The Devil's Acolyte

Chapter Twenty

Joce stalked across his hall still bellowing for his servant, but Art was nowhere to be seen. Feeling thwarted, Joce stormed through to the buttery and drew off a quart of wine, himself carrying it back to the hall, where he sat down before his fire. The embers were smouldering pleasantly, and he threw some sticks onto it and sat back to wait until the flames should begin to lick upwards.

It was good that he had managed to see off that cretinous fool of an Arrayer. It would be better still if Sir Tristram failed to win the King’s approval for his contract and had to pay for the food for all those peasants out of his own pocket. Not that Joce cared much now. He had enjoyed the altercation while it lasted, had done his duty as he saw it. He drank and sullenly gazed at the fire.

This had been a bad week, he thought. First there was the problem with the girl, then the neighbour, and finally the death of Walwynus. That was a problem, too.

With that thought, his eyes went to the cupboard. He hadn’t looked at it since that night when Sara had come here, he thought. When she arrived he had been counting all the pieces. Next week he would ride off to Exeter with it all and sell it. That would settle his debts and turn him a handsome profit.

It was as he rose and was about to walk to the cupboard, that he heard the rapping on his door. In two minds whether to answer it or leave it, Joce stood a moment, but then swore and strode out to the front of his house.

‘Thank God you’re here! I came as soon as I heard…’

‘Calm down, you fool! Jesus! What are you doing up here? You useless piece of donkey shit, what have you got between your ears – cloth?’

‘Let me in. It’s not me who’s going to be hanged, is it?’

Joce grabbed a handful of the man’s habit, hauled him inside and kicked the door shut. He thrust hard, and the man was forced against the wall, then up, with Joce’s hands beneath his chin. He held his face close. ‘Are you threatening me, Brother?’

‘Let me down!’

‘Why, Brother Augerus,’ Joce said, leaning closer so that he could see the naked terror in the Steward’s eyes, ‘how nice of you to drop in. Would you like some warmed wine? Or mulled ale? Or would you prefer me to throw you into my fire and leave you there to burn?’

‘Joce, let’s talk, all right? I came here as soon as I heard.’

‘Heard what?’

‘That the boy has bolted! Gerard, the acolyte we used to steal for us, he’s gone! Ran off last night, from the sound of it.’

‘So what?’

‘What will he live on, Joce?’ Augerus allowed a little sarcasm to enter his voice. ‘We monks are sworn to poverty, aren’t we? What if he takes money or plate from someone else to pay for his escape?’

Joce wavered, drew his head back and eyed Augerus. ‘What are you saying?’

‘He’ll be caught. He will have to steal to live, won’t he? And he’ll get caught. Felons always do. And when he is, he’s bound to tell them everything, isn’t he? He’s committed apostasy already, so there’s nothing to lose by telling the truth.’

‘Shit!’ Joce licked his lips. ‘I’ll clear it all tomorrow. It’s earlier than I intended, but I’ll have to. Once it’s all in Exeter, sold, no one can appeal us.’

‘Good. Be quick, then. All that plate came from the Abbot’s coffers or the church. Christ Jesus! If they find it on you, you realise you’ll hang?’

‘Get out, you craven cur. Leave it to me as usual. I’ll get it sorted.’

Augerus nodded and slipped through the doorway like a wood-louse scuttling under a stone.

Joce locked the door and marched back to his hall. The cupboard was at the wall opposite, behind his table, and he went straight to it, fumbling with his keys. Then he pulled the doors open.

He was so astonished to find it bare that, although his mouth dropped open, he didn’t have the wherewithal to swear.

The camp was set out in the bend of a little stream, one of those few whose course had not yet been changed. So many were being diverted to feed the miners’ works, it sometimes seemed as though there was nowhere which was left alone. There were times, when he rode over the moors, when Simon felt as if the place was being systematically raped rather than farmed.

Here there were plentiful signs of mining. Small pits had been dug all along the plain before him, the smooth surface of the grass ruined, like a beautiful woman’s face scarred by the pox. These were the results of prospecting. All miners were constantly searching for a new lode because either the existing workings were soon to be exhausted, or they already were. No miner could afford to be complacent.

This place had been worked extensively. There were what looked like thousands of pits, some of which had grown to become great trenches, while others had deepened into shafts. Small piles of rock showed where miners had stored their tools, and little turf-roofed sheds stood all about where the men had lived, but now all looked desolate. They had overtaken several miners on the way here, but this area wasn’t empty because of the inquest, it was deserted because the area had been worked to extinction. Simon could remember when the miners had been here, four or five years ago now. Wally had been here before that, six years ago, digging with his friend in a small claim. After the death of his companion, he had enjoyed some little success, Simon recalled.

But the place wasn’t empty now. Smoke curled up from the fires of the small band of travellers.

They were a colourful group. Men and women alike wore bright reds and greens, oranges and purples. Some of the younger women had their hair braided and unconcealed by wimple or veil, while the men had their hair longer than was strictly fashionable. Simon grunted to himself, thinking that they looked like a band of actors or musicians on the move.

That they were not intending to remain here in one place for long seemed evident by the pony carts that created a defensive wall; one, with a badly broken wheel, sat in an ungainly manner, its shafts pointing to the sky. The folk rested inside this palisade, their rear defended by the stream and, from the look of the cotton-balls dancing in the wind, a bog of some sort.

As the trio rode slowly down through the thicker grass, watching carefully for stones or pits which might harm their mounts, Simon could see that the people were wary and alert. Three men stood and walked forward, all grabbing long staffs or axes; two youths stood behind them with crossbows strung, bolts held negligently, ready to be fitted in the slots. The women grouped near the stream, children protectively gripped by the shoulders.

Glancing across at his companions, Simon acknowledged that they had good reason to suspect any visitors. This was too out of the way for most travellers, and it was always alarming to find horsemen approaching, even when two of the three were clearly belted knights – or perhaps especially because two were knights: there were too many men of noble birth who were prepared to resort to robbery and murder. No one on the road could afford to take the risk that the smiling face of the man next to him didn’t belong to the advance guard of a raiding party whose sole intention was slaughter and pillage.

‘Godspeed!’ Baldwin called as they approached within hailing distance, lifting his hand to show he meant no harm.

Simon kept his eye on the two bowmen. They were still standing without pointing their weapons at the three, but the bolts were fitted now, ready to be fired.

‘God’s blessings on you.’

The man who spoke was dark-faced, with raven-black hair and clear, unblinking brown eyes. His lips were bright, like those of a woman, but although they made him look young, Simon saw that he was older than he appeared at first sight. As he sat on his horse swatting the flies away, Simon could see that the man wore fine wrinkles at eyes and brow.

His accent was strong, but curious. Simon hadn’t heard it before. It was strangely guttural, quite thick.

It was clear that Baldwin had heard his accent before. The knight smiled and bowed to the man. ‘Grüss Gott. It is pleasant to hear a man from your land again. You are from the mountains?’

The man bowed with a faint smile. ‘Yes, we are from the Forest Cantons.’

‘Then believe me when I say that you need have no fear of English knights,’ Baldwin said, introducing himself and the others. ‘We are here to ask your help.’

‘You are welcome. I am called Rudolf – Rudolf von Grindelwald. Would you like a little wine?’

Soon the three were dismounted, and they took their seats outside the little encampment on a group of rocks. The two men with crossbows removed their bolts and carefully released the tension in the bows, while the others set their own weapons to rest on carts, although none of them let them far from their hands, Baldwin noticed. He would not have expected them to.

The woman who came to serve them as guests of the leader of the travellers was a buxom creature in her late thirties, with hair pulled back and tied in a bun. Her limbs were long and elegant, her hips broad and swaying, her waist narrow. Her face was long, somewhat oval, with prominent cheekbones and full lips. Not beautiful, she was nonetheless extremely attractive, with the slow, economic movements of a dancer, and Baldwin thought her great blue eyes calming. She wore a long tunic, but at the hem and on her apron there were a multitude of tiny embroidered flowers. When Baldwin looked up at her, she smiled with her eyes, although not her mouth; it gave her a soothing expression that could calm a man’s nights for the whole of his life, he thought.

‘What do you do?’ Baldwin asked.

‘We have been attending fairs. We sing and dance to amuse. Many men call us to their halls for entertainments,’ Rudolf lied. It was untrue, but the sort of thing that these men would believe.

He could kick himself. If only they had ditched the rest of their things. Welf had only returned a short while ago, and the pony he had brought was scarcely able to carry half the load which they had on the cart, so they might as well have carried on the day before. By now they could be lost in the streets of Ashburton, far from an enquiry. Instead here they were, being questioned by three grim-faced officials.

Not least of his troubles was the youngster hidden away. The boy could prove to be more than a mere embarrassment.

‘There are few halls about here,’ Simon observed.

‘Ja, but we are tired. We have sung our way across France and now England. We were about to travel to York, but then we heard of the King raising his army, and we thought we would be more comfortable away from a war.’

‘Many would go with the armies,’ Simon said. ‘There is good money in entertaining men-at-arms.’

Rudolf smiled. ‘There is better money in a lord’s hall, and the food is better. Also the company.’

Baldwin gave a short nod of understanding. He motioned towards the women. ‘And a King’s Host is not the place for women – except those of a certain kind.’

‘Ja! I would not place my wife and children in danger.’

Eyeing him, Baldwin doubted whether this Swiss was actually worried. There was a hardness and competence about him, like that of a trained fighter. ‘We are trying to learn about a man’s murder.’

Rudolf appeared uninterested. ‘What has this to do with me?’

‘We wished to hear whether you had seen this man,’ Baldwin said, and described Walwynus, explaining about his final journey and the discovery of his body. Watching the Swiss closely, he was sure that Rudolf knew of Walwynus. His eyes had been fixed on Baldwin with a curiously intense concentration, but as soon as he realised that Baldwin was observing him closely, his gaze began to wander, first to Simon and the Coroner, then to the men walking about his camp, as though there was nothing in this to hold his attention.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not know of this man. I have seen so many miners here. They seem to be everywhere, and they leave the land like this.’ He encompassed the ruined plain with a hand. ‘You say he was here before last Thursday. We were here then, but many men came past here.’

‘There was a coining at Tavistock. All the miners would have gone,’ Simon said.

‘Are you sure you didn’t see this man?’ Baldwin pressed him. ‘He carried a leather satchel with him.’

‘I saw several men, but no one who was alone,’ Rudolf said.

The woman approached with a large loaf broken into pieces on a tray and a large metal pot of soup fresh from the fire. Placing bowls near the men, she passed bread to them, and one of the children brought a jug of good wine. The woman poured and gave each of them a cup, listening to the men as she did so.

When she reached Simon, he looked up to thank her, and saw that her attention was not on him. She was carefully absorbing the conversation between Baldwin and Rudolf, as though making sure Rudolf didn’t slip up. She reminded him of a woman he had once seen at a court, listening to her man tell his story at a trial of felony. Later Simon had learned that she and her lover had concocted a story between them, rehearsing it together, to give each other alibis. The jury didn’t believe them and the man had been hanged.

That sudden insight made Simon wary. He glanced over at the other men in the camp, and was relieved to see that they didn’t appear to be ready to launch themselves at the three, but he couldn’t shake off the sense of impending danger. Shifting slightly on his rock, which had suddenly grown uncomfortable, he repositioned his sword, moving the scabbard so that he could grasp the hilt more easily.

She saw his movement, and for a moment he saw naked fear in her eyes. It was fleeting, but he hadn’t missed it, and although he smiled up at her and questioningly held out his cup to be refilled, he saw that he hadn’t eased her anxiety. Her eyes went back to Baldwin with a kind of nervous exhilaration, as though fearful of what she might hear.

The Swiss picked up his cup of wine and took a good drink, glancing at Anna as he did so. She was all but petrified, and he smiled at her reassuringly, pleased to see that she appeared to be soothed by his easy confidence.

Baldwin stared up at the hills. ‘You know, I never visited the Forest Cantons. I hear that they are beautiful.’

Simon added, ‘And I have heard that the metalwork is excellent.’

Rudolf felt his stomach lurch. Behind him he heard a slithering noise, and he turned to scowl at Henry. His son shamefacedly allowed the bow to uncock, setting it aside. Turning back to face Simon, Rudolf stared at him coolly. ‘What of it?’

‘Nothing. I was only passing a comment. You have many pewterers in your country?’

‘Some.’ Rudolf was watching his face closely, wondering whether this was the face of a man who sought to destroy him, or whether he was a man who could be trusted. It was so hard to gauge. Some men who looked honourable were devious, lying fools who would kill you just to see how long you took to die, and would cut your fingers off because it was easier than pulling rings from them.

The shorter knight he didn’t like the look of. That man had dark features and black eyes like gleaming flint. The second knight had a face which had seen much misery, with lines of pain etched deeply into his forehead and at the side of his mouth. He and the Bailiff both looked like men who could be trusted, he thought.

Simon knew Baldwin was staring at him, but he refused to return the look. His eyes were fixed upon the Swiss, while his ears strained to pick up any signs of nervousness from the woman. ‘I heard you were a pewterer yourself.’

Rudolf lifted a hand and glanced over his shoulder, but the bows were unstrung. There was no need to worry about the hotter-headed fellows. He kept his hand in the air, beckoning his wife, and she walked to him and took it, grasping it firmly, like a drowning woman grabbing at a spar. ‘And what else have you heard of me, Master Bailiff?’

As soon as Peter had heard that dismal cry, the terrible anguished shriek of the widow, he felt his heart dissolve and a huge emptiness open up inside him.

‘Woman, who is dead? Who is it?’ he cried as he ran to her.

He was not the first to arrive at her side. Before him was a decrepit watchman, who stood helplessly wringing his hands. Peter grabbed her hands and kept them still, trying to impose his stolid calmness upon her. He stared into her maddened eyes and spoke soothingly. ‘Come now, woman. You know me, don’t you – hey? You know who I am. I’m Peter the Almoner. Now what’s all this about a murder? Who’s dead? Where is he?’

‘Help us! He’s in the alley! He only came home last night, and now he’s dead! In the alley, outside our door!’

Men were gathering about her, fingering their weapons, wondering whether they should be chasing after a murderer, and if so, whom they should seek. Peter shoved his way through them all, hurrying back along the alley from which she had come.

It was a noisome little place. Not much more than a couple of yards wide at the entrance, but with extended buildings reaching out overhead, some all but touching, and shutting out the sun so effectively that he felt as though he was swimming through an almost impenetrable murk.

He knew which was Emma and Hamelin’s house. If he didn’t, he soon would have, from the sounds of wailing children.

It was a tatty building, with the plaster falling from the walls and the lathes exposed. In the winter there would be terrible draughts whistling through, Peter thought absently. It said little for the couple that they hadn’t done the same as so many other peasants, and made a thick, sticky paste from the glutinous earth that lay all around to patch the wall to shut out the winds. But Hamelin was a miner, he remembered, so he probably rarely had time, while his wife was permanently exhausted from raising and feeding her brood.

Some of them were outside now, and as Peter approached, one young lad turned his head to him. With a shock of horror, Peter realised that the darkness about the fellow’s face was not the darkness of the alley, but was blood, great red streaks down both cheeks. His hands and fingers were covered in it, and he had transferred the blood to his face as he wailed.

At his feet was a mess of broken shards of pottery. At first that was all Peter could see, but then he realised that there were feet protruding into the alley, and he felt his heart sink further. He approached, making the Sign of the Cross as he squatted beside the body.

‘Who is it?’

Nob had followed the noise and now stood at his side, shaking his head.

‘I think it is that poor girl’s husband,’ Peter said.

‘Hamelin? Could be, I suppose. Christ Jesus, what a mess! He has been stabbed, hasn’t he?’

Peter hardly heard him. He was considering the man’s position. ‘He was dragged here and thrown on top of this pile of rubbish. Why should a man pick up another and throw him atop a midden? It would seem a strange way to treat a body.’

‘Hey, you looking for sense in a murderer? Come on, Brother. There’s no point in that. Look for sense in a tavern full of drunks more like!’

Peter glanced at him, and his expression made Nob silent in a moment. ‘This man has been murdered, Cook. Take those children away and see to them, and tell someone to advise the Abbot. And in the meantime, stop your idle chatter!’