‘Novices are not as respectful as they once were,’ Mark said.
‘I had thought Gerard wasn’t so bad,’ Augerus said. ‘He is the best-behaved acolyte I have had dealings with for many a year. Quiet, unassuming, quick to learn. He has been candle-bearer for months now, and never late for the Mass, always well-mannered. But this proves he’s just the same as the others. No doubt he thinks he can get away with sloping off back to his bed. He was kind enough to leave it for Nocturns, but as soon as Matins were finished, off he went.’
‘Maybe he was told to help another Brother and didn’t realise the time,’ Mark said charitably. He wasn’t really very interested, and he could afford to be generous: Gerard wasn’t his acolyte.
‘Well, he’s not turned up for me,’ Augerus said irritably. He had caught Mark’s tone and felt miffed: whenever Mark had a problem with his own charges, Augerus always listened to his complaints. ‘He was supposed to be in my undercroft to help me check the stores. I can’t do it on my own.’
Mark sipped at his wine and cast a glance at his friend. Augerus sounded quite het up; it seemed as though there was something else on his mind. ‘Don’t worry. Maybe you’ll find him waiting for you when you get back to the undercroft.’
‘I should hope he arrives before that – I’ve sent a servant to fetch him from his bed.’
Mark peered through his doorway. ‘Did you send him?’ he asked, pointing.
As Augerus joined Mark in the doorway, the tall figure of Reginald hurried across the court to them.
‘Where is that boy?’ Augerus grated. ‘If he’s pretending to be ill . . .’
Mark threw him another look. Augerus was always so calm and unflappable, but now there was a tone of real anxiety in his voice. It was most unlike him. Mark almost wanted to reach out and pat his shoulder.
‘Brother Augerus, Brother Mark, he’s not there.’
Mark gazed at the lad with patient good-humour. ‘Did you check in the reredorter?’
‘I did, Master, and he isn’t there either. I checked the calefactory, the dorter, the refectory, the church . . . I don’t know where else to look.’
‘Are you sure he wasn’t in his bed?’ Augerus demanded.
‘No, he wasn’t there, sir. I did look there for him.’
Mark touched Augerus’ shoulder. ‘He probably went out to the orchard and sat on a bench and fell asleep, or perhaps he went to the stable and dozed off in there. The Good Lord knows how often I have done that, although I couldn’t count the number of times myself.’
‘I must tell the Abbot he is missing!’
‘There is no point – not yet. Wait awhile. He will turn up. You know what boys are.’
‘But what if the poor fellow has fallen under the mill-wheel, or into the well?’
‘If so, there is little you can do to help him now. Leave it until noon. I’m sure he’ll reappear with a hangover, and you can give him a thrashing. He’ll wish he’d never seen a barrel of ale or wine!’
Augerus turned to him and smiled, but there was in his face such a terrible sickly fear that Mark was hard put to return it.
The land was a natural bowl, Baldwin thought as they approached. It was a great depression surrounded by low hills. One miner trailed after them on a pony; ostensibly, as he said, because he was heading into Tavistock himself, but more likely, Baldwin considered, in order to see what the two travellers were doing here.
He was a swarthy fellow dressed in cheap fustian and leather, with grizzled hair, a thin wispy beard, and sharp eyes.
‘That there,’ he said, pointing a grimy finger at a great rounded mass directly ahead of them, ‘that’s Mount Misery, that is. Lots of men have died around the foot of it.’
‘Why is that?’ Baldwin asked. ‘The mire?’
They were following the side of a stream, but now they left it and climbed an incline. The hill to their right was a mass of tumbled rock, the ground to their left a grassy plain with small silvery gleams where water lay or ran.
‘The mire’s further north,’ the miner said, shooting him a look. He stared ahead and said nothing more for some minutes, then, as they breasted a small rise, he squinted ahead. Pointing again, he called, ‘Do you see that cross?’
Baldwin ambled his horse to the man’s side. A short way from their path was a small mass of tumbled rocks, with what looked like a well-made cross standing propped in the middle. ‘What is it?’
‘Childe’s Tomb. ’Tis said Childe was a hunting man, and he was out hunting here in the winter, when the snow began to fall. He knew he had to get home, but all was white. He couldn’t see anything. No sign of the trail, no hills, nothing. That’s what the weather can be like out here.’
Baldwin remembered Belstone in the snow. He nodded slowly. ‘When the snow falls, you had best find yourself beside a fire.’
‘Ah. True enough, Master,’ the miner said emphatically. ‘Childe, he had no fire. Only him and his horse. He couldn’t ride forrard because he didn’t know which way was forrard. He might ride straight into the mire, see? So he went over to a hill and got off his horse, and he killed the horse and disembowelled it, thinking, see, that he’d got shelter and heat all in one, and he climbed inside, away from the bitter wind.’
The Coroner lifted his brows enquiringly. ‘And that worked?’
Baldwin motioned towards the cross. ‘Our friend called that a tomb, Coroner.’
‘Aye,’ the miner agreed, seemingly pleased that Baldwin had spotted the weakness of Coroner Roger’s suggestion. ‘Childe was found there days later, still inside his horse, as cold as the snow all about him.’
‘Wouldn’t he have been covered in snow?’ the Coroner asked.
‘Maybe the snow had all gone. That was why they could see him.’
‘Oh. So he wasn’t that cold, then. If it was warm enough to drive off the snow, he must surely have . . .’
Seeing the glower sweeping over the miner’s face, Baldwin interrupted smoothly. ‘And why should the folk have seen fit to bury him here and with such a magnificent tomb? Was he much loved?’
‘ ’Tis said that he was a rich man, and he left a paper . . .’ He stole a glance at the Coroner. ‘I think it was written on a piece of the horse’s hide, written in blood.’
The Coroner gave a loud sniff of derision.
‘ ’Tis what’s said! Anyhow, this paper said that whosoever found and buried his body could have his lands. So the folks, when they heard, all came to get him. The monks of Tavvie, they got to him first, and they were all set to carry him home, when the people of Plymstock appeared. Childe’s lands were all Plymstock manor, and the folk there didn’t want them to be given to Tavvie, so they stood on the riverbank and threatened to steal the body back. Except the monks, they builded a little bridge and got over further up. And got him home to Tavvie and buried him.’
‘So we can find his tomb in Tavistock?’ the Coroner asked.
‘Aye. You’ll find it there.’
‘So why was this tomb erected?’
Baldwin quickly said, ‘They buried him here, obviously, until they realised that the monks of Tavistock could benefit from his testament. Then the monks came and disinterred him and took him back with them as this good miner has said.’
‘He didn’t say . . .’
‘Perhaps we should simply continue?’ Baldwin said, and as they rode on, he mused, ‘There are so many ways for a man to die out here, so far from family and friends. It is a hard land.’
‘Not hard, Master,’ the miner corrected him. ‘Just unforgiving. You have to be hard yourself to survive out here.’
‘Do you think this dead miner Walwynus was hard enough?’ Baldwin asked curiously.
‘I did think so when he first came here.’
‘How long ago would that have been?’ Baldwin said.
‘Several years ago. He arrived with a friend, but they argued and one attacked the other. Wally lived, Martyn didn’t. Martyn was an arguing, vexatious man, while Wally was no ha
rm to anyone, so it was easy to see that Wally had been innocent. He never fought, normally. Here on the moors you have to fight sometimes, even if you don’t want to. Wally wasn’t that hard. So he’s dead.’
The Coroner nodded. ‘I told you I remembered this area, Baldwin, that I’d held an inquest here? It must have been Wally who killed the other fellow. What was the victim’s name?’
‘Martyn Armstrong. He was a vicious bastard, he was. An evil tongue in his mouth, too. There were plenty were glad that Wally got rid of him.’
‘That’s the bugger!’ the Coroner cried with satisfaction. ‘Yes, Martyn the Scot, I remember now. The two men had been drinking, and Martyn was seen to pull a knife and thrust at his friend, but Walwynus managed to grapple. He got his own knife out and killed Martyn, although he was wounded at the same time. Still, he was released by the jury. They all agreed with him that Martyn had it coming.’
‘But they had been friends?’ Baldwin enquired, looking back at their guide.
‘Yeah.’ He spat a long dribble of phlegm at the ground and eyed the horizon thoughtfully. ‘I was on the jury, and I reckoned with the rest that it was almost certainly Armstrong’s fault. Wally was always pacifying him when he lost his temper. Not that he ever did with Wally. I thought that they had some sort of bond, like warriors. You know? You see two men who have served in the King’s Host, and they’ll be companions for life. These two seemed that way. But one day they flared into an argument. Hal was nearer – he reckoned he heard them shouting about some girl. It’s often about a woman, isn’t it?’
‘Local girl?’ Baldwin asked.
The Coroner answered first. ‘No, it was a girl from their home, up in Scotland. I recall now: Walwynus said that some wench had been raped and killed, and Martyn made some comment about her.’
‘That’s right,’ the miner said. ‘Hal heard them and he asked Wally about it later. Wally told him this girl, she’d saved his life when he’d been at death’s door. She’d nursed him and protected him, and Martyn took her memory and insulted her. He was in his cups, of course, but he said something about her being a brave, eager slut, and that got Wally so angry, he was about to jump on Martyn, but Martyn saw he’d gone too far and pulled his knife first. And that was that.’
‘Did you ever learn where these two came from?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Christ! Miles away. Up northwards somewhere. They always spoke like foreigners. Scotland somewhere.’
‘Would anyone else know more accurately? A friend or someone?’
‘That monk, the scarred one. He knew them up north, I heard tell. Hal said so. Said Wally told him. They weren’t friends, though. Wally was terrified of the monk.’
‘You think he thought the monk posed a danger to him?’
‘Don’t know about that so much,’ the miner grunted. ‘But he was scared, right enough. Scared shitless.’
‘Did Walwynus have many enemies?’ Baldwin asked.
‘No. Most liked him.’
‘Then was he killed for money?’
‘Doubt it. He had little enough.’
‘Can you think of any other reason why someone might choose to kill him?’
The miner gave a sly grin. ‘There is a man might know.’
‘Who?’ Coroner Roger demanded. ‘Come on, fellow, this is like drawing teeth!’
‘True enough!’ the miner cackled. ‘You should ask Ellis the tooth-butcher. See what he has to say.’
They had arrived at a flat space, and Baldwin could see a body lying on the ground almost at the same time as he smelled it. A scruffy man in worn clothing stood blearily by, a long polearm in his hand as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. At his side was a small barrel which showed the cause of his lethargy.
The Coroner dropped from his horse and began to study the corpse without touching it.
While he was thus occupied, Baldwin leaned to the miner again. ‘Who is this Ellis? Why should he wish to see the man dead?’
‘Because Ellis reckoned Wally here was giving his sister one! You ask Ellis about his sister Sara.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because Ellis was here last Friday morning. I saw him, heard him shouting and threating Wally. Go on – you ask Ellis!’
Chapter Fourteen
After the previous day’s rainy beginning, it had been a relief to wake to bright sunlight. Simon hadn’t needed the prodding finger of the novice to wake him, for he could feel the warmth of the sun reaching out to him even through his closed eyes. Lazily, he had opened them to find himself gazing at Sir Tristram’s bare body. The knight had swung open the rough board shutter and was staring down into the yard. Seeing him thus naked in the morning light, Simon was surprised at the number of wounds on his body.
There were two star-shaped scars, both on his upper left shoulder, which looked as though they must have been made by arrows. The great barbed arrows of old would have done far more damage, but the modern ‘prickers’, designed to penetrate mail, were little more than square-sectioned steel needles. Simon had seen other men wounded by these arrows, and they always had this characteristic star-shape. On his flank there was a great gouge lined with sore-looking red flesh that probably resulted from a sword or axe blow; his left upper arm bore a long, raking slash; both legs were mottled with scars, some fine, thin ones like cobwebs, others deep-looking stab wounds or slashes, as though he had been in a hundred different fights with all different types of weapon.
Simon couldn’t help but let a low whistle pass from his lips, and Sir Tristram whirled round.
There were many knights whom Simon had met who had been suave and silky in movement as well as tone, men who would turn elegantly upon hearing someone behind them. Others, like his old friend Baldwin himself, were strangely precise in their movements. These were the masters of defence, men who had trained all their childhood and youth, men who could pick up any weapon and use it effectively, men who could fight as though dancing, while holding a seven-pound sword in one hand as if it was as light as a willow-wand.
This was not one such. Sir Tristram spun around like a man expecting death and the devil. His face was pulled into a snarl, his teeth bared, his whole being transfigured. From a tall man at a window he became a crouching, bestial creature, one hand forward, the other held back, ready to punch. But there was something missing. It was as though Sir Tristram had seen knights fight and knew how to emulate them, but lacked their skill; a man might, after all, pick up a hammer and beat at a piece of metal, but it took a smith’s experience to bend that metal to his will.
Then, in an instant, Sir Tristram had reverted to a tall man at a window. He stood again with a faintly sneering smile. ‘Aha, Bailiff. I didn’t realise you were awake.’
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Simon said carefully. ‘But I noticed your scars, and I was surprised to see so many.’
Sir Tristram’s face relaxed. He almost seemed to be listening to voices Simon couldn’t hear. ‘Perhaps you were just as surprised to hear how I spoke of the Scottish. This should explain why,’ he said, motioning at his flank and legs. ‘The Scots did all this. These fine scratches were from a razor. A Scot caught me on my own lands and sought to punish me. He intended to kill me, after torturing me, but I managed to get the better of him. A man of mine arrived and knocked him out, rescuing me, and I myself cut off his head, the bastard!’
‘What of the arrows? When were you hit by them?’
‘In the service of the King. One at Bannockburn, one at Boroughbridge. As you can see, places beginning with the letter “B” are not lucky for me!’
‘I have never seen so many scars as those which lie on your arms and legs.’
‘These are all from Scottish scum! They stole my inheritance from me, and whenever I have fought them to win back my lands, they have wounded me, but never have they conquered! Every encounter you see marked here upon my body, every one has been avenged. Not one man who marked me yet lives.’
‘And now the King wants
more men to end the border fighting once and for all. That will be a good thing for you, I suppose. You can enjoy peace once the fighting is all done.’
‘Peace? Yes, I suppose so,’ Sir Tristram said, but without conviction. Simon had the impression that he was less interested in peace, more in the potential that his returned lands would give him for exacting punishment on those who had thwarted him over the last years.
He didn’t speak again while he and Simon dressed, but walked from the room as though sunk deep in thought. Simon was glad when he had gone. There was little pleasure to be gained from so morose a companion, and he groaned inwardly to think that he must remain with this man all day, surveying a crowd of grimy peasants all reeking of sweat, garlic and old ale.
When he found himself sitting at the table in the marketplace, inspecting all the men, the reality was even worse than his fears. The stench of unwashed bodies was almost overpowering in the still, hot air, and as each man stepped up to the table to be viewed and considered while his weapon was surveyed with greater or lesser contempt, the foul wafts from rotten teeth turned Simon’s stomach. It would be almost preferable, he thought, to be up on the moors at the side of the putrefying corpse.
He was here in a semi-official capacity, mainly to see that the Arrayer didn’t take too many of the Abbot’s men, and he found the task tedious, but knew that he couldn’t slip away. He must sit here and look intent, concentrating hard on serving the Abbot while also not appearing to help anyone obstruct the Arrayer. Waving at the innkeeper, he ordered a jug of ale and drank deeply as soon as it arrived.
By late afternoon, he had had enough. Rather the stinking remains of poor Walwynus than this slow repetition of the same old questions, followed by the same dull responses.
Simon was surprised at his reaction, for he disliked anything to do with corpses. However, in the last six years he had become increasingly involved in cases of murder than in the more usual aspects of his job – catching thieves, punishing miners or the peasants and farmers who lived near to Dartmoor and broke the Stannary laws. He was fortunate that his master, the Abbot, was keen to see that justice was impersonal, and that every murdered man still had access to justice.
The Devil's Acolyte (2002) Page 20
