The Devil's Acolyte

Chapter Fourteen

After the previous day’s rainy beginning, it had been a relief to wake to bright sunlight. Simon hadn’t needed the prodding finger of the novice to wake him, for he could feel the warmth of the sun reaching out to him even through his closed eyes. Lazily, he had opened them to find himself gazing at Sir Tristram’s bare body. The knight had swung open the rough board shutter and was staring down into the yard. Seeing him thus naked in the morning light, Simon was surprised at the number of wounds on his body.

There were two star-shaped scars, both on his upper left shoulder, which looked as though they must have been made by arrows. The great barbed arrows of old would have done far more damage, but the modern ‘prickers’, designed to penetrate mail, were little more than square-sectioned steel needles. Simon had seen other men wounded by these arrows, and they always had this characteristic star-shape. On his flank there was a great gouge lined with sore-looking red flesh that probably resulted from a sword or axe blow; his left upper arm bore a long, raking slash; both legs were mottled with scars, some fine, thin ones like cobwebs, others deep-looking stab wounds or slashes, as though he had been in a hundred different fights with all different types of weapon.

Simon couldn’t help but let a low whistle pass from his lips, and Sir Tristram whirled round.

There were many knights whom Simon had met who had been suave and silky in movement as well as tone, men who would turn elegantly upon hearing someone behind them. Others, like his old friend Baldwin himself, were strangely precise in their movements. These were the masters of defence, men who had trained all their childhood and youth, men who could pick up any weapon and use it effectively, men who could fight as though dancing, while holding a seven-pound sword in one hand as if it was as light as a willow-wand.

This was not one such. Sir Tristram spun around like a man expecting death and the devil. His face was pulled into a snarl, his teeth bared, his whole being transfigured. From a tall man at a window he became a crouching, bestial creature, one hand forward, the other held back, ready to punch. But there was something missing. It was as though Sir Tristram had seen knights fight and knew how to emulate them, but lacked their skill; a man might, after all, pick up a hammer and beat at a piece of metal, but it took a smith’s experience to bend that metal to his will.

Then, in an instant, Sir Tristram had reverted to a tall man at a window. He stood again with a faintly sneering smile. ‘Aha, Bailiff. I didn’t realise you were awake.’

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Simon said carefully. ‘But I noticed your scars, and I was surprised to see so many.’

Sir Tristram’s face relaxed. He almost seemed to be listening to voices Simon couldn’t hear. ‘Perhaps you were just as surprised to hear how I spoke of the Scottish. This should explain why,’ he said, motioning at his flank and legs. ‘The Scots did all this. These fine scratches were from a razor. A Scot caught me on my own lands and sought to punish me. He intended to kill me, after torturing me, but I managed to get the better of him. A man of mine arrived and knocked him out, rescuing me, and I myself cut off his head, the bastard!’

‘What of the arrows? When were you hit by them?’

‘In the service of the King. One at Bannockburn, one at Boroughbridge. As you can see, places beginning with the letter “B” are not lucky for me!’

‘I have never seen so many scars as those which lie on your arms and legs.’

‘These are all from Scottish scum! They stole my inheritance from me, and whenever I have fought them to win back my lands, they have wounded me, but never have they conquered! Every encounter you see marked here upon my body, every one has been avenged. Not one man who marked me yet lives.’

‘And now the King wants more men to end the border fighting once and for all. That will be a good thing for you, I suppose. You can enjoy peace once the fighting is all done.’

‘Peace? Yes, I suppose so,’ Sir Tristram said, but without conviction. Simon had the impression that he was less interested in peace, more in the potential that his returned lands would give him for exacting punishment on those who had thwarted him over the last years.

He didn’t speak again while he and Simon dressed, but walked from the room as though sunk deep in thought. Simon was glad when he had gone. There was little pleasure to be gained from so morose a companion, and he groaned inwardly to think that he must remain with this man all day, surveying a crowd of grimy peasants all reeking of sweat, garlic and old ale.

When he found himself sitting at the table in the marketplace, inspecting all the men, the reality was even worse than his fears. The stench of unwashed bodies was almost overpowering in the still, hot air, and as each man stepped up to the table to be viewed and considered while his weapon was surveyed with greater or lesser contempt, the foul wafts from rotten teeth turned Simon’s stomach. It would be almost preferable, he thought, to be up on the moors at the side of the putrefying corpse.

He was here in a semi-official capacity, mainly to see that the Arrayer didn’t take too many of the Abbot’s men, and he found the task tedious, but knew that he couldn’t slip away. He must sit here and look intent, concentrating hard on serving the Abbot while also not appearing to help anyone obstruct the Arrayer. Waving at the innkeeper, he ordered a jug of ale and drank deeply as soon as it arrived.

By late afternoon, he had had enough. Rather the stinking remains of poor Walwynus than this slow repetition of the same old questions, followed by the same dull responses.

Simon was surprised at his reaction, for he disliked anything to do with corpses. However, in the last six years he had become increasingly involved in cases of murder than in the more usual aspects of his job – catching thieves, punishing miners or the peasants and farmers who lived near to Dartmoor and broke the Stannary laws. He was fortunate that his master, the Abbot, was keen to see that justice was impersonal, and that every murdered man still had access to justice.

If a man was murdered, he deserved to have his case looked into, and of course the Abbot couldn’t ignore the fact that his courts were also highly profitable: trying a man for murder was always lucrative. The felon’s chattels became forfeit, then there were the fines imposed upon him and any accomplices, plus the murder weapon became deodand, its value payable to the Crown…

With that idle thought, Simon wondered again what had happened to the murder weapon in Wally’s case, but at that moment he became aware of shouts from the back of the crowd. Even the peasants before him were growing restless at the noise, with some shifting from foot to foot, muttering amongst themselves. One, an older man, looked suspicious, as though a watchman was chasing him for some previous misdemeanour; another fellow, who was quite bald, looked equally alarmed. Simon vaguely recognised him, quite a young fellow, he thought, but he knew thousands of men by their faces on the moors. There was nothing too familiar about him. The guilty expressions made Simon want to laugh. The men must have come here knowing that the King had offered pardons for all those who enlisted, and hoped to have taken his money before they could be caught.

Glancing across at Sir Tristram, he exchanged a knowing look, then rose and made his way through the crowd. Sir Tristram should be able to take whomsoever he wished. The local Bailiffs and constables must leave their prey today, because the King’s need came first.

He arrived at the back to find a hot and flustered young monk.

‘Oh, thank goodness, Bailiff. The Coroner is here and is asking for you.’

Rudolf was pleased to be on the move. After so many years of travelling, he and his family had the matter of striking and breaking camp down to a fine art. In no time at all the fires were doused, his pack-horses laden, and the carts filled ready to travel. With luck they should reach Ashburton before dark, although Rudolf hoped they would find a better path before long, for his two-wheeled cart was lumbering unevenly behind the horse, making the beast roll his eyes with alarm.

They had barely managed a mile when disaster struck. Rudolf was in front, leading his own sumpter, a gentle mare who could carry a vast quantity on her broad back, when he heard a warning shout, a terrific splintering crunch, and then a series of curses as a horse whinnied high with panic.

It was all because of a great lump of stone. The wheel had caught the rock, which had moved suddenly, letting the wheel fall into a deep rut. It jammed, and the horse had slipped. The beast was maddened with fear, and sprang up again, jerking sideways, but the wheel was firmly fixed, and wrenching it like that, the timbers snapped, even the metal tyre shearing. The cart had broken its wheel and axle as well. They would need not only a wheelwright, but a capable carpenter as well, and in the meantime they were stuck here.

There was no point in trying to redistribute the load – Rudolf had seen that instantly. They wouldn’t be able to transfer enough to the other mounts, and the petrified horse pulling the cart had been so frighted that one hoof slipped into a small hole, and with a sound like a tree cracking under the weight of an avalanche, the leg snapped.

His wife now stirred the stew which that horse had contributed. They would have a good meal today, but that was little consolation, knowing that they would not reach safety until his son had returned from his urgent journey to Buckfastleigh to ask for help. He must find another pony or horse to carry as much of the load as was possible on its back, because there could be no doubt that a cart was little use here.

‘Rudi? You want some wine?’ his wife called.

‘No, Anna. I am not thirsty yet. I shall wait a while,’ he responded. There was no point in anger or bitterness. All he could do was try to ensure that he and his little team were safe. His son had left soon after dawn. It was only a few miles to the town, from what he had heard, so with a little good fortune, Welf should be back with a horse before nightfall. Then all they would have to do would be to wait for the morning, break camp, and be off. He hoped there would be no more hold-ups.

‘Don’t worry, Rudi,’ she said, walking to him. In her hand she held a large wineskin made from a goat, and she held it out to him. ‘Drink. There is nothing more to be done tonight.’

‘I hope Welf is all right. I had prayed that he would be back already.’

‘You are fearful about that pewter, aren’t you?’

‘It was a very good price,’ he said obliquely.

She laughed. ‘You mean, it was too cheap to be legal! Well, we bought it in good faith. If it was stolen, it is not our concern, is it?’

‘It may grow into our concern. A man’s dead back there, and we were too close for comfort. It is all too easy for a foreigner to be blamed.’

‘All we need do is tell them the truth. That we bought the metal from a merchant, and then wanted to be on our way.’

‘Yes. One day after I fought with the man who is dead. The fool! Why didn’t he leave us alone?’

When he entered the guest room, Simon instantly recognised the stocky figure standing in front of the window with his back to him.

‘Coroner! Godspeed!’

Whirling, the Coroner studied him with a grin. ‘It seems as though wherever you go, someone is soon murdered, Bailiff!’

‘It’s good to see you, Coroner,’ Simon said with genuine relief. ‘I was beginning to wonder whether the body would have completely dissolved before anyone got here, what with the strong sunshine.’

‘I shouldn’t worry. I’m not like some – no need for money.’

Simon smiled. Many of the Coroner’s colleagues would haggle over money, demanding payment for going and doing their duty, but Simon knew that his friend was not formed from such a corrupt mould.

‘Now, you have a body for us,’ Coroner Roger said. ‘A good thing, too. It was growing tedious being at home with my wife all the time. You have never heard a woman nag until you’ve witnessed my Lady in full flow.’ The Coroner spent all his time, when out of her earshot, complaining about his wife, but it was plain as a turd on a leaf that he adored her.

‘Us?’ Simon queried. ‘You want me to help you?’

The big man blinked with surprise. ‘Hadn’t you heard? Baldwin is with me. The Abbot specifically asked that he should accompany me. That was why we took a while to arrive.’

‘No, the Abbot didn’t tell me,’ Simon said, and as he told the Coroner all about Wally’s death and the discovery of his body, he felt his heart sinking.

It wasn’t that Baldwin was here. That was a cause for delight so far as Simon was concerned. The knight was astute, swift to spot problems with evidence, an acute questioner, and a good companion. No, it was the inference that the Abbot had decided that Simon wasn’t capable of dealing with the matter on his own.

If it were only that, Simon wouldn’t have been concerned, for he was happy to confess that Baldwin was the better investigator of them both, but it wasn’t only that. Suddenly there sprang in upon his mind the attitude of the Abbot on the day when he had been told of the robbery of the Abbot’s wine.

At the time, the Abbot had said that he was worried about Simon’s ability to cope, hadn’t he? If not then, soon afterwards. Damn that hammer! It had reduced Simon in the Abbot’s eyes, that much was clear. And it could cost him his position. There were always other men who were thrusting hard at his heels. Many would be glad of the post of Bailiff and the money it brought.

If the Abbot had lost faith in him, and he was to lose his post as Bailiff, he wasn’t sure what he would do. It would be hard enough to work under another man, if the Abbot decided that he was competent enough to remain but only in some lower, more subservient Stannary position, but it would be impossible for him to maintain his lifestyle. He depended upon the money to support his family.

When he reviewed the last few months in his mind, he could see why the Abbot would have lost all trust in him. It wasn’t only the most recent problem with the hammer. Earlier in the summer he had been steward in charge of the tournament at Oakhampton which had turned out to be pretty much of a disaster. Several men had died, and although the killer was found and his guilt proved to the satisfaction of Lord Hugh de Courtenay, something about the resolution of the case continued to niggle at him.

Perhaps the Abbot was right to doubt Simon’s abilities. After all, the Bailiff so rarely had any idea why people committed their crimes, and without that insight, what was the point of employing him? Far better to ask Baldwin to come and seek the guilty. Baldwin always succeeded, he told himself bitterly.

‘Are you well, Simon?’

The Coroner’s voice broke in upon his gloomy thoughts. ‘Oh yes, I am fine,’ he replied hastily. ‘Where is Baldwin?’

‘The Abbot asked to see him as soon as he arrived here. I don’t know why.’

‘Oh.’

That response served only to increase Simon’s fretfulness. So now the Abbot wanted to speak to Baldwin alone. Simon knew that the Abbot had always had a lot of respect for Baldwin, but surely this meant that Abbot Robert was asking Baldwin for particular advice about matters while his mere servant, Simon, entertained the Abbot’s other guest, the Coroner.

Simon tried to put a brave face on it, but it was very hard. He no longer knew where he stood, and his confidence was leaking away.

Had he known his Bailiff’s gloomy thoughts, the Abbot would have been horrified, but at the moment he had more pressing matters to concern him.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am sorry to have to ask you to come here and see me after such a long journey, but I felt it was essential.’

‘I should have liked to speak to our good friend Simon and then begin to help Coroner Roger as soon as possible,’ Baldwin admitted, taking his seat near the Abbot when his host motioned to it. ‘Yet you are clearly very concerned about something, Abbot Robert. You know I will help in any way I might.’

‘I am very glad to hear it, Sir Baldwin. Very glad. But I am distracted! Where is my sense of hospitality? Did it take you long to get here?’

‘We travelled to the outskirts of the moor yesterday, and continued today, coming over the moors past the body of the dead man.’

‘Oh, do please excuse me! I forget my manners. Please, take some refreshment. Wine? Some stew or a pie?’ When Baldwin refused any food, he ordered a jug of wine for them both. Once Augerus was gone, he continued, ‘The fact is, I fear that the murder of this miner out on the moors could soon get out of control. Let me explain. Have you heard the story of Milbrosa and the Abbot’s Way?’

‘Oh, I recall it vaguely.’

‘You are quite right to be dismissive, of course. It’s a piece of dull-witted nonsense! How anyone could believe that a monk could steal the Abbot’s wine, then remove monastery plate and hawk it, and later choose to murder a man to conceal his crime – well, it is ridiculous, to my mind. And then they say that the devil took him.’

Baldwin smiled gently. ‘Perhaps you should tell me the whole story again, Abbot? I think that perhaps I am starting from a position of not enough knowledge.’

He listened intently as his host related the tale of the Abbot’s Way and explained how Milbrosa was supposed to have sunk so low, eventually dying when the devil himself took him and his companions away. Then the Abbot went on to tell of the death of the miner.

Baldwin shrugged. ‘This is mere idle gossip and speculation, nothing more. A miner has been murdered out on the moors. Almost certainly a felon struck him hoping to win a good purse, and found he had knocked down the wrong man. There is probably no more to it than that. Chitter-chatter can dream up as many daft explanations as people want,’ he added, thinking of the miner’s words about ‘Ellis the Tooth-Butcher’, ‘but it won’t change anything.’

‘There’s more, Sir Baldwin,’ said the Abbot heavily. ‘Only last week I told our friend Bailiff Puttock that someone has been stealing from my personal undercroft. Wine has gone missing. Lately I have heard of plates being stolen from a guest staying here with us. I refused to believe it could be one of my brethren, but now… perhaps someone is trying to repeat the story for some reason.’

‘Surely not. Someone could have stolen from you for personal gain, certainly, but in order to copy a tale of hundreds of years ago? What would be the point?’

‘Perhaps if the devil himself decided…’

‘I scarcely think that the devil would bother to get himself involved in so petty a crime,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘No, this is certainly a man who wants to steal from you to benefit himself. And your drawn features suggest that you suspect one among your own brethren. Is that not so?’

‘Alas! I wish it were not so, but yes, I am afraid I do have my suspicions. And it is most unpleasant, Sir Baldwin, to have to conclude that. The companionship of the religious life is very close. Very important. If one of your companions betrays that, there is nothing else left.’

‘Do you find your suspicions leaning to any one man?’ Baldwin asked.

The Abbot shook his head as though still debating with himself whether he should discuss so sensitive a matter with a man from outside the cloister. ‘I spoke to Bishop Walter at Exeter recently. He told me of the service you did him regarding Belstone’s convent.’ He looked up and met Baldwin’s gaze. ‘I would be grateful if you could keep all this to yourself, Sir Baldwin. Repeat it to no one.’

‘Even Simon? If I need to talk about my theories, I shall have to let him know all that I know myself.’

‘Then when that becomes necessary, you may tell him, but until then, please keep it secret that I suspect one of my own Brothers. It is too grave a burden for the ears of the gossips in the town. I trust Simon entirely, but as soon as a secret is shared, it is no longer a secret.’

‘I confess I see no point in concealing matters. Is Simon aware of the stolen wine?’

‘Yes. And the dead man, of course, but I… I pray it might not be so. If there is a connection, Sir Baldwin, then the only possible conclusion is that not only is one of my brethren guilty of stealing from my undercroft, but also he is guilty of…’

‘Of murder. Yes. But surely there are other possibilities?’

‘I find it hard to believe that a man from outside the Abbey could have broken into my stores and taken out a barrel-load of wine as well as escaping,’ the Abbot said with some acerbity.

‘True. Yet there are always possibilities. I should prefer to be able to confide in Simon. I have utter faith in him.’

‘So do I, usually,’ the Abbot said. He stared down at his table. ‘I told him to ignore the theft from my stores. I had only mentioned it in his presence in order to raise gossip and possibly bring the thief to his senses. I had thought that the guilty man might confess to me – but my hope has been dashed. What if the thief is the murderer?’ he muttered distractedly.

‘If there is no connection between the two crimes, there can be no harm in telling Simon, and if there is a connection, I will be able to find the man with more speed if I have Simon’s assistance.’

The Abbot said nothing, but frowned, and Baldwin continued: ‘Surely others will already have heard about the wine? They will be thinking that there are parallels between this and the story of the Abbot’s Way.’

‘Yes, you may be right.’ The Abbot stared hard at him. ‘But Simon, as you know, has a moorman’s concerns, a tin-miner’s superstition. I have one fear, and that is that his own partiality to ghosts and pixies could influence his investigation of the dead man. Does that make sense? If I ask him to concentrate only on the dead miner, he can enquire into that without being swayed by stories of the devil.’

‘I suppose that is sensible,’ Baldwin allowed cautiously. He too knew how superstitious Simon was.

‘As regards the matter of the wine, already one other of my monks has raised the name of a fellow with me, suggesting that he suspects him. You know Brother Peter, the Almoner?’

‘Of course. The man with the terrible scar.’

‘That is he.’ Abbot Robert paused a moment before going on.

Sir Baldwin waited patiently. He thought the Abbot looked very tired. No doubt it was partly the weight of carrying suspicion in his heart, suspicion that was aimed at one of his colleagues, but then Baldwin knew that the Abbot had been elected to the abbacy in 1285, thirty-seven years ago. That was a long time for one man to run a complex administration. Baldwin had seen how strenuous the work was during his past, when he was a Knight Templar.

If the men with whom Baldwin had served had suffered because of the destruction of their Order, then Abbot Robert had suffered from the sheer length of his service. It was not a thought which had occurred to Baldwin before, but now as he looked at Robert Champeaux, he saw that the lines about his face were deeper, the laughter lines at his eyes less obvious, and the general impression he gained was one of exhaustion. Baldwin’s heart went out to him. If he could help the man, he would.

‘It is not only myself, you see,’ the Abbot went on. ‘I know that one other monk has seen the same signs. He too suspects. And he has come to speak to me, and I have to decide what I should now do. And I have decided. I shall let you know the suspect’s identity so that you can look for evidence. If you find it, I shall call upon the fellow to confess to me, and then I can act as his confessor. But if he refuses… Why then, I must be sure that I am correct and that he is guilty.’

After this speech, Abbot Robert was silent again for a long time. He fiddled with his papers, stood and walked to the open window, staring out along the rows of apple trees and beyond before he could work up the courage to name one of his brethren.

‘I have to wonder how long this thieving has been going on for,’ he said eventually. ‘Perhaps all my guests in the last few years have had small items disappear while they were here under my roof, and all were too polite to mention it to me. How could someone believe that a felon could infest an Abbey, after all? They must have blamed themselves for mislaying their property, perhaps thinking that they left it behind in the last inn where they passed a night, or that a light-fingered servant took it. But I believe that it was the same thief who stole my wine. He has grown bolder and feels secure enough to confront me personally!’

‘What do you fear, Abbot?’

‘Me? I fear many things, Sir Knight: the devil himself, bogs on the moors, a clumsy horse, and most of all my own over-confidence and stupidity! But more than all of these, I fear accusing a young man unjustly and later realising that I have blighted his life without reason.’

‘I trust God wouldn’t lead you astray,’ Baldwin said fervently, but then his expression sharpened. ‘A youngster? You mean…’

‘I am advised to watch a young novice. An acolyte named Gerard.’