It was that fact which had annoyed Simon so grievously about the affair with the coining hammer, because he had never knowingly let the abbot down before; He had always made sure that the abbot’s work was done, no matter what, and up until this year, he had been efficient and capable. The mines worked well, the law was generally observed, and Abbot Robert had little cause for complaint. Simon was sure of it.
While the abbot spoke to one of his servants at the end of the meal, Simon’s mind wandered.
This year, things had gone wrong: he couldn’t deny it. First there was the fiasco of the tournament at Oakhampton, which was a terrible embarrassment to Simon personally; then the hideous murders at Sticklepath. Somehow they had laid a gloom over the bailiff’s usually cheerful demeanour. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the problems he had encountered, and was more to do with the way things were at home.
Edith, his daughter, had been his most prized companion, maybe even above his wife herself, and now he was losing her. Just as Meg had said so often, she was growing, and with her slim good looks, she was attracting all the boys like bees about a honeypot. The difficulty was, Simon wasn’t ready to let her go. He adored her, and seeing the unchivalrous, over, sexed local youths pawing at her or doting upon her every word brought out the heavy father in him. Simon wanted to demand who their fathers were, how much land did they own, how much was it worth annually, and what were the lads’ prospects… He had actually tried to do that once, but Meg had skilfully distracted him and led him from the room. As she later said to him, it was bad enough for Edith trying to mix with boys of her own age and class with her father scowling in the corner of the room like an ogre from the moors, without him interrogating them like the bailiff he was.
They still had little Peterkin, of course. Their son was a continual source of pride and pleasure to him, but somehow Simon already knew that his son would be the favourite of his wife. It was his daughter who had been his own especial friend. Astonishing, he thought now, how good wine could make a man see his troubles so clearly.
Glancing up, he saw that the last of the food was gone from the table, and only the dishes remained to be cleared. Thinking that their meeting was over, he thanked the abbot and prepared to stand and make his way to the guest’s lodgings over the Court Gate, but the abbot motioned to Simon to remain in his seat a while longer. He said nothing while the trenchers and plate were being collected by his two servants, but when they were gone, he leaned forward and beckoned to his steward to pour them more wine.
‘Bailiff, you appear less than comfortable. Have you received bad news? Is that why you forgot the hammer?’
Simon smiled thinly. ‘It is nothing so important as to merit the title of news, my Lord. No, it is merely the ordinary trials of a father. I apologise for having allowed my domestic affairs to affect the coining.’
‘I trust it will not last a great while.’
Simon gave a rueful shrug. ‘I trust not,’ he said, thinking that no matter what he wished, his daughter must soon find herself a lover and husband.
‘I am glad. I almost mentioned this to you before, but I admit that I was annoyed after that hammer nonsense. No, not because of you alone,’ the abbot added, holding up a hand to stem Simon’s expostulations. ‘I had an inkling of something being wrong here in the abbey, and then there was the stolen wine… You can imagine my feelings to then hear that my most respected bailiff had made such a foolish error.’
‘I can understand,’ Simon said. He felt deflated. The meal and wine had persuaded him that the affair was over and done with, but the abbot’s words indicated that it was not yet forgotten.
Abbot Robert was toying with his goblet now. ‘And now there is this poor fellow on the moors: Walwynus. His corpse is guarded?’
‘I left the miner Hal Raddych up there. When the coroner arrives, we can investigate more fully.’
‘Of course. Who could wish to kill a poor fellow like him? It seems insane.’
‘There are madmen about,’ Simon said.
‘Yes, but one hardly expects to meet them here. Do you think that this was a random attack from an outlaw? Someone who knocked him down just to filch his purse?’
‘It is very hard to say, my Lord Abbot. But I shall enquire as I may, see if I can dig up something for the coroner to use. When should he arrive?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Tomorrow or the day after, I hope.’
Tuesday or Wednesday, Simon noted. He sighed. ‘I only wish Baldwin were here.’
‘Yes. He is a man of excellent judgement.’
Simon nodded, burped gently, and sipped at his wine. ‘Baldwin is a good man to have at your side in an enquiry. He’s so used to running his own courts as Keeper of the King’s Peace that questioning people is second nature to him.’
‘He has many duties,’ the abbot murmured. ‘The duties and responsibilities of an abbot are equally onerous: varied and always increasing. We are now to be asked to help the King again. His Host is marching to Scotland, I hear.’
‘I had thought that they would have crossed the border by now.’
‘Perhaps they have. The King is up in the north, I understand.’ The abbot smiled humourlessly. ‘He wishes money for his bastard, Adam. The lad is to be blooded in Scotland, so we must all pay the King taxes so that he can afford to buy a horse and new armour for his whelp, I suppose.’
His tone was bitter. Simon knew that Abbot Robert resented having to send more of his hard-earned money to support the King in one of his campaigns.
‘Every time he calls on his Host he expects us to pay our fee,’ the abbot continued. ‘This abbey once had to support fifteen knights, but now we commute that service with scutage, we have to pay for sixteen. Not only that: his sister is to marry, and he wants a subsidy from me to help pay for her wedding! When the King decided to march against Thomas of Lancaster earlier this year, he demanded that I should act as his recruitment officer. Now a man has arrived telling me I must do so again, and find men for him at the same time as paying a fine because I, as an abbot, tend not to maintain knights here in the cloister. Pah! He wanted me to provide him with money to hire mere mercenaries, knaves and churls who will fight for any man if the money is right, against every element of Christ’s teaching, and at the same time he demands my best, healthiest, strongest peasants to fill his army: no matter that he denudes my fields of the men I need during the harvest. My God! Save me from bellicose monarchs!’
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 gatehouse 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 gatehouse 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 traders, 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 those 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 the
m 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.
The Devil's Acolyte Page 9
