As quickly as she had moved forward, she retreated through the crowds, leaving him with a bemused smile on his face. She wasn’t really his sort, he told himself, but even so the feeling of her breath upon his skin had sent his entire face tingling, and he wished that he was married to someone as impulsive. Wally touched his lips with a feeling almost of awe, unaware of the dark and bitterly resentful eyes of Ellis, the barber, who spied on him from a short distance away.
Ellis had witnessed Wally’s brief conversation with Sara, and from where he stood, slightly behind Wally, it had looked as though she had leaned up to kiss him. In public! Full of misgivings, Ellis pushed his way through the crowds after his sister.
He had never married. There hadn’t been an opportunity. His trade was his life, apart from his sister, and although he had never known the joy of fatherhood, of watching a wife of his own grow great with a baby, seeing her face alter, glowing with that inner warmth as she became aware of the life within her, he had seen other women in the first flush of pregnancy. Sara had been like that when she was married, bearing her children. And now she looked that way again.
It was not until she had reached the far side of the market square that he caught up with her. ‘Sara, what are you playing at?’
‘Nothing! What’s the matter with you?’
‘I saw you out there, looking up at him, all moon-eyed. Have you been bloody stupid?’
‘Let go of my arm,’ she said, snatching her forearm from his grasp. ‘Leave me alone, Ellis.’
‘You haven’t been foolish, have you?’
‘No. I have been very sensible,’ she said with a flash of fire in her eyes. ‘I have found a man to love, and who loves me.’
‘And have you slept with him?’
She stiffened, then smacked a hand across his cheek. ‘That is my business, and none of yours, Brother!’
‘You have, haven’t you?’ he said dully. ‘And now you’re pregnant.’
‘Just go away, Ellis.’
‘I know who it is.’
‘I don’t care! He’ll marry me.’
‘He’ll never marry you, you fool.’
It was the first time in days that the agony of Hamelin’s ruined tooth had faded to a dull ache, and now, after the abundant stream of strong ale that Hal had bought him, he felt as though his mouth was almost normal. If only his tongue would keep away from his teeth. He seemed to keep biting it accidentally.
He moved somewhat precariously from the tavern’s door to go and watch the coining, grabbing at a rail here, a fence there, breathing loudly, but with a happy smile on his face. ‘Where’s the coining, friend?’ he asked of a man near the market.
‘Right in front of you! Christ, you’re as drunk as a monk!’
There were other men all about, and some began to laugh at the sight of Hamelin’s state.
‘Look out, he’ll spew over us all.’
‘Not Hamelin, eh, fellow? Hamelin could always handle a few pints.’
‘So can many – but they all fall over just as heavily!’
‘Even bloody monks. The Abbot’s Steward and his friend Mark were here last weekend, and pissed as rats in cider! Jesu, it was hard to get them out the door, they were swaying so much.’
Hamelin frowned. He could hear voices, but he was finding it hard to focus. Perhaps he ought to go and find his wife. Her rooms weren’t far from the market. He could go and talk to her. Apologise for his failure. She might soothe him a little. If only he hadn’t drunk quite so much . . .
‘The Steward was almost unable to talk, he was so far gone. Mark had to help him through the door, and you could hear the two of them roaring and laughing up the road.’
‘Aye, well, the Abbot’s away, isn’t he? It’s rare enough that the monks get a chance to have a drink. Poor bastards! I’d go mad, locked away in that place like them.’
‘Doesn’t sound like they’re too securely locked up, does it?’
‘Yeah, well, every once in a while they get let out.’
Hamelin tried to speak, but phlegm in his throat threatened to choke him. When he had coughed a little, he said, ‘You mean that thieving shit Mark was out here last weekend? If I’d known, I’d have killed the bastard!’
There was a sudden silence. His voice had been louder than he intended. Not that he regretted it. He’d be damned if he’d apologise for cursing the man who had robbed him of his wealth. Mark, it was, who had taken Hamelin’s money, then gambled and lost it all. And by simply taking on the tonsure, he had evaded his debtors. ‘The bastard!’ he repeated.
‘You should keep your voice down.’
‘Who’s that?’ he demanded truculently, peering at the man who had joined him.
‘It’s me – Wally.’
‘Ah! Oh, Wally. Yes. You’re a friend, you are. What are you doing here?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Wally admitted, jealously eyeing the tinners. He should have been up there, selling his tin. If his mining had succeeded, he would have been, instead of earning money by thieving. Ah well. He was alive, and that was the main thing. ‘Come on, Hamelin, let’s get you somewhere safe.’
‘Can’t go home like this. Wife’s got no money. Youngest is ill. Can’t let her see me like this.’
He was a dead weight on Wally’s arm, and Wally staggered. Then he saw a bench, and led Hamelin to it. ‘Lie down on that,’ he puffed.
Hamelin was reluctant to do so, explaining that the sky was turning around and around, and that people were staring at him, but eventually Wally managed to settle him, and soon he was rewarded with harsh rumbling snores.
That was when he returned to watching the coining.
There being a slight pause, Joce and other officers were refreshing themselves with wine. At that point, Wally caught sight of Sara again. She hovered on the edge of the crowd, a hand up as though to wave, her attention fixed eagerly on Joce’s face. Then she called to him softly, her face still excited and joyous. Wally thought he’d never seen such a lovely girl, not since the Scottish woman.
He heard her call out, saw Joce stiffen, saw the Receiver’s face alter subtly, that cruel sneer spreading as he turned and strode towards her. The man spoke for a moment, and then guffawed, while Sara’s features seemed to crumple. Suddenly her eyes had regained that appalled expression of the previous night, and her hand went to her mouth.
Wally felt his spine turn to ice.
‘Stupid bitch! Thought because I’d rattled her once, I’d marry her!’
Wally could hear the harshness of the braggart’s voice. Sycophantic colleagues all about Joce chuckled as he spoke. Even Brother Augerus was there, Wally saw.
‘She asked me to marry her. Well, anyone would promise that, for a chance to lie with her. So I did. But Christ’s Blood, only a stupid strumpet could believe in an oath like that! Marry her? I’d as soon wed a whore from the tavern. She’s a good slut, though. I’ve only once before enjoyed one more, and that was years ago in the north.’
Wally stumbled away from the market, feeling physically sick.
Somehow he had made an appalling mistake. The man with whom he had worked, with whom he had shared so much, was gone, and in his place was this new character, a man whom Wally should have detested and scorned – or slaughtered. The words, ‘years ago in the north,’ kept ringing in his mind. There was only one girl Joce could have meant by that. Suddenly Wally knew he hated Joce.
Wally leaned against a door and stared dully back the way he had come. He needed a drink, he thought, and then remembered the state of Hamelin. No, he’d go and get some grub instead. There was the pie-shop nearby, and he headed to it with feet that were suddenly leaden.
At the shop, he was welcomed by the scruffy cook.
‘Hello, Nob,’ Wally said distractedly, and bought a small, cheap meat-pie.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Nob cheerily.
At first Wally scarcely heard the amiable enquiry; he was too taken up with his feelings towards Joce. Wally and his pa
l Martyn had worked for the Receiver for a long time. Admittedly, he was a man of careless violence, but had proved a good ally – and was a useful fellow when it came to disposing of stolen goods. When Wally had first met with the greedy Augerus at the Abbey and found in him a man who might be able to arrange for trinkets to be stolen, Joce was the natural man to fence the goods. He might not pay the best price, but it was adequate, and the profits split between Wally and Augerus were enough to live on frugally.
But all this time Wally had never realised that Joce could have been the man who killed the girl. She had been raped, then murdered, and for ages Wally had suspected that it was Martyn who had done it, but now he wondered if Joce had been the guilty one, the killer of the woman who had saved Wally’s life.
His belly was full of bile, but he made a conscious effort to act naturally, to listen and chat as Nob spoke. He didn’t want to appear distraught. If he was to have revenge on Joce, he must seem innocent. How to hurt Joce, though? That was the question that nagged at him now.
‘I don’t understand how monks and farmers get so much from the ground,’ he said, forcing himself to speak conversationally to Nob, ‘All of my vegetables wither as soon as I plant the buggers.’
Nob gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘It’s a hard life on the moors.’
‘Aye. Down here there are women, ale and warm houses,’ Wally agreed. Out in the street, he bit into his pie and, when he looked up, he saw his young friend hurrying back towards the Abbey, his ginger hair flaming in the wind. ‘Gerard!’ he shouted, and the lad stopped, staring about him with confusion.
When he caught sight of Wally, a smile spread over his face. ‘Oh, it’s you! Are you here for the coining?’
‘I was, but the sight of that arrogant oaf standing there so self-important makes me want to puke,’ Wally said.
‘Yeah, well. I have to get back,’ Gerard said, his eyes going to the church tower, gauging the time.
It was then that Wally had the idea that would cost him his life. ‘Wait! Do you have two minutes?’
‘Not really. I’ve got to—’
‘Two minutes to avenge your sins, Gerard? That’s all it will take,’ Wally said.
Gerard eyed him doubtfully. There was a brightness in the other man’s eye that was almost like madness. ‘What are you planning, Wally?’
Chapter Two
The messenger led the two men back to the Court, and Simon was about to bend his steps towards the Abbot’s rooms, when he was surprised to find that they were going over to the cloister itself.
‘The Abbot’s not in his lodging?’ he enquired.
‘No, Bailiff. He’s in the undercroft. This way.’
Simon grunted. The lad who accompanied him was clearly not yet a Brother, although he didn’t look new to the monastic life. He was probably in his mid-teens, a gangling youth with dark hair and a very pale complexion. Not someone who had spent his childhood on the moors or in outdoor exercise, Simon thought. A wealthy boy would have been out hunting, riding, practising with lances, swords and daggers. Some fellows, who were less likely to inherit their fathers’ estates because of older brothers, could be pale and weakly-looking, because they were trained up to be academics, lawyers or priests, but this boy had more the look of a serf’s child. His hands were calloused from heavy work. For all that he possessed a kind of boyish awkwardness, with his loose build and clumsy gait, Simon could see that he was no weakling. His shoulders were broad enough, and his arms looked as though they might have a certain sinewy strength.
‘Here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Simon pushed at the door. He recalled this place only too well from a previous visit. Then he had thought that his friend Baldwin could die in there. Something about the memory stirred him, and he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He was glad to know that Hugh was behind him.
The undercroft was a great long room, smelling strongly of fresh wine and preserved meats, but with the ever-present scent of rats. The ceiling was quite high overhead, well-built with neatly fitted stones mortared together to form the vaulting, and it needed to be because in this room were many of the stores for the brethren, and the barrels were stored on top of each other in ranks. Light entered from narrow windows set high in the walls, and the shafts lighted the motes of dust which perpetually spun and danced. Flies and beetles droned through in their search for food, and occasionally struck a cobweb, making it shimmer and vibrate until the fly was wrapped in spider silk.
‘At last, Bailiff. I wanted to show you this,’ the Abbot said.
His voice was rough with anger, and Simon was about to bow his head to accept whatever punishment his master deigned to hand down, when he realised that the Abbot was pointing to a barrel not far from the door.
‘Look at that, will you?’ the Abbot grated. ‘I had these barrels brought here from Boulogne myself. I was told about the vineyards by a Brother Abbot in Guyenne, ordered the wine once it was ready, paid for the transport, everything – only to have some thieving cretin drink the lot!’
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 the 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!’
The Devil's Acolyte (2002) Page 5
