The Devil's Acolyte (2002)

by Jecks, Michael

  ‘Sir Tristram, we have some more questions for you,’ Coroner Roger said gruffly. He never much liked to have to question his peers. He always had a sneaking suspicion that justice was something that should be imposed upon the poorer folk; it wasn’t intended to control the richer and more important men like Sir Tristram.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to ask them while I eat, then. I haven’t had anything yet today.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Tristram. So long as you don’t mind us sitting with you,’ Coroner Roger said politely.

  ‘Where is your Sergeant?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘He was hit on the head yesterday in Tavistock during a scuffle. I sent to tell him to rest overnight in the tavern and I’d collect him today. Why?’

  ‘What were you doing yesterday?’ Simon asked bluntly.

  ‘Me? When? I am a busy man.’

  ‘In the afternoon. I doubt Hamelin was dead before noon.’

  ‘What? Do you propose to accuse me of some stranger’s death?’

  ‘Another miner found killed. Where were you?’

  ‘Damn your impudence, man! I shall report this to the King himself, I assure you!’ Sir Tristram’s face was as red as his crimson tunic, and he felt almost apoplectic. He held the same views as the Coroner in some matters; it was unthinkable that a knight should be forced to answer questions like any serf, especially while eating. He almost stood, but then the expression on Baldwin’s face persuaded him to remain where he was.

  Simon leaned against a tree, his left hand resting on his hilt, his right thumb hooked into his belt. ‘Well?’

  ‘I was with my men, as I should have been. What business is it of yours?’

  ‘And where were you on the morning after the coining?’

  ‘What, last Friday?’ Sir Tristram’s temper, never cool, was warming rapidly. He was tempted to draw his sword and see how these impudent fools answered then. ‘I was on my way to the Abbey with my Sergeant. What of it?’

  ‘You knew Walwynus.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And hated him, from the way you spat in his face last night.’

  Slowly and menacingly, Sir Tristram brought himself upright, holding Simon’s gaze with a fury that was unfeigned. ‘You mean to accuse me of murder, Bailiff? If you dare, say the words, and I’ll carve the word “innocent” on your forehead. Go on! Say it. Say you accuse me, and see what happens.’

  ‘If you try to attack the Bailiff, you will have to fight two knights first,’ the Coroner stated flatly.

  ‘I would do so gladly,’ Sir Tristram replied. ‘Do you offer trial by combat?’

  ‘Be silent!’ Baldwin roared. ‘Christ Jesus! Do you want us to accuse you? We are here to establish your innocence, but if you wish to prove guilt, continue! There are enough questions which suggest you might be a murderer, but there are others which suggest you could be innocent.’

  ‘Which have you decided upon, Sir Knight?’ Sir Tristram sneered. He watched the three men through narrowed eyes, expecting a bitter rejoinder, and was somewhat surprised when Simon set his head to one side and surveyed him pensively.

  ‘I have almost convinced myself you must be innocent, but I do not know why. I find it hard to believe that you could have found your way to the miners’ camp and selected a balk of timber and a handful of nails and constructed a morning star. Such premeditation seems unlike your character.’

  ‘Should I be grateful for that?’

  Simon ignored him. ‘If you were angry with a man, I think you are bloodthirsty enough to take a sword or axe or mace and use it. Thinking about protecting your good name wouldn’t occur to you. No, I think you would avenge an insult or remembered slight with a swift response. If you hated Walwynus enough to want to kill him, you would take a sword to him and damn the consequences. You are a fighter. You would scorn subterfuge. Also, you would not have known Wally was here, let alone where he lived. Perhaps you saw Wally and Peter, and followed them up to the moors, but then you’d have got to Hal’s mine after Hal, and he’d have seen you steal his timber. If you came up before Wally, how would you know where to find him later? And how could you know where to go for wood and nails? No, I don’t think you could have killed Wally.’

  ‘A thousand thanks for that, dear Bailiff.’

  ‘Of course, it all depends on what you say about where you were last night and on the day that Wally died.’

  ‘Look – I hated Walwynus. I’ll admit to that gladly. He was a Scotch reiver, a murderer. That fool Peter rescued him and saved him when I and my men nearly had him. He would have died, him and that evil shit Martyn Scot, Armstrong as he was called. If they had, Peter would never have received that wound, so I suppose there is some justice.’

  ‘You tried to kill Wally; Peter saved him, and then Peter’s woman was raped.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Wally denied doing it.’

  ‘Perhaps it was Armstrong, then.’

  Simon closed his eyes a moment, then opened them again to stare at Sir Tristram. ‘This woman had saved his life with her diligent nursing. And you suppose he would have taken two friends of his to see her so that they could rape her. Does that sound credible?’

  ‘Have you ever fought in a war, Bailiff?’ the knight asked scathingly. ‘If you had, you would know that the worst actions are always possible. Sometimes they are inevitable. A man who is desperate for a woman will take her wherever he may, and if he has companions, he will offer them the same woman. It’s a matter of courtesy.’

  Baldwin took a deep, angry breath. ‘I have fought in many wars, and I have never heard of a man who was saved by a woman and who then repaid her courage and kindness by raping her and offering her to his comrades, finally killing her. That, to me, does not sound true. If it were, it would be the act of a callous and unchivalrous coward.’

  ‘You can say what you want. I merely offer one possibility.’

  ‘I offer you another,’ Simon said. ‘You adored this woman Agnes. You craved her, and that was why you hated Peter! He had her; you didn’t. So you raped her. You took her the only way you could, at the point of a dagger. And then you killed her, just so that she couldn’t tell Peter and embarrass you.’

  ‘That is a disgraceful lie!’ Sir Tristram exploded. ‘You pathetic little turd, you spawn of a poxed sow and a drunken Scotch reiver, you—’

  ‘Swear it on the Bible.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. If I am wrong, we can prove it. You may swear your denial on the Bible before the Abbot.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it is nonsense!’

  ‘Your own Sergeant might not realise you were guilty,’ Simon speculated. ‘If you were haring about the country searching for outlaws, you could have come across this woman and taken her, later laying the blame for her violation and death at the door of known felons.’

  ‘This is rubbish!’

  ‘If you knew her already and desired her, it would make a perfect crime, wouldn’t it? And if you later mentioned to your Sergeant or others that the felons had taken another victim, who would argue?’

  ‘I say I did not!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Simon said. ‘But I believe you are innocent of the murder of Walwynus and I can see no reason why you should have killed Hamelin, but by God Himself, I believe you could have murdered the girl Agnes – and instructed your Sergeant to accuse another to protect yourself!’

  ‘Her death is nothing to do with you here, though, is it? She died in Scotland, not in England. Different country, different times,’ Sir Tristram sneered.

  Baldwin looked at him. ‘Your smugness seems proof of your guilt. It may be true that we cannot pursue you here, but your soul will suffer if you don’t seek penance. Remember that, man! You may have succeeded here, but God will seek you out when you die, and punish you.’

  ‘Yes, well, if He wants, I’ll take His punishment, but not for something I didn’t do! In the meantime I won’t sit listening to lectures f
rom another knight. You declare me guilty. I say I am not. I leave it up to Him to decide.’

  Simon nodded. ‘If you weren’t the murderer and rapist, then who was?’

  ‘I still say it was Wally and his men.’

  ‘Under their leader, “Red Hand”?’ Simon asked.

  ‘That was his name. Why?’

  ‘Your Sergeant said yesterday that this man was Joce Blakemoor. That Blakemoor and Wally and Martyn Armstrong came down here together, all fleeing from you and your men.’

  ‘Christ alive!’ Sir Tristram said, stunned.

  ‘So you see, if you are innocent, we’ll need to catch Blakemoor to prove it,’ the Coroner said. ‘Could you lend us a few men to help catch him?’

  ‘You can have as many men as you need. All I ask is that you get him,’ Sir Tristram ground out. ‘And that you kill him.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gerard stirred as he heard a crackle. All about him there were grunts and snores, the faint murmuring of the stupid or fearful young, the snuffling of the infirm, but the noises were comforting in some odd way; just the fact of the companionship of all these people made him feel a little safer.

  It was odd to have had his head shaved. He hadn’t expected to have to have this done, but when he spoke to Cissy, she was certain it would make enough of a difference to save him from being recognised, and he wasn’t going to argue. Especially when he had been seen by Nob in the crowd. Far better that he should suffer from the cold for a while than be caught and made to pay the penalty for his thefts and apostasy. Mind, the shaving had hurt like hell. There was an almighty bruise on his head where that damn fool Reginald had caused him to fall and strike it in the dorter.

  If only, he thought, there were a pie or a loaf here now. It would make such a difference. His belly felt so empty, and food would warm him. He had lain near enough to the fire to feel the warmth, but since then three men had rolled themselves up in their blankets between him and the embers, and now he was chilled to the marrow. Memories of piping hot pies and pasties came to mind, the rich gravy of beef, the heavenly scent of pepper. The mere thought made his mouth water.

  He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the sky. It was deep grey, as Dartmoor mornings so often were, and he could see tiny orange sparks gleaming as they shot upwards from the fire, glowing for a moment before they expired. He sighed and put his arms behind his head. It was nasty, the thought that he was going north to war, but as Cissy had said, there was bound to be a way of earning a living once the battles were done. He grinned to himself. The trouble was, the only way he knew of earning a living was by thieving. And that wasn’t a good idea once he was out of the Abbey. He could try to claim benefit of clergy, but that was no guarantee of safety.

  There was always the possibility that he might become a decent man-at-arms or archer. Some lord might decide to retain him, and he could then give up his life of petty crime and become a professional man. Fighting always had a chivalrous aspect. The women loved men-at-arms, so it was said. Even lowly archers got their wenches, and that was an appealing idea. After the enforced celibacy of the Abbey, a warm, fleshy woman cradled in the crook of his arm was a very attractive concept indeed.

  Certainly better than the short life he could expect if he had remained in the Abbey. Reginald had made that clear. He had said that the other acolytes knew Gerard was stealing their things, and that if he didn’t stop, they were going to break his head. In fact, even if he did, Reginald said, they might decide to punish him anyway. Gerard’s selfishness had made all their lives more difficult by taking away those little trinkets they valued most. They wanted him to suffer for his greed.

  It had been little use trying to explain how it hadn’t been his idea to rob them. The time when he could have confessed was long past. Nor could he accuse another monk, for all would simply assume he was passing the blame to others to protect himself. Peter and Reginald believed Gerard, but who else would?

  A man rolled over, broke wind loudly, and Gerard turned his face away. There was another crackle of twigs, and he gave a faint ‘tut’ of annoyance. Someone must be tiptoeing around – but why? Perhaps they were searching for something to steal. Well, Gerard thought, they can take the whole of my bag, if they want. There’s nothing of value at all in there.

  He felt his belly with a tentative hand. His bladder was so full, he felt about ready to piss himself. He rose, stepping carefully over the bodies of the still-sleeping men, and in past a short line of bushes. There he recognised voices, and turning back, he saw the three men questioning Sir Tristram. A brief panic overtook him, and he thrust himself through the branches and into a small clearing.

  Crouched over, he stared at the men, feeling certain that they were here to catch him. He mustn’t be found! His heart was thudding painfully, and he had a hollow feeling in his throat. His attention was so strongly focused on the group that he didn’t notice the snap of another twig until it was too late.

  And then he felt the ice-cold touch of a sharp blade at his throat.

  ‘Wake up, monk! We have business to attend to!’ Joce hissed.

  The three men left Sir Tristram still fuming. As they untethered their horses, Simon glanced back and saw the knight pick up his mazer and hurl it at a tree.

  Baldwin saw it too, and murmured drily, ‘I think we have seriously discommoded the good Sir Tristram.’

  Soon four men on sturdy ponies had joined them, and the small party set off. They pulled their mounts’ heads back towards Tavistock, and Coroner Roger glanced from one to the other. ‘Well? What do you think? For my money, I somehow doubt he’s the killer.’

  Simon nodded. ‘I agree. I think we have to look for another man.’

  ‘But whom?’ Baldwin said.

  Simon was thinking furiously. ‘Surely the disappearance of the acolyte, the murder of Walwynus, and the thefts from the Abbey must all be linked. And probably the death of Hamelin as well.’

  ‘The body of the acolyte has not been found,’ Baldwin said. ‘And yet the Abbot and I discovered bloodstains near his bed.’

  Simon felt almost dizzy with the thoughts that whirled in his mind. He pulled his horse to a halt. ‘This Gerard would surely have been found by now if he had been killed. Wally and Hamelin weren’t concealed, were they? There is no reason to suppose that Gerard would be either. He may simply have fled the place.’

  ‘Because he felt himself to be under threat,’ Baldwin supposed.

  ‘A novice who ran away would find himself caught again in no time,’ the Coroner said.

  Simon gave a groan. ‘I am a cretin. The Arrayer’s hiring! I saw him, and I didn’t recognise him!’

  ‘Eh?’ the Coroner asked, but Simon had already turned his horse and was spurring it back towards the camp. He rode through the midst of the men, halting before Sir Tristram. ‘Sir, there was a recruit with no hair under his cap. You remember him?’

  Sir Tristram gave a curt nod. ‘Large, gangling lad. Clumsy, but capable. What of him?’

  ‘You took him on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Here somewhere with the rest. Why?’

  ‘I think he could be a renegade,’ Simon said, but would say no more. Sir Tristram jerked his head at a man, sending him strolling casually through the recruits. Soon he came back with a thin blanket in his hands, a scowl on his face. ‘He must have scarpered when he saw you lot get here.’

  ‘God’s Cods!’ Simon swore. ‘Sir Tristram – this man is an apostate. The Abbot demands his return.’

  Baldwin put his hand on Simon’s arm. ‘There’s no need to search for him here. Sir Tristram can find him, and we’ll be able to talk to him later. For now, let us try to see what might have caused the murderer of Walwynus to execute Hamelin as well.’

  ‘I will find him, you can assure the Abbot of that,’ Sir Tristram said.

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ Simon said unwillingly. He felt instinctively that it would be better
to remain here with the Arrayer’s men, searching for Gerard, but Baldwin was probably right. The lad could have gone in any direction. There was little to be gained by the three joining in the search. Sir Tristram had enough men at his disposal.

  There were other people to see. ‘Who do you want to speak to?’

  ‘Joce first, but then somebody who knew Hamelin and Walwynus. I keep remembering what the Swiss said, that the pewter was sold to him by Walwynus in an alehouse. I see no reason to doubt Rudolf’s word, and we know that later Walwynus was to spend a lot of money on women and wine, so that part of the story tallies.’

  ‘We know Walwynus collected the stolen goods from the Abbey?’ Coroner Roger said.

  ‘Yes, and yet we do not know who passed him the sack from the window, as Peter saw. Someone inside the Abbey stole the stuff and passed it to Walwynus, and the miner hid it. Then, once he had a great enough stock, he sold it. Was it Gerard who entered the Abbot’s lodging to let the sack down to Wally?’

  Simon nodded. ‘Gerard took the stuff and passed it to Wally – but why should Wally be there in the first place?’

  ‘Surely he must have.’ Coroner Roger said.

  ‘It would be easy enough to pass them through a window or over a wall as Peter said,’ Simon speculated. ‘If hurled over a wall, the metal would have been dented, and the noise should have brought guards running. The things must have been passed out quietly.’

  The Coroner grunted. ‘So what? Does it matter?’

  Simon said nothing, but when they arrived at the bridge and had clattered over its rough timbers, he led the way past the Water Gate and up around the Abbey. While the Coroner grumbled about guesswork, Simon carefully surveyed the perimeter of the main court, which was enclosed by the great wall. The northern, western and eastern walls were all high, and castellated, with no windows through which to pass stolen goods. With all the folk who wandered about and guards at night, Simon was sure no one would throw things over the wall or dangle them from a rope. There was too much risk of discovery. Only one wall was possible, the last they reached. From the road they could look over the low orchard wall at the final barrier.