The Devil's Acolyte

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Any idea who that could be?’

  Nob shrugged. ‘Not a single one.’

  ‘So we’re back where we started. All we know is that we’ve committed a mortal sin.’

  He sighed along with her. ‘Yes. Still, if that young lad wasn’t suited to the convent, surely God will forgive us?’

  Cissy sniffed. All at once the tears were close again. ‘We’ve been happy here, haven’t we? And now we’re going against the abbot’s own wishes. He’ll not look kindly on us, not when he learns we’ve helped one of his novices to commit apostasy.’

  Nob shook his head gloomily, taking a long swallow of wine. ‘No. Well, that’s just something we’ll have to get used to, I think.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I don’t feel guilty. I feel that I may have saved a life,’ Cissy said. And it was true. She could see the acolyte’s face so clearly as they helped him climb into normal clothes and bundled up his habit.

  ‘Poor boy,’ she said. Gerard had looked so lost, so scared. Surely it was their duty to save him.

  * * *

  Baldwin and the coroner had travelled a good many miles in two days, and Sir Roger spoke for both when he said, ‘My arse feels like it’s been beaten with hazel for hours. I want a good, solid chair that won’t move and a jug or two of strong ale. Then I need a haunch of beef or pork, hot, and dripping with fat and juice. After that I might feel half human again.’

  ‘I see. Half human is as close as you feel you can ever hope to achieve?’ Baldwin enquired.

  ‘If I wasn’t so bruised, Sir Knight, I’d force you to regret your words,’ Coroner Roger said, grimly rubbing his behind. ‘But under the circumstances, I’ll forgive you if you only find a means of shoving a quart of ale in my hands.’

  ‘Come with me,’ Simon said. ‘I know a small tavern which keeps a good brew.’ He led the way from the gate and into the town itself. ‘Ah, I’d thought he’d have finished,’ he breathed.

  Before them was the tavern outside which Sir Tristram had been gauging his recruits. He was still there, speaking seriously to the clerk who had been scribbling the names of the men he had recruited and which weapons they had brought with them.

  Seeing Simon, Sir Tristram straightened. ‘You decided to come back, then?’ he said rudely. ‘This town has a poor number of men, Bailiff. Very poor quality. It must be the wet weather down here. The damp settles on the brain, I understand. Maybe that’s why these clods are so gormless.’

  As he spoke his eyes passed over Baldwin and Roger, appraising them. His attention rested for a moment on their swords: Coroner Roger’s a heavy-bladed, rather long and slightly outdated lump of metal with a worn grip; Baldwin’s by comparison a very modern blade with a hilt of fine grey leather. Simon could almost hear the thoughts in Sir Tristram’s mind: one looked heavily used and was familiar to the wearer’s hand, while the other was new, which could mean that the knight was new to his status, or that his last sword was broken and he had chosen to replace it with the very latest model.

  Simon hurriedly introduced his friends to Sir Tristram. ‘The King’s Arrayer,’ he added. ‘Sir Tristram is here to recruit for the King’s war in Scotland.’

  ‘I wish you Godspeed, then,’ Coroner Roger said. His eyes were moving beyond the knight already, to the bar in the tavern, and – joy! – to the serving girl who caught his eye even as he lifted his brows hopefully. She smiled and held up four fingers. The coroner hesitated, then gave a faint shake of his head and held up three.

  Sir Tristram didn’t see his glance or movement. ‘I thank you. With some of these oafs, I’ll need it.’

  ‘Will you see more tomorrow?’ Simon asked.

  ‘There would seem to be little point. I have found forty men and two who could function as vintenars, so I am ready enough to fulfil the King’s requirements. I shall leave tomorrow or the next day, when I have provisions, and hope their feet will survive the journey. God knows but that I am doubtful. In the meantime, I shall stay at the inn, rather than abusing the abbot’s generosity,’ he added with a harsher tone. ‘I can collect my horse tomorrow.’

  He left them, graciously taking his leave and bowing, and the three men watched him in silence as he passed off along the street.

  ‘What an arrogant…’

  ‘Master Coroner, there is no need to use language which could embarrass the serving maid,’ Baldwin said with mock severity.

  ‘Embarrass you? Could I?’ Coroner Roger asked archly as the girl appeared.

  She giggled as his hand quested the length of her thigh. ‘If you worked hard at it, Master.’

  ‘I may just do that, my dear,’ he drawled as she walked away. Then his face fell and he took a long draught of his wine. ‘Trouble is, she’s the right age to be my daughter.’

  ‘Grand-daughter,’ Simon corrected.

  ‘Don’t rub it in. My wife does that often enough.’

  ‘How is the lovely Lady de Gidleigh?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘The same as usual,’ Roger said glumly. ‘I think if I were to give her poison, it’d only make her stronger. She’s built like a mule, there’s nothing can knock her down. Even a simple disease gives up at the sight of her. She never loses her balance. Her humours seem as steady as a lump of moorstone. It’s not fair. Hah! No, if I were to find some poison, I’d be better off drinking it meself. It would,’ he added with a slow shake of his head as though in deep gloom, ‘at least end my suffering.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you. You’d be terrified if the girl agreed to bed you,’ Simon said with a smile. He and Baldwin knew that for all his harsh words, the coroner was devoted to his wife.

  ‘You think so? I tell you, I’d take her tonight, except it’s hardly respectful to the abbot to take a wench back to his own guest room and use it for a bulling shop, and it would be a rude rejection of his hospitality to stay here the night with her.’

  ‘You are so thoughtful,’ Baldwin said with a straight face.

  ‘Some of us are. It is a hard cross to bear, though, old friend,’ Roger sighed.

  Simon was desperate to find out what the abbot had wanted to see Baldwin about, but Baldwin avoided the subject. There was something about his manner which sent a tingle down Simon’s back. Baldwin would not hold his gaze. His eyes seemed to touch on Simon fleetingly, then move on as though he was ashamed or nervous about something, and his fingers drummed on the table-top like a man waiting to be interrogated, rather than a man who was used to questioning others.

  ‘Tell us what you know about this murdered man,’ Baldwin said, apparently considering the barrels racked at the far end of the room.

  Simon told them all he knew about Walwynus, and then spoke about the weapon, and how it had disappeared when he visited the second time.

  ‘Interesting,’ Baldwin murmured, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Could the guard have fallen asleep?’ Roger said. ‘I’ve heard of animals getting up really close to a man to steal a lump of meat. Look at rats. They’ll take food from your hand while you sleep. Maybe a wildcat or wolf took this thing because it smelled of blood?’

  ‘Roger, please!’ Baldwin scoffed. ‘A balk of timber? You honestly think a wolf would be stupid enough to carry that away when there was an easy meal within reach? No, that cudgel was removed by a human. The question is, was it taken away by the killer, which would be worrying, or was it grabbed by someone else?’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Simon said quickly. If the abbot had suggested that his mind was fogged or stupid, Simon wanted to prove to his two friends that the abbot was wrong. ‘If the killer went back to take it, then he might intend to kill again. A weapon like that is impossible to trace to a particular man.’ He decided not to mention the marks, or Augerus’ words. Perhaps he could raise that later, to impress the abbot.

  Coroner Roger stirred and snorted. ‘What if it’s not the murderer?’

  ‘Why then,’ Simon finished, ‘it might well be someone who knows who the killer is and intends to avenge Wally with the very s
ame weapon that was used to murder him.’

  ‘There is another possibility, of course,’ Baldwin said mildly.

  ‘What?’ asked Simon.

  ‘That the club was taken purely in order to conceal it more effectively. Perhaps there was some way to identify it that you couldn’t see, Simon, and someone took it in order to stop us finding the killer.’

  ‘So he could himself kill the murderer,’ Simon nodded.

  Baldwin shot him a look from narrowed eyes. ‘Perhaps… but perhaps the murderer was well thought of. Maybe this Walwynus was not liked and the miners about him were not distressed by his execution. It is a thought.’

  ‘I don’t see it would make much sense,’ Simon protested.

  ‘There is another thing, too,’ Baldwin said. ‘The killer need not have been a man. A woman could wield a morning star as easily as a man.’

  ‘Surely few women could so devastatingly crush a man’s skull?’

  ‘No, I daresay you are right. I am merely speculating. But I shall look forward to seeing this corpse again and considering the wounds. I hope it hasn’t disintegrated too badly before we get to it.’

  Simon shrugged. Baldwin’s smooth summary of the position had made him feel his own inadequacy compared with the knight’s, reminding him of his incompetence before the abbot. It was a terrible thing to recognise it in himself, this stupidity that could cost him his job.

  Baldwin could see that Simon was upset, so he smiled and patted his friend’s arm. It was always the case that Simon felt sick at the sight of a dead body. ‘You do not have to come with us to the inquest if you do not want to,’ he said kindly.

  Simon’s eyes hardened, and Baldwin withdrew his hand in surprise at the bailiff’s sharp tone. ‘Why? Don’t you think I can help you? Am I too stupid?’

  Baldwin was too astonished to answer immediately. He could see that he had insulted or offended the man, but he had no idea how. When a scruffy messenger appeared, he was glad of the diversion.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, the abbot wants to see you again, sir. As soon as you can, please.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘No need for you two to leave your wine. I shall see you later.’

  To his dismay, he saw that his words seemed only to increase Simon’s gloom.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hamelin approached the door of his house in Tavistock with dread curling in his belly like a worm. Again, there was no noise, no wailing or weeping, but he stood outside for a moment or two, listening, wondering how Joel, his infant son, fared.

  He had been back at the mine since Friday, trying to concentrate on digging and keeping the flow of water at the right level, while Hal busied himself looking for a fresh source of metal. This area was all but mined out, but Hal had a nose for tin, and he said he thought that there was a new spot which others had missed – but if it was there, they had yet to find it. Still, it had taken Hamelin’s mind off his sick son.

  Hal had discovered the body of Wally first thing on Monday. He’d gone up there because he was beginning to wonder why there was no sign of a cooking fire or any other evidence of life at Wally’s place; the corpse sent him running back to Hamelin to tell him, and then he took his pony and hurried off to town to inform the authorities, leaving Hamelin to protect the works. In all honesty Hamelin was incapable of concentrating. Hearing that Wally was dead had dulled his mind, and for much of Monday he merely sat and stared at the water running through the wooden leat.

  Wally’s death affected him profoundly. It felt as though there was a sign in this, as though, Wally’s life and his son Joel’s were connected. One had died – perhaps the other would live? It was something to cling to.

  It had been hard to get anything much done for all that long day. Hal, who had ridden back from Tavistock, stayed over at the corpse’s side to protect it, but when he finally returned late on Tuesday morning, he was gruff and uncommunicative. He cast odd glances at Hamelin every now and again, but then looked away. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere, and Hamelin was relieved when Hal went into the hut to sleep; next morning, he announced that he would return to the body and take over from the man waiting there.

  Hamelin was nothing loath to see him tramp off towards Wally’s corpse. They had hardly exchanged a word since Hal’s return, and in any case, Hamelin had decided that he had to make the journey back to town to see his boy. Hal wouldn’t know, because he would be at Wally’s place all night.

  Filled with trepidation, Hamelin pushed at the door and heard the leather hinges creaking, the bottom boards scraping along the dirt floor. When he could sidle around it, he entered, and had a glimpse of the room.

  At the corner he could hear the thumping of a dog’s tail; there was the snuffling of a child with a cold; an irregular crackling from a good fire, and then a metallic tapping. As he walked in, he saw his wife Emma standing at a good-sized cooking pot that rested on a trivet over the fire, and she was stirring a thick pottage. Hamelin felt saliva spurt from beneath his tongue at the smell of meat and vegetables.

  She turned, startled, and stood gazing at him for a moment, white-faced in the dingy gloom of the room, and then ran to him, throwing her arms about him. Silently, she pulled him away from the door and down to their bed. There, lying well wrapped in an old woollen shawl, was their son. He looked so pale that Hamelin knew he was dead, and he felt a terrible emptiness open in his breast, as though God had reached in and pulled out his heart.

  And then Joel muttered, and rolled over in his sleep, and Hamelin felt the tears flowing down his cheeks with pure joy.

  * * *

  It was very peculiar, Baldwin thought as he strode back towards the abbey, the youthful messenger skipping at his heels.

  Baldwin had known Simon Puttock for six years or so, and in all that time the bailiff had been easy going and cheerful, except during that terrible black period when Simon’s first son had died. That had affected Simon and his wife Meg, as it would any loving parent, but even through all that pain and anguish, Simon had tried to maintain his sense of humour, and to see him so snappish about this killing was strange. Perhaps Simon had simply seen too many bodies?

  No, it most surely wasn’t that! Simon wasn’t a weakling, he just had a weakness of belly when he found decaying human flesh; most of the population felt the same way. It was Baldwin who was different, for he had no fear of dead bodies. To him they were mere husks, the worn-out and discarded shells of men who no longer had a need for them. But when those husks were the remains of murdered men and women, Baldwin knew that they could still speak, and sometimes tell who had murdered them, and why. All it needed was an eye to look and a mind to notice – and an absence of bigotry or hatred. Too often people jumped to conclusions based upon their own prejudices; after his experience as a Knight Templar, Baldwin had no intention of committing the same sin.

  The abbot was standing beside his table when Baldwin entered, his face troubled. ‘Thank you for returning so promptly, Sir Baldwin. I wanted to tell you as soon as I knew. After speaking to you, I decided to approach the novice to ask him point blank about the thefts, but I couldn’t.’ For a moment his composure evaporated and his face showed his anger and concern. ‘The acolyte Gerard has disappeared.’

  Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Disappeared? Do you mean he has simply vanished?’

  ‘As good as, I fear. There is no sign of him, I understand he hasn’t been seen all day, but my brethren didn’t tell me, thinking that he was misbehaving and would be back soon.’

  Baldwin was already moving towards the door. ‘Would you come with me? It would be easier to speak to your brethren if they know that I am acting on your behalf.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who was the last man to see him?’

  ‘I fear I don’t know,’ Abbot Robert admitted, his sandals pattering on the flags as they went along the short passage out to the yard beyond.

  ‘Do you know when he was last seen?’

  ‘No, I only heard about
this myself a short while ago.’

  Baldwin said nothing, but his mind was whirling as he took in the symbolic impact of this boy’s sudden disappearance. It would play into the hands of those who wanted to believe that the theft of the abbot’s wine was tied to the travellers on the moor, and to the murder of Walwynus. The lad’s going would make everyone assume that the novice had been involved in the thefts and that the devil had taken him away, just as 150 years ago Milbrosa had been spirited away. Baldwin didn’t believe that story, but he knew that others did, and he also knew that an unscrupulous man would be keen to divert attention from his crime by blaming others. And who better to blame than the devil himself?

  The abbot walked hurriedly out through his door and down the staircase, leading Baldwin to the monks’ cloister. He entered and walked quickly up the steps which led to the dorter.

  In the great long room with the low screens which separated each little chamber, ensuring that no brother ever had total privacy, Baldwin could see that each little cot was made up carefully, the blankets drawn up to the head of the bed. There were no brothers here, for they would be talking and laughing in the calefactory or the brewery, preparing for an early night, ready to rise at midnight for the first service of the new day.

  ‘Which was his cot?’

  The abbot beckoned to a young novice who was sweeping the floor while trying to appear uninterested in their conversation. ‘Reginald, come here.’

  ‘My Lord Abbot?’

  ‘Which is Gerard’s bed?’

  The lad carefully set his besom against a wall and took the two to a cot that sat fifth along the wall on the right.

  Baldwin studied it with a frowning gaze, silent except for a bark directed at Reginald to stand still, when the boy was about to return to his sweeping, Reginald froze, eyes downcast. He was petrified with fear, convinced that they knew what he had done, too scared to confess. God! All he’d tried to do was frighten Gerard. The silly bugger had been filching too much, and he couldn’t be allowed to go on. But when Reg pushed him, and he went over, that was that. All he could do was get rid of the mess. And get rid he had. But pushing Gerard in the first place was sinful, and the result was worse. Reg hadn’t ever committed a mortal sin before, and now, knowing that the abbot and the knight were here to investigate Gerard’s disappearance, his marrow turned to jelly.