The Devil's Acolyte

by Michael Jecks

  The abbot wasn’t alone. As Simon approached, another monk stepped forward, a tall shape who stood with his head bent. As soon as he spoke Simon recognised the curious wheezing tones of Brother Peter. No other monk at Tavistock had such an obvious speech impediment.

  ‘My Lord Abbot, perhaps there was simply a mistake? Isn’t it possible that the wrong barrel was broached before, and now it is clearly empty when it should be full because your own steward served you from the wrong barrel?’

  In answer the abbot jerked his head at an anxious-looking clerk. ‘Well, Augerus?’

  The abbot’s steward was a pale-skinned man with deep-set blue eyes in a long, fleshy face and a nose which had been broken and only badly mended. He had a thick, bushy beard, but his upper lip was clean-shaven. A foolish-looking fashion, to Simon’s mind.

  ‘No, my Lord Abbot,’ he answered. ‘I wouldn’t have touched this barrel. I know which I am supposed to open, and you yourself told me that this was a special one, not to be broached until Bishop Stapledon came to see you.’

  ‘Quite right!’

  ‘When would this wine have been taken?’ Simon asked.

  ‘When do you think? You remember I told you I was only recently returned from seeing my brother abbot in Buckfast? It is an arduous journey, not one to be undertaken lightly. I only ever go there when there is a good reason, and I do not hurry to return.’ A glimmer of a smile softened his features for a moment. ‘The hospitality is good, and my Lord Abbot has a good pack of raches.’

  ‘Did you realise it had been stolen as soon as you returned?’ Simon enquired.

  ‘No. My steward has only now discovered that an entire barrel has been emptied behind his back,’ the abbot said heavily.

  ‘I see. And when did you last check this barrel, Augerus?’

  ‘When the abbot was away. Since his return I’ve been too busy, what with restocking and seeing to my Lord Abbot’s needs.’

  There was an almost frantic eagerness in the man to persuade Simon of his innocence, and the bailiff was inclined to believe him – especially since there was no sign of a break-in.

  ‘Well,’ Simon said, crouching at the barrel, ‘it’s definitely been broached, and there’s little left. From the puddle on the floor, I’d say they used a plug, not a tap. If you open a barrel by knocking in a tap to force the bung out, often you’ll get no waste. Then as you turn the tap, you may get some drips, but look at this lot!’ He waved his hand at the damp stain on the stone flags. In the cool, still air, little had evaporated. There was no way of telling how long ago the wine had leaked.

  ‘Whereas if you shove a bucket beneath and push the bung out, only stopping the flow by pushing a plug into the hole, you always lose a great deal,’ the abbot acknowledged caustically. ‘I think I was aware of that, Bailiff. So what does that prove?’

  ‘That your steward is innocent. He wouldn’t be so crass as to waste this much wine; he’d have used a tap.’ Simon saw Augerus throw him a grateful look.

  ‘I see your point,’ the abbot grunted.

  ‘Can you suggest someone else who might have done this terrible thing?’ Brother Peter asked. There was a strange note in his voice and Simon eyed him a moment before answering.

  Peter’s dreadful wound seemed to shine in the gloomy light of the undercroft, and not for the first time in die years since Simon had first met him, he thought that a wound like that would have killed anyone else. The pain and horror of such a shocking blow would have finished them off, or the wound would have got infected. Peter was very lucky to be alive, Simon thought – or exceptionally unfortunate, forced to go through life with a blemish that made him repellent to men and women alike.

  It was especially tragic, because he looked as though he had been a handsome fellow once – tall, strong-looking, with those square features and a high brow. Not now. He had adopted some odd little mannerisms too, Simon considered, such as talking with a hand near his face as though to conceal the wound, and his habit of turning his face slightly, so that it was away from those to whom he spoke.

  Simon wondered whether he would want to live with a hideous mark like that ravaging his features. He concluded that he would have preferred death.

  ‘I am suggesting no one,’ he said finally. ‘I wasn’t here.’

  ‘It must have been someone from the town,’ Peter said briskly. ‘No monk would dare – or bother. We all receive our daily allowance, after all.’

  The abbot was gazing down at the barrel. ‘Whoever it is, I will pray for him that he should give up his career of felony. Perhaps he will come to me and confess his theft, and if he does, I shall pray with him.’

  And issue a highly embarrassing and shaming penance, Simon added to himself. He liked Abbot Robert, and respected him, but he knew that the abbot would look harshly upon anyone who could dare to steal his favourite wine. It would rank as foully as stealing his best mount or rache in the Abbot’s mind.

  ‘Bailiff, come with me. Peter, please arrange for this mess to be cleared. At once!’

  ‘Yes, my Lord Abbot.’

  The abbot swept from the room, his habit rustling the leaves and twigs along the floor. Simon and Hugh hurried after him.

  ‘So, Bailiff. The coining is proceeding apace, I trust?’

  ‘It was when you called me.’

  ‘My apologies for dragging you away,’ the abbot said drily. ‘I am sure you would have wished to remain to observe such a thrilling sight.’

  Simon said nothing. It was very rare for him to hear the abbot sounding so… so petulant.

  His master stopped and looked about him, then he motioned to Hugh to leave them and crooked a finger to beckon Simon to his side. They were alone in the space before his lodgings, and no one could overhear the abbot’s words. ‘Bailiff, I apologise for asking you here. It is important that you tell no one outside the abbey what you saw in there. You understand me?’

  ‘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 th
at 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 from 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 ease 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.