The Devil's Acolyte

by Michael Jecks

  Even the memory of that rebirth, which was what it had felt like, was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he had to wipe his blurred eyes in the street, sniffing and muttering a quick prayer of thanks, crossing himself as he cast his eyes upwards. Feeling calmer, he carried on. He was thankful, of course he was, that God had given him this second chance at life. It meant he had a purpose. There must be a reason, surely, for his continued existence on the earth.

  Perhaps He was right, but Peter couldn’t remain in Tynemouth. The terror of his attack, the constant pain in his jaw, were enough to persuade him to beg his prior that he might be permitted to move to a different monastery, somewhere further away from the Marches. His prior, ever a generous-hearted man, understood perfectly and not only gave his permission, he also wrote to friends in other priories and abbeys asking whether they could find space for his wounded monk. Soon he was told that there was an abbey far away, down almost as far from Scotland as it was possible to go, where the kindly abbot had agreed to take him on, and shortly afterwards he had made the long journey southwards to this quiet, peaceful backwater of Tavistock.

  Abbot Robert was a good man and had taken Peter to his heart as soon as they had met. There were few who could see the monk’s face without flinching, but when Abbot Robert saw him, he welcomed him with open arms and made a point of giving him the kiss of peace as though he was unharmed. That single act made Peter break down and weep. It was the first time that a man or woman hadn’t retreated before him, but Abbot Robert had made it clear that he cared only for the man himself, not at all for the damage done to him; more, that he accepted Peter unreservedly into his abbey.

  Peter’s heart glowed at the memory. He loved Abbot Robert. The abbot had proved himself to be a great master, and Peter would serve him until death.

  Not that he could forget the attack. It was always there, every time he shaved, every time he caught sight of himself in a glass or in a pool. As was the face of the Scottish rider who had blocked his escape. The grinning, fearsome features of Martyn Armstrong, and behind him, the appalled, deathly pale face of Walwynus.

  He was only glad that he had not seen the face of the third man, the man with the axe. That man Peter could never forgive.

  Chapter Eleven

  Simon sat on a bench next to the arrayer and surveyed the men before him without enthusiasm. This lot came from one of the abbot’s outlying manors; others would arrive over the next day. As Simon looked at this, the first batch, he wondered how the arrayer would react. It was obvious that these were not all the men between sixteen and sixty demanded by the Commission of Array.

  They were in the shelter of a tavern out at the western edge of the burgh, staring at the scruffy and mostly, from the look of them, pox-ridden peasants. Simon had no wish to get too close to most of them, and not only because of their diseased appearance. The Commission of Array offered inducements to tempt men into serving the King, for not only would they be offered money, they would also be given a chance to win pardons for any past offences. Simon privately thought that those men who looked fit enough for service also tended to have fast-moving eyes which were filled with a grim suspicion – the expression felons so often wore when in the presence of a King’s official.

  All had brought weapons with them – a selection of bills, swords, axes, bows and arrows – while on their heads some wore cheap helmets or soft woollen caps. To Simon’s eye, the healthiest men seemed to have the best-used weapons, another fact that spoke of misbehaviour. Still, the King wouldn’t want soft-hearted boys for his army. He would be after strong, capable killers.

  Looking about him, Simon was content with his first impression: these were the very dregs of the abbot’s manor. Whether or not they would seriously alarm the vicious warriors of the Scottish March, he had no idea, but he would be happier the sooner they were off and away from Devonshire.

  ‘Three and forty,’ Sir Tristram said. ‘Is this the best the abbot can do for the King from his manor of Werrington?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find that the abbot has not had anything to do with selecting the men here,’ Simon said. The abbot would have made quite sure he had no direct involvement with picking this lot. And yet a man like Abbot Robert could make his wishes plain enough without putting them in writing, and the manor had obeyed the unspoken message in his summons. While men, women and children were still out with the harvest, no vill or hamlet was going to spare its strongest and fittest young men for service with the King. Instead they had picked all those who could be sent without imperilling their crops.

  Ignoring the obvious felons, Simon considered that, of the young and simple there were three, while of the old and stupid, seven; of the rest, all were undernourished and weak. One had a massive goitre growing on his neck, making his throat look as though it had been taken from an ox and placed beneath his head in some cruel joke. Others had the thick lips and heavy, drooping eyelids of the mentally subnormal. The few fit and healthy men looked hopelessly out of place.

  ‘This won’t do at all,’ Sir Tristram muttered. With him was a tough-looking, sandy-haired sergeant called Jack of the Wood. This fellow stood grimly, staring at the recruits, and then, when Sir Tristram began to call men forward, he shook his head as though in horror at the quality of them. Sir Tristram waved the more obviously dim or ill away and began to take the details of the few he could use, discussing each with Jack, while a clerk sent by the abbot scribbled his records down. He must note the name and weapons of each recruit.

  There was little for Simon to do. He sat back, scratching at his head while Sir Tristram questioned the different men, telling each doubtful-looking villein that they had a duty to serve their King, describing with a sort of enthusiastic boastfulness the rewards they could expect from their King: money, plunder, and many women, because women liked strong, virile soldiers. They always did.

  Simon had heard enough. He caught the eye of the innkeeper and nodded meaningfully, then rose and went in. Soon he was standing at a broad plank of wood which the keeper used as a bar counter, and drinking deeply from a quart pot of strong ale. It tasted very good compared with sitting outside listening to Sir Tristram’s lies.

  ‘Do you think all those poor devils are going to be sent up north?’ the innkeeper asked, pouring himself a jug.

  ‘Could be. Let’s hope it’s all over before they’re needed.’

  ‘It is always the same, isn’t it, Master? The poor folk who are tied to the land are pulled away, while those who can afford to avoid it pay to stay safe.’

  ‘I don’t know that Sir Tristram there will be taking anybody’s money to avoid danger. I get the feeling he is serious about providing troops for the King.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ The innkeeper sank a quarter of his pot and sighed happily. ‘One of my best brews. Wonderful. I’ll never be able to duplicate it. No, Master Bailiff, I reckon that fellow out there is going to make a good profit on this recruiting. Not that it’s unfair. If the King wants him to help, he ought to be paid, that’s what I’d say. Why should a man do something for nothing? But what I meant was, what about all those bastards up on the moors? They should go as well.’

  ‘The miners are safe, you know that. They’re the King’s own.’

  ‘And a more murderous bunch of cut-throats you couldn’t hope to find,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Look at that poor devil killed up there.’

  ‘Wally? Did you know him?’

  ‘Of course. He was often here. I tend to get to know all the miners while they have money.’

  ‘Did he stay here with you?’

  ‘Oh, no. He had a comfortable lodging with friends of his – Nob and Cissy, up at the pie-shop. They were cheaper.’

  ‘Do you think he was murdered by a miner?’

  The innkeeper gave a low snigger. ‘Think it? Who else but a miner? Wally came into town for the coining. He was in here on Thursday, and stayed behind to drink for some while.’

  ‘I thought he had no money.’

>   ‘He didn’t make much from his mining, no, but he never missed a coining. It was the one chance he had of meeting friends and having them buy him ale with the money they made from selling their tin to the pewterers. He always came in for a few drinks.’

  ‘With his friends, you mean?’

  ‘Usually, yes. He turned up last week during the coining with some new friend of his.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Simon asked keenly.

  ‘Foreigner. A pewterer, I think. He was here with all his family, and I think I heard someone talking about pewter and how good the man’s stuff was.’

  ‘And they were talking to Wally?’

  ‘Yes. Very matey they were, too. Came in, Wally and him, and sat in a corner. Wally had a sack with him, and they sat talking for ages. Never seen the man before, myself. Later Wally came back, and then he started throwing his weight around and buying drinks.’

  ‘So he had money?’

  ‘Yes. And not just that, he was in a happy mood. He was really content, not just cheerful from the ale. I’ve never seen him like that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘He always had a small cloud all of his own hanging over his head, you know? Nothing was ever right. Like he had a ghost at his shoulder.’

  ‘But why should you think that a miner killed him?’

  ‘Who else would have been up there on the moors?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s near the Abbot’s Path, the track from here to Buckfast. Maybe it was a traveller.’

  ‘What, like that foreigner?’ the host mused. ‘Odd accent, he had.’

  ‘What, he came from London? The north?’

  ‘No!’ the man said scathingly. ‘When I say foreign, I bloody mean it. He wasn’t French. I’ve met some of them. Could have been from Lettow, I suppose. I knew a Teutonic knight once. He spoke a bit like this one.’

  ‘You think he could have killed Wally?’

  ‘Doubt it. Why should he? If a foreigner wanted to rob a man, he’d pick a more likely-looking fellow. No, Bailiff, like I said, it was the miners. Who knows, perhaps Wally had actually found himself a working piece of land at last? Maybe he had sold some tin and had money in his pocket from that. It would explain why he was murdered.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Maybe.’ He would ask the receiver whether Wally had sold any tin.

  ‘Who else could it have been – the monk?’ the publican demanded.

  ‘What monk?’

  ‘Dunno – I wasn’t there. If you want to know, speak to Emma, Hamelin’s wife. She said she saw a monk running back to the town. Why, do you reckon it could have been a brother? Wouldn’t surprise me. The bastards are capable of anything, I reckon.’

  ‘You honestly think that a monk could be a murderer?’ Simon asked with a cynical smile.

  ‘They are men, just like any other! The only difference is, they think they have a direct call to God when they’ve misbehaved, and get special treatment from Him. Me, I see them here all the time. Even the abbot’s own steward. He was here a few days ago with their fat wine-keeper whatever he’s called. Drunk as bishops, the pair of ’em. I was surprised they could get out into the road, let alone get home. I sent one of my lads with them to make sure that they were all right in the end. If they’d come to grief, I’d never have heard the last of it!’

  ‘Do the monks often come down here?’

  ‘When the abbot’s away, yes. Not usually.’

  Simon swallowed the remains of his ale. It was likely a miner who had killed Wally, but he supposed that it would be just as easy for another man to manufacture a club.

  Even a monk.

  * * *

  It was quiet in the dorter when Gerard poked his head around the door, but as he walked inside, one of the other novices, a tall, well-made boy called Reginald, came pattering up the stairs and walked in after him, a determined expression on his face.

  Gerard made a point of paying no heed, but instead walked through to the reredorter behind, and sat on the plank over the drop. Down below was a stone vault which was washed by a stream, removing the odours while leaving the valuable faeces behind so that they could be collected and spread over the fields. They were essential for the crops, but the stench was appalling in the summer, when the excrement gathered and the stream shrank.

  Not that the smell affected him today. No, it was the realisation that the others knew it was him.

  They knew he had stolen. He was sure of it. That was why Reginald was in the dorter: they’d guessed that Gerard was the thief and had set a boy to watch him. They wouldn’t leave him alone in their rooms. None of them was supposed to possess anything, for they were committed to poverty and must give up all their possessions on entering the abbey, but that didn’t prevent a few from keeping trinkets and other oddments. Gerard knew that one of the boys had a small jewel with a chain which his mother had given him, and another had something hidden in a box, but he’d never been able to see what was inside it. The last time he had seen the boy looking inside the box, he had carefully moved it so that his back hid the contents from Gerard.

  But he hadn’t troubled his fellow acolytes. Only strangers! And no one had actually seen him. He was sure of that much. Maybe it was just that Reginald alone suspected him. Or more likely Reginald doubted all of them and thought it worthwhile to watch over his own little store – whatever might be there.

  He stood and cleaned himself, washed his hands and slowly made his way back to the dorter. Reginald was sitting on his bed, and met his casual glance with a blank expression. There was no friendship in his look, only utter indifference. The complete lack of any emotion in his face was enough to convince Gerard that there could be no safety or peace for him in the abbey now. He and Reginald had never been friends, but the other boy’s attitude proved, if proof were needed, that Gerard’s secret was known.

  Walking past him with his head held high, Gerard averted his gaze, but before he could get to the door, he felt Reginald grab his habit. The larger boy tugged him backwards by the shoulder, kicked his legs away and hauled him over to fall on his back.

  Gerard felt his head strike the corner of the nearest bed, and the jolt snapped his teeth together with a crunch that made him feel sick and faint. There was a rushing in his ears that sounded like the River Tavy in spate, and it was only with difficulty that he could hear Reginald speaking quietly.

  * * *

  When he was done, an angry Sir Tristram dismissed the men, giving them a penny each and telling them to return the next day, Once he had viewed the remainder of the abbot’s men, he would take the whole force and they would begin the march northwards. As the peasants filed from the yard, he turned and bellowed to the innkeeper for ale, before turning hard, cold eyes on to Simon.

  ‘You are sure that the abbot didn’t intend this to happen?’

  ‘What?’ Simon asked innocently.

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Bailiff,’ Sir Tristram grated. ‘I have seen how men avoid losing their serfs before now. They leave the strong and hale men in the fields and send only the broken-winded, lame and stupid to the arrayer.’

  ‘I am sure that the good abbot would be shocked to think that you could suspect such a thing. He would not break the law or try to hamper the King’s plans.’

  ‘Really? Then he must be unique amongst abbots. He’s like every other landlord. So long as his harvest is in, he doesn’t care what happens in the north of the realm. It is men like him who conspire to see the Scottish destroy the whole land.’

  ‘You surely don’t suggest Abbot Robert is guilty of—’

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Bailiff. I can say what I want, and I say here and now that I do not believe the abbot’s healthiest men were sent to me from that vill. My commission gives me the duty to select the best and fittest from all the men of sixteen to sixty, and take them to the King.’

  ‘Are you from the north yourself?’

  ‘I wasn’t born in Scotland, if that’s what you mean, no. But I have lands near Berwick
which the last King – bless his memory – gave to my father for his efforts in pacifying the land during the old King’s wars. My father helped bring the Stone of Scone to King Edward I, and it was for that service, that the King gave him his own manors up there and the duty to protect the border, not that he could. The Scottish raided while my father was away and razed our house to the ground. Bastards! All they know is robbery and murder. They sweep over that border with impunity and devastate all the north, even down to York sometimes, and there is nothing we can do. They avoid our armies because they know they would lose in a fair fight. They are rebels and cowards.’

  ‘So now our King will invade again?’

  ‘We have to punish their crimes. Their whole life is based upon theft. They come into England to steal our cattle and horses, and then return, burning and slaughtering unnecessarily. They destroy the livelihoods of peaceful English farmers to their own profit. They are a cursed race, forever warring.’

  ‘And you will lead men from here in Devonshire to make war on them,’ Simon said, once more considering what the innkeeper had said. The almoner, Peter, was from the north, he remembered. From interest, he asked, ‘Is it true that the Scots make war upon monasteries and nunneries?’

  ‘Aye, true enough. Those sacrilegious sons of the devil rape nuns, slaughter monks and rob any churches they come across. I tell you, they are the devil’s own spawn.’

  ‘Well, there are felons aplenty even here in Devonshire who would dare to steal the plate from a church at need,’ Simon said calmly.

  ‘Christ Jesus! Even here?’

  ‘There is a monk here who was attacked and left for dead up in the north.’ It was some months since Simon had last spoken to Brother Peter, and now he had to rack his brain to recall where he came from. ‘Up near the border, I recall. Or was he near the coast? Ah, yes, Tynemouth. He was of the priory there.’