The Devil's Acolyte

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Art looked out from the cart’s back as it rattled and thumped over the moors.

‘Are you all right, boy?’ Rudolf asked.

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Don’t call me that, boy. We’re all freemen here. None of us is owned by a master. That was what we Swiss fought for at Morgarten. Now you are with us, you are safe.’

Art heard his words, but they were so momentous that he found it hard to believe Rudolf. ‘I can work my way, sir.’

He saw the flash of teeth, but there was no answer. Art was partly terrified of this calm, tanned foreigner, but he was also filled with admiration. The man seemed so confident and assured. So too was Joce, Art thought, but Joce was cruel, often for the sake of it, while this Rudolf with his funny accent and voice had shown no desire to beat him yet.

The man who had caught him brought him straight to this Rudolf, who questioned him carefully, but plainly decided that there was no harm in him, and passed Art to his woman, who undressed him and gave him a fresh, clean, overlarge tunic and gown while his own clothes were taken away and beaten in the waters of a stream. While the clothes were being dealt with, a youth gave him a big wooden bowl filled with large pieces of meat in a rich, peppery gravy. Art devoured it with gusto, running his fingers around the bowl to collect the last vestiges.

Then the Bailiff and the others arrived. Art cowered in terror, thinking that they had come to take him back, for all knew how powerful Joce was, but Anna had passed him in among the women with their children, pushing him down until he squatted, invisible, in their midst.

It was a miracle that he had not been found, but then he could hear most of the conversation, and it was plain that they weren’t after him as he feared, but instead were still trying to learn what had happened when Wally died. It almost made him want to cry out in relief.

He was safe, he thought. Joce would find another young servant boy to abuse and beat, and Art would take up his new life as a sailor. Soon, very soon, he must make his fortune. All sailors did, he understood. As he was considering the advantages of this, he heard a muttered curse from Rudolf, and looking back the way they had come, he saw the distant figure of a man walking quickly towards them.

For some reason a feeling of awe and hatred welled up in his breast, although he had no idea at this distance whom this walking man might be. There was just something, in his gait, or the set of his head, or simply the aggressive stance in which he stalked forwards, as though he was attacking the roadway in order to subjugate it, that gave his identity away.

‘Sweet Jesu!’ Art whimpered.

He could see it all now. Joce had refused to accept his going. Joce wanted him back, would drag him, screaming, to the house, and once in there, Art knew that all the pain and indignities he had suffered before would be as nothing. For running away, he would be forced to endure the cruellest tortures his master could conceive.

Art gave an inarticulate cry and drew back into the security of the cart.

Rudolf glanced at him in surprise, then jerked his head. ‘Your master?’

‘Yes!’ It was little more than a whisper. Art’s eyes were fixed upon the steadily approaching figure.

‘You are safe with us,’ Rudolf said calmly.

‘He will kill me!’

‘No.’

Joce was in earshot now, and he bellowed at the top of his voice, ‘Hold! Stop those carts!’

Rudolf, hearing his command, muttered in German to Welf, ‘The bastard thinks he can order us around like English peasants!’

‘I said stop the carts! I must speak to you!’

To Joce’s relief the cavalcade drew to a halt, the men and women separating and the men forming a line at the rear of their column.

He was bone tired now. The horse had collapsed near Sharpitor, and he had been forced to make his way on foot after that. At least he’d been in luck so far. He wondered whether Jack the Sergeant had been the last of a line of men searching for him, because after killing him, he had seen no more evidence of a man-hunt on his trail. Perhaps he had escaped after all, he thought. Certainly this stranger with the thick accent seemed to pose no danger. If anything, he looked a bit stupid.

‘You are welcome, sir,’ Rudolf called, emphasising his accent. It was always useful to be able to deny comprehension when necessary, he found. ‘How may we serve you?’

‘May I crave your generosity? I have been robbed, and my food and water were stolen. Could I share a little of your food with you?’

‘Certainly, sir. It is poor fare for a gentleman. Still, you are welcome to share what we have,’ Rudolf said.

Joce smiled, although he was thinking that this man was a fool. He would eat with them, drink with them, and then, when all was dark and these ignorant foreigners were asleep, he would take the pewter. Perhaps someone might wake – well, if they did, Joce would enjoy setting his blade across the man’s throat. It would be pleasant to kill again. There were many of them, and only one of him – but that didn’t concern Joce. He knew he was more than equal to them.

Coroner Roger lunged at the runaway horse and hauled on its reins, almost unseating himself as the wild animal pulled him and his own horse along. ‘I have it!’ he roared gleefully as he drew it to a slower pace, then to a canter, leaning over to pat the beast’s neck, wiping some of the foam and froth away.

‘This is my Sergeant’s mount,’ Sir Tristram said with icy calm.

‘Is he the sort of man to lose his horse?’ the Coroner asked, but even as he spoke his eyes caught sight of the stain. ‘Blood.’

‘Christ Jesus!’ The blasphemy was deserved. All along the horse’s flank was a great gout of blood.

‘I fear your man is dead,’ Coroner Roger said soberly.

‘Up there! Ah, by the devil’s cods, he must have got past all the men! Jack was up there as a last line to stop him. If he cut Jack down, he could be anywhere.’

‘Not anywhere,’ Roger said thoughtfully. ‘There are not that many paths from here. And the ground is quite damp. Let’s see if we can find out where he has gone.’

They left the runaway horse with another of Sir Tristram’s men and made their way back up the hill. The hoofprints were clear enough, for the horse had galloped wildly, each steel horseshoe cutting deeply into the soft, well-cropped grass, and they had no need of a tracker. They could ride at a gentle canter until they came to the body.

‘Dear God!’ Sir Tristram said with disgust.

‘It’s your man?’ the Coroner asked.

‘Yes. That looks like Jack’s body. But where’s his head?’

Coroner Roger jumped lightly from his horse and left the corpse, walking along the hoofprints until he came to a place where the blood lay thickly. ‘Here it is,’ he said, picking up Jack’s head. He set it with the body and gazed east. ‘That’s his direction. He’s going to Ashburton.’

‘Then let’s be after him!’ Sir Tristram grated. ‘I want his head.’

Simon and Baldwin entered the Abbot’s lodging after him, and while Abbot Robert roared for his Steward, the two sat in chairs near his table. When Augerus hurried inside, he was instantly sent out again to fetch wine. Meanwhile the Abbot instructed a messenger to collect Brother Peter.

That monk, when he entered, found himself being gazed at by the stern quartet of the Abbot, Baldwin, Simon, and Mark; the latter wore the most savage expression of them all, as though, Peter thought privately, he was determined to outdo all the others in righteous indignation.

‘My Lord Abbot, you asked for me?’ Peter asked, with apparent surprise. He had been warned, but their expressions were fearsome.

Augerus entered behind him, and now stood contemplating him with some surprise, a tray of cups and wine in his hands.

‘Wake up, Steward!’ the Abbot snapped. ‘Serve us. Brother Peter, I have had some alarming news. It is said that you knew who was stealing from me; that you have known for some time.’

Peter sniffed, his brows lifted. ‘It is true that I guessed, as you know, but I couldn’t swear to know for certain.’

‘How did you guess?’ the Abbot demanded, his face darkening.

‘My Lord Abbot, as I told you before, I saw Gerard and also Wally, taking goods. Thus when I spoke to Wally, his part was known to me, and he swore he’d fetch back the pewter.’

‘Brother Mark has said he thinks you were helping the thieves. Is this so?’ the Abbot rapped out.

‘No, it most certainly is not. I knew he was about, and for a short while I did wonder whether he could be involved, but now it seems…’

‘You decided he was not?’ Simon prompted.

Peter glanced at Mark with an apologetic smile. ‘It is hard to imagine someone less suited to clandestine work. He would always be too drunk later in the evening to be able to perform any quiet or secret operation without discovery.’

‘He was able to perform one,’ Simon said.

‘Oh, stealing the wine, yes,’ Peter said dismissively. ‘That was simple enough, though. Mark likes his drink too much to be able to leave it alone, and it was easy for him to persuade Augerus to get drunk with him one night, and then, when Augerus’ wits were entirely fuddled, get him to open up the undercroft and permit him to taste the wines.’

‘You knew of this?’ the Abbot said.

Peter shrugged uneasily. ‘I thought you yourself knew. Otherwise I shouldn’t have spoken. It is a matter for Mark and God. Not me.’

The Abbot slowly turned and stared at his salsarius. ‘I shall wish to speak with you, Brother,’ he said heavily before facing Peter again. ‘You say that Augerus let him in to drink my wine?’

‘I saw them.’

Augerus felt Abbot Robert’s eyes turn upon him, and hastily gabbled, ‘I am sorry, my Lord, but if I did let him in, it was because I was too drunk to realise! I could scarcely have wanted to let him in to take all your wine.’

‘Four times in a week?’ Peter murmured in surprise. ‘You must have been extremely drunk, Augerus.’

‘Is this true?’ the Abbot snarled. ‘You went to enjoy private parties in my undercroft each night?’

‘My Lord, I don’t know. All I know is, I woke up one morning and Mark there told me that I must replace all the wine from one barrel because he had finished it, and you had announced your imminent return. Oh, my Lord, don’t scold me and punish me for weakness – rather, punish the man who brought me down.’

‘What have you to say, Mark?’ the Abbot said.

The monk noted the absence of the fraternal title. ‘My Lord, I cannot lie to you. I did enjoy your wine. But that is all I have done, and I did tell you about Gerard. I couldn’t bring shame to this Abbey. I believe that Gerard was not alone in stealing. I believe he had an ally within who helped him pass the pewter out to Wally.’

‘That is something that troubled me,’ Simon said. ‘How would Gerard have come to know Wally? Surely someone would have needed to introduce them? And then, how would Gerard have gained access to the lodgings here? Would he not have found the doors barred and locked?’

‘Yes,’ the Abbot said with a frown. ‘In your drunkenness, you must have left the doors open, Augerus.’

‘Perhaps that is why Mark insisted on ensuring I was drunk, my Lord,’ Augerus said with a shocked expression. ‘He wanted to give Gerard access to the rooms so that he could pass the stolen things to Wally.’

Simon chuckled. ‘This is a fine muddle, my Lord. But we do know some facts. First, that Mark can be persuaded to accept a drink of any sort.’ He ignored a huffy grunt from the salsarius. ‘Second, that it would be easy for Gerard to get in here, if he had an accomplice inside your lodgings. We also know that the thefts were tied to Wally’s death, and that Hamelin also died because of the thefts.’

‘Why?’

‘Hamelin had been given the money, but I think that the money was a secondary motive. If his killer had found it, he would have kept it, but the money itself wasn’t the reason for the murder. I think he had to die because he saw Mark up at Wally’s house that day. But Ellis saw two monks. We know what Mark was doing, he was trying to force Wally to bring back the pewter, but what about the other man? We know Peter was on the moors – but what if there was a third? Perhaps Hamelin saw him too. And which other monk was not in the Abbey that day? Augerus.’

‘But I was here!’ The Steward looked indignant.

‘The groom said he could get no ale that day. We know he couldn’t go to Mark, but all monks would surely come and ask you for some, if he wasn’t about. Yet no one could find you either.’

‘It’s not true!’

‘Hamelin was killed in case he spoke later,’ Simon continued sternly. ‘You murdered him, leaving his wife a widow and his children orphaned. How could you do that?’

‘My Lord Abbot, what can I say?’

‘In God’s name, just tell me the truth!’ the Abbot stormed. ‘You have thrown away your honour and integrity and become no more than a felon! You captured an innocent boy and forced him to do your bidding, didn’t you? Why?’

‘I was scared!’

‘Scared of what?’

Augerus began weeping. He knew it was pathetic, but that was how he felt. Feeble and useless. For many years he had been a capable servant, but now all was lost, and all because of his fear of the man who had bullied him as a schoolboy.

‘Joce Blakemoor was at school with me, and he beat me. Broke my nose until it gushed. He came to me some time ago and said that he would cripple me if I didn’t help him. He needed money badly, and I didn’t dare argue. He said he’d make me look worse than Peter. I couldn’t stand up to him. He was always bigger than me.’

‘You could have told me,’ the Abbot said.

‘He swore he’d kill me if I said a word to anyone.’

Simon said, ‘You must have known he couldn’t murder you without suffering the consequences.’

‘What would the consequences matter to me? I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? You speak as if he’s a rational man! He’s not, he’s evil. He could be a novice demon. The devil’s own acolyte.’

‘You forced Gerard to steal.’

‘Only a little. I had to do something,’ Augerus wailed.

‘And harmed his soul as well as your own!’

‘Is there no one among my Brothers whom I can trust?’ Abbot Robert demanded.

‘You can trust me, Abbot! Please, don’t send me away. Joce’ll have me killed, and–’

Simon gave a low, scornful laugh. ‘You are sad and fearful now, Augerus, but you brutally murdered Wally, didn’t you? Why did you do that?’

‘You have said, to get back the pewter or the money for the Abbey,’ Augerus said, shaking his head as though sadly.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Simon said. ‘Baldwin and I have already heard that Wally diddled his associate out of a tiny part of his share in the proceeds of the crimes.’

‘A tiny part? It was a whole shilling!’ the Steward expostulated.

‘I think,’ Simon said with a faint smile, facing the Abbot, ‘that that is your answer. The first murder was for one shilling. The second was for less; it was purely to protect the murderer from the consequences of his first murder.’

‘No, my Lord Abbot! You can’t believe the strange stories told by this Bailiff!’ Augerus babbled. ‘Are you going to convict me on his word? Please, I beg, let me–’

‘You shall have to live out a penance,’ Abbot Robert said, ignoring his plea. ‘I shall consider it. In the meantime, you shall remain under guard. You can go to the church and begin to pray to God for His forgiveness. When your brother monks are called to the church, you will lie across the doorway so that all can step over you. You, Augerus, are contemptible!’

After eating the food Rudolf brought to him, Joce sat down and talked to the Swiss in a carefully genial manner, waiting for a suitable moment to mention the pewter. If he could, he wanted to learn in which wagon it had been stored, but somehow the foreigner didn’t understand English well enough. Every time Joce tried to direct the conversation back towards the town and tin, or pewter, Rudolf began to speak about the mountains in his homelands, or the freedom which the men of the Forest Cantons enjoyed. Every man free, none a slave.

All the while the carts sat so close. They had the look of being well-filled, their wheels sinking and creating ruts in the path, and Joce longed to go to them, to hurl their contents to the ground, to destroy, to torture or kill, but mainly to find that metal. He must find it! It was his guarantee of free passage and a new life.

As the light faded, and twilight quickly overtook the moors, he watched the travellers carefully. It seemed to him that the folk were avoiding him, other than Rudolf himself, and he sat a little too far from Joce for the Receiver to be able to grab him with any confidence of keeping hold as well as drawing his dagger. He was tempted to try to move closer, but somehow he felt that Rudolf would notice and could consider it to be a threat. In preference, Joce might reach to pull off a boot. A man without a boot, he reasoned, looked ungainly and unthreatening. He could lean forward once the boot was off, as though peering inside it, and then throw it at Rudolf, distracting the man, and while he was catching the boot, or pushing it away, Joce could draw his dagger and put it to Rudolf’s throat. That would give him a chance to demand the pewter, and then he could take a horse and ride off.

But he knew that it was madness. There were so many men here. Any one of them could stop him, could grab at him as he tried to mount a horse, or could wrest the pewter from him. He needed a better plan.

At the sound of horses, Joce saw two of Rudolf’s men stand and stare back the way he had come, west, towards Tavistock, but he kept calm and sat quietly, listening intently. There were only a few riders, that was obvious. The ground didn’t vibrate as it would with ten or more heavy mounts, and the rumble of hooves was dissonant, a broken noise, in which almost every hoof beat could be discerned. Two, maybe three horses, no more, he reasoned.

They took little time to reach the travellers.

‘Who is your leader?’ came a hoarse voice, and Joce felt his belly lurch. Sir Tristram? What was that duplicitous arse doing up here?

Rudolf stood. ‘You are looking for someone?’

‘A man on foot who came past here today, probably late,’ Sir Tristram said. He noticed Joce sitting – now that Rudolf had moved away, Joce was alone. ‘Who are you? Are you with these travellers?’

Joce rose to his feet and faced him. ‘I am the Receiver of Tavistock, Sir Tristram. You remember me?’

Sir Tristram was tempted to snatch his sword from its scabbard and sweep his head from shoulders. ‘Of course I remember you. Have you seen a man coming past here?’

Joce shook his head. ‘No, no one.’

‘That is odd, then isn’t it?’ Sir Tristram said. He spurred his horse forwards. ‘We have had an exciting day today. A young novice, Master Gerard, from the Abbey, was savagely attacked and lies close to death in the Abbey. Then we learned of a girl who was threatened by a man who tried to strangle her, and just now we found my Sergeant dead just a little way from Tavistock, his head taken clean off his shoulders. And the man who did it came this way, first on a horse, then on foot. We came across the horse further back that way. Yet you saw no one.’

‘He must have turned north or south.’

‘Did you know that Jack saw you at the argument we had in the town? He said he recognised you. Said you were the leader of the Armstrongs. He called you Joce the Red-Hand.’

‘He was dreaming,’ Joce laughed.

Coroner Roger smiled blandly, and then pointed to Joce. ‘Your sleeves are stained, man, as is your tunic near your dagger! You are the…’

Before he could finish his words, Joce had moved. He shot across the grass and grasped Anna about the waist, turning with her even as he drew his knife. Instantly he faced the men with the dagger at Anna’s throat. ‘If any one moves, she dies,’ he snarled.

He had forgotten the two crossbows. There was a hideous thump and grating friction at his shoulder. He felt his whole upper body jerk, his arm losing all power in a moment, and the knife flew from his hand even as his shoulder seemed to explode. As Anna staggered and fell to her knees before him, he was only aware of the sudden eruption from his shoulder: his tunic snapped away, ripped and shredded, and there was a violent effusion of blood which sprayed the grass for yards about, a solid mass in its midst. He could see it fly on, a blurred spot in the distance.

A moment later there was a second thud in his spine, and it slammed him down to the earth, where he lay, mouth agape, his remaining good arm scrabbling for purchase in the blood-clogged grass. He tried to speak, to bellow, but no words came. He could feel pain searing his breast like flames: the bolt had shattered in his spine, and fragments of wood and bone had pricked his chest, puncturing his lungs; now the blood was clogging his breath and as he opened his mouth to roar, a fine spray of crimson burst forth, staining the grass anew.

It can’t end like this, he thought. There was more astonishment at this than pain or shock. Of all ends, he had never anticipated this. He shivered, and suddenly he realised that his legs were shaking uncontrollably, quivering against the long grasses, and then the spasms spread upwards, to his groin, then his arms, and suddenly his eyes widened.

And then he was still.

When the Coroner returned to the town, riding on ahead of Sir Tristram, who was bringing Joce Blakemoor’s body back on a sumpter horse, Simon and Baldwin listened with keen interest to his story.

‘So the Swiss men shot him? A kind end to a violent man,’ was Baldwin’s comment.

‘It explains some of the story,’ Simon said.

‘Yes. We know that the acolyte ran away from the Abbey because he couldn’t cope with the pressure and fear. Augerus had made him steal for him, taking whatever he could from the Abbey’s guests, and so he ran away, joining Sir Tristram’s men. He hoped to be able to disappear with them. But I suppose when he saw or heard all of us arriving and questioning Sir Tristram, he panicked and bolted, and somehow Joce caught him and tortured him to learn where the pewter was gone.’

‘Yes,’ said Simon absently, ‘except…’

Baldwin chuckled to himself. ‘Come, there is little enough unexplained! You can be content with the scope of your discoveries.’

Simon smiled, but he was still unhappy at the amount he did not know. The acolyte had somehow found clothing; he had been shaved; he had been helped into the lines of men joining the Host, for he would have been spoken for. Someone must have confirmed his name and details when he applied to Sir Tristram.

And then he suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the pleasant, smiling face of Nob Bakere and his wife Cissy. ‘I think that we may learn a little yet,’ he said.

Leaving Simon’s faithful servant Hugh seated at the bedside of the wounded acolyte, Simon and Baldwin walked out through the Abbey’s gates and strode into the town once more.

‘Where do you want to go?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘There are some details we should learn,’ Simon said, and pushed open the door to Nob’s pie-shop.

It was empty apart from the cook and his wife.

‘Ah, um. Right, can we serve you gentlemen?’ Nob asked, trying to look innocent.

Simon ignored him, but spoke to Baldwin.

‘You remember when we came in here to look at sacks? I found a black tunic, and while I dropped it, unthinking, Nob came over and kicked it away from me angrily. At least, I thought he was angry at the time. We often kick out at whatever is near, don’t we? When Nob came to me, the nearest thing for him to kick at was the tunic. It flew into the corner. Where is it now, Nob?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Must still be there, if that’s where I kicked it, Master.’

Simon nodded at his cheerful attitude. ‘Well, I think it’s already burned. Which is a shame, because your son will have to buy a new one. Benedictine habits are not cheap, are they? Apostasy is one thing, but to burn a tunic – that is like burning your boats, isn’t it? Oh, Mark is being held by the Abbot, I should tell you, and Gerard is back at the Abbey. Much that was confusing us is now known. All we want is your story.’

‘Their son?’ Baldwin wanted to hit himself for being so dense. ‘I begin to comprehend. Their son is…’

‘Reginald the novice,’ said Cissy.

Simon snapped his mouth shut. He had been going to say that Gerard was their boy, and he was glad that he had been saved from making a fool of himself.

Baldwin was frowning intently at her. ‘Reginald?’

Cissy sighed and pointed with her chin to the ale barrel. ‘Nob, we might as well have a drink while we explain.’

‘All right, my little cowslip,’ he muttered.

‘And less of your smatter!’ she called after him. ‘Yes, Master Bailiff. I don’t know how you guessed, but our son is Reginald.’

‘And he is?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘Gangly, clumsy, dark hair. Oh, he’s his father’s son all right,’ Cissy laughed. ‘Reg is a fool. He got to thinking that Gerard was stealing, so he determined to talk to him and persuade him against his life of crime. Only, when he caught hold of the boy, he missed his hold and knocked him down. Reg was appalled. He was trying to help the boy, and when Gerard went down with a loud thud, he thought he’d killed him.’

‘You should have seen his face!’ Nob said, returning with the drink and passing pots to their visitors.

‘Anyway, Gerard confessed to him, and begged to be forgiven, but asked what Reg would do, and Reg didn’t hesitate. He said he’d ask his mum. Me.’

Baldwin lifted his mazer and saluted her. ‘And you advised?’

‘That he should stay where he was. But he said he feared Mark might kill him. That was what the monk had threatened – that he’d kill Gerard if he didn’t do as Mark wanted, and the same if he ever spoke about what he’d done.’

‘Yet he told you?’

‘He was so lost, the poor child. He didn’t know who to speak to, who to trust. By the time he came to us with Reg, he was almost past caring. The only thing he craved was certainty. And so the other possibility we suggested was that he should join the Host.’

‘We gave him some of Reg’s old clothes to wear, and I personally shaved him bald. I reckoned that would make him hard to recognise,’ Nob said with some pride. ‘When he went to join the Host, I spoke up for him, and I had paid some others to help, so that was no trouble. We thought he’d be far away by now.’

Cissy’s face hardened. ‘He hasn’t got away, has he? You’re not cheating us into telling you what happened?’

‘No, Cissy,’ Simon said quietly, and told her about the lad in the infirmary and the death of Joce.

‘Poor Joce. I never much liked him, but I wouldn’t wish that sort of death on any man,’ Nob shuddered.

‘Save your sympathy, you old fool! It’s Gerard you should feel sorry for,’ Cissy said scathingly. ‘The poor young fellow’s near death, from what these gentlemen say.’

‘Our Reg won’t be looked on with great favour, not once the Abbot knows what he did,’ Nob said.

‘Oh!’ Cissy cried. There was a terrible lurch in her belly at the thought, although she couldn’t deny a certain hope that he might be thrown from the Abbey so that he could marry and settle, just as she had always wanted.

‘We can only pray that Gerard recovers fully,’ Simon said.

‘I need hardly say how pleased I am with your work, Simon,’ the Abbot said at breakfast the next morning. He had invited Simon, Baldwin and the Coroner to join him, and he sat eyeing Reginald dubiously as the novice tried to serve the Abbot and his guests with the same professional skill as Augerus. ‘You have discovered the secrets of so many with such skill, that even now I scarcely comprehend the full story.’

‘I am sure we should never have learned the full facts without his efforts,’ Baldwin said.

Simon glanced at Baldwin, who gazed back innocently. ‘I am glad you are pleased, my Lord Abbot. I try to serve you as best I may.’

‘You have always been a good servant.’

‘I am only sorry to have disappointed you so often this year, my Lord,’ Simon said with his head bowed.

‘What do you mean?’ The Abbot looked baffled.

‘Simon is convinced you are so miserable with his abject inability to serve you,’ Baldwin said, ‘that he thinks you wish to remove him from his position. Especially after the mistake of the hammer.’

‘What, you mean the coining hammer?’ the Abbot demanded, astonished.

Baldwin had thrown out the comment in the hope that he might tease the Abbot into an admission that he was going to move Simon, however the tone of surprise sounded so authentic, he glanced up into the Abbot’s face.

‘I believed that the coining hammer was the last straw, my Lord Abbot,’ Simon said. ‘What with the fiasco of Oakhampton’s tournaments, and the madness at Sticklepath.’

‘Them?’ The Abbot waved his hand in genial dismissal. ‘Nothing! They had no effect upon me. And you managed to find who was guilty, didn’t you?’

‘I suppose so,’ Simon said. There was a lightheadedness, as though he had drunk too much of the Abbot’s strong wine. Perhaps he had, he thought, but now the atmosphere of the Abbey had lost its menace. It felt calm, friendly and compassionate again.

He need not fear for his post, he need not fear for his money, for his wife’s sense of well-being, for her happiness. All was well. All would remain well. He reached forward and poured himself more wine, picking up his goblet with a feeling of renewal, as though he had sat on the edge of a precipice, the soil slipping away from him, doom awaiting him, and the Abbot had saved him, gripping his arms even as he toppled forth into the abyss.

‘No, Bailiff. I am very content with you,’ the Abbot continued amiably.

‘Then what was it you were saying to me after the coining, my Lord Abbot? You appeared to be concerned about my work.’

‘Not about your work, no. About the workload. I didn’t want to keep loading you with more duties, in case you couldn’t cope with them all, but you seem to have the shoulders of an ox when it comes to bearing responsibility.’

‘I can certainly help with more duties,’ Simon said quickly. He dared not refuse any job, not after his concerns of the last few days.

‘Good! I am pleased. As you know, I have been granted the position of Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, and I need a good man to go down there and manage my affairs.’

Simon felt his face fix into a mask. ‘You wish me to go there and live?’

‘Of course. I need someone I can trust. There is a good little house, I believe, and the duties wouldn’t be excessively onerous, but well remunerated. Would you take it on for me?’

In his mind’s eye, Simon could see his wife’s face, Meg’s sadness at having to move home again. He could see his daughter’s dismay at the news, having to leave all the boys with whom she had flirted. When he believed that the Abbot was disappointed in him, he had thought that the worst thing that could happen to him was that he and his family might have to quit their house and go back to Sandford, leaving their new friends behind. Now, ironically, due to his success, he was to be asked to move – but to yet another place where he knew no one! Meg would be upset, he knew. Edith too.

‘I am most grateful, my Lord Abbot,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘I should be delighted to do that job for you.’

He had no choice.

Over in the quiet morning light of the Abbey sickroom, Gerard the acolyte lay huddled in his bed, his eyes on Christ on the cross hanging above the altar. Brother Peter sat beside him, a goblet of wine for the wounded boy and a cloth in his hands.

‘What will happen to me now?’ croaked the boy, slow tears sliding from his eyes.

‘Ah! Well, I think you will be asked to confess to our good Lord Abbot, and then you will be given a penance of several Hail Marys and the duty of serving my needs. An Almoner always needs a good helper.’

‘What of my crimes, though?’

‘You were forced into a life of theft – Augerus forced you. He will be made to understand the meaning of penance.’

‘And I made you help me leave the convent, just as I forced myself on Reginald’s parents.’

Peter shifted uncomfortably. ‘Aye, well, let us not dwell too deeply on that. I haven’t had a moment to confess to that particular offence yet. I’ll do so, though, aye, I’ll do it. I’m just not looking forward to the Abbot’s face when I tell him.’

‘It was good of you – but why did you agree to help me get out? It was a crime,’ said the broken voice.

‘Aye. I know,’ Peter said, thinking again of his Agnes. ‘But if you weren’t suited to the Abbey, do you see that you might be failing God? What if He truly intended you to be – oh, I don’t know – a stonemason, whose skills would show God’s glory to a congregation? Perhaps it would be better, if you mean to have a different life, to go and live it, rather than remaining here.’

‘I don’t think I can live here, not after all I’ve done.’

‘What you mean is, not knowing you’d have to face Augerus every day.’

‘Well, I suppose…’

‘Well, suppose again, lad. He’ll be long gone before you’re out of this room. He’s in a cell now, and he’ll not be allowed out, other than during services, until his boat’s ready.’

‘What boat?’

‘The Abbot has decided he will go to the islands. He’ll be going to the Abbey’s house at the Island of St Nicholas.’

‘Good God!’ Gerard began to sniffle, and Peter caught his hand and held it. ‘Do you think I will be sent there too?’

‘Nay, lad. You have done little wrong. Augerus has murdered two men, and forced you to become his slave-thief. He will suffer for his crimes. What have you done? You have been immature and young – but that is because you are immature. You will be all right.’

Gerard heard his voice, but the words were washing over him like shallow waves. He could discern little meaning. All he knew was, that the sympathy of this older monk showed that the wounds he had suffered were as truly appalling as he feared. He wanted to touch his face, where the dull throbbing at his nose and ear showed Joce had succeeded in wrecking him, or to scratch at the irritating itch at his cheek and shoulder. He had been a fool, and the memory of his foolishness would be with him every day of his life.

With a sob, he realised he wished that he had in fact died.

The next day, Nob threw open the shutters with a curious feeling of well-being. The sun was streaming down, for once, and with the slight breeze a few leaves blew along the alley outside. It was rare to wake to a clear sky and dry roadway, but today was one such, and Nob whistled cheerily, if tunelessly, as he collected flour from the miller’s and some more charcoal, carrying both on his old barrow.

Cissy was already in the shop and lighting a brazier on which to heat a couple of pies for their breakfast, he thought, but then he saw that she had several pies set out beside her.

‘Why so many?’

‘I’m taking some food to Sara. Her children need all the help they can get,’ Cissy said firmly. ‘I won’t have any arguments, Nob. She is eating for two again, remember.’

‘Who’s complaining? I’m not saying anything. I was just thinking, though. If she needs some ale, tell her my barrel’s always got a spare quart for her.’

Cissy watched him set about cleaning out the ovens, arranging the tinder and some twigs, then striking a spark to ignite them. ‘You’re a good man, Nob,’ she said contentedly.

‘Aye, an’ you’re a good woman. Come here, lass, give us a kiss.’

She dutifully gave him a peck on the cheek.

‘Nay, come on, make it a real one.’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘Course you do. An’ if you play your cards right, you can have me body as well.’

She clipped him round the ear. ‘Later, maybe.’

‘Ah, might be too late by then. You don’t know what you’re missing!’ he called as she left the shop.

She was a great woman, he reckoned. Sara would get all the support she needed from Cissy, and so would Emma. Poor woman was almost distraught about her husband, but she’d knuckle down soon enough. She had to, with all her kids. And although she had a few bob now, that wouldn’t last for ever. Nob shrugged. Someone else who’d have to come and get free pies. He wouldn’t let anyone’s children suffer.

He wondered about Sara’s claim on Joce. At least he might be able to help there… Even if the wedding wasn’t official, hadn’t been held at the church door, Sara still had a claim. Nob could bear witness to that. Joce had no family, did he?

It was a little later, into the forenoon, that a clerk appeared in the doorway.

‘Quick, a beef pie! I am due in the Abbot’s court.’

‘Master, I have one almost ready for you,’ said Nob calmly. ‘And I might be able to let you have it for a discount.’

‘Discount?’ The clerk’s eyes sharpened. ‘That sounds expensive.’

‘It could prove a nice little earner for a good master-at-law,’ Nob said dreamily. ‘Helping a wealthy widow. A young, attractive, blonde, wealthy widow.’

The clerk leaned upon the counter. ‘Tell me more…’ he invited.