The Devil's Acolyte

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I’ve never seen him up there before, though.’

  ‘Forget him.’

  ‘How can I?’ he growled. ‘He ruined us.’

  ‘But you say Wally might have saved us?’

  In answer, Hamelin grabbed his purse from his belt on the floor beside them and, opening it, tipped a pile of bright silver coins amounting to several shillings over her breast. Then, kissing her nipples, her throat, her chin, he said, ‘Do you believe me now? I got money for you and the children. What’s wrong with that?’

  Emma opened herself to him again; after all, if he said he had come by it fairly, it wasn’t her place to doubt him. They needed the money, no matter where it came from.

  * * *

  Hal Raddych had also returned to their camp on that Friday morning. He was tired, and his head ached a little, but less than it should have, after drinking so much the night before. Hamelin had already been there, wandering about like a man in a daze, but Hal thought his tooth must be troubling him. It was merely a relief to see him go.

  He didn’t comment when he saw the mess their timber-pile was in. Hamelin was in no mood for listening to more instructions at the moment. Hal would wait for a better time. It was the store of wood that he and Hamelin needed for their works. As he was always telling Hamelin, it was important that stores were kept in an orderly manner. Letting good wood lie on the damp soil of the moors would ruin it and lead to wastage. Grunting to himself as he surveyed the collapsed heap, he shook his head, then set to rebuilding the stack. It looked as though Hamelin had grabbed a balk from the bottom of the pile and let the rest simply collapse. Slapdash as ever, in Hal’s mind. A sloppy miner was a miner who would die as his mine fell on him.

  If Hamelin didn’t mend his ways, Hal would have to find a new partner, he thought to himself irritably, noticing that a hammer, too, had been carelessly left to sink part-way into the mud.

  He didn’t notice the small handful of nails that were also missing.

  * * *

  On the following Monday, Simon was woken by an agitated voice. He opened his eyes and recognised the red-headed acolyte he had seen at the coining.

  ‘What the…’ he demanded, pulling his cloak back over his nakedness before rubbing his tired eyes.

  The night before, he had been invited to a feast with the abbot in celebration of the successful coinage – they were several thousandweight above the previous coining and the abbot was delighted with his profits— and Simon’s head was naturally more than a little woolly. He felt fine, he told himself, but at the moment he wanted water rather than food. There was a faint odour of vomit in the air, and he wondered fleetingly whether he had been sick over himself, but then he focused again on the red-headed novice.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’ he growled.

  ‘Gerard, Sir Bailiff.’

  ‘Well, Gerard, you must learn that, in future, when you come to the room of a man who has enjoyed your master’s hospitality, you should bring a pot of water or wine.’

  He looked about him. This room was the main chamber for respected visitors – the servants and lower classes must sleep in the stables or put in the yard itself – and Simon stretched contentedly in the bed. For once he had been able to sleep alone. Usually when he came to the coinings, he was forced to share his bed.

  This morning the chamber was quiet. There had been several guests the night before, but they seemed to have gone already. Most of the beds were already empty; only one still had an occupant, a yellow-faced, rather dissipated pewterer, who lay on his back, breathing in heavily, then puffing out gusts with faint but – now Simon could concentrate – deeply annoying, popping sounds. At the side of his bed was a small pool of vomit. Simon wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Doesn’t matter what you eat, there are always peas and carrot in it,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sir, the abbot… I mean… Oh! Sir, I am…’

  Stifling a yawn, Simon looked up at the lad. ‘Don’t be flustered, just speak slowly and clearly. My head isn’t all it has been.’

  ‘Sir, the abbot asked me to call you because Wally has been found dead on the Moors.’

  Fast asleep on a bench in the adjoining room, Hugh had a rude awakening when his master first roared in his ear to rouse him, and then booted him off the bench and on to the floor.

  Simon stormed from the chamber, and his eruption, and the hasty slapping of Hugh’s boots on the flooring, woke the yellow-faced pewterer in the bed across from Simon. A scrawny man in his early thirties, he yawned, scratching at his thin beard and groin. Then he stood and walked to the window, gazing out through the branches of the tree that grew outside, and then, since all was silent, he returned to his bed and idly thrust a hand beneath the mattress, pulling out a leather satchel. Opening it, he rootled about inside for a moment, but then his face sharpened with the realisation that something was wrong. He emptied his satchel onto the bed, staring down at the contents with shock, his eyes dark with suspicion.

  * * *

  That the man was dead was not in question. Just the smell was enough for Simon’s belly to rebel. He had to swallow hard. Grabbing at the wineskin dangling from his saddle, he took a good gulp to wash away the bile. Hugh, on his pony at Simon’s side, reached for the skin, but Simon irritably slapped his hand away. His servant didn’t need it – or rather, there was a priority of need in which Hugh came a long way below his master.

  His guide was Hal Raddych, the stern-looking miner Simon had watched at the coining. Below his hat’s brim and above his bushy beard, his left eye peered out intelligently enough, although his right had a heavy cast that made it confusing to speak to Hal face to face. He was reasonably wealthy, compared with other miners Simon had met, a steady man, honest and reliable, who worked with Hamelin not far away.

  As stannary bailiff, Simon had grown to know most of the miners on the moors, and he thought that Hal was as fair-minded a man as could be found. Many weren’t. The harsh life of the miner seemed to forge men who had a certain resilience, a toughness of character which made them more prone to fighting even than the peasants who lived on the fringes of the wasteland. And those bastards were hard enough, Simon reminded himself.

  Hal chewed at his inner lip for a moment, then said slowly, ‘Poor old Wally. You know, Sir Bailiff – Walwynus. You must have met him? Used to have his own small claim over there, beyond Misery Tor, down at the Skir Gut. Worked a stream. Had a good year some summers ago, but bugger all since, by all account. Wally tried to keep a smallholding going, and you know how difficult that’s been since the famine. What with the dreadful weather, it’s a miracle anyone can live by farming.’

  Simon grunted in acknowledgement, staring at Wally’s remains. The body was curled, foetus-like, into a ball, hands and arms over his head in a posture of defence. Two fingers were missing, which wasn’t out of the ordinary: most miners lost fingers as a matter of course, just as timber workers and carpenters did. It was a natural risk of working with exceptionally sharp, heavy tools. Except in this man’s case, the fingers had gone recently, from the look of the fleshy mess where they had been. There was a balled piece of cloth nearby, clotted with blood, as though it had fallen from his fist as he died.

  Simon reluctantly passed the wineskin to Hugh and let himself down from his horse. He had no wish to approach the corpse and inspect its death wounds, but he knew he must do a formal identification if possible. It was a bailiff’s duty. Personally, Simon was happy to leave all the actual handling of the corpse to the coroner and his jury. They were welcome to it, he thought queasily, standing over the body, waving under his nose an apple which he had wisely taken from the abbey’s kitchen and stuffed with cloves before setting off on this journey. It helped to neutralise a little of the hideous stench.

  The body was lying between two furze bushes, One in particular was almost as tall as a tree. From here, south and east of Nun’s Cross, near Childe’s Tomb, not far from the marked track of the Abbot’s Way, Simon could see more furze westwards,
and grass, with the view extending all the way to the trees that stood on the hill above Tavistock. Before him, the path dropped down into the thickly wooded valley. Beyond, on the other side of the cleft in the ground, he could see glimpses of the moorland. Tors stood like oddly-carved statues left by the giants who had once inhabited this land. It was a harsh, bleak landscape, covered with tufts of grasses and occasional lumps of stone. The sort of land to break a man’s ankle if he wasn’t careful; or break his head:

  Except this man hadn’t fallen and knocked himself out. His head was a blackened mass, his hair matted and thickened with great gouts of blood which had spattered and marked the grass all about. There was a broad slick of it on a nearby furze bush, and Simon noted it. He would have to look at that later: it didn’t look natural.

  The victim had been severely beaten, from the look of him. The back of his skull was opened, with a three-inch-long gash that must have come from a heavy weapon. From what Simon could see Walwynus had tried to protect himself, for his forearms and left hand were broken, one whitened bone thrust through the skin of his right arm, and insects and flies had already begun to squirm all over the bloody flesh.

  It was that which made Simon move away; the sight made his stomach churn. Truth be told, he’d have preferred to remain in the abbey and leave this job to another official, but he was the bailiff; under the abbot he was responsible for, keeping the King’s Peace out on the moors, and if there was a possibility he might learn something about this man’s murder by visiting the place, he had to make the effort.

  The coroner had already been sent for. Simon knew that Sir Roger de Gidleigh, the coroner based in Exeter, would come as soon as he could, but that might mean a couple of days. There was never any shortage of suspicious deaths in the shire and this one would have to take its place in the queue. In the meantime, the body had to be protected. That was the responsibility of the people who lived near the corpse, to see that no dogs or rats got to it and damaged it. It was illegal to move the body or bury it; either was a serious offence that could only result in fines being imposed, so Simon knew that he would have to arrange for guards to look after the corpse until the coroner could arrive.

  He walked away from the body, towards the splash of vivid colour on the furze bush. It looked as if someone had taken a brush and painted it a dull red in a broad swipe. Peering down beneath the bush, Simon saw something, and he reached inside, wincing as the sharp thorns deep in among old growth stabbed at his hand and wrist.

  He withdrew a heavy baulk of timber, maybe a foot and a half long and three inches square. One end was darker, and there was one little greyish lump stuck to it that Simon felt unhappily sure was a piece of bone. When he studied it more closely, he could see the small round-headed nails embedded within the hardwood, turning it into a more effective weapon, a ‘morning star’. Obviously the killer had thrown his weapon aside after killing Walwynus. He would have had no use for it after that.

  ‘Look at this, Hal.’

  The miner peered at the piece of timber. There was a curious stillness about him, but Simon noticed it only in passing. It was no surprise, he thought. Old Hal must be feeling in a state of shock, maybe close to throwing up. He left Hal there while he took another look under the bush.

  Hal said, ‘It’s just an old piece of wood.’

  Simon could see nothing else at the bush. He took the timber back and studied it again. There were some scratches at the base, three lines with a fourth connecting them, like a set of vertical stones topped by another one.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Hal glanced at it. ‘Just some marks, nothing more. Could be a child did it. Let’s see whether there’s anything nearer him. Come on!’

  Simon scrutinised it a short while longer, but there was nothing more to be learned. He dropped the club beside the bush and rejoined Hal, who was poking hopefully around another bush. Simon asked, ‘Where was his smallholding?’

  ‘Over towards Skir Ford. There was a deserted farm there and he took the house and began working the land. Not that he did very well. Too much rain. Nothing grows well here in the moors.’

  ‘That’s no more than a mile from here,’ Simon considered, gazing north as though he might be able to see the place. ‘What was he doing here?’ He snatched the wineskin back from Hugh as he saw it being upended again.

  ‘Coming back from the coining, probably,’ Hal said, gratefully accepting a drink.

  ‘Was he there?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him at the market.’

  ‘I see. You’re sure he had no money?’

  The miner shook his head and spat, glancing back at the corpse for a moment. ‘No. He had nothing – nothing saved, nothing to spend, nothing worth stealing.’

  ‘He had something’ Simon said shortly as he thrust his foot into his stirrup and sprang up. ‘Otherwise, why should someone kill him?’

  Chapter Four

  What was the motive for Wally’s death? That was the thought which nagged at Simon as he and Hugh rode over to the dead man’s home. A squat, thatched cottage with small windows, the place was tatty and unkempt, like most of the miners he knew; like Wally himself. The wood was rotten at the door and shutters; the thatch was green and sprouted weeds. Moss covered the smoother stretches, and birds had dug holes in among the straws. It looked scarcely waterproof. A small shower would pass through it as though through fine linen.

  Behind the dwelling was a small, weed-infested patch of unhealthy plants: alexanders, cabbages, carrots and onions. The latter had fungus rotting their stems, and the carrots all looked brown and decaying.

  Hugh drew up his nose. ‘As a gardener he made a good miner.’

  ‘Remember he’s dead,’ Simon said sharply.

  ‘Can’t forget, can I? Not after seeing him. Still, truth is truth, and this is a midden.’

  Simon couldn’t help but agree with him, and it was no better inside. The cottage had a damp odour that the bailiff was sure came from mushrooms in the walls or timbers. It was as though the house itself was dying, like a faithful hound that expires on seeing its master’s dead body.

  Dank and foul it was, but there was no sign of a disturbance of any kind, nor of a theft. If Simon had to guess, he would have said that the place was as Wally had left it. On a rough table constructed of three long planks nailed together lay a jug, a cup and a purse, which was empty. Two stools sat nearby, while there was a barrel of ale standing in a corner. A palliasse leaking straw lay in a pool of brown water, and a small box was propped against a wall. Inside were Wally’s pathetic possessions: a small sack of flour, a thick coat, some gloves – all the accoutrements of a peasant with little or no money.

  So why should someone kill him if there was nothing to steal?

  All the way back, that was the thought that circled round and round in Simon’s aching head. When the two reached the steep hill op the way back to Tavistock, he had come no nearer to a conclusion. Walwynus was only a poor miner, after all, if Hal was right. A miner who had lost much of his livelihood since the famine years, and whose miserable plot of land wasn’t enough to sustain body and soul.

  He could recall the man. Walwynus had been out on the moors when Simon first came here to take on his new job as warden, although he had stopped mining soon afterwards. Wally had been a pleasant enough fellow, the sort of man who laboured daily whatever the weather, enduring steady, repetitive toil that would break most men’s muscles and spirit in hours, stolidly digging his pits and turning soil near rivers, always looking for new signs of tin.

  Yet as Hugh said, he could not be called a gardener. His vegetables wouldn’t have served to support him through the winter, let alone given him excess produce to sell. So how had he survived?

  Halting his horse, Simon leaned forward and frowned at the view. Through the trees he could see the abbey deep in the valley between the hills, enclosed neatly within its walls, safe from the intrusive borough that crouched beneath the parish church. It was a scene of quiet pro
gress, the little town of Tavistock. Busy, attracting men from all over the country to come and generate wealth, it was a model for other towns to follow.

  It was so tranquil-looking, it was hard to believe that a man could have been bludgeoned to death so close. Perhaps he was trying to reach the town, Simon mused, and was captured by someone who beat him to death from sheer evil spirit; or was he attacked by a gang of trailbastons or other felons? Simon had seen such things before, certainly, but usually there was a good reason for an outlaw to attack, especially armed with a club.

  The club. It was odd, Simon realised, and his brows darkened.

  A man who was poor might choose a morning star as a weapon because anyone, however destitute, could lay his hands on a lump of wood and hammer some nails into it, and while most would prefer to set out on a career of murder and theft with a sword or at least an axe or dagger, a very poor man might be glad to make do with a home-made club. Of course, a man that hard up would surely not then toss his weapon away. He’d keep it, Unless he had managed to steal a better one from his victim. And yet Walwynus had had nothing other than an eating knife on him, the last time Simon saw him.

  However, a man who was wealthy enough to afford a decent long-bladed knife or sword wouldn’t have minded abandoning the murder weapon, especially if he intended pointing the finger of suspicion away from himself and allowing another man to dance a jig on the abbot’s gibbet.

  Simon was thoughtful as he spurred his mount on, and he didn’t like his thoughts very much.

  * * *

  When the almoner, Brother Peter, entered the abbot’s chamber, he was aware of a faster beat to his heart, as though it had shrunk and he now possessed the tiny heart of a dormouse in his breast. It felt as if it was preparing to burst from its exertions.

  ‘My Lord Abbot? You wished to see me?’