’ Eustace said harshly as he set his face to the hill.  
    ‘Was he unpopular, would you say?’ Peter asked.
    ‘You know damn well he was!’
    ‘Ah!’ Peter said mildly, and Eustace shot him a questioning look, but Peter merely trudged on thoughtfully and didn’t speak again until they