The dog began again, and this time they could hear the steps outside. Soon there was a light tapping at their door.
Hamelin snatched up his knife. It was a good weapon with a foot-long blade, and he held it to the door as he went to it. ‘Who is it?’ he hissed.
‘Watchman. Is that Hamelin? Don’t open the door, there’s no need. I’ve been asked to tell you, the Abbot wants to see you first thing tomorrow. Go to the Court Gate when it opens. That’s all.’
Hamelin relaxed as he listened to the footsteps leaving. He thrust his knife back in its sheath and returned to his wife’s side.
She was frowning. ‘What could the Abbot want with you?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Who cares? Maybe I’ve infringed one of his Burgh laws, spending too much time in the town when I should be out on the moors working.’
‘Not our revered Abbot, surely!’ she chuckled, nestling into his shoulder.
‘So long as he doesn’t want to fine me.’
‘That would be that overblown bag of pus Joce Blakemoor, wouldn’t it? He’s in charge of fining miners.’
Hamelin grunted. ‘I heard that no one ever liked him. Not when he was growing up here, not when he grew to be an adult. Everyone was delighted when he went away to learn to be a merchant, and no one was pleased when he came back.’
‘How did he get to be elected Receiver if no one liked him?’
‘It’s one of those jobs. You buy it, and then get to cream off all the profits for your own pocket. He had money when he came back.’
‘It’s easy to make money when you have some.’
Hamelin turned to kiss her, then he gently laid her down on her back. ‘We’ll have money too, my love. Trust me. Nothing can go wrong for us now our little Joel is all right.’
Up in the dorter, the Abbot lowered his voice. When he was young, he would have been sorely tempted to stop outside and listen, and he only hoped that Reginald wouldn’t submit to the same temptation.
‘The matter of theft is repellent in a place like this, Baldwin. In a close-knit community like this, where the Brothers all sleep, eat and pray together, supposedly in one large family, the family of Christ, it is uniquely abhorrent to think that one of your companions is prepared to flout the laws of God and steal from his own Brothers. I do not wish to spread such a rumour. Especially, I should say, among the novices like Reginald. They talk so much, and they believe all they hear. Something like this – well! To think that a lad like Gerard is capable of stealing is, is . . . It is dreadful.’
Abbot Robert looked so upset that Baldwin wanted to open his heart to the man, to explain that he could easily understand the revulsion – he had himself been a Knight Templar, a warrior monk, and had taken the same three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience as the monks in this Abbey – but he knew he could not. That would mean confessing to his membership of the Order, which would inevitably colour Abbot Robert’s opinion of him, and might even lead to the Abbot insisting on his being evicted from the guest room. Hospitality was one thing: harbouring a man whom the Pope had branded a heretic was quite another. Whether the Abbot believed, as some few English prelates did, that the Templars could be guilty, was beside the point, as Baldwin knew. The main thing was, Abbot Robert would be exposing himself and his Abbey to danger.
‘I think I understand,’ Baldwin said kindly.
‘In that case, you will understand, too, that accusing a Brother of theft is an equally serious matter. Especially one who is so young.’
‘Yet one of your monks did accuse him,’ Baldwin said.
‘He is an older man, Sir Baldwin, neither a bigot, nor a fool, and when he came to me and told me that one of my novices could be responsible for the thefts, I could not ignore his words.’
‘Did he not seek to talk to the youth himself?’ It was more common, Baldwin knew, for those who suspected a comrade of an infraction of the rules to speak to that person and give them a chance to put matters right before setting the facts before someone of the Abbot’s stature.
‘I think he would have tried, but he didn’t feel that the novice Gerard took note.’
‘Who is this paragon of virtue?’
The Abbot licked his lips. ‘I shouldn’t tell you without letting him know first. It’s a matter of courtesy, you understand . . .’
‘Yes, naturally,’ Baldwin said, and he did not mind. Other issues were more crucial at present, such as what had happened to the acolyte. Yet there was another point, surely. He looked at the Abbot. ‘My Lord Abbot, this is hardly a matter for me. A youth has been accused of theft by someone, and has decided to run away. How can I help?’ Apostasy was considered a vile crime, and those who committed it were liable to be sought out and dragged back, but that was no reason for a secular official to become involved.
‘It’s that story of Milbrosa.’
‘Ah, I see. You want me to find the lad because otherwise people will say he has been carried away by the Prince of Darkness.’
‘Yes. I know it is ridiculous, but it is precisely that kind of rumour which could ruin us. I have dedicated my life to this Abbey, Sir Baldwin – all my adult life. I have converted a bankrupt institution into a tool for God. We give regular pensions to the poor of Tavistock and the lepers in the Maudlin, we provide comfort and safety for travellers, we work day and night for the protection of the souls of those living and the dead, and all this work depends upon money. It is no use telling me that money is irrelevant and despised by God, it is an asset like any other, and we depend upon our patrons for it. If a rumour should escape from within these walls that there was a second monk whose behaviour was so corrupt that his soul was taken away by the devil, how would that chime with the men who support us? Who would want to give us their money, if they felt that our behaviour was so foul that the devil looked upon us as his natural prey?’
Baldwin screwed up his face as he considered the task ahead. ‘You want me to concentrate on finding this lad, then?’
‘Yes, Sir Baldwin. I want you to find him, but I also want you to make sure that the murderer of the tin-miner is found as well, for while no man confesses to that crime, people’s tongues will wag. And if people gossip, which would they prefer to talk about, a chance encounter with an outlaw, or an evil monk who has a heart as black as his Benedictine habit, and who is the prey of the Evil One?’
Baldwin smiled, then reached down to Gerard’s bed and pulled the covering aside. ‘There’s nothing to see here,’ he said. He sat on the bed and looked about him, but while he sat there, he became aware that something was wrong. There was nowhere to hide anything. All the Brothers swore themselves to poverty, so there was nothing, not even a small casket, for private belongings.
‘If he had stolen anything, where could he have hidden it?’ he asked.
The Abbot gazed about him distractedly. ‘I have no idea! There are so many places all over the Abbey where someone could store things. It would be impossible to find them all.’
Baldwin nodded. It was as he expected. Standing, he picked up the rough base of the bed and tipped it, so that the palliasse was turned over, before setting the base back on the ground.
‘Dramatic, I know. But if there are so many places all over the Abbey to hide things, why ever should he have left these here?’ Baldwin asked as two plates bounced across the floor.
The Abbot gasped. ‘What sort of fool was he, that he would conceal them in his bed?’ he demanded, bending to pick up one of the plates.
‘I should think the most innocent fool,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘Someone was determined to make him take the blame for something. Pah! Plates under his palliasse?’
‘You think that the lad could be innocent? In truth?’
Baldwin smiled at the hopeful tone. ‘Yes, indeed, my Lord Abbot. But do not blind yourself to the fact that only one of your congregation could have got in here, I assume.’
‘I fear so. Only the choir itself could enter here – and one or two of the lay brothers,
of course.’
‘Then it is among them that we must seek the thief.’
‘Sir Baldwin . . .’
‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked, seeing his sudden stillness.
Abbot Robert went over and touched the bed in the opposite partition. When he stood up, his face was anxious. ‘I am no expert in death like you, but this stain . . . could it be dried blood?’
The knight’s face was serious. ‘I think we may have to prepare to find another body, Abbot.’
He had no idea that his words would prove to be correct so soon – nor that they would also prove be so wrong.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning Baldwin saw that there was another guard at the corpse when they all reached the scene of the murder.
A crowd of miners had gathered, a grim band of men with the uniform of peat-stained, ragged clothing and eyes bright from malnutrition and overwork. Some were staring at Wally’s body, but for the most part they appeared content to stand as far from it as was possible. When Baldwin and the others drew nearer, it was easy to see – or, rather, to smell – why.
Simon had said nothing about his concerns to Baldwin. Indeed, the two men had scarcely spoken. When Baldwin had returned from his private meeting with the Abbot, Simon had hoped that he would say something – but Baldwin made no reference to the lengthy interview. This made Simon think the worst – that the Abbot must have wanted to talk about Simon, probably warning Baldwin that he wasn’t capable of doing his job any more.
It was terrible, this certainty that his best friend was aware of his position; Simon felt as though he was marked out, like a felon waiting to be caught. Not that there was any guilt, as such; it was more a deep sense of failure. He wanted to shout, to punch someone, to take control of events which seemed to be conspiring against him, to show that he was the same man, unchanged, as able as any other. But he couldn’t.
He rode silently to a gorse tree that stood a few yards from the body, thankful that it was upwind of Wally’s remains. Dropping from his mount he gave Baldwin a pleading look, and the knight gave him a nod as he too dismounted.
In the past Baldwin would have smiled or winked at his old friend, but his sympathy was beginning to wear thin. It wasn’t a bit like Simon to be so . . . what, sulky? It was the best word Baldwin could find to describe his morose temper.
Occasionally, it was true, Simon could be pensive, such as when something occurred to him that might have a bearing on a matter that they were investigating, but more usually they enjoyed an open, easy relationship. When the Coroner was with them, all three relished telling jokes or stories about the fire. They were comfortable with each other, unworried about hurting feelings, but last night Simon had been gruff and all but silent. Soon after they had returned from the alehouse, he complained of being tired and went to his bed, but Baldwin knew it was not to sleep. There was no grunting and snoring, but a deathly silence.
It wasn’t only he who felt the atmosphere. The Coroner himself had spoken in a hushed voice, with many a glance at Simon, as though wondering whether Baldwin and he had fallen out. It was almost as though Simon suspected Baldwin of molesting his wife – a ridiculous thought, but that was the only comparison Baldwin could think of that in any way reflected Simon’s attitude.
Perhaps it was because he simply did not wish to be here, Baldwin thought. Although the knight could never quite understand why Simon was so squeamish about corpses, he could appreciate that for some people, the sight of a putrefied mess could be the last straw.
With that thought, he began to concentrate on Wally. Although the body’s odour was not pleasant, it was as nothing compared to the stenches Baldwin had been forced to experience in Acre during that city’s siege in 1291, when the fresh corpses would be bloated and fly-blown within a few hours of death. It was impossible to eradicate that odour from his memory. In comparison, this corpse smelled almost fresh.
While the clerk whom the Abbot had sent with them to take the Coroner’s notes sharpened his reeds and prepared his papers and ink, his eyes enormous and fearful as he gazed at the figure, Baldwin and Coroner Roger squatted by the corpse.
‘All consistent with a beating,’ Baldwin observed. ‘Extensive damage done to his skull, poor devil.’
‘Yes. Nothing to give us an idea of who did it or why, just a ravaged skull. What of the rest of him?’
The two stood aside while two men stepped forward. One was a gravedigger and sniffed unconcernedly, grabbing the shoulder and hose to pull Wally on to a blanket brought for the purpose. ‘Good clothes, these,’ he said appraisingly. He would be wearing them in a few hours, Baldwin thought.
His companion was more reluctant, a younger lad who wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes, as though he was likely to be sick at any moment.
Baldwin and Roger moved to a more open space in front of the jury while the two men dragged the body on the blanket over to them, dropped the corners and waited for another order. The Coroner told them to remove the victim’s clothes, and while the older man immediately bent to his task, the younger one vomited noisily into a gorse bush.
‘Don’t worry, boy. You’ll get used to ’un,’ the gravedigger said as he worked a puffy arm through a sleeve.
Baldwin and Coroner Roger were soon confronted by the body of a man in his early thirties, slender of build, like one who has worked long and hard with not enough food or drink. His face was terribly beaten, his jaw broken, one eye-socket smashed in and the temple crushed. Dark brown stains of his blood lay all over his body, yet, as the gravedigger turned him over and then over again, there were clearly no recent stab wounds nor any sign that the fellow had been throttled, although there were some appalling scars from previous wounds, well healed now, about his shoulder, his flanks and one leg.
‘What do you think, Sir Baldwin?’ the Coroner asked.
‘You can see as much as I,’ Baldwin responded thoughtfully. ‘He was killed by a blunt weapon, and I am sure Simon was right when he suggested that the studded timber he found was responsible. Apart from that, his body has lain here unmoved, from the look of the grass beneath him. It’s paler compared with the rest.’
‘I agree.’ Coroner Roger eyed the jury of miners and began to call out his findings for the clerk to record. Later, when the Sheriff came on his annual perambulation, these records could be presented by the Coroner so that the guilty man might be held. Still later, when the Justices came in their own turn, the Coroner would once more attend the court and his records would be used to confirm the guilt or innocence of the accused man and, some felt more importantly, to gauge the extent of the fines and taxes to be imposed on the populace.
‘There are no obvious stab wounds,’ he said, eyeing the clerk sternly. Hastily the man began scribbling.
‘No, but there are many scars. All healed now, but he must have been severely treated at some point,’ Baldwin noted.
‘Who saw this man last week?’ Coroner Roger called out. ‘Does anyone know what led to this happening to him?’
‘I saw him on the day before the coining.’
Baldwin leaned to his left, peering past a tall red-headed man with a fierce-looking, bristling beard. Behind him was a shorter man with sallow complexion and intensely bright blue eyes in a weather-beaten face.
Roger pointed to him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Ivo Cornisshe. I work at the bottom of Misery Tor, not far from Wally’s old place, and I saw him setting off for Tavistock early on the Thursday morning.’
Simon scowled about at the men. ‘Where is Hamelin? He lived nearest, up at Wally’s old place. Why isn’t he here?’
There was no answer from the men arrayed before them.
The Coroner nodded to Ivo to continue. ‘How was Wally when you saw him?’
‘Cheery. I asked him why and he said he was looking forward to a good quart of ale. He hadn’t made much money recently, he said, and he was miserable as the Tor itself with the thought of drinking any more water off th
e moors.’
‘His mining wasn’t successful?’
‘It wasn’t too bad, I suppose,’ Ivo said with transparent honesty. ‘He did well at first, but then he could only just scrape together enough to live on. That was why he tried farming instead.’
‘Near here?’
‘Yes. A mile or so. His rabbits and vegetables kept him fed. At least he didn’t have a family to keep. Trouble is, veg is tough to grow on the moors. Especially if the rabbits get to them,’ he added as an afterthought.
Coroner Roger glared about him to quell the sudden ripple of laughter that spread about the gathering. ‘And he had little money?’
‘None of us have much of that. If a mine is working, then all is well, but it only lasts so long. You dig and dig, wash away the rubbish, dig again, and then you have enough ore to fill a few bags. Melt them, pay the owner of a furnace, carry the ingots to Tavistock and pay your tax, pay your feed bills, have some ale, and suddenly you’ve got nothing left again, and you have to come back to the moors to try to dig out a load more tin or find a new claim.’
Simon interrupted. ‘I have been told that on the day of the coining, he had money aplenty. Where did he get it?’
Ivo shrugged. ‘Maybe he found it?’
There was a quiet comment, a miner suggesting that he could have sold his remaining asset, his body, to one of the rich women who were always passing by here, and some coarse sniggers were silenced only when the Coroner barked, ‘Shut up!’
Simon was still listening as the Coroner began asking about Wally’s sudden wealth, but standing at the edge of the miners, his eyes ranged over the men. Ivo was known to Simon, but then most of the men here were, by sight if not by name. It was natural that he should recognise them all, for there weren’t all that many miners, especially since the famine years when even places like Hound Tor had been deserted.
He stared fixedly at Hal. The man knew something. It was obvious in the way that he stood with his legs apart, as though preparing for a verbal sparring match. His arms were crossed over his chest, with a long staff hooked in one, and he was perfectly still, as though he was at his ease, but his good eye was sharp and moving swiftly from Baldwin, to the Coroner, to Simon, below his black brows.
The Devil's Acolyte (2002) Page 24
