The Devil's Acolyte

by Michael Jecks

  There was no sweet wakening here. No gentle kisses or soft, teasing caresses from his wife. Instead, as he yawned and stretched, he was reminded that he was in a room filled with strangers. There was the reek of armpits, of unclean teeth and rotten gums, of feet that craved cleaning with a sandstone rather than with water, and the foul odour of sulphurous bowel gas.

  ‘Someone needs a physician. He’s got a dead rat up his arse,’ he muttered as he climbed from his bed and searched for his clothes on the floor, scratching at an itch on his lower belly and wondering whether it was a flea. If so, it could have come from the bed – or from the man with whom he had shared it last night. Hugh would still be asleep in the stables, where he could keep an eye on the horses. Simon had sent him there before going to the abbot when he saw how many were making use of the abbot’s hospitality, for there were never any guarantees that a mount was safe when there was a thief about, but it was an irritation that Simon must seek his own clothing rather than have it presented to him as usual.

  He glanced down at the man who had been his bedmate. The fellow still slept easily, lying on his back, a calm smile on his roundish face, his mouth slightly open to display one chipped incisor. On his chin was a dark stubble, while his brown hair had an odd reddish tinge at his temples that gave him a slightly distinguished look. He didn’t look or smell like the sort of man who would harbour fleas, Simon acknowledged. At his side of the bed was a richly-scabbarded but well-used riding sword of the sort that knights would wear on a journey, light enough not to be uncomfortable over a distance, but still strongly built and balanced as a good weapon.

  The others in the room were a less distinguished group. Those who had visited for the coining were gone, and they had been replaced by men who, from the look of them, were of a lower general order: traders of all types, one young friar who had craved a bed for a night, two pewterers who had come for the coining and were enjoying a break before returning, and a man who had a rascally dark head of hair and a scar on his breast, together with the swarthy features of one who has spent many days in the sun and rain.

  If any of them were a recruiting officer, Simon thought, it was surely him. He would take money from one man to avoid putting his name on a list, and would replace it with another fellow’s name, no matter that the second was broken-winded, half-blind, a drunkard and had only one arm. Money mattered, nothing else, and an arrayer, a recruiting officer, would be paid a bounty for all the men he took on irrespective of quality.

  With this sombre thought, Simon walked out and sought the services of the barber. The rain had stopped only a short while before, and the air was scented with fresh, earthy odours. It smelled as if the whole town had been washed. As Simon avoided the puddles, the sun came out, with enough strength to give him the hope that the day would remain dry.

  The gatekeeper told him that the barber whom the abbey used was called Ellis; he could be found two streets away. Simon located him in a small room near a cookshop, just behind a brewery. A brazier of glowing coals made the room unpleasantly hot, and a pot of water was boiling on top, with towels dangling. A pair of long-handled wooden tongs stood in it, jumping as the water bubbled below the cloth, threatening to push the tongs out every few minutes, as though a wild animal was trapped beneath.

  Ellis the barber was a wiry man with green eyes and almost black hair. His oval face, which lit up with an easy smile as he saw Simon, instilled a measure of confidence, but more crucial than that, to the bailiff’s mind, was the fact that monks were keen on their own comfort. A barber who nicked the abbatial chins was likely to find himself unemployed right speedily.

  ‘Aha! My Lord, how can I help you?’

  ‘I was told that you serve the needs of the abbey?’

  ‘That is right, my Lord. I usually get there a little later in the day, though.’

  ‘Good. I need my beard shaved. Have you razors?’

  ‘Master, I have everything,’ the man declared, arms held wide. ‘Whatever you need, I, Ellis of Dartmouth, have it. Please sit here on my stool.’

  So saying, he pulled the three-legged seat out to the doorway where the light was better, and darted about gathering his tools. A long strip of leather he hung from a hook set into the doorway at his chest height, and he picked up a razor, testing the edge on his thumbnail. Satisfied, he whipped it up and down the strop while chattering.

  ‘Yes, I am known as one of the fastest shavers in the whole of Wessex, my Lord. Anyone wants a clean chin, they ask for Ellis. No one else will do, not once they’ve been done by me.’

  ‘Do you ever shut up long enough to shave a man, or perhaps you just keep wittering on until your victim passes out through boredom?’ Simon growled.

  ‘No one falls asleep on me, Master. Well, not unless I intend them to so I can pull out a hard tooth, anyway,’ Ellis chuckled.

  Simon grunted. Fortunately he hadn’t needed the services of a tooth-puller for many a long year. The memory of the last time was unpleasant enough for him to wish to avoid it in future. Just the thought made him reach into the crevice with his tongue.

  ‘Don’t pull your face about like that, Master. I might cut off your nose!’ Behind the banter there was a genuine note of caution and Simon quickly set his jaw again.

  ‘Good, Master. Now just a little warm water…’

  He pulled a towel from the pot of water set over his fire, and waved it, steaming, in the air until he frowningly judged it to be ready, and draped it over Simon’s entire face.

  Simon leaned back so that his shoulders were against the doorframe, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender which had been left infusing in the water with the towels. The heat was wonderful, making his beard tingle, and just when he thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, Ellis whipped it away and threw it over his shoulder. While Simon had been covered, Ellis had shaved slices from a cake of soap and beaten them with more hot water and a brush of badger fur, and now he daubed Simon’s face with the light, hot foam. Satisfied, he stood back, swept his razor up and down the strop once more, ‘For luck,’ he smiled encouragingly, and held it up vertically. ‘You haven’t any enemies, Master, who’d pay me to slip, have you?’ Seeing Simon’s expression, he laughed aloud, and before the Bailiff could stand, he leaned forward, a thumb pulling Simon’s cheek taut, and drew the blade in one long, slow sweep from his ear to his jaw.

  Simon was glad that the man was steady while he performed his duty. So often a barber could be found with a morning’s shake after too many ales the night before, but this one had an easy confidence.

  ‘So, Master Bailiff, are you to be leaving us soon now the coining is done?’

  ‘I have other duties,’ Simon said as Ellis stropped the blade again. ‘Like finding the murderer of the miner.’

  ‘That bastard Walwynus?’ Ellis stopped and stared, then shrugged as he returned to Simon’s face. ‘He won’t be missed.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked, grasping Ellis’s hand to halt him.

  ‘He got my sister pregnant, that’s why. Probably told her she’d be his wife or something. You know how it is. And you know how often a man will renege on his word when he learns there’s a child to support.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘No one has told me. I saw them, and when I spoke to him later, he denied it. Lying git! I saw them, the day of the coining. She reached up to kiss him. Won’t be long before people see she’s carrying his bastard. And then,’ Ellis continued, gently withdrawing his hand from Simon’s, ‘her shame will be complete.’

  ‘You realise that might have been the day he died?’ Simon said.

  ‘Well, not only I saw him that day.’

  ‘What does that mean? Did you see someone else with him?’

  ‘No – he had been battered. Someone had blacked his eye and split his lip. He’d been in a fight that morning.’

  Simon was quiet as Ellis finished. Once the first shave was complete, the barber stood back and surveyed his work, then drew another towel from the fire
and draped this too over Simon’s face while he restropped his razor. Before long Simon had been shaved a second time, and a third hot towel was used to clean away the excess soap. Where there were spots of blood from irregularities in his flesh, the barber used ice-cold water to pat them clean, and the chill stopped the bleeding in moments. Any shave would always cause a little bleeding as the blade cut off occasional pimples and bumps, but Simon had felt none, the blade was so sharp.

  ‘An excellent shave,’ he said, passing the man a few coins.

  ‘Master, I look forward to shaving you again,’ Ellis said, glancing into his hand.

  ‘That is fine, but one thing: did you hear that this miner had ravished other women?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have thought he was the sort. Well,’ Ellis gave a harsh bark of laughter, ‘not being such an ugly shit!’

  ‘You said you spoke to him after you saw him with your sister. Where was that?’

  ‘I saw him on the way to his house, the following morning. He denied anything to do with her, the lying bastard!’

  ‘You sound like a man who would be prepared to see him suffer for what he’d done.’

  ‘Whoever killed him, I’d shake his hand,’ Ellis said.

  ‘There was a morning star at his side. That was what killed him,’ Simon said.

  Ellis winced. ‘A bad way to die.’

  ‘You sometimes have to keep your patients still, don’t you?’ Simon said.

  Ellis laughed drily. ‘You think this killed him?’ he asked, taking up his lead-filled sleep maker. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Simon took it and weighed it. It was heavy enough to kill, but it was more practical as a means of knocking a man down before finishing him off. Yet at Ellis’s belt was a knife. If he struck a man down, surely he’d stab his victim, not break open his head?

  ‘Would you have killed him if he refused to support your sister?’

  Ellis gazed at him levelly. He could have lied, but he saw no point. ‘There was no way he could afford to support my sister. She’s widowed, and I have to support her and the children. Another child means more for me to pay, not him. But if you mean, did I kill him, well, no, I didn’t. But if I’d had an opportunity, I’d have paid someone else to do so.’ He looked at the coins in his hand again, and thrust them into his purse.

  Simon left the barber’s room in a thoughtful mood. ‘If I were you, Master Ellis, I would keep my mouth shut,’ he murmured to himself. ‘You are the most vocal suspect I have ever spoken to.’

  He would have to see what others thought, but Ellis was certainly a convincing enemy of the dead miner.

  Chapter Eight

  It was only a short while after dawn and Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was relaxing before his fire when the clattering of hooves outside announced that he had visitors. He listened attentively as he strode across the floor to where his sword hung on the wall.

  This was not peace. War had threatened for years now, for with a feeble King and over-powerful and ambitious advisers, the realm was like a keg of dried tinder standing under a brazier. It was only a matter of time before a stray spark must fall and ignite the whole kingdom. That was how Baldwin felt, and although he knew that his little manor near to Cadbury was safer than many parts of the country, it didn’t make him feel any more secure. When armies began to march, there was no safety for anyone, great or small, city-dweller or countryman.

  As he threw his sword belt over his shoulder, gripping the hilt, Jeanne, his wife, appeared in the doorway which led up to the solar. He shook his head once, firmly, and jerked it upwards. She was anxious, but she could see his concern. Quietly she pulled the door closed behind her and slipped the bar across.

  It wasn’t easy, but she knew that her man needed to be sure that she was safe in her rooms before he could concentrate on fighting, and she had no wish to be a distraction. She was only glad that he had insisted upon installing this sturdy metal bar earlier in the year. It made her feel more secure, knowing that no trailbastons could simply push it open. She walked back upstairs to the bedchamber, where her maid sat rocking her baby.

  Petronilla looked up with a smile, but Jeanne didn’t notice. She was listening intently.

  Downstairs, Baldwin walked through the screens passage and out to the back door. He was already confident that there was no threat out here. Experience told him that if felons had arrived and intended to plunder his home, he would have heard more shouting by now. Once outside, he saw his servant Edgar holding the reins of a shortish man’s horse. He bellowed a greeting and climbed down as he saw Baldwin.

  Coroner Roger de Gidleigh was a shorter man than Baldwin, but he had a barrel chest and shoulders that spoke of immense strength. He also had a large and growing belly from the quantity of ale he drank, which often put people off their guard, making them take him for a happy-go-lucky soul, the sort of man who would always welcome a stranger with a cheerful demand that they might share a jug of ale – but then the stranger might notice the shrewd, glittering eyes and realise that the only reason for the coroner to be so interested and conversational was because he held a suspicion against his flattered babbler.

  ‘Coroner! Thanks to God!’ Baldwin cried with real delight.

  ‘Sir Baldwin! Greetings and Godspeed, my friend. How are you? And Lady Jeanne?’

  ‘Well, I thank you.’

  ‘So you thought it might be outlaws?’ Coroner Roger de Gidleigh said, nodding towards Baldwin’s sword as the two entered the hall.

  ‘It is best never to take risks. The rumours of war are as vigorous here as anywhere in the kingdom.’

  ‘True enough,’ the big man said, walking to a bench at the table on Baldwin’s dais. ‘We live in dangerous times.’ Baldwin rehung his sword, then rapped sharply on the door to his solar, calling to his wife. ‘I hear that anyone who wishes to talk to the King must pay the Despenser whelp.’

  ‘You should be careful to whom you speak like that, Sir Baldwin. Some could report your words and accuse you of treachery to the Crown.’

  Baldwin smiled. The coroner was a friend, and he took the warning in the way it was intended. ‘I know that, Roger. But while Hugh Despenser the Younger is Chamberlain of the Household, no man can speak to the King without his approval, nor without paying. It is not enough that Hugh Despenser the Elder has been made an Earl, nor that his son has acquired the Clare inheritance – they will seek ever more money and lands to enrich their lives.’

  Coroner Roger took the jug of wine which Baldwin proffered. ‘I dare say that may be true enough, but there is nothing we can do about it. It is human nature to enrich oneself, and that means depriving someone else.’

  ‘The priests would argue that case, my friend,’ Baldwin chuckled, but with little humour. ‘They tell us that God’s bounty should be shared, that no man should suffer or starve from want of money when his neighbour has enough to support both.’

  ‘True. But the Church isn’t exempt from making money. And although they talk about men sharing their wealth, I don’t notice the Bishop in Exeter selling his house in order to give the money to the needy.’

  ‘Coroner!’ Baldwin exclaimed in mock horror. ‘My friend, you have become infected with my own prejudices!’ At that moment Jeanne re-entered the room, and graciously welcomed their guest. Baldwin smiled and took his seat in his chair as his wife spoke gently and courteously, putting the traveller at his ease, soothing his tired muscles and bones with her cheerful chatter. Before long Sir Roger was smiling, and soon after he was laughing, and Baldwin allowed himself to relax.

  It was not easy. Baldwin had been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, the Order of warrior monks which had been respected and revered by all those who were most religious. Pilgrims sought out Templars for protection wherever they travelled in the Christian world, and Kings were proud to call them friends.

  Yet the greed of the French King and the Pope were sufficient to destroy the noble Order. They had hatched a plot bet
ween them, Baldwin believed, in order to share the fabulous wealth of the Order. The fact that their greed must result in the death of thousands of God’s most loyal warriors, that the future reconquest of the Kingdom of Jerusalem must be jeopardised, was nothing to them. They destroyed for their own benefit, and the Knights were tortured and burned to death.

  It had given Baldwin an abiding hatred of political power and, most crucial, of any form of bigotry or injustice, and it was a mix of all of these that made him detest the Despenser family. Others hated them for their greed, while some loathed Hugh the Younger because of the rumours of his homosexual relations with the King. That was why, the stories said, the Queen was kept away from the King. Because he had no interest in her.

  That was one aspect of the King’s life which did not concern Baldwin. He had lived for a while in the East, and there he had learned tolerance for the sexual activities of others. No, although his wife might despise such unmanly behaviour, he was unbothered. Much more worrying to him was the sheer greed of the Despensers. The family was pillaging the realm every bit as rapaciously as the appalling Piers Gaveston had done only a few years before. Gaveston’s acquisitions had only been halted when he was captured and beheaded, Baldwin recalled. He wondered whether a similar fate might await the Despensers. Somehow he doubted it. They had effectively destroyed all the powerful factions which sought to harm them. There were few left in the country who could challenge them now.

  ‘So what do you think, Sir Baldwin?’ Coroner Roger asked.

  Baldwin realised that his mind had wandered so far from his guest as to be in a different county – or even country. He fitted a serious, intent expression to his face and turned to face Jeanne, who was now sitting next to the coroner ‘What do you think, my love?’

  ‘I am sure I would not stop you,’ she said sweetly, recognising his dilemma from his demeanour. ‘I leave it up to you, Husband.’