The Devil's Acolyte

Chapter Thirteen

After a long and strenuous ride, Baldwin and the Coroner had slept the Tuesday night in a pleasant inn at South Zeal. The weather had been kind to them, and they had made good time, riding fast on the swift road that led through Yeoford and then Hittisleigh, finally arriving in the village only a short time after dark.

Sore from their ride, Baldwin rose with a grunt as the innkeeper arrived and started opening the windows. This, Baldwin thought, was the worst aspect of travelling. Small inns so often had nowhere to put guests, and all they could do was make space for a man to sleep on a bench, or perhaps allow him to sleep on the hay in the stables. Perhaps he should be glad that at least there was space near the fire, because the weather was turning unseasonably cold. The landlord and some local men asserted that it was normal for the time of year, but Baldwin found it hard to believe that the weather so near to his own home could be quite so different. And the midges were foul, too. When he went out during the night to piss against a nearby tree, he found himself crawling with them in the space of a few minutes.

It was a great relief to be up and ahorse after a rushed breakfast of cold meat and some coarse bread. While he chewed, Baldwin saw the Coroner putting half his own loaf in a cloth and tying it into a neat bundle.

‘What’s that for?’

‘I thought it would be as well to take something for our lunch.’

‘There are plenty of good inns on the way to Tavistock, Coroner. We have eaten in some of them.’ Baldwin eyed his own loaf. ‘I certainly do not think that this would be comparable with some of the food at inns there.’

‘No. If we were to ride around the north side of the moor, you’d be right,’ the Coroner agreed. ‘But I didn’t intend that.’

‘Which way do you want to go, then, Sir Roger?’

‘Over the middle.’

Baldwin considered this. ‘You do realise how quickly the mist can come down?’

‘I have been on the moors and lived to tell the tale when that happened to me,’ Coroner Roger said lightly. ‘No, I merely wish to see the place where this death happened before we go to Tavistock and hear what people think we wish to hear.’

Baldwin nodded, but he was not content. Even when they had mounted their horses and he could see that the sky was almost devoid of clouds, that the top of the nearby hill was smooth and an apparently easy ride, and that the ground underfoot was dry and not at all boggy, he still felt a nagging anxiety.

‘Come on, Sir Baldwin. Courage!’

They had left the inn, and were riding down the main street, past all the houses in their burgage plots on either side, and then turned right at the bottom of the road, heading for the great hill Baldwin had seen before.

‘I am not fearful,’ he said stiffly. ‘Yet I swore to my wife that I would avoid spending too much time on the moors. Every time I visit, there is death and murder.’

‘Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

Baldwin grunted. He could not put his feelings into words. He was aware of a curious awe about the moors which bordered on the superstitious; probably, he told himself, because his wife’s attitude had coloured his own. Earlier this year, before the double disasters of the tournament at Oakhampton and then the murders at Sticklepath, he would have scoffed at the idea that the moors could themselves be unlucky or fated, but now he was growing to feel if not a fear, certainly a degree of apprehension.

‘How do you know where we are to go?’ he asked. ‘I thought you only knew that the body was over towards Tavistock.’

‘It is. It’s down near Fox Tor. I know that way a little – there was a knife-fight there some years ago and a man died, and I had to go there to hold the inquest. It was one of my first cases, so of course I recall it well.’ Cheerfully, he related the tale of a man who had come to the area with a friend, both seeking to become miners, but then one day they argued, and one stabbed the other.

Baldwin listened with only half an ear. They had followed the narrow lane for some hundreds of yards, with the land rising steeply on their left, while on their right there was an area of pasture with a small stream beyond, chuckling merrily. Their track took them right, down a dip and up the other side, and here Baldwin realised that they were climbing the hill.

From a distance it had looked immense, like a great bowl which God Himself had inverted on the horizon, and Baldwin was glad that the daunting sight of it was concealed by the thick woods that grew here at its base. In among some of them pastures had been cut, and the woods were receding as the men from the borough cut their winter logs and coppiced and cleared, but there were enough trees to hide the vast bulk.

They wound upwards, and then took a left fork. ‘No point climbing to the top,’ the Coroner muttered as he led the way. ‘This is the peat-cutters’ track.’

The track led between two walls, both of which had bushes and trees growing in them and reaching high overhead, creating a tunnel of verdure. At their feet, it was metalled with rocks of moorstone which had sunk to an even level, so that packhorses could pass up here even in the worst of the winter weather, and Baldwin was glad of it because at the side of the trail was a trickle of water. If there were no stones, this would soon become another quagmire.

The way climbed, but more shallowly, and at last they were out into the open, leaving the trees behind.

Baldwin took a deep breath. The last time he had been up on the moors he had seen another death, and it had touched his soul with sadness. That was partly why he was growing to detest the moors, because he could only ever associate them with death and murder. Not that this visit would make him feel any more content, with another murdered man at the end of the journey.

Here, though, it was hard to view the surrounding landscape with anything but awe and delight. The ground dropped away to their left, while on their right was the steeper rise to the summit, the side of the hill scattered with a thick clitter of stones. A tough climb on foot.

Coroner Roger took him on, past a strange little triple row of standing stones. ‘God knows what they’re doing here!’ and on to a lower hill. From here, he pointed south. ‘All this land is the King’s. He must have magnificent hunts over here, eh?’

Baldwin could not help but agree. As they trotted on, he marvelled at the odd, soft beauty of the place. It was as though the only people alive were he and the Coroner. No noise of axe or pick reached their ears, and no house could be seen. There was only the endlessly rolling little hills, mostly smothered in a bright mantle of purple heather.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ the Coroner said, smiling at the sight of Baldwin’s face.

‘Very!’ Baldwin twisted in his saddle to take it all in. Some hills were surmounted by great hunks of stone, while others were smooth, shallow ripples in the grass and heather. Here and there a stream cut through a hillside, casting a sharper shadow like a gash in the grass, but mostly it was all soft-looking undulations.

They stopped at the side of a stream, freeing the horses to drink their fill and crop the grass while the two men idled on the banks, and then remounted and rode on unhurriedly. The weather remained clear, and Baldwin could feel his trepidation falling away: as he had believed, it was superstitious in the extreme to blame the land itself for the evil actions of the men who trod upon it.

He hoped his attitude would not change again.

They followed well-trodden tracks for some more miles, but then Sir Roger began searching about, peering at the horizon.

‘What is it?’

‘Miners. There should be some near here. Aha! Over there!’

The Coroner pointed and Baldwin saw in the distance a thin plume of smoke rising. They rode towards it and found themselves in a small miners’ camp. Having asked for directions, they were soon on their way again, and this time they reached a larger camp where a well-built miner pointed over to a hill. ‘See where that stream is? You’ll find poor old Wally there. But don’t go straight. Head up that hillside west of here, then go south until you come to the cross. Then turn east again. Not until you reach the cross, though. The mire’s deadly down there.’

Hearing his words, both agreed that his advice was sound. Soon the two were walking their horses up a hill. The cross was not difficult to see – a tall, somewhat rough-hewn shape. There they turned east and crossed a pleasant ford.

‘If it’s true that he was beaten to death, surely another miner was responsible,’ Roger grumbled. ‘Those bastards are always quarrelling. And they’ve got so many potential weapons to hand.’

‘Quite so,’ Baldwin said.

‘Except you don’t mean it. What’s on your mind?’

‘I trust the judgement of my Lord Abbot. He would only call us both out if there was good cause. Otherwise he would surely only ask for you to be here.’

‘You mean he doesn’t trust my judgement?’

Baldwin smiled innocently. ‘I mean he probably has more than one concern. He knows how busy you are, Coroner. If there were another matter, he would hardly dare take up more of your time than he need, would he?’

‘Oh. You do mean he doesn’t trust my judgement!’

‘The little devil,’ Augerus said. ‘If he couldn’t be bothered to come and help me, the least he could have done was let me know.’

It was early afternoon, and the two were seated in the salsarius’ room amidst the odours of gently curing hams and sausages, and the sharp tang of sea and fresh wind from the open steeping barrels in which the salt fish had soaked yesterday. It could take many hours for the salt to be washed out, and Mark had other duties, so he tended to leave the fish to soak for as long as possible, sliding the slippery fillets into a wooden trough to wash off most of the salt, then dropping them into the barrels of fresh water as early as possible on the Tuesday, ready for cooking today, Wednesday, the fast day. The barrels were still full of the fishy water, waiting to be emptied.

‘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 harm 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!’