The Devil's Acolyte aktm-13

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Of course. But why?’

  The Abbot gave a dry, humourless chuckle. ‘Sometimes when one wishes to spread gossip it is necessary to have the right person overhear it. No!’ he said hurriedly, noticing Simon’s offended expression. ‘Not you, Simon. There was another man there in the undercroft who may choose to repeat what we said.’

  ‘I see.’ Simon assumed that Abbot Robert expected either his Steward or Brother Peter to chat about the discovery to other Brothers, and noted the fact. He would not confide in either, he decided. ‘What now? Do you wish me to seek the thief?’

  ‘No, no,’ the Abbot said hurriedly. ‘There is no need. This is abbey business, and outside your sphere. Surely the guilty party is a monk who sought wine for himself.’

  ‘And took an entire barrel?’

  ‘It would not have been easy. No matter. The knowledge that I have shown you, the well-known and feared enquirer after the truth, a man known for his integrity, will drive the thief to panic and confession.’

  ‘So you wish me to do nothing? You merely hope that the monk who did this will tell you of his own accord?’ Simon queried.

  The Abbot gave him an odd, measuring look. ‘My friend, I know you have many other pressing responsibilities. I wouldn’t want to load more work on you.’

  ‘My Lord Abbot, I can easily…’

  ‘Bailiff, this is an abbey matter, not something for you to worry about. Please give the matter no more thought.’

  Oddly, when the Abbot left him a short while later, Simon for the first time since he had met the Abbot, was left with the impression that the man’s words were less than entirely honest.

  Brother Mark could easily have been a tavern-keeper if he hadn’t joined the monastery. He was a cheerful, rotund man, with the ruddy complexion, multiple chins and expansive belly that so often seemed to go with the position of salsarius, the monk responsible for the preserved fish and flesh. His rumbling bass voice could often be heard as he went about his business in his dark, cool undercroft; singing hymns sometimes, but more commonly, when he thought that no one could hear, or when his ebullient nature got the better of him, he sank to saucy little songs that shouldn’t have been heard outside the lowest alehouse.

  When, looking up, he saw the Bailiff, he picked up his long leather hose to coil it and called out a cheery greeting. ‘Godspeed, my friend. And how are you this perfect morning?’

  ‘I am well, I thank you,’ Simon returned, but it was hard to speak with his teeth clenched.

  Mark glanced after the Abbot. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s a good man, even if he can be a little acerbic at times. We’ve all caught the lash of his tongue on occasion.’

  ‘It’s not that. I just…’ Simon wished that Baldwin or his wife were here. It was impossible to talk to a monk. As the Abbot himself had said, the Brothers were incorrigible gossips.

  ‘Come into my chamber, Bailiff. I have some wine that will ease your soul. Come!’

  Simon followed him to a pleasant room near the Water Gate which was filled with the odours of his trade: spices and smoked, curing meats.

  ‘A good location, eh? Views all over the court from here, so I can keep my eyes on whoever may come into the Abbey, and if they look dangerous – why phit! I can be out of the Water Gate like a scalded cat! Hah! We got one last week, too. Some damned mange-ridden beast that kept getting into the garden and shitting in the beds. It’s ruined the carrots. We have had the seedlings springing up all over, instead of in our usual careful rows, because this cat kept digging and scattering all our seed. Always looked for the softest soil where the choicest crops had been placed. Anyway, we caught it last week, trapped it in a box, and then tipped boiling water over it as we let it go. You should have seen the thing run!’

  Simon sat at the monk’s bidding and took a cup of wine from him. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Mark already had a massive goblet filled, and Simon noticed his hand shaking as he picked it up. Mark enjoyed his drinks too much, he thought.

  Simon said, ‘I much prefer dogs. They are at least loyal. You know where you stand with a dog.’

  ‘Absolutely. Cats can be useful for removing vermin, but most of the time people don’t make them pay their way. They just leave the beasts to roam, and feed them with choice cuts of meat. Madness. All it means is, the blasted things come to my garden and ruin it.’

  He sat nearby, on a stool that gave him an uninterrupted view of the great gate. ‘No matter. I would wager that I need not worry myself about that cat. I think it will have learned its lesson. You see? This place is calming. You sit here, and all your fears flee. It is a sanctuary. Safe from all worries: sexual, social and financial. Here, only your personal service to Christ and God matter.’ Taking a great swallow of his drink, Mark cocked a bright, gleaming eye at the Bailiff. ‘So, was it the thefts he asked you about?’

  Simon coughed. ‘Is it common knowledge?’

  ‘Oh, Bailiff, of course it is! We have no possessions here, no money, so our only currencies are food, drink, and gossip. What else could we have? And when my good friend Augerus learns something, he naturally shares it with me because I have the same lust for gossip, but I also have the job of looking after food and drink. With whom else would Augerus wish to come and discuss the thefts, if not with me?’

  ‘You keep saying “thefts”, not “theft”. I have only been told of the stolen wine. Has anything else been taken from the Abbot’s stores?’

  ‘Aha!’ Mark shot him a look. ‘Maybe I should hold my tongue.’

  ‘Why? If there have been other wine barrels emptied…’

  Mark chuckled. ‘Bailiff, if the Abbot had other personal items of his own stolen, don’t you think he would have sought help before now?’

  Simon mused over that. He did not believe the Abbot to be so self-centred as to ignore other thefts and only seek the thief when he was himself the victim; but then Simon considered the boldness of one who dared break into the Abbot’s storeroom. Maybe Abbot Robert thought that a man so fearless was more of a threat than a mere petty thief?

  ‘What other things were taken?’

  ‘Oh,’ Mark smiled, ‘I think you should ask the Abbot himself about that. It’s nothing to do with me. All I know is gossip.’

  Simon drank some more of the excellent wine. ‘Perhaps you could tell me then who you think might have been responsible?’

  Mark cocked his head. ‘I probably could, but that would mean breaking one of the cardinal rules of gossiping, wouldn’t it? I’d never hear another word from anyone, would I? No, I think you should seek your thief all alone.’

  ‘At least tell me this: did you hear anything after dark any night in the last week or two?’

  ‘Well, there are always odd noises. That blasted cat, rats, wood settling, men wandering to find the privy… But I can say this, I have heard nothing out of the ordinary.’

  Simon looked into his wine. ‘If someone had been stealing from the Abbey, what…?’

  Mark hastily crossed himself. ‘Stealing from here, Bailiff? God forbid that such could be done! Holy Mother Church should be safe from the depredations of felons.’

  ‘Yet it is a fact that outlaws will often rob churches. There are rich metals and fabrics inside. Could someone have done so here?’

  ‘No,’ Mark said with emphasis. ‘I would have heard if someone stole from the Abbey itself, and I have heard nothing of the sort. And I assure you of this, Bailiff,’ he added, jabbing a finger towards Simon’s chest. There was no mistaking his seriousness. Simon noticed with amusement that even the shaking had disappeared: rage had overwhelmed his alcoholic tremor. ‘If I heard of someone doing such a thing, taking candles or plates or cloths from the church, I would denounce the thief immediately. Immediately!’

  ‘As a religious man should,’ Simon noted. ‘Yet you are aware of something.’

  ‘True,’ Mark said heavily, and slumped in his seat before looking up roguishly. ‘But that’s not to do with stealing fr
om the Abbey itself. It is the taking of unnecessary wealth. Jesus taught us that God’s bounty means all should have enough, didn’t He, and that men should give up whatever they don’t need for the good of the less fortunate. Perhaps this is a case of that nature!’

  Simon sipped his drink. Mark was the sort of man who would hoard a secret to his bosom like a diamond, because in this environment the only currency was knowledge. However, Simon had the impression that he was sincere in his religious protestations. There were stories of men who robbed from the wealthy in order to support the poor. Could someone in the Abbey be behaving in that way?

  Ah, well. It was nothing to do with him. The Abbot had told him to leave the matter alone.

  As he thought this, he saw Mark watching him. There was a brightness in his eyes which spoke of more intelligence than Simon would have guessed at from his conversation.

  Simon considered. ‘So you think that someone taking money from another, so long as it was put to good use, would be justified?’

  Mark set his head on one side. ‘Perhaps. Provided that nobody was hurt. And that the stealer did not take it for personal advantage.’

  ‘You are toying with words now. Surely if someone takes something, that is theft and there can be no excuse. A felon is a felon.’

  ‘There are some crimes which are worse than simply attempting to enrich oneself, Bailiff,’ Mark said sternly. He slurped at his wine. ‘The man who actively does harm to Holy Mother Church is himself lost. There are some… But there! One has to point out the error of people’s ways, and hope that thereby one can save their souls.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Simon smiled.

  Mark returned it with a grin that was both cheeky and tired. ‘I think perhaps that is for the best, Bailiff.’

  The Bailiff grunted, and they spoke of other, less weighty matters for a while, until Simon had drained a second cup and left Mark with thanks for his hospitality.

  The salsarius watched him go, his lips pursed. There were things he would have liked to have said to the Bailiff, but he daren’t, not yet. Perhaps later, once he had spoken to that thieving devil, the miner Walwynus.

  There was no excuse for a man who stole from an Abbey. Yes, a thief who took property or money from a rich merchant and then distributed the wealth among the poor, thereby achieving Christ’s aim of sharing out the world’s riches with those who needed it most, allowing each man his own piece, that was honourable. But not when the profits were kept to enrich the thief.

  Wally had willingly participated in stealing from the Abbey, taking things from guests, purely for his own profit. That was evil. It could only lead to harm in the long run, ruining the Abbey’s reputation. As soon as people learned that the Abbey had allowed it to go on, they would think again before donating funds; travellers would go elsewhere, and the Abbey would sink into the mire of speculation and foul, irreverent gossip.

  Mark wouldn’t let that happen. He knew about Gerard, and he knew that Wally somehow acquired the goods from Gerard. It was Wally who made the profit. He must have forced the boy to steal for him. Mark would deal with the lad himself later.

  It was time for Wally to pay for his impiety, for his crimes and his greed.

  The Swiss stood at the edge of the crowd while the coining went on. It wasn’t the biggest tin market he had ever seen, but the number of ingots were breathtaking, and he watched with the hunger that only another craftsman can comprehend.

  Rudolf von Grindelwald was a master pewterer, and the sight of so much top-quality material was making his fingers itch. He wanted to get his hands on the gleaming bricks of solid metal. To refine the tin, smelt it, mix in the proper quantity of lead and create beautiful plates, cups and mugs. He could do this, for he was an expert.

  The process of purchase here was straightforward. Each of the miners stood anxiously while their tin was assayed, and then they had to pay their fine before offering it for sale. That was simple enough. Rudolf could follow that, although his understanding of the rough, rolling language here with its curious local dialect and odd words, made it all but impossible for him to make out a single sentence.

  It was maddening. There were pewterers and agents from as far away as London and even Venice, but they could converse with these grubby, leather-skinned moormen. Rudolf had travelled here with his family to buy, but how can a man buy when he can speak none of the local language?

  Although he attempted to offer money for metal, the miners eyed him askance, and when Rudolf tried to push his way in among a knot of buyers who had encircled the first few miners to haggle over the price of their tin, he was rudely shoved out of the way.

  It was enough to drive a free man to draw his knife, and he almost did. Only the sober reflection that he was in a foreign country where the law would hardly miss one Swiss, made him leave it in its sheath.

  In disgust, he spat at the ground and walked from the main square. There was no point in being here, watching while the choicest ingots went to other dealers. He would find the tavern where his son Welf was drinking the strange-tasting English ale, and sample some more himself, before they made their way back to their camp at the outskirts of the town. Later, perhaps, he might find a man with tin to sell, after the initial rush had died down. Tomorrow they would set off again, back to London.

  Entering the alley in which the tavern stood, he found the sun was immediately shut off by the tall buildings at either side. Only a narrow streak of sunlight hit the wall on his left, struggling through from the roofs above. It was a narrow lane, this, with a good-sized kennel in the middle for the rubbish and faeces of men and beasts. Rudolf passed a sow rootling in scraps of waste, then had to follow the lane in a broad sweep around a large house. As he did so, he saw a figure drop from a window high in the wall. Rudolf grabbed at his knife again, stunned. Surely this man had just robbed a house! He was about to leap forward when another man appeared in the window above, a large sack in his hand.

  Giving an inarticulate cry, Rudolf sprang forward, catching the first fellow before he could bolt. One brawny arm went round his waist while the other, holding his knife, went to the fellow’s throat. Only then did he see the tonsure.

  ‘Bruder!’ he grunted, and instantly pulled his blade away. ‘Brother, I am sorry.’

  The lad was up and gone like a rabbit when the hound is after it. There was a clattering noise, and Rudolf found himself staring up at a swiftly falling sack. Too astonished to move, he gaped in horror as it struck him. He tottered, and then a man appeared at his side and grabbed the sack.

  ‘You threw that at me!’ Rudolf declared with rage. He was still in shock, and feeling bruised. The sack had been heavy, full of sharp objects.

  ‘Friend, I am sorry, it fell from my hand.’

  ‘You are a thief!’ Rudolf said. The stranger’s accent was at least easier to understand than the miners’ dialect.

  ‘No! Wait! You have scared off my companion. He’ll be at the Abbey now, but let me explain before you do anything.’

  ‘Explain? You steal from a house. There is nothing to explain!’ Rudolf thrust his hand into the sack. To his amazement, it was filled with fine pewter: plates and mazers and bowls were rattling together inside the bag, haphazardly intermingled. ‘You are a felon.’

  ‘No. I have rescued all this. Please – let me explain.’

  The man’s face was filled with fear, and looking at him, Rudolf guessed that he was in no danger from him. A criminal he might be, but Rudolf had seen stronger-looking girls. And better-fed ones, too. That look made him waver.

  ‘Come, you have me,’ the man said persuasively. ‘What harm can it do for us to have a bowl of wine and talk about this? I shall explain everything.’

  As he spoke, Rudolph heard other voices calling. A group of local men had entered the passage, and now stood eyeing the thief and Rudolph with grim-faced suspicion.

  ‘Wally? Are you all right?’

  ‘Look! That foreigner’s got a knife to
him!’

  Rudolf’s companion grinned. ‘I’m fine.’ Then, more urgently, ‘Quick! Let’s get away from here. And put that knife away, in God’s name! Do you want us both to hang?’

  Chapter Three

  Early that Friday morning, Hamelin woke with a shock as the tavern-keeper began rolling casks through his doorway. After sleeping all afternoon and night on the bench in the open air, Hamelin’s body had stiffened. His joints and muscles wouldn’t work, and he didn’t want to see what the world looked like anyway, so he lay back with his eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the row until it was impossible to do so any longer.

  When his eyes met the daylight it felt as though someone had slammed a ten-pound hammer against his head and he snapped them closed again. Someone must have rammed a woollen mitten in his mouth, he thought, but then he reasoned that it was only his tongue, swollen and befurred. Gradually he dared open his eyes again, and his skull seemed on the brink of exploding. The pressure was awful. His tooth was now only one part of a whole chorus of agony; his head felt like a boil which was ready to be lanced; and Hamelin would have been glad enough to provide a blade to any kindly soul who would be prepared to use it. Death had to be preferable to this.

  It was only after he had drunk two quarts of water that he could think of making his way back to the mine. From the town, the hill looked utterly insurmountable, but the miner knew from bitter experience that the only cure for his particular malady was exercise. He’d feel a lot worse before he improved, but once the sweat began to pour from him, his recovery would be on its way. And then he saw old Wally up ahead, and he tried to shift himself to catch up with his neighbour.

  ‘Wally?’

  The other miner’s face almost made him feel refreshed. Wally had been brawling: his left eye was closing, and he had a cut lip. Fresh blood had dripped onto his shirt. Hamelin was tempted to ask who he had fought, but Wally’s face didn’t encourage an enquiry.