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the fair. If Elias can’t afford six pennies for his rubbish, I doubt he could afford another twelve—not as well as your fee.”
    As he moved on toward the Abbey, he was in a contemplative mood. When almost there, he paused a while to watch the latest traders arrive. A long line of merchants was riding up from the western gate, and he could see that they had their wagons and carts filled. One face he recognized: Roger Torre, striding beside a friar. Roger scraped by panning for tin on the moors. He eked out a living by catching rabbits, and rented land from the Abbot to grow vegetables and herbs. He didn’t prosper, but he was not so poor as some of the men who inhabited the little stone sheds on the moors. Only the bigger miners seemed to make good money. 26
    Michael Jecks
    David waved to him and carried on. Torre was always keen to drink and exchange stories, and the portreeve was determined to finish his work and join the moorman in the tavern. He had need of a companion who would not talk to him of garbage, fairs or whores. Another man was watching Torre and the friar. He stood a little to one side of the port-reeve, partly obscured by drapery hung to celebrate the fair. It was so many years ago, he had thought he would be safe here, but now his worst imagining was realized as he watched the cleric and his friend making their way to the fair. If he should be seen and recognized, he would be in danger of his life—but what could he do?
    He had tried to escape before, and that had ended in disaster.
    Perhaps even that failure might show him how to avoid justice again. If he dared be bold once more, he might yet be able to get away. He preferred to remain hidden, but if he had no choice, he would act, he decided, and he slipped away down an alley.
    - 3 lias pulled on his hose and left the girl E Lizzie in his chamber. Out in the street, he stood and surveyed his pile of
    garbage with exasperation. It was mad
    to expect people to clear away everything just because there was going to be a fair. Sourly pursing his lips, he stood for a while assessing how many barrow-loads it would take. He was sure there were more than ten, and the midden lay out at the western edge of the borough. That meant he had at least two hours’ hard work.
    “God’s blood! I’d like to drop it all off on that damned port-reeve’s house.”
    The idea was tempting, but he discarded it from reasons of practicality. David would be sure to know where it had come from, and too many other people had remarked upon all the muck over the last week or two; if he was to shift it from his alley to another’s house, it would take little time for him to be found out. Morosely he fetched his tools and began forking rubbish from the top into his barrow. When it was filled, he set his fork against the wall and started out for the midden.
    It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun’s heat 28
    Michael Jecks
    was concentrated by the white limewash of the buildings on either side. The walls gleamed so strongly he had to squint. Slouching along reluctantly, he could feel the sweat bursting from his skin. It formed a stream under his shirt, trickling down his spine and soaking into the seat of his hose. At the parish church dedicated the previous year by Bishop Stapledon to St. Eustace, he rested a moment, spitting on his hands and rubbing them. He was used to picking up sacks of flour or carcasses, but walking along pushing his wooden barrow was tiring in the heat. Reaching the midden, he emptied his load into the stinking pool. Then, resignedly pulling his shoulders back, he made his way homeward.
    He was on his fourth load when he heard the Abbey bells, and he groaned when he saw the lengthening shadows. Vespers already, and he wasn’t halfway through the mound. His irritation made him careless. The wheel caught in a rut, and he froze, eyes wide, mouth pursed into a thin white line as he gripped the solid timber handles, desperately struggling to keep it