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. I 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.’
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 shavaldours, 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 dancing, 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, the 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.
Even the memory of that rebirth, which was what it had felt like, was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he had to wipe his blurred eyes in the street, sniffing and muttering a quick prayer of thanks, crossing himself as he cast his eyes upwards. Feeling calmer, he carried on. He was thankful, of course he was, that God had given him this second chance at life. It meant he had a purpose. There must be a reason, surely, for his continued existence on the earth.
Perhaps He was right, but Peter couldn’t remain in Tynemouth. The terror of his attack, the constant pain in his jaw, were enough to persuade him to beg his Prior that he might be permitted to move to a different monastery, somewhere further away from the Marches. His Prior, ever a generous-hearted man, understood perfectly and not only gave his permission, he also wrote to friends in other Priories and Abbeys asking whether they could find space for his wounded monk. Soon he was told that there was an Abbey far away, down almost as far from Scotland as it was possible to go, where the kindly Abbot had agreed to take him on, and shortly afterwards he had made the long journey southwards to this quiet, peaceful backwater of Tavistock.
Abbot Robert was a good man and had taken Peter to his heart as soon as they had met. There were few who could see the monk’s face without flinching, but when Abbot Robert saw him, he welcomed him with open arms and made a point of giving him the kiss of peace as though he was unharmed. That single act made Peter break down and weep. It was the first time that a man or woman hadn’t retreated before him, but Abbot Robert had made it clear that he cared only for the man himself, not at all for the damage done to him; more, that he accepted Peter unreservedly into his Abbey.
Peter’s heart glowed at the memory. He loved Abbot Robert. The Abbot had proved himself to be a great master, and Peter would serve him until death.
Not that he could forget the attack. It was always there, every time he shaved, every time he caught sight of himself in a glass or in a pool. As was the face of the Scottish rider who had blocked his escape. The grinning, fearsome features of Martyn Armstrong, and behind him, the appalled, deathly pale face of Walwynus.
He was only glad that he had not seen the face of the third man, the man with the axe. That man Peter could never forgive.
Chapter Eleven
Simon sat on a bench next to the Arrayer and surveyed the men before him without enthusiasm. This lot came from one of the Abbot’s outlying manors; others would arrive over the next day. As Simon looked at this, the first batch, he wondered how the Arrayer would react. It was obvious that these were not all the men between sixteen and sixty demanded by the Commission of Array.
They were in the shelter of a tavern out at the western edge of the Burgh, staring at the scruffy and mostly, from the look of them, pox-ridden peasants. Simon had no wish to get too close to most of them, and not only because of their diseased appearance. The Commission of Array offered inducements to tempt men into serving the King, for not only would they be offered money, they would also be given a chance to win pardons for any past offences. Simon privately thought that those men who looked fit enough for service also tended to have fast-moving eyes which were filled with a grim suspicion – the expression felons so often wore when in the presence of a King’s official.
All had brought weapons with them – a selection of bills, swords, axes, bows and arrows – while on their heads some wore cheap helmets or soft woollen caps. To Simon’s eye, the healthiest men seemed to have the best-used weapons, another fact that spoke of misbehaviour. Still, the King wouldn’t want soft-hearted boys for his army. He would be after strong, capable killers.
Looking about him, Simon was content with his first impression: these were the very dregs of the Abbot’s manor. Whether or not they would seriously alarm the vicious warriors of the Scottish March, he had no idea, but he would be happier the sooner they were off and away from Devonshire.
‘Three and forty,’ Sir Tristram said. ‘Is this the best the Abbot can do for the King from his manor of Werrington?’
‘I’m
sure you’ll find that the Abbot has not had anything to do with selecting the men here,’ Simon said. The Abbot would have made quite sure he had no direct involvement with picking this lot. And yet a man like Abbot Robert could make his wishes plain enough without putting them in writing, and the manor had obeyed the unspoken message in his summons. While men, women and children were still out with the harvest, no vill or hamlet was going to spare its strongest and fittest young men for service with the King. Instead they had picked all those who could be sent without imperilling their crops.
Ignoring the obvious felons, Simon considered that, of the young and simple there were three, while of the old and stupid, seven; of the rest, all were undernourished and weak. One had a massive goitre growing on his neck, making his throat look as though it had been taken from an ox and placed beneath his head in some cruel joke. Others had the thick lips and heavy, drooping eyelids of the mentally subnormal. The few fit and healthy men looked hopelessly out of place.
‘This won’t do at all,’ Sir Tristram muttered. With him was a tough-looking, sandy-haired Sergeant called Jack of the Wood. This fellow stood grimly, staring at the recruits, and then, when Sir Tristram began to call men forward, he shook his head as though in horror at the quality of them. Sir Tristram waved the more obviously dim or ill away and began to take the details of the few he could use, discussing each with Jack, while a clerk sent by the Abbot scribbled his records down. He must note the name and weapons of each recruit.
There was little for Simon to do. He sat back, scratching at his head while Sir Tristram questioned the different men, telling each doubtful-looking villein that they had a duty to serve their King, describing with a sort of enthusiastic boastfulness the rewards they could expect from their King: money, plunder, and many women, because women liked strong, virile soldiers. They always did.
Simon had heard enough. He caught the eye of the innkeeper and nodded meaningfully, then rose and went in. Soon he was standing at a broad plank of wood which the keeper used as a bar counter, and drinking deeply from a quart pot of strong ale. It tasted very good compared with sitting outside listening to Sir Tristram’s lies.
The Devil's Acolyte (2002) Page 16
