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 door. 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!’
There was a crowd of people near him now, all trying to watch while avoiding the worst of the rain, and he gestured with his club at the door. ‘This bastard son of a half-witted Winchester sow has no consideration. Listen to that! How could anyone sleep with a racket like that? This cretin should clear up his junk. Let him take it down to the midden, rather than leaving it here to irritate his neighbours.’
‘It’s not my fault.’ Geoffrey’s voice came as though disembodied. ‘I never put it there. Someone else did.’
‘You say it’s not your rubbish, you lying son of a fox?’ Joce roared.
‘It’s my stuff, but I never put it there. I left it by my door, but I’ll get it cleared up as soon as I have time.’
‘Come out here and do it now, you…’
Others in the crowd had heard enough. Two men exchanged a glance, and then went to Joce’s side. Under the, terms of the Frankpledge, every man had a responsibility to keep the peace, both by their own behaviour, but also in preventing others from breaking the peace. If they didn’t, the whole community could be fined.
‘Come on, Master Blakemoor. Put up your club and return to your house.’
‘Keep your hands off me! I want that bastard out here, and I’ll beat his head in.’
‘I’m not coming out. I’m not!’
Joce gave a harsh snarl of rage. Exhausted, his eyes felt raw, his head light and dizzy, his belly queasy, and it was all because of this bastard. Leaping forward, brandishing his blackthorn, he swung it with all his strength at the door, and the wood cracked with an ominous splintering. Before he could swing a second time, the club was grabbed and wrenched from his fist, and he turned to find himself confronted by five men, all of whom watched him with stern expressions.
‘Leave him alone, Blakemoor. You may not like him, but he’s not doing any harm. What’
s got into you?’
‘Hark at that racket! Could you sleep through that?’ Joce snarled.
‘It didn’t wake me,’ said Andrew, who lived opposite Joce. ‘You did, by all this shouting.’
‘Oh, well, I am sorry!’ the receiver sneered.
‘If Geoffrey moves all this stuff today, will you be content?’ asked Andrew.
‘I want him out here now!’
‘You’ll only fight him and break the peace. We won’t have that, Joce.’
‘Get him out here!’
Andrew studied him. He was a big man, the sort who’ looked as though he would move only slowly, but although his mind tended not to race too speedily, his body was capable of surprising bursts of energy. His dark eyes were calm, rather than stupid, and now he nodded towards a man at Joce’s side. ‘We can ask him out, and you and he can make it up. I won’t have you fighting.’
‘I’ll do as I want,’ Joce said.
‘You’ll do as you’re told, unless you want to appear in the abbot’s court, you fool,’ Andrew said firmly.
After promises of his safety, Geoffrey’s nervous features appeared around the side of the door. He was profusely apologetic, insisting that he’d had no idea that the mess outside the building would upset his neighbour, swearing that he would have it all moved later than day, and with all the folks about him, Joce allowed his hand to be taken while both agreed, Joce grudgingly, to keep the peace.
That done, Joce spat at the ground and jerked his arms free of the neighbours who had held him back, biting his thumb at Geoffrey’s door, and stomping back to his own house. His servant, Art, stood in the doorway, watching nervously. When Joce walked through to his hall and sat in his chair, Art scurried in and shed tinder and twigs on the fire, then began to blow, teasing a spark into flame.
Joce knew it wasn’t like him to fly off the handle like that. Usually he could keep his temper under control, at least while he was in public, but today he felt as though there was a band about his forehead, tightening. The pressure was building in him, and it demanded release.
He tapped his foot on the floor. There was the trouble with Sara to begin with. That useless blubbering bitch couldn’t accept that their thing was over. She’d believed his declaration of love.
The poor slut had thought she’d be able to talk him into marrying her in exchange for sex – well, she’d learned her mistake there, aye. What did she take him for – some starry-eyed youth with his brain in his tarse? Well, he wasn’t. He was Joce Blakemoor, and he took what he wanted when he wanted. She’d tried to blackmail him, saying that she was pregnant, that she’d tell the whole town he was the father, and he had laughed. That was at the coining. The stupid wench. As if her threats could harm him!
And then that cretin Wally had tried to scare him off as well, the fool, on the morning after the coining. Joce had seen him first thing, in the street near Joce’s house, and had nodded to him as he would any other fellow. Wally had looked away, as though ashamed to be acknowledged by him, but then he looked like he took his courage in both hands, and beckoned Joce into an alley. Joce had thought he had some more pewter or something, but no, the son of a donkey just wanted to persuade Joce to leave Sara alone. Wally said he was playing with her affections.
It took that long for Joce’s anger to rise. He took Wally by the throat and pounded him. Ah, but it had felt good! He slammed Wally’s head against the stones of the wall, then thumped him about the face and breast.
‘Don’t tell me whom I may see, you bastard! I was your master once, and if you are disloyal to me, I’ll kill you. Remember that!’
There were other matters to concern him now, though. The whole town was buzzing with stories about Wally’s death. He was gone, and no bad thing. Joce had noticed his glances at the coining. He suspected. Fine, but that meant Joce must find a new courier from the abbey. He daren’t stop his trade with Augerus, because he had a large shortfall in the burgh’s accounts to make up. The money he had taken, he had also spent, and now he must acquire more in order to refill the burgh’s coffers. Somehow he would have to contact Augerus. Perhaps he could go and collect the stuff himself, rather than employing someone else again.
Art had persuaded the fire to catch, and the pieces of wood crackled merrily. Over them he set one or two charred logs from the previous night and hurried off to fetch the griddle.
Joce watched him go with a sour expression twisting his features. He wanted a reason to be able to explode, but Art was giving him no excuse. In fact, Joce was more angry with himself than Art. His rush over to shout at Geoffrey’s door was insane; what’s more, it was unnecessary. He could see that now. Stupid. Much more sensible to wait until later, when Geoffrey was already up and about, and waylay him, beat the little shit half to death without his ever realising who it was, or why. Getting so enraged for no reason was ridiculous. He should never have allowed his neighbours to see him lose control. It was the lack of sleep, surely.
Art came back with more wood then set the griddle over the flames. While he worked, Joce watched him silently. And he saw Art’s eyes go to his cupboard.
‘Fetch my food, boy!’
Instantly Art rose and darted out to the pantry, returning with a tray on which he had set out a loaf, a jug with a drinking bowl, and some pieces of meat. Joce waited until the lad had put them all on the table, and then clenched his fist and slammed it into Art’s belly. He could hear the breath woosh from his lungs, saw the lad’s eyes pop wide, his mouth gape, his back curve over. Dispassionately, Joce observed his servant collapse to the floor, one arm reaching out to the table’s edge, clinging on, while he retched and coughed, desperately trying to suck in some air while his face reddened and his whole body shivered.
‘I am going out to get some real food, you useless cat’s turd. When I come back, I want this place clean.’ Joce kicked hard, once, and the lad crashed down, a hand clenching and releasing among the reeds and dirt that lay scattered all over. As he vomited, Joce smiled to himself. ‘And don’t stare at my sideboard like that, boy. If I ever find you’ve been inside it, I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to the cats. Understand me?’
Leaving his house, the smile remained fixed to his face. It was still there as he entered the little pie-shop. He felt much better for having punched someone. Violence was an effective balm for soothing the soul, he always found.
* * *
As Joce had begun thundering on his neighbour’s door, Gerard was leaving the church with the other members of the choir. While the monks went to the great octagonal chapterhouse to discuss abbey business, he walked to the bakery to collect the bread. As a mere acolyte, Gerard wasn’t permitted to witness the deliberations of the monks.
All the monks supported the poor of the burgh. The lepers at the Maudlin were given tuppence each as their weekly pension, and there were generous donations of all the abbey’s used clothes and shoes, as well as the excess food which was doled out to the poor at the gate, but also the Abbey distributed fresh bread, generally to the families of the monks and novices, and today it was Gerard’s turn to collect the food.
The bakery was a little building at the wall by the river, not far from the Water Gate, and Gerard scuffed his feet in the yard’s dirt, thinking over his problem as he walked towards it.
Peter the Almoner was at the bakery, and called to Gerard. His voice startled the acolyte and he glanced behind him, considering flight, but then realised that there were far too many people around for Peter to think of hurting him.
The monk gave him a twisted smile. ‘You don’t want to talk to an older man like me? Aye, and I suppose I wouldn’t either when I was your age, lad. No, there are too many other things to interest a young fellow like you, aren’t there?’
‘I am here to collect the bread, Brother.’
‘Then you can help me to take the loaves around to the needy, can’t you?’
‘I thought Brother—’
‘Aye, well, Brother Edward and I have agreed t
o change our duties. He wasn’t feeling very well, so he has gone to sit and pray and I shall take the bread with you. Why, you don’t mind me helping, do you?’
Giving an ungracious grunt of assent, Gerard picked up the basket full of loaves which the baker’s assistant had set before him, and followed the Almoner out through the main gate to where the beggars waited.
It was odd to watch the old man, Gerard thought. All the beggars could see him, apart from Blind Ban, of course, and, they all flinched whenever he turned to them, avoiding his hideously wrecked features with that terrible scar. In fact, Gerard thought Peter looked as though he should be out here, living among the beggars, rather than being a monk inside. Somehow he looked too damaged to be one of God’s own Chosen.
As the motley flock of poor folk dispersed with their bounty gripped tightly in their filthy fists, Peter glanced at him. ‘Better get the rest of the loaves to the Maudlin, then, lad.’
‘Yes.’
Peter shot the acolyte a look as they bent their way towards the Hospital of St Mary Magdalene which lay out at the westernmost point of the borough; the leper hospital. The almoner was rector of the hospital, just another of the duties which fell to Peter.
‘It must be terrible to be a leper, to be declared legally dead,’ he said after a few moments, considering their plight. The poor Souls had little enough to occupy their minds other than the slow disintegration and death which awaited them.
‘Yes, Brother,’ Gerard said.
‘They lose all family, all property. Their wills are enforced as though they were dead. I suppose an outlaw loses all as well, but at least a felon can run to another land and create a new life. A leper is unwelcome anywhere else. He must stay in his parish, where he knows he should receive a pension and food.’
The Devil's Acolyte Page 10
