Peter nodded. He patted her thigh, feeling the tingling in his palm at the firm flesh. ‘Thank you, child. You have helped me. Now you must remember this. The Coroner will hold his inquest, and you must tell him what you have told me. It might be very important.’
‘All right, Brother. What now?’
He stared at her blankly, and then he gave a weak smile when he realised her meaning. She winked cheekily at him as he left the room, but for his part, all he felt was an all-encompassing despair.
Leaving the tavern, he stood outside breathing heavily. It would have been all too easy to accept her offer. She was a cheeky, bright, pretty little thing – just the sort of girl he had so often longed for and, every so often, the sort of girl whom he had bedded.
He was lonely, sad, and had that curious emptiness, almost a hunger for companionship, that afflicted him occasionally. It was a desire, almost a lust, for simple pleasures and the conversation of generous-hearted, ordinary people.
There was a man he knew who could help him. Looking up the way, he could see Nob and Cissy’s cookshop, and he turned up the lane towards it.
‘Hello, Nob,’ he said, but then he stopped with a slight frown on his face. ‘Ah, Gerard. What are you doing here?’
Hearing his voice, Gerard dropped his pie with a startled cry.
‘Master Bailiff, I understand the good Abbot has spoken to you already?’
Simon nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Tristram. He tells me you are to collect men for the Host?’
‘Quite so. There is a need for many fighting men now that the King has chosen to attack Scotland again and punish the Scots for their constant attacks over the borders and into English territory. They cannot get away with it.’
‘Oh. So we won’t see all our men die, like at Bannockburn.’
Sir Tristram’s face hardened a moment. His eyes were like chips of diamond, Simon thought. They reflected light in the same way that a cut stone will shine from its facets under a light. Hard and uncompromising, but that did not necessarily make him an unpleasant man. Simon decided he would give Sir Tristram the benefit of the doubt.
‘I think you should be careful who hears you making comments like that, Master Bailiff.’
He sat very neatly, a trim man with narrow shoulders and a slim waist. His robes were well fitted and richly embroidered, with plenty of fur at his neck and wrists. He had his belt on, with his sword, but at his right hip was a dagger with a magnificent enamelled pommel that looked expensive, like a gewgaw that was meant for show. That it was a working weapon was shown to Simon’s quick eye by the roughened leather of the grip. It had been worn smooth and dark in places, where the knight had gripped it, presumably in battle.
‘My friend, it was merely a pleasantry,’ Simon said.
‘Some comments like that could be thought dangerous. An uncharitable man might think they were seditious, even: tending to incite rebellion. Never a good idea.’
‘I would never seek to spread sedition,’ Simon protested. His chest felt constrained, as though he was already being shown the gibbet on which his body would hang. The charitable thoughts he had harboured burst into tiny flames and disappeared. This was one of those stuffy, self-important fools, he decided.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the knight. ‘Come, shall we begin again? I am sorry if I sound harsh, but I have a lot of work to get through. There are so many vills down in this area, and as Arrayer I have to try to get to all of them. Tell me, are all the roads down this way as bad as the one on the way here?’
‘Which way did you come?’
‘From the north. I passed through Oakhampton, then came southwards. The men at Exeter strongly advised me to avoid the moors without a guide. There are mires there?’
‘Many.’ And I hope you fall into one, Simon added silently. ‘They move each year. You need a man who knows his way there, it’s true.’
‘But the roads! It took me twice as long as I had expected.’
Simon shrugged. ‘The weather has been inclement, and the roads aren’t paved. At least you took one of the better ones on the way here. It follows the river in the valley. That is much better than others, like the roads between Oakhampton and Crediton. They are considerably worse.’
‘My God!’ Sir Tristram muttered, then gave Simon a wan smile. ‘Well, at least I understand you are a good guide to much of the country about here. And the moors, of course.’
‘I know the moors well enough,’ Simon agreed, taking a goblet of wine from the Steward, who returned at this moment with a tray on which stood a heavy jug and two goblets. ‘But that won’t help you.’
‘There are men there, aren’t there? Strong, hardy fellows who dig and mine?’
‘Oh yes, hundreds. But you can’t have any of them. They are all exempt, by the King’s own command. While they mine his tin, they are secure.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘But there are many others about here. Strong enough, I’d guess, for your Host.’
‘Good. Then perhaps we can begin today. I should like to see the good Abbot’s vills about this town with a view to winning the strongest and fittest men for the King’s service.’
‘How many do you need?’
‘As many as possible. You know how the Host is organised? I take twenty men and inspect and list them and put them under a vintenar; for every hundred, there is a centenar in charge, usually a cavalry man of some sort. When they are collected, they will march off to the King’s army.’ He paused and stared down at his hands. ‘It will be a long, weary walk up to Scotland.’
‘I thought that the King recruited his men from nearer to the border?’
‘Yes, but the trouble is, there are so few. Since the famine and the murrains, the Scottish borders are denuded of men, and the ones remaining are scurvy-ridden and feeble. We need hale, competent fellows, like the farmers you have down here. It looks as though the famine didn’t affect people this far west and south.’
‘We lost many people,’ Simon said shortly, thinking of those dreadful times. ‘God forbid that we should have another famine of that ferocity.’
‘Very good. So, are you ready to leave now?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Simon said. ‘I shall ask for my horse to be prepared.’
‘Ask for mine as well, would you? I shall just fetch my bag.’
Simon nodded ungraciously as he walked from the room. Outside he stood and took a deep breath. Arrayers were generally corrupt as hell, in his opinion. Maybe this one wasn’t so bad as some, but after the knight’s harsh introduction, Simon had taken a dislike to the suave Sir Tristram, and the thought that the vills about Tavistock were to be told to produce their finest men for this Sir Knight to take them away to war suddenly struck Simon. As he marched to the stables, he found his lips twitching into a grin.
He had a suspicion that Sir Tristram was not going to find recruiting men to be very easy.
Chapter Ten
By the middle of the morning the earlier groups of men had left the shop and Ellis could close the shutters, pack his scissors and razors, strops and soaps into his little satchel, and head for the tavern for a quick ale before going over to the Abbey and seeing to the chins and pates of the monks there.
Although not vain, Abbot Robert hated having a beard. He often told Ellis that he disliked the roughness, but Ellis also knew that the Abbot was keen to make sure that he and his monks all dressed in a manner which reflected their serious duties. They should look sober and professional, not slovenly like the mendicants so often did. It wasn’t simply pride; Ellis knew that the Abbot thought it important that their pastoral flock should see in the monks men whom they could respect. Few felt, like Augerus, that they could flout his will about facial hair.
As far as Ellis was concerned, his job was merely to shave. He had taken up his profession because there would always be men with hair, beards, teeth and veins, and while there were, he could count on being paid to trim, shave, pull or slash.
An essential pa
rt of his business was the cheery patter that he had developed over the years. With some it was bantering conversation, often making mild jokes at his client’s expense, sometimes simply being crude, but after seeing Wally, both at the coining and on Friday, he still felt little urge to be amusing. It was enough that he should keep his scissors away from his clients’ ears, his razors from nicking their throats.
Sara must have been mad. She had flaunted herself at the miner, no doubt, and he had taken advantage. Ellis couldn’t in all fairness blame the man. When he had seen her with Wally, he had felt his rage growing within him like a canker, but now he was able to be more sanguine. And since Wally’s death, Sara had certainly been mortified. She had been wailing and weeping almost all the time. No surprise, Ellis thought, with Wally’s bastard inside her.
He grunted sadly. A loyal man to his family, he had paid a lot of money towards his niece and nephews’ upbringing. This would simply be another one for him to help feed.
Augerus waited until Simon and the Arrayer had both left the room, then he went in and collected the goblets and jugs, setting them on his tray and carrying them back to his little buttery. He rinsed one goblet, glanced over his shoulder, emptied the remains of the jug into it, and drank it off in a long draught before washing the goblet and jug, and drying them with a long piece of linen.
He had nothing to do at the moment, for Abbot Robert was gone. Whenever he could, he’d take his hounds out and see what he could catch with a few of the burgesses in the town. Canny devil, the Abbot, in Augerus’ mind. He knew how to get his neighbours and tenants talking: he’d take them out for a good race through his park and afterwards, over wine and ale, he’d ask them what they thought about many of the issues of the day. That way he’d be the first to hear of dissatisfaction before any of his officials, and often he’d soothe disgruntled townspeople before their complaints could grow into full-blown feuds. It also gave him an opportunity to catch out his Bailiffs.
Augerus had heard him once, talking to a Gather-Reeve, the rent collector. The poor fellow was bowing nervously in the presence of his master, trying to show the Abbot a confidence he didn’t feel.
Abbot Robert had stopped at his side and peered down at him. ‘Aha! Reeve, and how is your lady this fine morning?’
‘Oh, she is well, Master, well.’
‘And your . . . let me see, you have two sons, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Master. They are well, very well.’
‘I am sure they are. And you, you are well?’
‘Yes, my Lord. I am very well indeed,’ the poor fellow had answered effusively, visibly relaxing. If the Abbot was so kindly, it was hard to remain scared.
‘Really? And yet my rents from Werrington have not been collected yet. I thought it was because you were unwell.’
‘No, Master.’
‘Or your children were.’
‘Um. No, Master.’
‘Or maybe even that your wife was ill.’
There was a disconsolate mumble.
‘Well, in God’s name get over there and do your job, man! You aren’t employed by me to sit about swapping tall stories and drinking ale all day!’
The memory of the man’s face as the Abbot rode off imperiously on his great mount would stay with Augerus for ever. He smiled as he worked, and when his jobs were done, he glanced out of the window at the shadows in the court. In an hour or two he would have to prepare the Abbot’s table so that he could entertain whoever was with him today, but until then Augerus was free. He walked out of the Abbot’s lodgings to the Great Court.
The salsarius, Brother Mark, who provided the salted beef and fish, also served the Abbey as medarius, holding the stocks of wine and ale. The Abbot himself had once drily commented that the arrangement made sense – the salsarius could, by serving ale as medarius, assuage the thirst that his salted meat provoked.
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 Augerus 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 drunk more than Augerus, yet only suffered a mild headache. There was no justice in the world, Augerus reckoned.
Mind, Mark had had more practice. His red features and swollen nose bore testament to his regular consumption, testing to 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?�
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‘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.
The Devil's Acolyte (2002) Page 15
