The Devil's Acolyte

by Michael Jecks

  Seeing Augerus, Mark smiled broadly and waved him over.

  ‘Aha! The Lord Abbot’s steward is in need of a little refreshment, is he?’ he chuckled richly, and led the way into his domain. ‘Try some of this,’ he said, turning the tap on a barrel and filling a little jug. ‘It only came in yesterday.’

  ‘It’s good.’ Augerus smiled, smacking his lips appreciatively, pulling a stool from beneath the table and sitting.

  This was an irregular morning routine for both. They tried to meet up each day, but only occasionally could they manage it. Mark was always having to rush off to supervise the salting of slabs of beef and pork at this time of year, ordering younger monks and novices about as the slaughtermen did their work, and often Augeras was held up as the abbot demanded more paper, or reeds, or inks.

  The two were friends, each respecting the other’s value in the currency that really mattered in the monastery: information.

  That was the hook which had formed their relationship early on, and although Augerus knew that Mark thought himself more religious, he also knew that Mark respected him as a source of prime information about the abbot’s thinking. That mutual trust was important to both. That was why they were wont to drink together when they had a chance. The last time had been only a few days before the coining.

  Ha! Augerus could vaguely recall their meandering route back to the abbey after so much wine; they had drunk enough to sink a ship. In fact, it was a miracle that they had managed to find their way back. For Augerus’ part, he had collapsed straight onto his bed after a few more jugs of wine with Mark.

  It was the odd thing about Mark. He had the ability to consume vast quantities of wine without any apparent ill-effects. Now Augerus, next morning, felt as if someone had battered his body with a club, and his insides were all in a turmoil. He couldn’t eat anything; when he looked at a cup of wine he threw up, and the only thing which began to stay down towards the end of the day was a little water. Mark, on the other hand, had drank more than Augeras, yet only suffered a mild headache. There was no justice in the world, Augeras reckoned.

  Mind, Mark had had more practice. His red features and swollen nose bore testament to his regular consumption, testing make sure all was well with his wines. He took his job seriously.

  Now he was fixing Augerus with a serious glance. ‘I don’t like the look of Gerard,’ he said abruptly. ‘He looks like a boy with troubles on his mind.’

  There was no need to say more. Both men knew that the only troubles which mattered in the abbey were the thefts of the abbot’s wine and the disappearance of the pewterer’s plates.

  ‘I shouldn’t think he would dare to steal from guests,’ Augerus said.

  Mark sniffed. ‘Talk of the devil.’ He waved a hand to attract the steward’s attention.

  Leaning forward to peer through the door, Augerus saw Gerard himself re-entering the court. The novice glanced about him, throwing an anxious look towards the abbey church.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Mark said excitedly. ‘Did you? That lad is guilty, I’ll bet you a barrel of Gascon wine. Look at him! He’s definitely done something wrong. I have seen guilty novices before now, but never one who looked as depressed as him.’

  ‘I am more intrigued by the stories about the others.’

  ‘Which others?’

  ‘Come, Mark! You must have heard the tale about the travellers on the moor? There is a party of foreigners out there, apparently.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But even if they did kill that miner…’

  ‘Wally.’

  ‘…Walwynus, yes – even if they did murder him, what on earth could they have had to do with the theft from the abbey’s guests?’

  Augerus smiled at the comment. In a way, it perfectly summed up Mark’s view on the world. A murder out on the moors might as well have been committed in Scotland, for all the relevance it had to him. No, much more important was the embarrassment of thefts from those enjoying the abbot’s hospitality. ‘You recall Milbrosa?’

  ‘That old nonsense? Who doesn’t remember it. But you can’t honestly believe that there’s any parallel?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Augerus said. His attention had returned to the boy crossing the yard. ‘But the similarity seems curious, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Only superficially,’ Mark said definitely. ‘Nothing more than that. I don’t believe half of the story of the mad monks and the devil. No, I think that the good Abbot of Buckfast was correct when he said that the monks fell into a mire and drowned.’

  ‘Don’t you believe in the devil?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Mark and crossed himself. ‘But the devil doesn’t have a monopoly. Accidents do sometimes occur. And I think that’s what happened to the monk Milbrosa and his companions. They fell into a bog.’

  ‘After they had sold stolen church silver from the abbey to the travellers.’

  ‘If the legend is true. Anyway,’ Mark said, leaning back on his stool as Gerard disappeared into the cloisters, ‘I’d be surprised if that young fool could have found his way to the guest house without a guide, so surely he didn’t steal from the pewterer, guilty looks or no, I suppose. But I do wonder whether those travellers have something to do with the rosaries and plate which have gone missing. If someone in the abbey were to steal, it would be easy to sell the stuff to the travellers, wouldn’t it?’ and he shot a look at Augerus.

  * * *

  ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Jeanne hissed after they had left the coroner sprawled on a low bed in their solar.

  ‘My love, I had no idea what he was talking about. You saw that on my face,’ Baldwin protested. ‘In truth I have little desire to return to the moors.’

  ‘The moors are evil. The more I see of them, the less I like them.’ Jeanne was truly upset.

  ‘It is only land,’ her husband said gently. ‘And yet I admit this year has been oddly unsettling. What with the tournament, and then the vampires.’ He felt his ribs gingerly. The great wound, which had felt like his death blow, which he had received during the Oakhampton tournament, had almost healed. The black and purple bruising had faded to a violent yellowish discolouration.

  ‘We have seen so many deaths there this year,’ she said and shuddered.

  Baldwin walked over to her and placed both arms about her body. Although she resisted momentarily, soon he was able to pull her to him, and rest his head upon hers while she nestled into his shoulder.

  ‘My love,’ he said tenderly, ‘don’t fear for me. I am not afraid of the moors.’

  ‘You don’t understand!’ she declared, pushing him away with both hands on his chest. ‘I fear that because you don’t believe in the spirit of the moors, you will leave yourself open to danger.’

  ‘We have talked about this before,’ he sighed, and indeed they had. His wife had been fearful before he went to investigate the murders in Sticklepath, and had tried unsuccessfully to stop him going then.

  She followed him now as he walked from the room and returned to his hall, picking up his jug and sipping at the wine. ‘The bailiff feels the same way as you do,’ Baldwin mused, ‘and I confess that I cannot laugh at Simon’s reactions any more, since witnessing how disorientated I became when the mist surrounded us at Sticklepath, l can sympathise with other people when they give respect to the moors – but they are only moors, not wild animals. I cannot pretend to be afraid when I am not.’

  ‘Baldwin, I—’

  ‘My Lady, I have spoken. I shall go with the good coroner, and I shall help, so far as I am able, to solve whatever little riddle he puts before me. What is the reason for this visit, anyway?’

  ‘He said it was a murdered miner.’

  ‘There you are, then. It is likely a man killed in a knife-fight near the abbey. There is no need for you to worry. It is probably nothing more than a quarrel over a woman in the middle of Tavistock, and no need to go near the moors. After all, that far south, in Tavistock, the moors don’t start until you travel half a morning eastwards.’r />
  Her face was a little easier on hearing his words, but she still opened her mouth to speak again.

  He held up his hand. ‘I shall be very careful, and I shall not take foolish risks, my love. But if the coroner says that our good friend Abbot Robert wishes me to help, I can hardly turn him down, can I?’ He gambled a final comment, watching her carefully. ‘After all, if it weren’t for the good abbot, you and I might never have met, might we? He has given me my most treasured possession – you. If I can ever help him, I must.’

  * * *

  Peter walked back to the abbey, scarcely noticing the urchins begging at the street corners, the boys and girls who pointed at him and called out names. He had grown all too used to the condemnation of others since that dread attack.

  Those days felt so far-off now. An evil time, it was as though after the ruination of the Holy Kingdom of Jerusalem, God had decided to punish the impious. Hexham had been destroyed in 1296, and the Scots grew braver at this demonstration of their might. They were always raiding, riding ever further into England. Nor was it only the Scots. The man who tried so hard to destroy Tynemouth was the foul murderer Sir Gilbert Middleton and his ally Sir Walter Selby, two notorious English men. They and their followers, the shavaldores, were nothing more than marauders, killers who robbed and kidnapped, fearless of punishment from men or God.

  It was five years ago now, in 1317 when they had committed their most barbarous, daring act. The two cardinals, John de Offa and Luca de Fieschi, had been sent to England by the Pope himself in order to negotiate a settlement between the English King and the Scottish warrior, Bruce, the man whom the Pope himself referred to as ‘him who pretended to be King of Scotland’.

  Except Sir Gilbert was furious still about the way that the English King was doing nothing about the devastation being wreaked upon his lands and upon those of the barons north of York. King Edward seemed to care nothing for the north country. He merely enjoyed himself with his singing and, acting like a peasant with his hedging and ditching, and bulling his favourites at night. Pathetic, puny man that he was. He was no King of a realm such as England.

  When Sir Gilbert’s cousin, Hamelin de Swinburn, was arrested for speaking sharply to the King about the abysmal state of the Northern Marches, it was no surprise that the furious Sir Gilbert chose to take the law into his own hands. He met with the cardinals and their party riding northwards from York, near to Darlington, and robbed them of their money, their goods and their horses, and although he quickly released the two cardinals to continue, more slowly, upon their way, he took Louis de Beaumont, Bishop of Durham, and his brother Henry hostage and ransomed them.

  That act was their last. Sir Gilbert was entrapped by neighbours shocked by his sacrilegious behaviour; they had him fettered and sent to London in his chains. There he was condemned, and in January of 1318 he was hanged, drawn and quartered.

  No one would have missed him. Certainly not Peter. After all, it was Sir Gilbert who had caused Peter’s wound a little while before he captured the cardinals; unwittingly, it was true, but if Sir Gilbert had not distracted the priory by attacking, Peter wouldn’t have been hurt.

  It was because of Tynemouth. Sir Gilbert wanted to sack the castle there, to ransack the stores and take provisions, which during the famine years were more valuable to him than gold and jewels, although he probably wanted to see what plate and gold he could steal as well. Fortunately Sir Robert de Laval realised what was happening, and the castle and priory were put on their guard. The prior, a wise old fellow, commanded the monks to help Sir Robert’s men to demolish the houses which ran up near to the monastery and the castle, and Peter had been one of the first to volunteer to help. With the others, he had taken axe and bar to the old timber buildings, flattening them and clearing the space about the castle and priory so that defenders could see for a good bowshot. There could be no unseen attack.

  Praise be to God, the castle and priory were saved and Sir Gilbert’s men were driven off in search of easier pickings. Peter and his friends and brothers began to think that they were safe. That was when the Scots came.

  The Armstrong clan had first arrived there six months before, but Sir Tristram de Cokkesmoor had all but destroyed them. They were feared all about the Marches. Brave they were, certainly, but Peter knew that their courage was only the outward manifestation of their pagan attitude to life and God. He had heard that border men, not only the Armstrongs, routinely demanded that their boy-children at their christenings were blessed with the exception of their right hands, that they might use them freely to kill.

  There were many of them. Too many, when they arrived in the area. It was only the brutal raid against them, driven home with callous disregard for the understood rules of humanity, that shattered the clan before they could devastate the whole area, and yet some men escaped the slaughter. Even as Sir Tristram rode back with the heads of his enemies dancing at his saddle, some few remained and gathered together.

  Wally had been terribly cut about and left for dead, probably because he managed to crawl away from the general bloodshed. Peter’s lovely Agnes found him, and the Scots lass bathed and cleaned his wounds, sitting up with him for hours while he slowly recovered.

  And the reward for Peter? He lived to see Wally again, but the next time, Wally was with two others. Martyn and another.

  If it hadn’t been for Sir Gilbert, the priory might have had a chance. Usually, refugees from the raids bolted into the castle, fleeing from the blood-maddened Scots, but because of Sir Gilbert’s attack, there was no warning.

  While Sir Gilbert’s men retreated southwards, pulling back towards their inevitable fate and Sir Gilbert’s own hanging, the small party of Scots who were all that remained of the Armstrong clan approached from the north, seeking plunder of any sort.

  The few men left had banded together under one leader, who was known only as ‘Red Hand’, a name that terrified all the peasants because it meant death to any who crossed his path. He killed, it seemed, for pleasure. And beneath him were others who had grown to the nomadic, warrior culture of the March.

  When they arrived, Peter himself was outside the priory’s walls, searching for herbs with the infirmarer, and it was only when the pair tried to return that they were spotted.

  Screeching their unnatural war-cries, the Scots spurred their sturdy little ponies towards the monks, who turned and fled as best they could, but it was an unequal race. The Scots soon ran down the infirmarer and felled him with a single blow from a war-axe that split his head in two, the halves falling to his shoulders while his body kept on running. It was a scene from hell, a sight which Peter would never forget.

  The rider who dealt this blow was delayed while he retrieved his axe, but his companions chased after Peter, laughing like young girls, high and weird. Peter’s own terrified screams seemed only to egg them on.

  He almost made it. Not far away was a tiny vill with a stone house in the middle which would have given him ample protection, but even as he leaped a low wall, one of the men sprang over it on his pony and cut him off. Smiling, he trotted on, facing Peter. God! But he could never forget that smiling face. It was the face of a demon; the face of the devil himself: Martyn Armstrong. Behind Armstrong, he saw another pony, and caught a glimpse of Wally’s horrified expression; Wally whose life Peter had saved.

  The monk was no coward, and he squared up to Martyn with his fists, but the third man was already behind Peter. He had jumped from his horse, and Peter turned in time to see the axe swinging at him.

  There was no time to deflect the blade, not even a moment to duck: He had instinctively swayed his body backwards, away from that grey steel, which perhaps saved his life, but it left him with this mark. The blow, aimed for his throat, instead caught the angle of his jaw, shearing through bone, smashing his teeth together and knocking all into shards; jolting his head back so sharply he thought he must be dead. He felt himself falling, as though in a dream. It didn’t seem real, somehow. The wound, t
he death of his friend, all had a sort of hideous unreality.

  When he lay on the ground, his body was lifeless, like a machine that had been shattered. There was no ability to move. His arms and legs were no longer a part of him. Not even the sensation of jerking as his attacker attempted to free his blade from Peter’s jaw could bring life to his limbs. He was quite sure that he was dead. His eyes registered only, a cloaked figure, a curious voice. Nothing more. His eyes would not focus.

  At last the weapon was retrieved: the man planted his foot on Peter’s chin and yanked it free. Hands wandered over his body, stealing his little leather scrip, taking his rosary, pulling him this way and that, before grabbing a handful of his robe and using it to clean the blade of the axe which had done this to him. None of the men appeared to think Peter could survive, and he himself had no doubt that he was dead. In his mind, he said his prayers, begging forgiveness for his sins – and he could vaguely recall beginning the service of the dead, first for his friend and then again for himself.

  The three had gone. It was dark, and he found himself shivering awake, shaking with the cold, or perhaps not just the cold. He had seen men who were wounded after battles – my God in heaven, there were always so many up on the Scottish Marches – and some were like him, shaking uncontrollably. Perhaps that was what had affected him. The fear of death – or of life. It was with a certain thankfulness that he felt himself slipping away into oblivion again. One moment he had a hint of a thought, and then he felt himself falling away, as though the ground itself was gently accepting him, letting him sink softly into its arms, and all became black.

  He never met the peasant who found him. The man had realised he was not dead and had dragged the monk into his room, setting him before the fire before hurtling off to the monastery to call for help. Soon gentle hands had come to rescue Peter, picking him up and carrying him back to the monastery’s infirmary, and it was there that he awoke again, more than a week later, coming to life once more to find himself staring at the altar. The vision of the cross acted like a stimulant on his fevered and pain-racked body, and he burst out into sobs of gratitude, and of sadness, for he had partly hoped to have died and reached heaven. But it was not to be. Not yet.