The Devil's Acolyte (2002)

by Jecks, Michael

  Seeing the swift flash of Hal’s eye, Simon lifted his eyebrow, and he saw that his guess was correct. Hal looked away so fast, his head actually moved, and immediately the Coroner was on him.

  ‘You! What’s your name?’

  Hal’s head dropped lower on his shoulders. He threw Simon a bitter look as though the Bailiff had betrayed him, then cleared his throat. ‘Hal Raddych, sir.’

  ‘You’re a miner as well?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I protected this body the first night and last as well.’

  ‘Very good. And tell me, did anyone come here and move the body while you were here?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What of the club that was used to kill him, Hal?’ Simon interjected.

  ‘The club?’

  ‘The blood is still there on the bush. It’s obvious that there was something there.’

  ‘Perhaps it was stolen away, sir.’

  Simon stood and hooked his thumbs in his belt. ‘You take me for a fool?’

  Hal looked away. ‘No, sir. But I don’t have the club, and I don’t know anyone who does.’

  ‘You don’t know anyone who does? You mean that your guard yesterday took it?’

  ‘I don’t know where it could have gone. Maybe a dog took it, or a fox, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It was only a lump of timber.’

  ‘It matters how many nails there were in it,’ Coroner Roger said. ‘We have to know how much it was worth for the deodand.’

  Simon smiled. ‘It must have been worth at least two shillings, Coroner, for someone to bother to take it away.’

  ‘I agree. Unless we find it, I shall value it at two shillings. Sheriff to come and collect and so on.’ He looked at the clerk. ‘You know the right words to use, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So it comes to this, then,’ the Coroner said. ‘We have a dead man, murdered by a man or men unknown, his head bashed in. He was a poor man, yet he somehow had collected money. We don’t know where from, but he splashed it around liberally. We know he was at the coining from what the good Bailiff has learned. Did he sell something? When he left his home to go to Tavistock, did he have a lump of tin to sell? Did he have a packhorse or anything? Did he look as though he was suddenly wealthy?’

  Ivo answered. ‘No, he had nothing but a small wallet on his back. His purse didn’t rattle, either.’

  ‘Could he have had tin in his wallet?’

  ‘I suppose, but that much would be worth little. That was why he was so dependent on his rabbits. He used to sell the meat to other miners, the pelts separately. They were good on a winter’s day, those pelts. He knew how to cure them with salt. Took him time, but he was good at it.’

  ‘And yet he had enough money to buy drink?’ the Coroner asked.

  Hal interrupted. ‘He was probably just looking to get some credit with a tradesman in Tavvie.’

  Simon watched him closely. Hal looked deeply uncomfortable, as though he was trying to move the conversation on, afraid that something might be discovered.

  ‘Hmmph,’ the Coroner grunted. He was staring at the clerk, and Simon saw that he was taking Hal’s words at face value. He was surprised – then afraid that he really was losing his touch. If he thought that the man’s evidence was so clearly dishonest, perhaps it was because his own judgement was at fault, because Coroner Roger obviously didn’t share his misgivings.

  Then he felt a shiver of resentment pass through him. He refused to believe that he was so incompetent that he didn’t understand his own miners. Simon had spent six years getting to know these men, and he’d cut his own cods off if Hal didn’t know more than he was letting on. Simon would speak to him separately. It would show that he still knew a trick or two. Maybe it would teach the Abbot that he was trustworthy still. It might even prove to Baldwin that Simon wasn’t burned out and only good for the midden.

  There and then Simon determined that he would learn all that Hal knew, and if he could, he would discover the murderer of Wally before anyone else.

  Nob belched as he finished the last of his ale and glanced up the road. The kennel was filled with mud and filth, and even as he watched, he heard the familiar bellow of ‘Gardy loo!’ from Tan the cobbler’s place up the road. There followed a minor eruption of green liquid from an upper window, narrowly missing a well-dressed merchant who stopped in the middle of the lane to roar and shake a fist upwards with fury.

  This was such a small street, it was no surprise that pedestrians would often get spattered, but there was little choice for housekeepers. They had to empty their pots somewhere.

  Ordering another ale, Nob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and considered the place. It was only a little town, Tavistock. Not like other places he’d been. Mind, some of them weren’t so disorganised as this. The trouble was, Devonshire was so hard to get to. Most towns he’d been to, there was some sort of plan about them before the houses went up. Like Longtown in Herefordshire. Even newer towns in Devonshire had some thought invested in them; he remembered South Zeal as a pleasant place with a good broad road and pleasant plots set out regularly along it.

  Tavistock was older, though. It had been a Burgh since the days of Abbot Walter, many folk said (although exactly how long that meant Nob didn’t know), and the lanes and streets wound their way untidily about the town. But there were advantages to it. Such as this, the quiet little alehouse not far from his pie-shop, hidden from the main roads by a bend where the lane was forced to curve around the back of Joce Blakemoor’s large house.

  It was an imposing property, although Nob himself reckoned it gaudy. Joce was supposed to be a wealthy man, and this was one of the most impressive places in town. The front opened on to the main street, and there you could see that the owner was important. All Blakemoor’s goods were stored in the undercroft, a massive, stone-vaulted chamber that lay under the level of the road. Between the undercroft and the roadway was a large channel, like a moat, which must be traversed by a set of wooden steps, like a drawbridge, which led up to Joce’s shop, where he sold his bolts of cloth, everything from the coarse, cheap dozens to linens and fine wool materials. He even sold silks occasionally, the only cloth merchant to do that this side of Exeter.

  Behind the shop itself was Joce’s hall, a high-ceilinged room with doors at the back which gave out to the parlour and service rooms, while a ladder led to the bedchambers at front and rear.

  Nob knew the place well. On several occasions he had been instructed to bring pies here and set them out for Joce’s friends, and he and Cissy had been led through to the great hall, its fire roaring in the middle of the floor, then out to the parlour and storerooms beyond. While Cissy went though some final details in the arrangement of the pies, for she was never satisfied, Nob had taken the opportunity to go upstairs and have a look around.

  Joce had made a lot of money, that was obvious. The tapestries hanging from the walls, the pewter and silver on his shelves, all spoke of enormous wealth. A merchant selling fine cloths to the men and women of a place like Tavistock could earn himself plenty. Yet the last time Nob had visited, there were fewer plates on the cupboard, less pewter. Joce was obviously selling or pawning his things for cash. He had made more money than Nob ever would from flogging pies, but then, as Nob told himself, he had enough for himself and his family, and that was all a man could ask for.

  He was a fortunate soul, Nob told himself again. Good wife, good food, enough to buy himself ale whenever he wanted, and his children all doing well. What more could one want? Especially when the alternative was to live like Joce, always trying to keep up appearances, spending lavishly just to maintain his position in society.

  Not that his position was that impressive, in Nob’s view. Nor was he highly respected. Especially now, since his temper seemed to be growing shorter.

  Tavistock was a quiet town, and violence was a matter for conversation, so when a man like Joce went to his neighbour’s house and threatened him, that news was s
oon the subject of gossip up and down the place. And when a man beat his servant for no reason, especially a likeable young fellow like Art, that too caused much quiet speculation. After all, it only took one fool whose brain was in his fists, to lead to fines for all the people living nearby. It was every man’s responsibility to keep the King’s Peace.

  ‘Drinking so early?’ said a smooth voice, and Nob recognised the figure of Sir Tristram’s Sergeant.

  ‘Jack!’ He smiled broadly, partly because he wanted this man to look on him in as friendly a light as possible, but also from the hope that since Sir Tristram was thought to be done in the town, Nob himself should be safe from being recruited. ‘Fancy an ale?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Jack said, taking his seat with a grunt. ‘I’ve been up half the night keeping an eye on the pitiful little company Sir Tristram’s hired. A drink would be welcome.’

  ‘Perhaps a game or two while we’re here?’

  Jack smiled hawkishly. ‘Now wouldn’t that be fun?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Nob, gesturing to the host to fetch ale and dice. Soon they were throwing the cubes on the table-top, and before long a number of coins had transferred themselves from Nob’s purse to Jack’s.

  Trying to distract him, Nob said, ‘You lot all off now?’

  ‘As soon as the men have been fed and have collected water, we’ll set off. Sir Tristram has more men waiting for us at Oakhampton and further north. We’ll have a long and weary march to get up to Scotland.’

  ‘It sounds a miserable land. Cold and wet all the time,’ Nob shivered. ‘I knew a man from up there – Wally, his name was, but he’s dead now.’

  ‘Aye?’

  Nob winced as he caught sight of Jack’s throw. ‘Yes, he was murdered. The inquest is today.’

  ‘There’s a monk who came from up there, too, I’ve heard.’

  ‘That’ll be Peter. The wounded monk.’

  ‘Oh aye? How’s he wounded?’

  Nob took up the dice with a sinking feeling as he eyed his losses. He explained about Peter’s jaw, and saw Jack nodding.

  ‘That’s what Sir Tristram told me. Peter, eh? Well, I’ll be buggered. Never thought he’d survive that one. We killed most of the men, but some of those bastards got away. And that bloody Brother had helped one of them.’

  Nob listened with his mouth open wide as Jack told how Wally’s life had been saved and how he had then participated in hunting down Peter.

  ‘So Wally and these others escaped?’

  ‘Yes. I was with Sir Tristram even then, and we chased after the three as soon as Peter was found, but they split up. First we knew, we came across this hut where Peter’s woman had lived.’

  Nob thought Jack’s face seemed to harden at the recollection. The Sergeant leaned both elbows on the table and grimaced. ‘She’d been raped, poor lass, and then she’d been killed – slowly. She was such a beautiful girl, too. I tell you, I’d seen the Armstrongs’ handiwork before that, but I’d never seen anything so . . . so pointlessly cruel.’

  ‘Did you never catch any of them?’

  ‘They all escaped into England and we couldn’t chase them. There were other clans rattling their swords. We sent to warn other towns and villages, but no one saw them again. I’d thought they’d died – maybe fallen into a bog or died from the cold. Not hard enough as a way to perish, but then nothing would be cruel enough for bastards like them.’

  Ellis put his strop on the doorpost and began to stroke his razor up and down it. He was still standing there when his sister appeared at the doorway with her children. She sent them to play with some sticks in the alley, and walked to him.

  He looked tired, she thought. Weary, like a man who’s been working too hard without enough to eat. ‘Ellis?’

  ‘What is it?’

  His tone was grumpy, and he didn’t meet her eyes as she stepped behind him and leaned against the wall, watching her children. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all. I thought he loved me, and I thought he’d marry me, and that would be my life settled and secure. All I wanted was to look after the children. Was it so terrible that I slept with him? He had told me that he’d marry me. Ellis, please!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at me! Put your razor down and listen to me. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You did, though. What will men call you now, eh? Slut, slattern, draggle-arse . . . whore!’

  ‘He swore he’d marry me,’ she said obstinately.

  ‘And you’d trust the word of a fucking miner?’ he spat.

  ‘Miner?’ It felt as though she was losing her grip on reality. ‘He’s no miner.’

  ‘No, but he was, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Wasn’t he always a merchant?’

  Ellis gazed at her. ‘You mean Wally, don’t you?’

  ‘Wally? What’s he got to do with anything?’

  ‘Wasn’t it him? The father?’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ she gasped. ‘You think I’d lie with . . . Good God!’

  Ellis weakly grabbed a chair and sat. ‘But who, then?’

  ‘Joce, of course.’

  ‘But I went up to Wally and . . .’

  Sara felt her heart stop in her breast. She put her hand to her throat as though to massage air into her lungs. ‘What? Ellis, what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing, Sara. Christ’s Bones! But I could have,’ he shuddered.

  Sara was relieved to hear his denial. He had never, to her knowledge, lied to her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The next morning – Friday morning – I went up to the moors first thing. I wanted to scare him away from you, and I shouted at him, threatened him.’

  ‘Did you hit him?’

  ‘No! I didn’t need to. Someone else had already laid into him. But I told him to leave you alone. He looked confused, denied anything, but then just agreed. Said he’d agree to anything if I’d just go.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘Only a monk.’

  Sara pulled her tunic closer about her against the chill which had filled her. ‘You could be accused of killing him.’

  ‘Perhaps. If it happens, it happens.’

  ‘I’ll protect you,’ she whispered, and hugged him.

  For the first time that day, he looked a little easier.

  Nob grunted when Jack scooped up his coins – Nob’s coins – into his purse, said goodbye and thanked Nob for their game.

  ‘Bastard!’ Nob muttered. It was bad enough that Jack had taken his money – but he had played while drinking at Nob’s expense too. Never even offered to buy a round.

  Jack had wandered up the alley, and shortly afterwards, Nob heard what sounded like shouting. Hoping that someone was beating up his opponent, probably, as Nob told himself, to avenge his cheating at dice and general tight-fistedness, he glanced that way. Immediately his eye was caught by a flash of metal up beyond Joce’s house. Throwing down some coins, he headed in that direction.

  A fight was always worth seeing!

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was the Arrayer. Nob had heard of him, and seeing Sir Tristram at the front of all the men, striding along with a clerk at his side, talking loudly and slapping his hand on a piece of paper, it was easy to guess that he was a military commander. He appeared, from the sound of it, to be arguing about the amount of food that the town was going to provide for him and his men. Looking about him, Nob saw Joce, white-faced and furious, standing at a shop’s table at the edge of the men.

  ‘I will have none of it,’ Joce said, and although his voice was quiet, it carried marvellously. ‘You have your men, and the King demands that they be fed on the way – that is fine, but I will not give you food to take with you. If your men want food, they should bring it themselves from their own larders, not expect us to provide for them here. The King’s writ demands food for his Host while marching and when they have been marshalled at a battlefield, but this is no battlefield, and they haven’t been marching. If you had collected t
hem from Cornwall and brought them here, then maybe you would deserve to take something, but you haven’t.’

  Nob leaned against a wall with the contentment of a man who could recognise good entertainment when he saw it. A little way off, he could see Jack, who stood scowling at Joce with his hands thrust into his belt. He appeared to be shaking his head as though a little confused.

  Sir Tristram continued.

  ‘You are deliberately preventing me from setting off, man, and that means you are thwarting the King in his aim of protecting his realm.’

  ‘No, I am not!’ Joce spat with fury. ‘Don’t you try to tell me that I am a traitor, you pig’s turd! I may not be a knight, but I am not stupid enough to hold up the King in his ambitions, so don’t you dare suggest I am! I am only standing up for the rights of this town, and I will not allow you to steal from the shops here just because you want to protect your own profits. You are the Arrayer; you have your men. You feed them.’

  ‘You have a responsibility, Receiver! I demand that you—’

  ‘You can demand what you like – you’ll get nothing here, Arrayer! Ach! I have nothing further to say to you.’

  Sir Tristram’s face was purple and Nob could see that the crowd was enjoying the sight of a King’s official almost apoplectic with rage. It was always good to see a lying bastard being roasted over the coals, and in Nob’s world any man who rose to the heights of political or administrative power was, by definition, corrupt.

  Not that in his view Joce Blakemoor was any better. The sole difference was, the pool in which Joce swam was smaller. Both men were like pikes, vicious, always hungry, swallowing up any fish smaller than themselves. Sir Tristram moved in that huge pool the Royal Court, while Joce fed off the provincial town of Tavistock, but both were as willing to destroy anyone or anything that stood in their way.