The Devil's Acolyte aktm-13

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This Art – where is he? If he has the pewter, he can’t have gone far, can he?’

  Joce felt as though a cloud had passed and suddenly the sun was shining full on him. ‘Of course – I know where the bastard will be! Come on!’

  ‘I can’t. I must be ready to serve the Abbot his midday meal.’

  ‘He can wait.’

  ‘You can kill me now, if you want. That will alert people to your guilt. Or you can force me to come with you, I suppose, but how would I explain my absence to the Abbot? If I am caught, I…’ Augerus thought about threatening Joce, but the point of the knife was too noticeable. ‘… I cannot help you again, can I? It’s better that I stay inside the Abbey and you go to find this fellow.’

  Joce held his gaze for a moment. ‘Very well, but don’t forget: if I am caught, you will die too.’ He suddenly pulled the knife away and thrust it into the wood of a beam at the side of Augerus’ head, the edge nicking his ear.

  ‘If they catch me, Augie, I’ll get you first. So help me, you’ll feel this blade in your guts.’

  Peter was unhappy to have been summoned to the Abbot’s room again, but he was more concerned when he saw that Sir Baldwin and Simon were both there, the Coroner too.

  The Abbot waved the monk to a seat and began speaking before Peter was sitting.

  ‘When I spoke to you on Monday, you hinted that you had a good idea who might have been behind the theft of the pewterer’s plates.’

  ‘That is true, my Lord Abbot,’ Peter said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed upon the Abbot himself and refusing to glance sideways at the other men.

  ‘How did you learn about the other small theft?’

  ‘I have heard mutterings from other guests, my Lord. Sometimes they have mentioned the loss of items to Ned the Horse, other times I have simply overheard them talking.’

  ‘In terms which would embarrass the Abbey?’ the Abbot shot out.

  ‘Never. If they had, I would have mentioned it to you, my Lord. I could do nothing that would harm you or the Abbey.’

  ‘Then what did they say?’

  ‘Simply that the innkeeper in the last town had managed to take their stuff, or that they must have been careless in packing and left something by mistake. Never that they thought the Abbey could be responsible. Until the pewterer.’

  ‘He noticed.’

  ‘Yes, because he had personally set the items beneath his bed the night before. He knew that they had been stolen from him.’

  ‘Why should you think you knew who had been responsible?’

  ‘Because, as you know, I can rarely sleep a full night. I waken, and cannot return to slumber. Rather than sit in my cot and listen to others snoring, I get up and walk about the court in prayer, or rest before the altar and pray.’

  ‘So you are often up and about when all others are asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have seen the thief?’

  ‘I did say that I wouldn’t confirm it to you, Lord, until I was sure that the culprit wouldn’t confess of his own volition.’

  ‘True. But since then a boy has disappeared and two men are dead. I begin to feel that matters are more pressing than one man’s decision to hold his tongue, no matter how moral was the basis of that decision,’ the Abbot said sarcastically.

  ‘Very well, my Lord. I have often seen the boy Gerard wandering about during the night. It seemed odd to me.’

  ‘So he stole the items,’ the Abbot said, shooting a look at Baldwin.

  The knight smiled thinly. The Abbot believed that this was proof of the boy’s theft of the two plates found in his bed. Baldwin still doubted that.

  Peter continued. ‘I also saw how the plates were disposed of. I once observed Gerard hurrying from the guest rooms to your own lodgings here, Abbot.’

  ‘Here?’ Abbot Robert said with surprise.

  ‘Yes. And a few moments later, from the walkway at the top of the wall by the river, I saw a window open, and a small sack descend on a rope. It was collected.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Walwynus. I saw him quite clearly.’

  ‘And you did not see fit to tell me!’ Abbot Robert said coldly. ‘This is extraordinary! After all this Abbey has done for you, this is how you repay us? Fortunately another Brother saw fit to tell me!’

  ‘My Lord,’ Peter said calmly, ‘if I had told you then, it is likely that Wally would have simply denied the charge and accused me of wanting revenge – nothing more. You yourself would have been sorely troubled about my mind. And you would have questioned whether I could have seen the man that clearly at – what? – perhaps some fifty yards in the dark.’

  ‘You should have trusted me!’

  ‘And tested your confidence in me. Perhaps so. I’m afraid I chose the harder route. I sought to speak to the men responsible. And in Wally I found a ready ear. I fully believe that he felt his guilt and was prepared to redeem himself. I think that he was going to try to return the value of the metal to the Abbey for you to do with as you saw fit. It is only sad that he died before he could do so.’

  ‘So you think that this deplorable boy had access to my lodgings and could pass the things to Wally from my own window?’

  ‘Unless he had help.’

  ‘From whom?’ Baldwin interjected. ‘You saw someone else during your ramblings at night?’

  ‘I did. Occasionally, recently, I have seen Brother Mark. I think he feared that I was observing him, for he hid a few times when I noticed him, but he was never quite swift enough.’

  ‘Brother Mark,’ Baldwin muttered, and looked at Simon.

  The Bailiff said nothing. He was considering Peter with a slight frown on his face. Mark, he thought. Mark who had been seen up on the moors on the day Wally died, if Ellis could be believed. Mark, who had been ostentatiously putting away that syphon tube on the day that Simon had been taken to the empty wine barrel, as though showing that anyone could have taken the tube and had access to the wine. Mark, who hated the idea of stealing from the Abbey, if his protestations meant anything.

  ‘At least we know that Wally did indeed try to bring back the pewter,’ he said, and he saw Peter close his eyes in a short prayer.

  When he opened them again, Peter turned them on Simon. ‘I am sure he did, and for that his soul deserves peace,’ he said calmly. Simon nodded, but his mind was already turned to another issue: the Abbot had said that another Brother had already told him about Gerard. Glancing at the Abbot, Simon almost asked who it was, but his master’s expression did not invite such a question.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Nob had felt a great sympathy for the miner. As he raked the coals aside in his oven, he couldn’t help shaking his head and sniffing a little. Poor Hamelin! So he’d got hold of a load of money, and come back here to share it with his wife and try to save his son, and all he’d won was a dagger in the guts.

  It was a decent sum of money too, from what he’d heard Emma saying. Not that it could do him any good now.

  The night before, when he had taken the Bailiff and others to Hamelin’s corpse, he had decided to make himself scarce. There was no advantage in being around when a Coroner started doing his work, for that only led to fines and more expense. Instead he frowningly retreated while the three began their discussion and questioned the others in the area, until he arrived at the end of the alley, and there he turned and darted back to his own shop.

  Cissy was at her place by the bar, serving a couple of drunken yeomen, both recently thrown out of the tavern across the way, and she had looked up with an expression of thunder on her face as the two tottered clumsily from the shop, clutching their pies. ‘And where have you been all this time? Down at the alehouse again, I’ll bet. When will you ever grow up? You don’t need–’

  ‘Quiet, woman! I’ve not been near the alehouse.’ He took hold of her hand. ‘Hamelin is dead. I was there when he was found, stabbed.’

&n
bsp; Cissy went white. ‘Oh, poor Emma! What will she do now? I hope she still has all his money.’ Cissy pulled the table aside so that she could squeeze past. ‘I’ll have to go to her right away. You mind the shop, Nob. I’ll stay with her overnight and make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘All right, love. Off you go.’

  His wife had been as good as her word, and he had slept alone but for the companionship of his barrel. Now, this morning, his head felt a little furry, his mouth tasted sour, and he couldn’t help but burp every so often.

  Taking a drinking horn filled with ale through to the shop, he ensconced himself behind the table and pulled it back into place. Before long, Joce appeared at his door and demanded one of his meat-pies. Nothing loath, for Nob always liked to have someone to talk to, especially when he had a sore head, he served Joce with the juiciest and plumpest one on the table.

  ‘Terrible days. First poor Wally, now Hamelin. Who’ll be next, eh?’

  ‘Where’s Cissy?’

  ‘She went off last night to help poor Emma.’

  Joce finished his pie and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Hamelin’s life or death had no interest for him. He was a cretin of a miner. A poor man who could achieve nothing but dig, dig, dig for tin. He might as well have been a serf. The man could be consumed by hellfire for all he cared. He grunted, ‘Have you seen my servant last night or today?’

  ‘What, young Art? No, why? Has he disappeared?’

  ‘Bastard’s vanished. Not there when I got home last night. There’s no food, nothing – and some little pieces of jewellery have gone missing, too. Small things, but enough.’

  Nob whistled. ‘You think he stole them? That’s bad, that is. Where could he have gone?’

  ‘Have you seen him?’ Joce repeated through gritted teeth.

  ‘No, but I’ll tell you if I do. Have you told the Watch?’

  ‘Oh, damn them and you!’ Joce raged suddenly and stormed from the shop.

  All the pie-cooking fool could think about was that sick cretin Hamelin, as if the death of a miner was a matter of any consequence. And Cissy had run off to ‘help’ the widow, as though she could do anything useful. Emma was widowed, and that was it. Unless Cissy was prepared to offer her money, she would probably have to fall back on the support of the parish. Another damned pauper for men like Joce to maintain. As if there weren’t enough useless mouths to be fed.

  Like his little shit of a servant. That bastard would regret the day he was born, when Joce caught up with him. Not that it should be too difficult to track him down. Joce had a good idea where the lad was. He strode along the roadway, out past the middens on the northern road, and over the bridge to the eastern riverbank. Turning left, he followed the water until he came into view of a large pair of barns. Seeing the flames flickering between the trees, he walked more cautiously now, until he could get a good view of the men.

  It was Sir Tristram’s little army; they lay, still asleep, or sat and stared at the campfires while a guard leaned against a door and kept a wary eye upon them all, making sure none of them tried to escape.

  Joce cast his eyes about them, but there was no sign of Art. Some bodies were sprawled on the grass, wrapped in blankets or coats, and he studied them in case Art might be among them, but he saw no figure that looked like him. One man was familiar, but Joce wasn’t sure why. The lad had a shaven head, like a penitent, and gripped a soft felt cap in his hands. He looked nervous, and every time that the sparks flew up, his eyes moved anxiously from side to side as if he was fearfully watching the men about him.

  As well he might, Joce thought, his attention moving on again. Somewhere here, he was sure, was the thieving sod of a servant who had robbed him. That acolyte could have a hand in it, too. The bastard had enough balls to break into his house and steal all his pewter. Although what he would have done with it afterwards was another question. Like Augerus said, it would be difficult for him to carry away that much stuff. Perhaps he had hidden it in the town, and was planning to sneak back to collect it. That was the sort of thing that Joce would do. It would make sense – wait until the Hue and Cry had died down, and then sidle back and collect the lot. Only it suggested that this acolyte was brighter than he had thought. Brighter than Augerus had thought too, for that matter.

  There was no sign of his servant, and he set his jaw. Art wasn’t bright enough to come here – or perhaps he was too bright. Anyone must think of coming here and taking a squint at the poor buggers all lined up in a row ready to march. Joining Sir Tristram’s group would be an easy means of escaping.

  It was while he was leaving the camp that the bald lad’s face came back to him, the pale features with the large bright eyes. Why should someone shave his pate? Monks did it as a sign of their devotion; others might do it to change their appearance. Damn it! Even a monk might want to change his appearance, and how easy it would be to conceal a tonsure by shaving all the hair about it.

  Especially, he thought with a dawning realisation, if the hair were red. Like Gerard’s.

  That morning, Baldwin and Simon broke their fast with the Coroner, and then spoke to a servant and requested Peter to join them in the guest rooms.

  Without preamble, Baldwin asked the Almoner, ‘Sir Tristram was in the Northern Marches at the same time as you and Walwynus, wasn’t he? He knew the dead man – we know that from the way he reacted to seeing Walwynus’ body. Could he have ridden out to the moors and killed him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. It’s possible. He knew of Wally in the north, and he hated all Scots. Aye, but didn’t Sir Tristram arrive here only after the coining?’

  ‘We have to verify that,’ Coroner Roger said.

  Simon mused, ‘He wasn’t in the Abbey, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t near. Maybe he was staying in Tavistock.’

  Peter gazed at him. ‘Why so much interest in him?’

  ‘From all that you’ve said, he is violent enough to kill,’ said the Coroner.

  Simon considered. Sir Tristram had been there in the Northern Marches at the same time as Wally. He had hated the man, that much was clear from his spitting into the corpse’s bloated face. ‘Peter, have you seen Sir Tristram down here before? Has he come here as Arrayer at any other time?’

  ‘Not so far as I know, no.’

  From the look Baldwin gave Simon, it was clear that he had reached the same conclusion. ‘What of the man killed yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘Hamelin? He was a tinner up on the moor not far from Wally. I think they knew each other a little, but not too well. They were not bosom companions,’ Peter responded slowly. ‘How was he killed? Was he stabbed? There was lots of blood.’

  ‘Hamelin was stabbed, Brother Peter,’ the Coroner pronounced. ‘Yes, no one in the roadway admits to the faintest idea why he should have been killed. They all say he was but a likeable man.’

  ‘Aye, well, that is often the way of it, isn’t it? The poor man was found by his wife,’ Peter added sadly. ‘Poor Emma is half out of her mind. It is a terrible thing to have this happen!’

  ‘A knight would be as able to stab a man as any other, wouldn’t he?’ Simon said. ‘And Sir Tristram knew Wally. Perhaps the Arrayer chose to finish some of his business. He came here during the coining, saw Wally, recognised him, chose to kill him to settle some score from years ago, and presumably left Wally’s purse unopened because he wouldn’t need the money. But he counted without Hamelin. Hamelin saw him attack Wally and when he rushed down to the body, he found his friend dead and the purse there for the taking. It’s no surprise if he took it, for he had great need of money, and he brought it here for his wife. But while in Tavistock he stumbled into Sir Tristram – and the knight executed him. It makes more sense than Wally buying Hamelin’s debt!’

  Peter had been listening carefully, but now he interrupted them. It was time to speak. ‘Lordings, the answers may be closer to home than Sir Tristram. I heard yesterday that Sir Tristram’s Sergeant recognised a man in the crowd. It was Joce Blakemoor. The
Sergeant saw him in Scotland, where he was the leader of Wally and Martyn Armstrong. It was he, according to this Sergeant, who killed and raped my Agnes.’

  ‘How could he know that?’ Simon wondered. ‘Was he witness to the rape and murder?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Peter admitted. ‘I am confused. If Blakemoor killed my Agnes, perhaps he was also the man who did this to me,’ he added, fingering his scar.

  Simon gave a low whistle. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Joce left Tavistock to trade, or so he told everyone. But he could have gone anywhere: all people here know is that he returned with a purse of gold.’

  Baldwin said, ‘Absence from here doesn’t necessarily make him guilty.’

  ‘No.’ Simon was thinking quickly. ‘And why should Joce want Wally dead? Because he was a threat to Joce’s future, knowing too much of his past? What of Hamelin? Could he have seen Joce? But then, Sir Tristram might have recognised Wally and chosen to execute him. Hamelin again could have witnessed the attack.’

  ‘I still wonder about this weapon, though,’ Baldwin objected. ‘I do not understand why he should have taken a club to kill. Surely either man would have preferred a dagger or sword?’

  ‘Yes, but surely he’s been trying to throw us off the scent. That was why he made his own morning star from timbers he found lying about in Hal’s mine. He came across them and thought he might as well use them.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let us go and ask them.’

  Simon set his jaw grimly. He could not help but observe that Baldwin was tugging at his sword hilt, easing the blade in the sheath like a man expecting a fight.

  ‘Who do you want to talk to first, Baldwin?’ he asked.

  Baldwin looked at Coroner Roger. ‘My choice would be to see Sir Tristram, because as soon as we have talked to him, we can use his men to help us arrest Joce. If it is true that Joce was this…’

  ‘ “Red Hand”,’ Peter supplied helpfully.

  ‘Thank you,’ Baldwin said, ‘ “Red Hand”, then we may need more than a few men to corner him. He sounds thoroughly unscrupulous and determined.’