The Devil's Acolyte aktm-13 Read online

  Simon nodded understandingly, but he failed to see where this conversation was heading. Outside, the light had faded, and he wondered how much longer the Abbot was going to talk. For his part, the ride to Tavistock, the quick return to Lydford and back, followed by the trip to Wally’s body, had made his entire body ache; the Abbot’s good red wine hadn’t helped. Simon longed to sprawl back in his seat, to close his eyes and dream of his wife, but he wasn’t fooled by his host’s affable manner. Abbot Robert was Simon’s master, when all was said and done, and if he wished to talk on, Simon must listen. He felt his eyelids grow heavy.

  ‘Bailiff, you seem tired.’

  ‘No, my Lord. I am fine. You were talking about the King?’

  ‘Yes. He wants more men, but he also wants money. I have no recruiting officers, and finding one in whom I can place any trust…’

  Simon’s heart sank. ‘Of course, my Lord Abbot. If you command me.’

  ‘No, I do not command you to take total responsibility, Simon,’ the Abbot said with a faint smile. ‘But I would ask that you assist the man sent to raise a force from the local men. I have no time for this nonsense, but if I don’t have someone there… well, you know how it is. I cannot lose all my men.’

  ‘This man is staying in the town?’

  ‘No, as soon as he got here this afternoon, I had him sent to join the other guests and fed. He is there now, I expect. If you could spend a little time with him, I should be most grateful.’

  ‘I shall help as best I may.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ the Abbot said, and toyed with his knife for a moment.

  Simon thought he looked distrait. ‘Is there another matter, my Lord Abbot?’

  ‘There is one other little affair.’ The Abbot coughed. ‘This morning, a man sleeping in the guest room with you came to me and alleged that there had been a theft from his belongings. I am investigating his accusations myself.’

  ‘You do not wish me to help?’

  ‘I think not. Not yet. If I am right, the villain should soon come to me and confess. There is little point in setting you after him. No. If someone asks you about the matter, please tell people that the pewterer has not lost anything.’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘You will not be lying. I have myself reimbursed him,’ Abbot Robert said quietly. ‘I will not allow one felon to drag the name of this Abbey through the midden. Whoever is responsible, I shall soon know, but there is no reason to have it bruited abroad that the Abbey is a hotbed of thieves and rascals. However, that is not the same as this affair of the dead miner. Surely that is much more important. You have set matters in train, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now, if you learn of any reason why someone should wish to have had Wally killed, you will of course let me know.’

  ‘Walwynus?’ It sounded peculiar to hear the Abbot using the diminutive. ‘Yes, certainly, my Lord Abbot. But I don’t know that I shall ever learn why he died. Probably it was a lone felon whom he met and who decided to kill him in case he had some money.’

  ‘Very likely. I fear that if I were personally to waste time on every stabbing or throttling that happened out in the wilds, I should never have time to go to church.’

  It was a thought which resonated with Simon as he walked to the gate-house to seek out his bed. He spent much of his life trying to soothe angry miners and prevent bloodshed, but all too often others were found stabbed or bludgeoned to death. Wally wasn’t alone.

  The night sky seemed huge, and in it Simon could see the stars, so clear and bright that he found his feet slowing as if of their own accord. Entranced by their beauty, he gazed up at them, sniffing the clean air. It was so calm, he felt his tiredness fading, and he leaned against a wall near the chapter-house, his arms folded. A dog was barking out in the town itself, the only sound he could hear. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a dark shadow creeping along the wall of the monks’ cemetery to his left, and he heard a plaintive miaow.

  It was then, as the cat sprang down, that he heard a short gasp. Looking around, he saw a slight figure in the dark robes of a Benedictine. A monk who had been startled, no doubt, he thought to himself. Monks were known to be gullible, innocent and superstitious at the best of times. It was one thing to believe in ghosts and spirits, like Simon himself, and quite another to fear a cat in the dark, he told himself with a distinct feeling of superiority. Odd, though. He’d have thought that all the monks would have been abed by now. It was rare for them to be up so late, for they all had to rise for the Mass at midnight, and not many men could survive, like the good Abbot, on only three hours of sleep each night. Most needed at least six.

  He watched the monk hurry away, over the Great Court towards the Water Gate, and only when he heard a door quietly close did he carry on his way.

  The gate-house was a large, two-storey building with good accommodation over the gateway itself. Here, in the large chamber, slept all the guests. As Simon knew, the low timber beds were comfortable, with ropes supporting the thick palliasses, and he was looking forward to climbing back between the blankets. It felt like too many hours since he had been raised by that blasted acolyte, with the news of Wally’s murder.

  Only a few of the others, Simon noted with grateful relief, snored. Walking carefully and quietly between the beds and bodies, he went to the bed in which he had slept the night before, hoping that it might be empty, but even in the dim darkness, he could sense that someone else was there. At least this was the first time so far since the coining. On other occasions when he had come to visit the Abbot, he had been forced to share almost every night. However, there were no rumbling snores or grunts from his companion, and for that he was very grateful. As he untied his hose, pulled off his shoes, and doffed his shirt and undershirt, he sniggered to himself. He had wondered whether his sleeping partner might break wind during the night, but now he realised that if either of them were likely to, it would be Simon himself after so much rich food and wine.

  With that reflection, he climbed under the blankets and lay with his arms behind his head. The other man in the bed grumbled a little in his sleep and rolled over, but Simon paid him no heed. He was wondering again about poor Wally. The dead man’s face and body sprang into his mind, and with a shiver of revulsion, he too turned over, as though he could so easily hide himself from the gaze of Wally’s ravaged eyes.

  Gerard scampered across the court. Something told him that there had been someone out there who had seen him. He was sure of it. It was probably that blasted nuisance Peter. He was there, waiting for Gerard, just like he had been the other time. God! There was no escape, not in such an enclosed place as this. It was terrible; he felt as though his every waking moment was spent in planning to get away, to become apostate. He would have to, somehow.

  Peter had caught him once before. Gerard had been about to enter the bakery, when the Almoner appeared. It was just before he’d given that talk about Milbrosa, a day or two after he warned Gerard to stop stealing, and he had stood staring at the acolyte, saying nothing, until Gerard scampered away, feeling as though everyone knew his crimes. Maybe several of them did know his crimes. Gerard knew that Reginald, an older novice, had been watching him, and Brother Mark was on to him, too; he’d threatened to tell the Abbot.

  But it was all over and done with now. Gerard had spoken to Augerus. He’d told him that he wouldn’t steal any more. Augerus could do whatever he wanted – tell the Abbot, tell the other Brothers, Gerard didn’t care. There was nothing the Steward could do which would make him feel worse. As far as Gerard was concerned, he would never steal again.

  It had been a cleverly worked out scheme, though. He could admire Augerus’ cleverness while detesting the way the older man had entrapped him in it.

  An Abbey like Tavistock always had a certain number of people taking advantage of the Abbot’s hospitality. Because of the location, near to some of the best tin mines in Europe, it was normal for several of the guests to be wealthy t
raders, pewterers or merchants, and often these men would carry plates or goblets instead of large sums of cash. They would know that they could hawk their metalwork for cash, and if need be, they could redeem their pieces later. It was easier and safer than carrying money.

  Except, of course, when Augerus learned who the wealthiest visitors were, he could easily advise Gerard, and the boy would climb in to take the choicest bits and pieces. Never too much, and never too regularly. That might lead to questions. But once in a while, whenever Wally was due to be in town, then Gerard would go on his visits and bring whatever he could find to Augerus. Augerus in his turn would pass them items on to Wally, who would take them straight to Joce. That way, even if there were a complaint, there would be no evidence in the Abbey. A simple, but effective scheme.

  Or so it had seemed until Wally died.

  The court looked empty, but the shadows thrown by the trees lining the cemetery were so dark compared with the brightness of the area lighted by the stars, that he couldn’t truly be certain. Mark, Peter, or another novice, like Reginald – the Abbot himself even – could be there, watching him now.

  Nowhere was safe.

  That thought ate its way through his brain like a worm eating through an apple. He had to gulp to prevent himself sobbing. It was too late now. His life’s course had been defined, and he must accept the consequences. At least he had now made sure of his position, he thought, as he silently sat outside the door to the church, waiting for the monks to wake so that he could file in with them as soon as Mass was called.

  Perhaps he was being foolish. It was possible that Wally had been killed by accident, or that he had been struck down by a common footpad. There wasn’t anything to suggest that it was something to do with him. Surely nobody would connect Gerard with Wally. No, it was rubbish. Anyway, no monk would be able to kill. That was just madness. Although no monk was supposed to steal, either, and Gerard had been forced to do just that – by a fellow monk. And wasn’t it said that a man who incites another to commit a criminal act is a felon, just as plainly as the man who actually carries it out?

  Gerard sniffed miserably. At first it was fun taking the loaves, but he hadn’t realised how things would escalate. And when Augerus gripped his shoulder as he dropped down from the high windowsill with the things in his hand, he had thought all was well; it was only later he realised his error. By then it was too late.

  Augerus had greater plans for him. He had no intention of telling the Abbot and losing so useful a thief.

  Brother Mark the salsarius closed his shutter and walked back to the low bed, but he wasn’t ready to sleep, having seen Gerard scuttle across the court. Instead he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the candle guttering in the gentle night breeze.

  The thought of telling the Abbot about Gerard’s thefts was unpleasant, but probably necessary. The acolyte had been stealing too many things just recently, and he could not stop because, as Mark well knew, Augerus was driving him to steal, and Augerus wanted the money to continue to flow into his coffers. It went against the grain to speak of another’s crime, and up until now Mark had not been overly bothered, but matters were getting out of control. The reputation of the Abbey could be at stake.

  Augerus was a greedy soul. Mark valued him, because the Steward was the source of a lot of useful information about the Abbot and the Abbot’s thoughts, but Mark had no doubt that, should he report Augerus and Gerard to Abbot Robert, he would soon get to know Augerus’ replacement and find him in every way as reliable as the Steward had been.

  Mark didn’t dislike Augerus. He didn’t really dislike Gerard either. The ones he did dislike were the others, men like the pewterer who had lost his plates. The fool deserved to lose them. Mark wandered to his jug and poured a good portion of wine while he considered. The pewterer had enough money to live on, but still tried to make more. It was against God’s rules, just as Mark’s life had been before he came to the Abbey.

  Just as Walwynus broke God’s rules. Mark had known about him for a while. One night he saw Augerus dangling his rope with a small sack attached and later saw Wally walking from the garden carrying what looked like the same sack. An easy transfer. Mark wondered what Augerus would do now, with no confederate to collect his stolen goods.

  Then, of course, Mark hadn’t realised it was stolen property. None of the Abbey’s guests had complained. It was only because that avaricious pewterer had gone whining to the Abbot this morning that Mark had realised what he had seen. He had found Gerard skulking about, it was true, but he hadn’t realised why the lad was there. Now it made sense. Gerard took people’s things, Augerus passed them to Wally, and he sold them on. A simple and effective chain.

  Wally had deserved punishment. Surely he had tempted Augerus and Gerard into crime. Wally deserved his fate. No doubt with Wally dead the thieving would stop. Perhaps Augerus and Gerard would see the error of their ways and beg forgiveness.

  Mark drained his wine and sat back. Yes. There was no point in running to the Abbot with stories. Better to wait and see what happened.

  Still not asleep, Simon rolled on to his back once more and lay staring at the ceiling. A lamp outside in the yard threw a pale, flickering yellow light that caught the dusty cobwebs, making them look like small wraiths against the whitewashed ceiling; he tried to lose consciousness by watching their dance, but knew it wouldn’t work. Instead he turned to face the small altar, placed there for the convenience of guests, and muttered a prayer, but that failed to bring on sleep as well.

  The room felt close, hot and humid, and his bladder was full. Swearing to himself, he got up and walked to the window, which gave on to the court. He quietly slid down the shutter and was about to relieve himself when he saw a dark figure passing over the yard. It was a monk, but even at this distance he could see that it was a different one from the man he had seen earlier. This monk was tall, if slightly stooped, just like Brother Peter the Almoner.

  Simon watched him pass from the Water Gate around the pig sties and across the court, moving silently like a great cat, slow and precise. Only when the monk had disappeared from view did he at last urinate, grunting as he shook himself dry. It was a peculiar time for a monk to be up, he thought, but then perhaps the Almoner had some special duty that he didn’t know of.

  Satisfied with his conclusion, he yawned, slid the shutter closed and plodded back to his bed.

  Chapter Six

  The rain woke Joce Blakemoor. The thatch on his roof was silent, and even in the heaviest downpour he could sleep through it, but his neighbour, a cobbler, had put a set of boxes filled with broken pots beneath his window on the day of the coining, and now the rain falling on them set up such a din that Joce could get no rest. Some people might have thought it a musical sound, but to Joce it was a cacophony; no more attractive than a chorus of tom cats.

  He rolled over and over in his bed, hauling the blankets up to his chin, pulling his pillow over his head, but nothing could drown out that incessant row. Eventually he lay with his bleared eyes open, staring at the shuttered window, waiting for the dawn.

  It was no good. He rose angrily, pulling his shirt and hose on, and selecting his third-best tunic and an old coat, for now the coining was all done and he had other work to be getting on with. First, though, he would deal with the neighbour.

  Climbing down the stairs, he saw Art, his servant, asleep on his bench by the fire, and kicked him awake. When the lad didn’t rise immediately, but lay back rubbing at his eyes, Joce tipped the bench over and the boy with it. Art’s belt lay by his clothes on the floor and Joce picked it up, lashing at the child’s back and flanks while he howled, hurrying on all fours to the wall, where he crouched, hands over his head, crying for Joce to stop.

  That at least made the Receiver feel a little better. He threw the belt at the boy and stalked from the room. There was no excuse for a servant to remain sleeping when his master was awake.

  In the hall, he selected a blackthorn club, then opened his d
oor. Outside, he stood under the deep eaves and glared at the boxes standing against his wall. Geoffrey Cobbler shouldn’t have had them left there. He’d dumped them on the day of the coining. Anger welled. His neighbour was a selfish, thoughtless bastard! But what more could you expect from a fool like Geoffrey, a newcomer from Exeter or somewhere, a blasted foreigner.

  That was why he could only afford a moiety. When Tavistock had been made into a Burgh by the then Abbot, hundreds of years ago, the land here had been split into 106 equal divisions called messuages. Half had their own gardens, and it was one of these which Joce owned; others had no garden and were divided into two moieties, one of which held the civil rights of exemption from tolls and other benefits, while the other half was ‘without liberty’. Although both paid the same rents to the Abbey, the one without liberty was naturally cheaper to buy, which was why the cobbler could afford his mean little property. He couldn’t have afforded a place like Joce’s.

  The man’s door was still barred. Joce hammered on it, waiting for an answer, and when there was nothing stirring, he beat upon the timbers with his club.

  ‘Who is it? What do you want?’ came Geoffrey’s sleepy voice.

  ‘Open this door, you shit!’ Joce roared.

  ‘I’m not opening it to someone who shouts like that at this time of the morning.’

  ‘Ye’ll open this door, or I’ll break it in!’ Joce’s temper, always short, was fanned by the recalcitrance of his neighbour. Weak, feeble-minded tarse! ‘You want to leave your garbage out here where it’ll wake your neighbours, do you? I’ll teach you to put it under my eaves, you great swollen tub of lard, you pig’s turd, you bladder of fart!’