The Devil's Acolyte (2002)

by Jecks, Michael

  ‘You mean Wally?’ Simon asked. ‘Wally gave him money? Why?’

  ‘Ah, that I don’t know, but I do know that Hamelin said Wally had bought a loan from him – a debt owed by a monk. The monk wasn’t in Holy Orders when he borrowed the money, but when he lost it all, he joined the monastery, so Hamelin couldn’t get his cash back. That’s why the poor soul was working out on the moors. He was desperate to make a bit of money.’

  ‘But the debt would be worthless,’ Baldwin said. ‘Why would this Walwynus give good money for a debt he couldn’t recover?’

  ‘Must have been mad,’ Coroner Roger said, moving into the alley.

  ‘And shortly afterwards Wally dies,’ Simon mused. ‘It’s almost as though the money was evil and Wally wanted to get rid of it. But why should he?’

  ‘Know that and we’ll know the full story,’ Baldwin said as he set off after the Coroner.

  Peter was standing at the body’s side. With him were the nearest neighbours, all called to have their names noted so that they could be amerced for this infringement of the King’s Peace. None looked happy, but that was no surprise. In Simon’s experience, people rarely liked having to part with their money.

  While the Coroner took charge of the men gathered, Simon addressed Peter. ‘I have just been talking to Sir Tristram. He says he knew you in the north – that you were attacked by Walwynus when you got that wound. Is that true?’

  Peter tilted his chin defiantly. ‘Yes. Sir Tristram was a marauder, as I told you. He raided from the English side to the Scottish, while Wally came down the other way.’

  ‘Was it Wally himself who gave you that wound?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘No, one of his companions. But the pain was the same. He rode me down when I was with a friend. They killed my friend outright, and then his companion attacked me. Then some of them went to my home and raped and murdered my girl.’

  Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. He knew that many priests and monks failed in their vows, but to hear a Brother mention it so frankly and almost in passing, was oddly shocking to him. It would have been less so had Peter said that he himself had murdered. Baldwin had taken all the three vows very seriously, and the hardest to adhere to, without a doubt, was that of chastity.

  ‘What girl was this?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Her name was Agnes. It was a lonely country up there, Bailiff. I was young, and she was beautiful. It was common enough for monks to seek . . . companionship. We found Walwynus when Sir Tristram’s men had all but killed him, and saved him, carrying him to my home where Agnes nursed him back to health. He repaid us, so I thought, by raping her while I lay near to death.’

  ‘He sounds the sort of man whom you could hate for ever,’ Baldwin observed quietly. ‘I suppose that your story explains some of the wounds we found on his body, though. Did you kill him?’

  ‘Me? No – why should I? Would it bring back my Agnes? No. Would it take away this scar? No. Would it give me back my teeth? No. What, then, could it achieve? I had forgiven Walwynus, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘You knew he was here?’

  ‘Yes. But he always avoided me. It was not until the coining a week ago that he somehow gathered together the courage to speak to me. I was out there in the square, and he walked to me and said he was sorry. That he had felt the guilt ever since. And I told him I forgave him, so far as it was in my power. Aye, and in any case, he denied harming my Agnes. He said he thought that his companions killed her. Martyn or the other.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘Did he say who this third man was? This man who attacked you so viciously?’

  ‘No,’ Peter said with a shrug. ‘What good would it have done me to know his name?’

  ‘You did not ask?’

  ‘I had no interest. After forgiving Wally, and seeing his delight, that was enough for me,’ Peter said with transparent honesty. ‘I felt as though his joy washed away my own pain. Aye, and the years of distress.’

  He hesitated a moment as he thought of Joce, and the allegation that Joce was himself the third man, but chose to say nothing. God had given him some peace, and he reflected that the accusation was unsubstantiated. Too many men were convicted because of rumour. No, Peter would confront Joce personally if he could. If not, perhaps then he might repeat what Nob had told him, although by then others would probably already have heard.

  ‘You are telling me that you forgave the man who caused that to be done to you even after you had saved his life before?’ Simon said disbelievingly.

  ‘I am a man of God, Bailiff,’ Peter said imperturbably. ‘What would you have me do? Grab a sword and sweep off his head? Jesus told us to love, not hate. He told us to turn the other cheek, didn’t He? Well, I was prepared to try it. I told him I forgave him, and he burst into tears at first, but then his face shone and I confess, I felt a little like God myself, as though He had acted through me. Holy Mother, it was good. When I left him, he was happy and content.’

  There was a clearness in his voice that brooked no argument. Simon was still doubtful, but Baldwin nodded understandingly. ‘I believe you, Brother. Apart from anything else, it would be an unconscionable amount of time to sit back and wait for an opportunity to kill him.’

  ‘If you knew him,’ Simon said, ‘did you know that man with whom he arrived down here? The man whom he later killed?’

  ‘Aye. He was one of the party which killed my friend and tried to murder me too. An evil man. His name was Martyn Armstrong, or Martyn the Scot. It was the third man who actually swung the axe that did this,’ he added, touching his scar.

  ‘You must have hated Wally.’

  ‘I did at one time, but it is hard to stay hating a man for ever. I had no part in killing him, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘You were seen up on the moors on the day Walwynus died,’ Simon stated. ‘Why?’

  ‘I had to go and visit one of the Abbot’s shepherds who has hurt himself, taking him some money to help him through his illness.’

  ‘Did you come across Walwynus?’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to him on the way. He was hungover. I got the impression that he had drunk a great deal the night before, after I told him I forgave him.’

  ‘You were seen with him.’

  ‘Aye, well I walked with him a way, as soon as I saw how bad he was. He could easily have fallen off the trail and into a bog, he was that far gone. I stayed with him until he was home as an act of charity.’

  ‘You went with him to his home? What was he doing back here, then?’ Simon burst out.

  ‘I have no idea. His cottage is on the route to Buckfast, so it wasn’t out of my way.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I carried on to find the shepherd who was deserving of my Lord Abbot’s kindness. An orphan.’

  Simon sucked at his teeth. ‘And Walwynus was fine when you left him?’

  ‘Yes. I swear it. Although . . .’ His face was suddenly troubled, a crease marking his brow.

  Simon said sharply, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is likely nothing, but while we were talking, he denied having raped or hurt Agnes. He confessed to being part of the raiding party which attacked me, but said that he wouldn’t lead the men to my hovel, because he wouldn’t have allowed anyone to harm Agnes, not after she’d nursed him back to life.’

  ‘And that worried you?’

  ‘It made me think that I had misjudged him, or that he wasn’t prepared to confess with honesty, but . . . perhaps his memory was playing him false. It can do things like that to people. I don’t know. Certainly he appeared greatly upset when I left him. He was sitting at his stool, weighing his purse in his hand unhappily.’

  The next morning, when Augerus woke, he remembered the corpse and shuddered. He had seen Wally’s body being brought in, but had hurried away before the poor devil’s ruined remains could be uncovered. He had known Wally as a sort of business associate, a drinking companion, too, well enough to not want to see the wreck of his body out in the open like this. Reaching the Abbot’s undercrof
t, he had unlocked the door and entered, pulling the door closed behind him and leaning on it, panting heavily. With the little cup he used for tasting the quality of the wines in the barrels, he had drawn off a good measure of the strongest, red spiced wine, and sank it at a gulp, grateful for the warmth that spread through his body, driving off the chill fear.

  Now, in the first light of a chilly grey morning, he felt a queasiness in his belly at the thought of what had happened to Wally, although in his drowsy state he couldn’t deny a stab of pleasure at the way he had treated Joce.

  He had given the bastard a shock, a real good one. Standing there and grabbing Augerus like he was some menial who had misbehaved! The thought that Gerard might tell everyone about their little game hadn’t occurred to him, not until Augerus had made him see sense. Now maybe he’d get rid of all the stuff quickly. Before it could be found! Augerus reflected for a moment on the enraged features of his accomplice as he’d held him by the throat up against his front door. Joce could fly off the handle at a moment’s notice.

  When he had attended the morning Mass and seen to the Abbot’s breakfast, he pottered for a while in the undercroft, then went to visit Mark. The salsarius was welcoming enough, but he too appeared to have his mind on other things, and after only one bowl of wine and a few slices of dry-cured ham Augerus left him to it. He wanted to visit the parish church to see Wally and pray over him.

  He entered the dark church with a feeling of sadness. After making the obeisances, he walked down the aisle to where Wally’s body lay, lighted by the guttering candles. It was gloomy here today, with so little light. Clouds smothered the sun and the great windows with the coloured pictures depicting scenes from the Bible all seemed grim and accusing. As they should be, Augerus nodded to himself, bearing in mind how much this man had stolen from the Abbey.

  The sight of a decomposed body was not so uncommon that it was a shock, but to see old Wally lying here was depressing. This was the man with whom he had so often enjoyed a drink, the pal with whom he had swapped jokes and stories around the fireside. Later on, Wally had become his partner in crime, the accomplice with whom he had robbed the Abbey’s guests.

  The loss of a partner was always sad, he thought to himself. Even if the thieving bastard had tried to gull him, taking a larger share of the proceeds than he should. And there was the wine, too. It was hard to forgive him that. Pinching the good Abbot’s wine was a sick joke. Even now, Augerus wasn’t sure how he’d managed it. Somehow he must have used Gerard. Jesu! But the lad was a marvel! So slim he could even wriggle through the metal bars at the Abbot’s own undercroft, with a bit of squirming. And then he had the brains to take whatever he had been told, even when he must have been terrified of being discovered.

  The acolyte was a natural, although, of course, he had needed to be broken in carefully. That Ned talked about breaking in horses gently, but he had no idea. Taking a dumb brute like a horse in hand was one thing; a boy was quite another. Augerus had been looking for a lad like him for an age.

  It hadn’t been easy to start with. The boy had been tough to persuade. In fact, the first thing Augerus had wheedled him into doing was to take a little rosary of Augerus’ own, which he had loaned Brother Mark, with the promise that it would make Mark laugh. And it did, for Augerus played a little with Mark, making a wager that he had lost it. When Mark couldn’t find it, Augerus made up a story about how Mark had dropped it from his habit, and Augerus had seen it fall and picked it up again. Easy. It allayed Mark’s concerns when Augerus refused to allow him to honour the wager, thereby convincing the salsarius that all was well, while at the same time demonstrating to Gerard that taking things could be fun.

  Next it had been a loaf of bread. That wasn’t so difficult. There were plenty of them, and one thing that could be guaranteed about acolytes was that they were always hungry. Too much food, it was thought, made a lad drowsy and ruined his concentration. It had been easy to tell Gerard that the baker had bet no one would dare to take one of his loaves, and that no one could break in through the bars over his windows. As soon as Gerard heard that, he had willingly agreed to prove him wrong.

  Then, Augerus said, the baker refused to believe that one had gone. He told the Steward that he was lying, and what could Augerus do? Obviously he must prove it beyond a doubt. So Gerard must, for a joke, steal three more loaves: one for himself, one for Augerus, and one for the baker. That would convince him. And if the baker still doubted, why, Gerard could climb in there right before his eyes!

  Gerard had thought this a great lark. He laughed delightedly when Augerus explained the cunning plan. Gerard climbed up through the window again, with Augerus, and passed the loaves to him through the bars; afterwards, he had squeezed himself out again. Chuckling quietly, he scampered back to Augerus’ chamber, giggling to himself at the thought of the baker’s face when he saw the three loaves gone.

  Except when they got back to Augerus’ room, the Steward ate a half loaf and persuaded Gerard to eat another. The acolyte balked at first, but then his hunger got the better of him and he set to. And as he finished his meal, Augerus told him the truth.

  ‘I think we’d better keep this secret between us, boy.’

  ‘Between us and the baker, you mean.’

  ‘No, between us alone. I wouldn’t want to see you thrown out of the Abbey, or dumped on the Scilly Isles, far from anyone and with only pirates in your congregation.’

  The poor dolt had stared at him as if he was mad. ‘Why should that happen to me? I’ve done nothing wrong!’

  ‘You have stolen bread from the mouths of beggars.’

  ‘But you told me to! It’s for a joke!’

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? But I forgot to let the baker in on the joke, I am afraid, so you see, you are a thief. And that will mean you’ll be punished.’

  That was the difficult moment. Augerus had done this before, and he knew that as the bait was snapped up, the fish could slip off the hook and run off. Some had done so before. They had stood up to him and stared him down, threatening to go straight to the Abbot and denounce him. To his credit, Gerard tried that, but when he did, Augerus merely laughed.

  ‘Fine, my cocky. You tell him anything you like. And I shall tell him that I caught you stealing from the baker. And that I caught you stealing my rosary from Brother Mark, but that I concealed your crime because I thought I could help you come to a state of grace. We’ll see whom it is the Abbot trusts most. An acolyte, or his favoured Steward.’

  After that it had been easy. For a share of the rewards, the boy had stolen any little trinkets he was told to. His nimble fingers and sharp wits meant that there was a steady stream of goods arriving at Augerus’ door. And as soon as they arrived, they were parcelled up and pushed out through the little window that gave onto the orchard, where Wally would collect it and convey it to Joce. Never too much, only small items, and only ever just after a large service with many people, so that it would be impossible to guess who might have been the thief. That was the way of it.

  But the little devil was gone now. And Wally was dead. Well, Augerus sighed, Wally was unreliable, had been for a while. In a way, it was a good thing he was gone.

  Augerus was out in the court now, and was about to make for Mark’s room when he saw Joce standing red-faced outside, gesticulating with a kind of restrained fury.

  He groaned inwardly. He could still feel the pressure of Joce’s hand on his throat. It was only then that the realisation hit him: Joce was supposed to be on his way to Exeter with a sackload of pewter.

  ‘God’s Blood! What the hell are you doing here still?’ he whispered as soon as they had slipped down an alley.

  ‘You bastard! You set him up to do it, didn’t you?’ Joce grated, pulling the monk towards him by his habit.

  ‘Get off me, you cretin! Who – and to do what?’

  Suddenly Augerus heard a rasp of metal and felt a point at his belly. ‘What the . . .’

  ‘Where is it? Come on – t
ell me! Wally didn’t have it. Gerard didn’t run away with it, did he? Have you got it?’

  Joce had spent an angry, bitter night. Tossing and turning, wondering where his plate was, where his servant was, he was wild-eyed and more than a little mad-looking. It was a miracle he hadn’t exploded from anger. The shits, the devious, lying, thieving bastards, whoever they were, had taken all his money. That was what the metal meant to him: money! He needed it to conceal the amount he had stolen from the town’s accounts over the last year, and it was gone. It made him want to spit with fury, or stab and slash and kill everyone who might have taken it.

  ‘Where is it?’ he demanded again through gritted teeth.

  ‘How do you know Wally and Gerard haven’t—’

  ‘If Wally had it, it’d be back here in the Abbey by now, wouldn’t it? And a boy running away carrying a large sack of pewter? He wouldn’t get far, would he? No, I think someone else must have it. And if you don’t squeak soon, you’ll be squeaking all the louder!’

  Augerus could feel that terrible point screwing one way and another, gradually grinding forwards through his habit. ‘Stop! I don’t even know what pewter you mean.’

  ‘Everything from my cupboard. It’s all gone.’

  ‘But . . .’ Augerus gaped. The sudden movement at his gut made him gabble quickly. ‘Look, I don’t have it. I couldn’t break into your room if I wanted to! Only Gerard could have done that. Your hall is locked, isn’t it? Who else could get in?’

  ‘Where has he put it, then?’

  ‘How should I know? Maybe he had an accomplice, who hid it himself?’

  Joce gasped angrily. ‘Bloody Art!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My servant. He hasn’t come home. It must have been him stole my stuff. Thieving shit! When I find him, I’ll make him eat his own tarse! I’ll hamstring him and make him crawl, the bastard! I’ll cut out his liver and eat it! I’ll—’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘What?’

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