The Devil's Acolyte

Chapter Eight

It was only a short while after dawn and Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was relaxing before his fire when the clattering of hooves outside announced that he had visitors. He listened attentively as he strode across the floor to where his sword hung on the wall.

This was not peace. War had threatened for years now, for with a feeble King and over-powerful and ambitious advisers, the realm was like a keg of dried tinder standing under a brazier. It was only a matter of time before a stray spark must fall and ignite the whole kingdom. That was how Baldwin felt, and although he knew that his little manor near to Cadbury was safer than many parts of the country, it didn’t make him feel any more secure. When armies began to march, there was no safety for anyone, great or small, city-dweller or countryman.

As he threw his sword belt over his shoulder, gripping the hilt, Jeanne, his wife, appeared in the doorway which led up to the solar. He shook his head once, firmly, and jerked it upwards. She was anxious, but she could see his concern. Quietly she pulled the door closed behind her and slipped the bar across.

It wasn’t easy, but she knew that her man needed to be sure that she was safe in her rooms before he could concentrate on fighting, and she had no wish to be a distraction. She was only glad that he had insisted upon installing this sturdy metal bar earlier in the year. It made her feel more secure, knowing that no trail-bastons could simply push it open. She walked back upstairs to the bedchamber, where her maid sat rocking her baby.

Petronilla looked up with a smile, but Jeanne didn’t notice. She was listening intently.

Downstairs, Baldwin walked through the screens passage and out to the back door. He was already confident that there was no threat out here. Experience told him that if felons had arrived and intended to plunder his home, he would have heard more shouting by now. Once outside, he saw his servant Edgar holding the reins of a shortish man’s horse. He bellowed a greeting and climbed down as he saw Baldwin.

Coroner Roger de Gidleigh was a shorter man than Baldwin, but he had a barrel chest and shoulders that spoke of immense strength. He also had a large and growing belly from the quantity of ale he drank, which often put people off their guard, making them take him for a happy-go-lucky soul, the sort of man who would always welcome a stranger with a cheerful demand that they might share a jug of ale – but then the stranger might notice the shrewd, glittering eyes and realise that the only reason for the Coroner to be so interested and conversational was because he held a suspicion against his flattered babbler.

‘Coroner! Thanks to God!’ Baldwin cried with real delight.

‘Sir Baldwin! Greetings and Godspeed, my friend. How are you? And Lady Jeanne?’

‘Well, I thank you.’

‘So you thought it might be outlaws?’ Coroner Roger de Gidleigh said, nodding towards Baldwin’s sword as the two entered the hall.

‘It is best never to take risks. The rumours of war are as vigorous here as anywhere in the kingdom.’

‘True enough,’ the big man said, walking to a bench at the table on Baldwin’s dais. ‘We live in dangerous times.’

Baldwin rehanged his sword, then rapped sharply on the door to his solar, calling to his wife. ‘I hear that anyone who wishes to talk to the King must pay the Despenser whelp.’

‘You should be careful to whom you speak like that, Sir Baldwin. Some could report your words and accuse you of treachery to the Crown.’

Baldwin smiled. The Coroner was a friend, and he took the warning in the way it was intended. ‘I know that, Roger. But while Hugh Despenser the Younger is Chamberlain of the Household, no man can speak to the King without his approval, nor without paying. It is not enough that Hugh Despenser the Elder has been made an Earl, nor that his son has acquired the Clare inheritance – they will seek ever more money and lands to enrich their lives.’

Coroner Roger took the jug of wine which Baldwin proffered. ‘I dare say that may be true enough, but there is nothing we can do about it. It is human nature to enrich oneself, and that means depriving someone else.’

‘The priests would argue that case, my friend,’ Baldwin chuckled, but with little humour. ‘They tell us that God’s bounty should be shared, that no man should suffer or starve from want of money when his neighbour has enough to support both.’

‘True. But the Church isn’t exempt from making money. And although they talk about men sharing their wealth, I don’t notice the Bishop in Exeter selling his house in order to give the money to the needy.’

‘Coroner!’ Baldwin exclaimed in mock horror. ‘My friend, you have become infected with my own prejudices!’

At that moment Jeanne re-entered the room, and graciously welcomed their guest. Baldwin smiled and took his seat in his chair as his wife spoke gently and courteously, putting the traveller at his ease, soothing his tired muscles and bones with her cheerful chatter. Before long Sir Roger was smiling, and soon after he was laughing, and Baldwin allowed himself to relax.

It was not easy. Baldwin had been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, the Order of warrior monks which had been respected and revered by all those who were most religious. Pilgrims sought out Templars for protection wherever they travelled in the Christian world, and Kings were proud to call them friends.

Yet the greed of the French King and the Pope were sufficient to destroy the noble Order. They had hatched a plot between them, Baldwin believed, in order to share the fabulous wealth of the Order. The fact that their greed must result in the death of thousands of God’s most loyal warriors, that the future reconquest of the Kingdom of Jerusalem must be jeopardised, was nothing to them. They destroyed for their own benefit, and the Knights were tortured and burned to death.

It had given Baldwin an abiding hatred of political power and, most crucial, of any form of bigotry or injustice, and it was a mix of all of these that made him detest the Despenser family. Others hated them for their greed, while some loathed Hugh the Younger because of the rumours of his homosexual relations with the King. That was why, the stories said, the Queen was kept away from the King. Because he had no interest in her.

That was one aspect of the King’s life which did not concern Baldwin. He had lived for a while in the East, and there he had learned tolerance for the sexual activities of others. No, although his wife might despise such unmanly behaviour, he was unbothered. Much more worrying to him was the sheer greed of the Despensers. The family was pillaging the realm every bit as rapaciously as the appalling Piers Gaveston had done only a few years before. Gaveston’s acquisitions had only been halted when he was captured and beheaded, Baldwin recalled. He wondered whether a similar fate might await the Despensers. Somehow he doubted it. They had effectively destroyed all the powerful factions which sought to harm them. There were few left in the country who could challenge them now.

‘So what do you think, Sir Baldwin?’ Coroner Roger asked.

Baldwin realised that his mind had wandered so far from his guest as to be in a different county – or even country. He fitted a serious, intent expression to his face and turned to Jeanne, who was now sitting next to the Coroner. ‘What do you think, my love?’

‘I am sure I would not stop you,’ she said sweetly, recognising his dilemma from his demeanour. ‘I leave it up to you, Husband.’

‘Thank you,’ he said with a fixed smile.

‘It would please me to have your company,’ the Coroner said. ‘And of course, the Abbot was very insistent. He has some regard for your skills, I think.’

‘It is good that someone does,’ Jeanne said.

Baldwin cast her a glance. She was shaking with suppressed laughter. ‘Very well,’ he said.

‘Good, then we can ride for the moors this afternoon,’ Coroner Roger said. ‘For now, may I rest my limbs and head on a bench somewhere? I had to rise early to get here, and a short doze would do me wonderful good.’

‘Of course,’ said Jeanne. ‘And where is this body you need to investigate, Coroner?’

‘Out in the middle of Dartmoor! I am growing heartily sick of the wet, miserable, bog-filled place. It seems as though I must travel there every couple of months to view a corpse.’

At his words, Baldwin felt his stomach lurch, and when he looked to his wife, he saw her face had paled too.

He had paid well for a mere barber, but Simon was pleased. He felt clean and refreshed by the shave, and had learned a little more about Walwynus, or so he thought. No one else had mentioned that Wally was a man for the girls. It certainly sounded odd, though. Just as Ellis had somewhat cruelly said, most men wouldn’t think a man like Wally could have struck a chord with women.

Still, for the first time since he had arrived at the Abbey and realised that he had left the hammer behind, Simon felt clean and content. The removal of the stubble at his chin had given him a new confidence, and he actually felt capable of finding Walwynus’ murderer.

Walking along the lane towards the Abbey, Simon increased his stride. There was much to do today. He would tell Hugh to remain in the Abbey for the forseeable future, exercise their horses and see to their saddles. It was time they were both oiled and serviced. There were plenty of jobs for him to be getting on with, and there was no point in his joining Simon to watch a Commission of Array. Hugh might as well be doing something useful.

He was considering the idea of sitting all day with an Arrayer, a prospect which didn’t appeal, when he almost walked into a man who erupted from a cookshop.

‘Mind your step, you arse!’

Simon smiled grimly at the harsh greeting. ‘Receiver. How very pleasant to see you. I note you are in a hurry, as usual.’

‘Oh, it’s you, Bailiff,’ Joce said with no relaxation of his glower. ‘You should be careful where you walk.’

‘Have you heard of the murdered man?’ Simon said, ignoring his rudeness.

‘Who? I know nothing of this.’

‘Walwynus, a miner. He’s been beaten to death. Do you know of anyone who could have done that?’

Joce chewed steadily on his pie. This needed thought. It would be good to point the Bailiff in the direction of someone else, but Joce wasn’t aware of any credible enemy. ‘Could he have died in a drunken attack? That’s what happened to his friend, I believe. Two years or so ago, Wally had a fight with his companion – a fellow called Martyn – and the other died. Maybe this Martyn had another friend or relative who was horrified to learn that Wally was not hanged?’

Simon nodded. Joce’s voice, even when he spoke rather than blustering, had a grating quality. It was not like those who had lived in Devon all their lives. Joce had left the shire for some years to earn money as a merchant, and he had been successful, by all accounts. ‘Did you know this Wally?’

‘I saw him occasionally. No more than that. He was always at the coinings, but I doubt I exchanged more than three words with him in the last two years. He was not of my standing in the world, Bailiff.’

‘You were at the coining all day last Thursday, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, of course – you saw me yourself, I am sure. And then I went to the inn, before returning home. Why, do you suspect me?’

‘What were you doing on Friday?’

‘I was here most of the day, in town. I had the accounts to write up and check on Friday morning, and then I walked about the streets.’

‘Did you see anyone hurrying back from the moors, or acting oddly?’

‘Not really. I was closeted indoors most of the time. Sorry, Bailiff. I can’t help you much,’ Joce said with a leering grin. ‘You’ll just have to go and interrogate some other poor bastard!’

Simon watched him go with a shrug and sense of failing to meet Baldwin’s level of razor-sharp questioning. There was nothing more to be learned by standing in the street staring after him, though, and he bent his steps to the Abbey again.

By the time he had finished his meagre breakfast of bread and thin ale, he had come to the conclusion that he didn’t like the duty imposed upon him by the Abbot. The thought that he should support and assist some fool of a recruiter did not appeal to him at all.

The arrival of other guests to enjoy the Abbot’s hospitality reminded Simon that someone among them was an Arrayer, and he rose hastily and left the room. Outside in the cool air, he breathed in the freshness that comes only after a good downpour. It must have rained heavily overnight, he thought. He searched about for a place to sit, and finally picked upon the wall of the cemetery.

It was while he remained sitting there that he saw the Abbot’s Steward and groaned to himself when he realised that the man was making his way towards him.

‘Bailiff? I am Augerus, the Abbot’s…’

‘I know. What are you after?’

Augerus smiled thinly. Simon’s irritability early in the morning was known in the Abbey, for he had stayed here often enough on his Stannary duties, but Augerus was a proud man who was well aware of his own importance. ‘My Lord Abbot has asked me to introduce you to the Arrayer, Bailiff. But perhaps you are feeling a little tired still?’

Simon eyed the man. Augerus’ expression told Simon that confessing to tiredness would be pointless. ‘I apologise for being short, friend. It was just that my mind was on the murdered tin-miner.’

‘Walwynus? I suppose you have heard the rumours about the travellers? Everyone remembers the tale of Milbrosa.’

Simon listened as Augerus led the way to the Abbot’s lodgings. ‘Some of the monks here believe in that sort of story?’

‘Oh yes. Some are quite superstitious. Not me, I have to say. I believe that if God truly wanted to give mankind a message, He would pick a means which would be more easily understood. Surely He appreciates how often His creation manages to misunderstand Him, don’t you think?’

‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Simon admitted. ‘I find it’s hard enough trying to understand what all the men on the moors are doing without worrying myself about His plans.’

The Steward tilted his head as though acknowledging that Simon was probably better suited to the world of men than to interpreting the will of God. He opened a door on the right of the passageway and stood back to let Simon inside.

‘Master Bailiff, this is Sir Tristram de Cokkesmoor.’

Simon held out his hand and forced a smile to his face as he recognised the man with whom he had last night shared his bed.

Hal Raddych heaved himself to his feet, rubbing at his eyes and hawking loudly. Another miner should arrive today, to take his place guarding the corpse, and he squinted in the direction of the camp, searching for a figure that could be heading towards him, but there was nothing.

He swung his arms and yawned. Holding a finger first to one nostril, then to the other, he blew his nose clean, and wiped it on his sleeve. Thirsty, he smacked his lips. A stream lay a few yards away and he glanced briefly at the corpse before strolling around the hillside to the water.

A miner all his life, Hal was impervious to the cold. His hands and face might have been carved from an ancient oaken beam, for all the effect that the elements had upon them, and he kneeled at the side of the stream and scooped handfuls of icy moor water over his head and rubbed it into his face. It was his routine, summer or winter.

His ablutions complete, he sucked up a mouthful from his cupped hands, rolling it around his tongue like a spiced wine. Not as brackish as the water nearer his own workings, he decided. A fresher, cleaner taste.

Once, when he was younger, he had asserted in an alehouse that he could tell where he was in moments, purely by drinking the water. It was a proud boast, and a foolish one, which earned him a swift pasting from an older miner who resented his cockiness, but he still believed it to be true. All the streams and pools about the moor had their own distinct flavours. This, now, this was more like a pure stream with a hint of meat in it. His own was peatier and darker; any clothes put into that would invariably come out brown, no matter what their original colour. The water was filled with the stain of peat.

Rising, he pulled his hat back over his brow and stared about him. He was tired, after standing awake much of the night at Wally’s side, and the bright morning sun made him wince, peering with his good eye like a sailor searching for a ship.

He walked back to the body, noting the smell of decay and the way the belly had expanded. If he knew anything, and he had seen plenty of dead men, this body would soon be ready to explode.

He left Wally’s remains and went to the bush with the bloodstain, picking up the timber and looking at the scratches once more. They were his mark; the timber was from his mine. Any miner would recognise it as his. Some bastard had stolen it from him, hammered the nails into it, and used it to kill Wally. Who could it be, though? Hamelin? Christ’s Cods! The man was a friend. But someone else could have wanted to frame Hal or Hamelin. Who? Tapping the timber against the palm of his hand, he let his eyes move to the mire ahead, to the smoke beyond that showed where another group of miners worked.

They were probably getting their cooking fires ready to heat a flat pancake of oats with maybe a little meat from a bird or a rabbit, whatever they could catch out here. And one of them, perhaps, had stolen a piece of his wood, knowing that he marked every balk against theft, and used it to murder Wally so that he, Hal, would be implicated. That thought was not a comfortable one.

Hal was one of the more successful miners. He had found tin in places where others saw nothing, and some said he possessed a magic, that a witch or demon had granted him the ability to find ore where others couldn’t, but he asserted it was simply his organised way of looking. Others were slapdash, digging one hole, deciding there was nothing there, and moving on to a fresh site. Hal wouldn’t do that. He dug one pit, then a line of others, running across the base of a hill where he thought a seam might lie. Sometimes he was right; often he was wrong – but the men who created malicious rumours about him ignored his failures.

Some men had grown to hate him, he knew. They were either scared of him, thinking that he was touched by the devil, or they were jealous, envying his success. He didn’t care which type of man had used his wood to kill Wally. Whoever it was, Hal had other things to concern him, like what to do now?

His eyes dropped from the smoke and a small smile touched his lips. He walked down the hillside to the green, shimmering land beneath. There was a pile of stones, as there were in so many parts of Dartmoor; this one was named Childe’s Tomb. He walked past it and on, careful now, stepping cautiously over the soft grasses and rushes. When he found a boot sinking deep into a patch of mud, he stopped. He prodded the grass in front of him with the timber, and saw the gentle rippling that spread across it.

It was a mire. One of those evil spots where the water built up beneath a thin layer of soil and plants. A man or beast who put his foot on to that would sink through the grasses and drown in the thick, peaty waters beneath. There was no possibility of rescue, so far away from civilisation.

Hal studied his timber once more, and then pushed the end of it into the ground before him. It sank quickly, and when it had disappeared, the grasses and reeds floated back over the hole as though nothing had ever disturbed the smooth grassy surface.