The Devil's Acolyte (2002)

by Jecks, Michael

  That was when Simon saw red. He bellowed at her and was near to thrashing her for her insubordination and lack of regard for his and her mother’s feelings; if he hadn’t been due to travel here to Tavistock, he would have done just that. He knew his neighbours all believed that women needed a beating now and again, and Simon was a source of amusement for his tolerance, but that day his daughter had gone too far.

  Just when he had wanted to set off early, the arguments and wailing and weeping had held him up, and he gathered up everything in a rush, stuffing it any old how into the bags on his packhorse. His servant helped moodily – for Hugh was always grumpy when there were voices raised against his favourite, little Edith. Simon then gave his wife one last hurried kiss before throwing his leg over his mount and setting off at speed. Hugh desperately hopped along at the side of his own pony, trying to hold it still long enough to clamber atop. After so many years of riding alongside his master, he was less like a sack of sodden oats in the saddle these days, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the experience, and he still eyed horses as nasty, vicious creatures whose only pleasure was to unseat him as soon as possible.

  Simon had been forced to wait while his servant caught up, as Hugh refused to urge his horse on to what he considered a dangerous speed. If they had set off when Simon had intended, they would have had plenty of time, even allowing for Hugh’s slower pace, but as it was, with Edith’s little performance delaying their departure, he hadn’t bothered to check the things he had packed.

  Yes, Simon considered. It was all his daughter’s fault.

  He could remember his mood as he arrived at Tavistock, as black as the clouds in the sky, brooding on the ingratitude of daughters in general and his own in particular, with Hugh scowling bitterly on his own little mount and answering only with a grunt whenever Simon spoke. A tedious, wet and miserable ride it had been.

  However, it was as nothing compared with the grim realisation which struck him that evening before meeting his master, Warden of the Stannaries, Abbot Robert Champeaux. Simon had gone through his belongings once with a general lack of concern, still affected by the scene that morning, but then he had paused and gone through his things more urgently, searching each bag with care for the little felt sack which contained the coinage hammer. It wasn’t there. Racking his brains, Simon vaguely remembered seeing it on top of his bags on his chest in his solar. It must have tumbled off as he snatched everything up.

  If that realisation was terrible, having to go and see the Abbot himself was worse. The latter was a cheery fellow, red-faced, with a thin grey circle of hair fringing his bald pate; there was no need for the good Abbot to have his tonsure shaved by the barber every so often. His fair complexion held a tracery of little burst veins, and his nose was mauve, but his voice was as loud and enthusiastic as ever as he welcomed Simon with a heartiness that was entirely unfeigned.

  ‘Bailiff, come in and sit down. Sorry not to have been here when you first arrived, but I have only just settled back myself. I have been over at Buckfast meeting my brother Abbots and talking about the costs of our Benedictine House at Oxford.’

  His eyes left Simon and slid across to the window. When Simon followed his glance, he saw a deer trotting through the trees and slipping down to drink from the river. The Abbot was a keen huntsman, and Simon knew that the sight of a deer so near must have been sorely tempting. Abbot Robert’s fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of his chair. ‘We were kept talking for hours about finance, when the whole matter could have been agreed in moments. Why people insist on talking around and around in circles when they could be . . .’ He gave a slight cough and seemingly reminded himself of his duties. ‘Tell me, how was the journey from Lydford? And how is your lovely wife?’

  All through the casual small talk, Simon was edgy, waiting for the right moment to broach the subject of the hammer. He took the proffered wine, drank deeply, answered his host’s searching questions about prisoners in the gaol and about a boundary dispute between two tin-miners’ claims at Beckamoor Combe, and then, when he saw the Abbot’s eyebrow raised in enquiry, he confessed his error.

  ‘You left the hammer at your house? God help us, Bailiff, how could you be so careless!’ The Abbot swallowed hard and gave him a long hard stare. ‘This is not the sort of behaviour I expect from you, Simon. You are my most trusted servant. You have failed me, and that is a great sadness to me. I had—. But no. Enough.’

  Simon squirmed. He hated making mistakes. Robert Champeaux was a kindly, generous-hearted man, but his years as Abbot had not been easy. When he was originally elected in 1285, thirty-seven years before, he had found the Abbey finances in a disastrous state and had been forced to borrow two hundred pounds, but since then he had, through careful management and scrupulous care, been able to rebuild the monastery’s fortunes. Lands which had been lost were now regained, at Ogbear and West Liddaton; he had marvellously improved the farming and taken up new fisheries; while by his purchase of the Wardenship of the Stannaries he had brought in still more money which he had spent helping to found a House at Oxford in which Benedictines could study, and building the new church here in Tavistock. And even after doing all that, Simon knew that Abbot Robert had been able to save plenty. His Abbey had grown to be one of the wealthiest in Devonshire.

  Robert Champeaux was not the sort of man to leave a vital tool behind. Nor could he understand how someone else could. It was not mere anger that darkened his brow as he stared at Simon, but genuine incomprehension.

  Although the Abbot wasn’t avaricious for his own purse, Simon knew he wanted to leave Tavistock on a sound financial footing. Stupidity like this could endanger his legacy – and that was why he was intolerant of such lapses.

  ‘You had?’ Simon prompted him automatically. ‘You said, “I had”?’

  ‘Nothing. I shall have to consider. You have many duties already. Such as, sending a messenger to fetch the hammer before the coining,’ Abbot Robert said pointedly.

  That was two days ago. Simon had ridden back yesterday with his servant as a foul-tempered companion. At his house he found Meg instructing two of their manservants in redecorating their little solar. She loved their house, and had recently had a new wall of timber panels installed to separate off a little store-area from their parlour. Now she was having the walls whitewashed and the wood limed in preparation for the likenesses of saints to be painted on them.

  ‘I thought Saint Rumon here and Saint Boniface there,’ she said. ‘To remind us of Tavistock, where you have been so fortunate and Crediton where we were so happy.’

  The sight of her smiling face made him pause and stand in the doorway for a long moment.

  Before moving here they had owned their own farm outside Sandford, near Crediton, where they had been content, and afterwards, when they had lived a short time in quarters at Lydford Castle itself, neither had been happy. The grim stone block was cold and hideously uncomfortable, not at all like their old home, and because of her unhappiness Simon had searched for somewhere else. Soon he found this little cottage with the enclosed garden and ample room for themselves and their servants. Although Meg had been pleased with their place near Sandford, this one had attracted her from the first moment she saw it. Perhaps it was a reaction against the castle, or maybe it was her joy at giving birth to their first son Peterkin, who later died, to their joint despair, for she had begun to plan for the improvement of it as soon as she had arisen from her bed.

  Seeing him, she had fussily hurried the two men from the place, and then stood before him smiling. ‘You wanted this?’

  He took the hammer from her.

  ‘I found it this morning as soon as the men moved the chest to paint the wall,’ she chuckled. ‘Will you be in trouble?’

  ‘Not if I get it back for tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If it’s late I could be fined. The last man forgot it once, I think, and he was fined three shillings.’

  The smile was wiped from Meg’s face at the thought of so much money being taken
. ‘That’s terrible. Surely Abbot Robert wouldn’t do that to you?’

  ‘Forgetting it could have led to three hundred miners milling about in Tavistock, all demanding that their metal should be coined, all drinking steadily until they were of a mood to riot,’ he said drily. ‘You haven’t seen the damage that ten happy miners can wreak after a few quarts of ale, so you can’t imagine a hundred angry miners on the rampage after a couple of gallons each. It doesn’t bear thinking about! So yes, the Abbot will fleece me as best he might if I don’t get this to Tavistock quickly.’

  ‘You must have been very distressed,’ she murmured, putting her arms about him.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And now you have to leave again. So sad.’

  She had turned her head from him, so that her cheek was against his breast, and he could smell the lavender in her hair. He stroked it, kissed her head and let his hands wander down her back to her waist. A shiver ran through her body, and then she stood back and slowly began to undress. ‘You don’t have to leave immediately, do you?’

  It was while he was giving himself up to a pleasantly erotic recollection of the occasion, that the procession arrived.

  There was a sudden quietness among the bearded, scruffily dressed miners. Up until then Simon had been aware of the rumble of low voices and the clatter of pots and trenchers as the girls from the local alehouse filled pots and served pastries. Not now. Suddenly the marketplace was silent, and when he looked up, he saw the Steward’s men roping off the centre, the crowds being pushed back by servants.

  When a space was cleared, the King’s beam was brought out and adjusted, the Controller and Weigher carefully checking the machine with their standard weights, which were solemnly unsealed from their box while the whole crowd watched intently, witnessing the fact that there could be no cheating here. It was in the interests of the miners that the metal should be fairly weighed. All were to be taxed against the measured weight of the tin that they had brought, and until the miner paid the tax on his ingot, he could not sell the metal.

  When all was prepared, the Assay-master sat at his small anvil, his hammer and chisels ready, while the other officials took their seats facing the beam where they could have a clear view.

  The Receiver, a short, dark-haired man with the face and belly of a glutton, stood and called the crowd to witness the coining, and porters began bringing up the marked ingots of tin. Some were well-formed, neat rectangles of metal, but many were rougher, marked by their moorstone moulds’ irregularities. These heavy blocks of one or two hundredweight were placed on the scales and the true weight was shouted out and noted by the three clerks to the officials. Each ingot had the mark of the owner stamped upon it, and the name was called out at the same time, checked with the register held by the Receiver.

  Simon knew of him. He was called Joce Blakemoor, a local Burgess, and Simon had never liked him. He seemed too smooth for the Bailiff’s taste.

  The Assay-master, a slim, wiry man with the dark hair and features of a local, was chiselling chips from the first of the ingots and seeing that the metal was of the right quality. In front of him was a grim-faced miner with a filthy leather jerkin over a patched linen shirt, so heavily stained that it looked like worn leather. His lower face was hidden entirely by a thick, grey-speckled beard, and his head was covered by a hood, which gave him the appearance of peering out shortsightedly, rather like a suspicious snail. He watched the Assay-master with a keenness that told Simon he must be the owner of the tin, hoping against hope that his coinage wouldn’t be too expensive. Simon knew the man. It was old Hal Raddych.

  There were many witnesses, from miners, to locals, to several strangers who Simon thought must be pewterers and agents. People from all over the country wanted tin.

  One in particular caught his eye – a tall, well-made man with oddly-cut clothes. He was no local, Simon was sure. When a red-headed youth in a Benedictine novice’s garb bumped into him, he swore, but not in English or French. The youngster was profusely apologetic, and the man smiled and nodded.

  Simon was leaning against a pillar and viewing things, his servant scowling ferociously at all about, for Hugh detested crowds, daring any cut-purse to try his luck, when the messenger reached them; it was to the noise of the stamps hammering the King’s arms into the ingot that Simon received his summons.

  ‘I must go to the Abbot now?’ he repeated, bellowing over the din, and as he spoke the noise suddenly stopped. By coincidence, the assaying of one ingot was complete, and the bill of weight charged against Hal Raddych was being scrawled on the bill sheet. Once the tax was paid, the tinner could sell his metal, so there was a short period of expectation while the interested merchants and pewterers’ agents witnessed the bill being signed, and it was into this void that Simon’s voice roared.

  Every head in the place was turned to him. Ashamed, he wanted to scurry away like a rat, but he didn’t wish everyone there to see how upset he was at having to pay a fine, for he was sure that was the reason for the summons. The Abbot had decided to fine him for his incompetence and stupidity in forgetting the hammer, even though he had brought it here in good time. When he glanced about him, he saw that Hal Raddych was staring at him. Behind him, Joce Blakemoor too was watching him keenly.

  Seeing him only made Simon irritable. ‘Damn the man’s eyes,’ he muttered, squaring his shoulders. ‘I hope he gets blinded by a chip from an ingot!’

  It was only much later that he came to wonder whether the expression he had seen in Blakemoor’s eyes was less amusement at Simon’s plight, more fear for himself.

  Joce Blakemoor’s expression hadn’t been missed by Walwynus, either. Wally was watching as the tin was gathered up and weighed, the metal gleaming in the sun where the Assay-master had chiselled off a corner.

  A few yards away was the slightly gaunt figure of the Abbot’s Steward, Augerus. Wally nodded to him and tilted his head, and Augerus nodded. Wally didn’t like the man, but he was useful, he thought as he made his way to a table outside a tavern. There he held up a penny for the host, and when Augerus arrived, the landlord had already brought two pots of strong ale.

  ‘You wish to sit?’ Wally asked.

  ‘For a moment, friend,’ Augerus said gratefully. ‘My Abbot is returned, and he’s had me rushing all over the place, cleaning this, sharpening that, preparing his writing reeds and tablets . . . Ah! Life was so restful while he was away.’

  ‘I heard you had a good evening in the tavern,’ Wally said.

  Augerus shrugged contentedly. While the Abbot was out of the town, he felt free to indulge himself, and it was good to relax with a few ales and a friend. ‘You have it?’

  He watched as Wally produced a small lump wrapped in material, bound with a thong. ‘Here.’

  Augerus pulled the knot free and glanced down at the pile of coins.

  ‘You want to count it?’ Wally asked.

  ‘No. But it’s not much for all the effort.’

  ‘You know our friend. He’s not generous,’ Wally said easily. There was little point, in his mind, explaining that instead of a fifty-fifty cut, he had taken four-sevenths of the money – eight shillings out of fourteen instead of seven. Augerus was expecting a full half, but Wally felt justified in awarding himself more. He took much of the risk, after all.

  Augerus grunted discontentedly. ‘I’d best be back.’

  ‘Aye, well, see you later.’

  ‘I may have something then. A pewterer is in the Abbey.’

  ‘Not tonight. There will be too many wandering about the town drunk. Leave it till tomorrow. I’ll warn our friend.’

  Augerus nodded and left. Soon Wally rose, and as he walked from the alehouse, he saw her again: Sara, the girl with the anxious eyes, as he had thought of her. Yesterday evening, when he had been hanging around outside Joce Blakemoor’s house, idling there for no particular reason, he had seen the girl rush up to the Receiver’s front door and hammer on it. An attractive little thing, Wally thought regr
etfully. Of course, she was far too good-looking for the likes of him, with her fine red gown with embroidered flowers at the hem and her silken fair hair shaken loose from her wimple and floating about her shoulders as the breeze caught it. She looked beautiful in her apparent distress.

  The door had opened and Joce’s servant had appeared, glanced quickly up and down the street, and then fixed upon the girl with evident trepidation. Wally wasn’t surprised, for all knew that Joce was a vicious bastard to his servant. Wally couldn’t hear a word spoken, but he saw the servant disappear inside, then Joce himself came to the door and held out a hand wordlessly to the girl. She took it with obvious relief and entered the house with him. Wally left soon afterwards, musing on the sight.

  Now he could see her in daylight, she no longer looked so worried. Since going to Joce, she had obviously lost her concerns, and Wally was pleased. She was a lovely thing, a delight to the eyes, with a smile that many men would die for, and an easy manner, friendly and outgoing. Perhaps more outgoing than she should be, he considered, bearing in mind her visit to Joce’s last night. It had been painful to see her in such distress. Now her joy chimed with his own pleasure. The monk Peter had made him the happiest man in Tavistock.

  ‘Sara!’ he called.

  She turned on him a smile so radiant that he felt as though the clouds had parted and the sun burst forth with renewed vigour.

  ‘Hello, Wally. You’re looking well.’

  ‘Not so well as you, I’ll bet.’

  ‘I am happy today,’ she said confidentially, swinging her hips so that her skirts swelled and billowed, as if she was dancing to a tune only she could hear.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Have you found a shilling at the roadside?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said, still happily swaying. Then she stopped, stepped forward to him, laying a hand lightly on his forearm, and leaned up to him, saying breathily, ‘But it’s wonderful!’