The Devil's Acolyte aktm-13 Page 17

  ‘Could be. Let’s hope it’s all over before they’re needed.’

  ‘It is always the same, isn’t it, Master? The poor folk who are tied to the land are pulled away, while those who can afford to avoid it pay to stay safe.’

  ‘I don’t know that Sir Tristram there will be taking anybody’s money to avoid danger. I get the feeling he is serious about providing troops for the King.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ The innkeeper sank a quarter of his pot and sighed happily. ‘One of my best brews. Wonderful. I’ll never be able to duplicate it. No, Master Bailiff, I reckon that fellow out there is going to make a good profit on this recruiting. Not that it’s unfair. If the King wants him to help, he ought to be paid, that’s what I’d say. Why should a man do something for nothing? But what I meant was, what about all those bastards up on the moors? They should go as well.’

  ‘The miners are safe, you know that. They’re the King’s own.’

  ‘And a more murderous bunch of cut-throats you couldn’t hope to find,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Look at that poor devil killed up there.’

  ‘Wally? Did you know him?’

  ‘Of course. He was often here. I tend to get to know all the miners while they have money.’

  ‘Did he stay here with you?’

  ‘Oh, no. He had a comfortable lodging with friends of his – Nob and Cissy, up at the pie-shop. They were cheaper.’

  ‘Do you think he was murdered by a miner?’

  The innkeeper gave a low snigger. ‘Think it? Who else but a miner? Wally came into town for the coining. He was in here on Thursday, and stayed behind to drink for some while.’

  ‘I thought he had no money.’

  ‘He didn’t make much from his mining, no, but he never missed a coining. It was the one chance he had of meeting friends and having them buy him ale with the money they made from selling their tin to the pewterers. He always came in for a few drinks.’

  ‘With his friends, you mean?’

  ‘Usually, yes. He turned up last week during the coining with some new friend of his.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Simon asked keenly.

  ‘Foreigner. A pewterer, I think. He was here with all his family, and I think I heard someone talking about pewter and how good the man’s stuff was.’

  ‘And they were talking to Wally?’

  ‘Yes. Very matey they were, too. Came in, Wally and him, and sat in a corner. Wally had a sack with him, and they sat talking for ages. Never seen the man before, myself. Later Wally came back, and then he started throwing his weight around and buying drinks.’

  ‘So he had money?’

  ‘Yes. And not just that, he was in a happy mood. He was really content, not just cheerful from the ale. I’ve never seen him like that.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘He always had a small cloud all of his own hanging over his head, you know? Nothing was ever right. Like he had a ghost at his shoulder.’

  ‘But why should you think that a miner killed him?’

  ‘Who else would have been up there on the moors?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s near the Abbot’s Path, the track from here to Buckfast. Maybe it was a traveller.’

  ‘What, like that foreigner?’ the host mused. ‘Odd accent, he had.’

  ‘What, he came from London? The north?’

  ‘No!’ the man said scathingly. ‘When I say foreign, I bloody mean it. He wasn’t French. I’ve met some of them. Could have been from Lettow, I suppose. I knew a Teutonic Knight once. He spoke a bit like this one.’

  ‘You think he could have killed Wally?’

  ‘Doubt it. Why should he? If a foreigner wanted to rob a man, he’d pick a more likely-looking fellow. No, Bailiff, like I said, it was the miners. Who knows, perhaps Wally had actually found himself a working piece of land at last? Maybe he had sold some tin and had money in his pocket from that. It would explain why he was murdered.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Maybe.’ He would ask the Receiver whether Wally had sold any tin.

  ‘Who else could it have been – the monk?’ the publican demanded.

  ‘What monk?’

  ‘Dunno – I wasn’t there. If you want to know, speak to Emma, Hamelin’s wife. She said she saw a monk running back to the town. Why, do you reckon it could have been a Brother? Wouldn’t surprise me. The bastards are capable of anything, I reckon.’

  ‘You honestly think that a monk could be a murderer?’ Simon asked with a cynical smile.

  ‘They are men, just like any other! The only difference is, they think they have a direct call to God when they’ve misbehaved, and get special treatment from Him. Me, I see them here all the time. Even the Abbot’s own Steward. He was here a few days ago with their fat wine-keeper whatever he’s called. Drunk as Bishops, the pair of ’em. I was surprised they could get out into the road, let alone get home. I sent one of my lads with them to make sure that they were all right in the end. If they’d come to grief, I’d never have heard the last of it!’

  ‘Do the monks often come down here?’

  ‘When the Abbot’s away, yes. Not usually.’

  Simon swallowed the remains of his ale. It was likely a miner who had killed Wally, but he supposed that it would be just as easy for another man to manufacture a club.

  Even a monk.

  It was quiet in the dorter when Gerard poked his head around the door, but as he walked inside, one of the other novices, a tall, well-made boy called Reginald, came pattering up the stairs and walked in after him, a determined expression on his face.

  Gerard made a point of paying no heed, but instead walked through to the reredorter behind, and sat on the plank over the drop. Down below was a stone vault which was washed by a stream, removing the odours while leaving the valuable faeces behind so that they could be collected and spread over the fields. They were essential for the crops, but the stench was appalling in the summer, when the faeces gathered and the stream shrank.

  Not that the smell affected him today. No, it was the realisation that the others knew it was him.

  They knew he had stolen. He was sure of it. That was why Reginald was in the dorter: they’d guessed that Gerard was the thief and had set a boy to watch him. They wouldn’t leave him alone in their rooms. None of them was supposed to possess anything, for they were committed to poverty and must give up all their possessions on entering the Abbey, but that didn’t prevent a few from keeping trinkets and other oddments. Gerard knew that one of the boys had a small jewel with a chain which his mother had given him, and another had something hidden in a box, but he’d never been able to see what was inside it. The last time he had seen the boy looking inside the box, he had carefully moved it so that his back hid the contents from Gerard.

  But he hadn’t troubled his fellow acolytes. Only strangers! And no one had actually seen him. He was sure of that much. Maybe it was just that Reginald alone suspected him. Or more likely Reginald doubted all of them and thought it worthwhile to watch over his own little store – whatever might be there.

  He stood and cleaned himself, washed his hands and slowly made his way back to the dorter. Reginald was sitting on his bed, and met his casual glance with a blank expression. There was no friendship in his look, only utter indifference. The complete lack of any emotion in his face was enough to convince Gerard that there could be no safety or peace for him in the Abbey now. He and Reginald had never been friends, but the other boy’s attitude proved, if proof were needed, that Gerard’s secret was known.

  Walking past him with his head held high, Gerard averted his gaze, but before he could get to the door, he felt Reginald grab his habit. The larger boy tugged him backwards by the shoulder, kicked his legs away and hauled him over to fall on his back.

  Gerard felt his head strike the corner of the nearest bed, and the jolt snapped his teeth together with a crunch that made him feel sick and faint. There was a rushing in his ears that sounded like the River Tavy in spate, and it was only with difficulty that he cou
ld hear Reginald speaking quietly.

  When he was done, an angry Sir Tristram dismissed the men, giving them a penny each and telling them to return the next day. Once he had viewed the remainder of the Abbot’s men, he would take the whole force and they would begin the march northwards. As the peasants filed from the yard, he turned and bellowed to the innkeeper for ale, before turning hard, cold eyes on to Simon.

  ‘You are sure that the Abbot didn’t intend this to happen?’

  ‘What?’ Simon asked innocently.

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Bailiff,’ Sir Tristram grated. ‘I have seen how men avoid losing their serfs before now. They leave the strong and hale men in the fields and send only the broken-winded, lame and stupid to the Arrayer.’

  ‘I am sure that the good Abbot would be shocked to think that you could suspect such a thing. He would not break the law or try to hamper the King’s plans.’

  ‘Really? Then he must be unique amongst Abbots. He’s like every other landlord. So long as his harvest is in, he doesn’t care what happens in the north of the realm. It is men like him who conspire to see the Scottish destroy the whole land.’

  ‘You surely don’t suggest Abbot Robert is guilty of–’

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Bailiff. I can say what I want, and I say here and now that I do not believe the Abbot’s healthiest men were sent to me from that vill. My commission gives me the duty to select the best and fittest from all the men of sixteen to sixty, and take them to the King.’

  ‘Are you from the north yourself?’

  ‘I wasn’t born in Scotland, if that’s what you mean, no. But I have lands near Berwick which the last King, bless his memory, gave to my father for his efforts in pacifying the land during the old King’s wars. My father helped bring the Stone of Scone to King Edward I, and it was for that service that the King gave him his own manors up there and the duty to protect the border, not that he could. The Scottish raided while my father was away and razed our house to the ground. Bastards! All they know is robbery and murder. They sweep over that border with impunity and devastate all the north, even down to York sometimes, and there is nothing we can do. They avoid our armies because they know they would lose in a fair fight. They are rebels and cowards.’

  ‘So now our King will invade again?’

  ‘We have to punish their crimes. Their whole life is based upon theft. They come into England to steal our cattle and horses, and then return, burning and slaughtering unnecessarily. They destroy the livelihoods of peaceful English farmers to their own profit. They are a cursed race, forever warring.’

  ‘And you will lead men from here in Devonshire to make war on them,’ Simon said, once more considering what the innkeeper had said. The Almoner Peter was from the north, he remembered. From interest, he asked, ‘Is it true that the Scots make war upon monasteries and nunneries?’

  ‘Aye, true enough. Those sacrilegious sons of the devil rape nuns, slaughter monks and rob any churches they come across. I tell you, they are the devil’s own spawn.’

  ‘Well, there are felons aplenty even here in Devonshire who would dare to steal the plate from a church at need,’ Simon said calmly.

  ‘Christ Jesus! Even here?’

  ‘There is a monk here who was attacked and left for dead up in the north.’ It was some months since Simon had last spoken to Brother Peter, and now he had to rack his brain to recall where he came from. ‘Up near the border, I recall. Or was he near the coast? Ah, yes, Tynemouth. He was of the Priory there.’

  ‘I know the area,’ Sir Tristram said and spat. ‘You know the worst problem with them? Those sodomites were the friends of the Scots! They cosseted wounded Scottish and parleyed with the Scottish King! Cowards and traitors the lot of them! If there’s one of that immoral congregation here, keep the arse away from me, or I may throttle the life from the shit!’

  Chapter Twelve

  The rest of the day was quiet for Simon. He preferred to avoid the Arrayer, finding peace in solitude. After taking a little lunch, he rode up to the site of the body with his servant, but when he and Hugh arrived, they found that Hal had gone and in his place was a new watchman. Still, it was with relief that Simon saw that the corpse was not being further destroyed by rats or dogs.

  However, he and Hugh were glad to get away from the place. The stench of putrefaction seemed to reach into Simon’s nostrils and lie there, as though it had made his own sinus rot by contact. As he inhaled, he knew that the odour would remain with him for days. It was like pork that had been left out too long: sweet, but unbearably repellent.

  Hugh clearly agreed. His face registered his disgust, and he refused to approach the corpse, remaining on his horse, glaring about him as though daring a felon to try to attack him in the same way that Wally had been.

  Simon could fully understand Hugh’s reluctance. He dropped from his horse, trying to breathe through his mouth and not his nose, but it didn’t help. He stood a few yards away from the body, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn down, and as soon as he was satisfied that nothing had been stolen or altered, he turned away.

  By chance his glance fell on the place where the club had fallen, and he walked to the spot with a frown growing on his features. ‘Where’s the club that was here?’ he said, pointing.

  ‘Don’t know. Weren’t nothing there when I came ’ere.’ The miner was a burly, short, grizzled man with an immense curling beard. He stood with his thumbs in his belt and stared blankly at Simon’s pointing finger. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘There was a morning star there. Home-made, just a lump of timber with a load of nails hammered into it. It’s what killed Wally. Wasn’t it here when you arrived?’

  ‘No. Nothing there what I saw. And I haven’t slept, Bailiff.’

  ‘Shit!’ Simon turned away and walked to his horse, his mind whirling. If this man hadn’t taken it… He span on his heel. ‘Who was here when you arrived?’

  ‘Hal. No one else.’

  ‘Good. Come, Hugh,’ Simon said, mounting his horse. He considered riding out to see Hal now, but a quick look up at the sky persuaded him against it. Hal was only a short distance away, but Simon didn’t know the safe route. To get to him would mean walking around the great bog, going far out of his way, and then it would soon be dusk. No, he must see Hal later, and demand to know what he had done with the club – and why.

  The thin grey dusk had already given way to a clear, cloudless night, with stars shining bright in a purple sky. Having partaken of a loaf of bread and some pottage, he and Hugh sat back in the little chamber that stood at the ground floor of the Great Court’s gate and drank from their jugs of ale.

  From there, Simon could peer through the doorway to the court itself, and see when Sir Tristram was likely to appear. As soon as the knight did so, Simon planned to leave. He would say that he had to go and talk to a man who had been seen up on the moor when Wally died, or perhaps that the Abbot needed to talk to him – or just that he felt sick and was going to spew. Anything to keep away from Sir Tristram.

  If only Hal was here, he thought. He would have liked a chance to talk to him about the disappearance of that morning star. It made no sense for Hal to have taken the thing, unless he thought that somehow it was incriminating and wanted to protect the real killer. Perhaps even protect himself.

  Except Simon knew it made no sense. The nails could have been made by any one of a number of smiths in Dartmoor. Simon had seen them making their nails, setting a red-hot bolt of iron into the spike-shaped metal formers and beating it until it was pushed into the mould, the head gradually rounding over. It was easy work, if dull and repetitive. Similarly the wood of the club itself would give no sign where it had come from. There was no point, no point at all, in taking the thing away. All it could do was indicate that a miner was involved, but the fact that Wally had died up on the moors tended to suggest that anyway.

  He was considering this for the thousandth time when he glanced through the door and observed a monk
walking slowly, with bent head, along from the main gate and across the court. When the figure turned, Simon saw the flash of the scar shining in the torchlight. He left Hugh and walked outside.

  ‘Brother Peter, may I speak to you for a while?’ he called.

  ‘To me, Bailiff? Aye, if ye’re sure ye can cope with the ranting and ravening of a mad northerner,’ Peter said in his thickest dialect.

  ‘Do you often find people saying they can’t understand you?’ Simon smiled.

  ‘Aye. And usually it’s the most uncommunicative and intractable shepherds or farmers who accuse me of being hard to listen to,’ Peter snorted. ‘Well, never mind.’

  ‘No. Don’t fear, though. I’ve lived in Devonshire all my life, and if I go and listen to moormen talking, I still can’t understand a word they say. It’s too broad for me.’

  ‘Aye, but you’re a foreigner like me, aren’t ye? You come from at least two miles outside the moors.’

  ‘True enough,’ Simon said with a chuckle.

  The monk was in an apparently contemplative mood. He walked slowly, and although he gave his lopsided smile in response to Simon’s comments, he said no more. The Bailiff had the impression that he was waiting for him to speak.

  Now that he was here, Simon wasn’t sure how to continue. He wanted to warn the older man to beware of Sir Tristram, that the knight might lose his temper if he knew about Peter, but Simon’s diplomatic skills were not up to telling a man whose face proved how terrible his time up in the north had been, that someone else wanted to hit him, especially since Sir Tristram’s reason was in order to punish Peter for collaborating with the very men who had given him such a grievous wound.

  ‘You appear ill-at-ease, my friend,’ Peter said softly.

  ‘It’s Sir Tristram,’ Simon blurted out.

  ‘Aye. He’s a hard man, Sir Tristram,’ Peter said mildly.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I know him well, but I’ve seen him a few times. He’s a tough warrior, always out on the warpath. As soon as there was ever a hint that the Scots were at the border, Sir Tristram would take up his sword and lance and ride with his men. I don’t think I could count the number of lives that man has ended.’