Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Then another thought struck him, and Gerard felt his belly gurgling.

What if Joce had seen them taking the stuff from his house? Maybe he didn’t even need to see them. For all Joce knew, only Wally had any idea where the metal was stored. He could have killed Wally and taken back his stolen metal. Unless Wally had already got rid of it, as he said he would. Then Joce would be discomfited, Gerard thought with a sudden grin.

But then his expression hardened. If Joce had caught Wally and then learned that his metal was gone, he would be enraged. Perhaps he had tortured Wally before killing him, demanding to know where the metal was, or to learn whether he had a confederate… What if Joce had learned that Gerard himself was involved, that Gerard had aided Wally’s theft of Joce’s stock?

All of a sudden, the acolyte felt the need to return to the reredorter .

Simon sat at the table comfortably replete. The meal, as usual at Abbot Robert’s board, had been excellent, the wine even better, and the Bailiff was aware of a gentle drowsiness stealing over him. Fortunately only one barrel of the special wine had been stolen, as the Abbot said, and this, as Simon was happy to agree, was a very good wine indeed.

As was usual when there was Stannary business to discuss, the Abbot was entertaining Simon alone. Other guests of the Abbey had to make do with the hospitality at the gate-house, but Simon merited rather better treatment. He and the Abbot had enjoyed a good working relationship for many years.

It was that fact which had annoyed Simon so grievously about the affair with the coining hammer, because he had never knowingly let the Abbot down before. He had always made sure that the Abbot’s work was done, no matter what, and up until this year, he had been efficient and capable. The mines worked well, the law was generally observed, and Abbot Robert had little cause for complaint. Simon was sure of it.

While the Abbot spoke to one of his servants at the end of the meal, Simon’s mind wandered.

This year, things had gone wrong: he couldn’t deny it. First there was the fiasco of the tournament at Oakhampton, which was a terrible embarrassment to Simon personally; then the hideous murders at Sticklepath. Somehow they had laid a gloom over the Bailiff’s usually cheerful demeanour. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the problems he had encountered, and was more to do with the way things were at home.

Edith, his daughter, had been his most prized companion, maybe even above his wife herself, and now he was losing her. Just as Meg had said so often, she was growing, and with her slim good looks, she was attracting all the boys like bees about a honeypot. The difficulty was, Simon wasn’t ready to let her go. He adored her, and seeing the unchivalrous, oversexed local youths pawing at her or doting upon her every word brought out the heavy father in him. Simon wanted to demand who their fathers were, how much land did they own, how much was it worth annually, and what were the lads’ prospects… He had actually tried to do that once, but Meg had skilfully distracted him and led him from the room. As she later said to him, it was bad enough for Edith trying to mix with boys of her own age and class with her father scowling in the corner of the room like an ogre from the moors, without him interrogating them like the Bailiff he was.

They still had little Peterkin, of course. Their son was a continual source of pride and pleasure to him, but somehow Simon already knew that his son would be the favourite of his wife. It was his daughter who had been his own especial friend. Astonishing, he thought now, how good wine could make a man see his troubles so clearly.

Glancing up, he saw that the last of the food was gone from the table, and only the dishes remained to be cleared. Thinking that their meeting was over, he thanked the Abbot and prepared to stand and make his way to the guest’s lodgings over the Court Gate, but the Abbot motioned to Simon to remain in his seat a while longer. He said nothing while the trenchers and plate were being collected by his two servants, but when they were gone, he leaned forward and beckoned to his Steward to pour them more wine.

‘Bailiff, you appear less than comfortable. Have you received bad news? Is that why you forgot the hammer?’

Simon smiled thinly. ‘It is nothing so important as to merit the title of news, my Lord. No, it is merely the ordinary trials of a father. I apologise for having allowed my domestic affairs to affect the coining.’

‘I trust it will not last a great while.’

Simon gave a rueful shrug. ‘I trust not,’ he said, thinking that no matter what he wished, his daughter must soon find herself a lover and husband.

‘I am glad. I almost mentioned this to you before, but I admit that I was annoyed after that hammer nonsense. No, not because of you alone,’ the Abbot added, holding up a hand to stem Simon’s expostulations. ‘I had an inkling of something being wrong here in the Abbey, and then there was the stolen wine… You can imagine my feelings to then hear that my most respected Bailiff had made such a foolish error.’

‘I can understand,’ Simon said. He felt deflated. The meal and wine had persuaded him that the affair was over and done with, but the Abbot’s words indicated that it was not yet forgotten.

Abbot Robert was toying with his goblet now. ‘And now there is this poor fellow on the moors: Walwynus. His corpse is guarded?’

‘I left the miner Hal Raddych up there. When the Coroner arrives, we can investigate more fully.’

‘Of course. Who could wish to kill a poor fellow like him? It seems insane.’

‘There are madmen about,’ Simon said.

‘Yes, but one hardly expects to meet them here. Do you think that this was a random attack from an outlaw? Someone who knocked him down just to filch his purse?’

‘It is very hard to say, my Lord Abbot. But I shall enquire as I may, see if I can dig up something for the Coroner to use. When should he arrive?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Tomorrow or the day after, I hope.’

Tuesday or Wednesday, Simon noted. He sighed. ‘I only wish Baldwin were here.’

‘Yes. He is a man of excellent judgement.’

Simon nodded, burped gently, and sipped at his wine. ‘Baldwin is a good man to have at your side in an enquiry. He’s so used to running his own courts as Keeper of the King’s Peace that questioning people is second nature to him.’

‘He has many duties,’ the Abbot murmured. ‘The duties and responsibilities of an Abbot are equally onerous: varied and always increasing. We are now to be asked to help the King again. His Host is marching to Scotland, I hear.’

‘I had thought that they would have crossed the border by now.’

‘Perhaps they have. The King is up in the north, I understand.’ The Abbot smiled humourlessly. ‘He wishes money for his bastard, Adam. The lad is to be blooded in Scotland, so we must all pay the King taxes so that he can afford to buy a horse and new armour for his whelp, I suppose.’

His tone was bitter. Simon knew that Abbot Robert resented having to send more of his hard-earned money to support the King in one of his campaigns.

‘Every time he calls on his Host he expects us to pay our fee,’ the Abbot continued. ‘This Abbey once had to support fifteen knights, but now we commute that service with scutage , we have to pay for sixteen. Not only that: his sister is to marry, and he wants a subsidy from me to help pay for her wedding! When the King decided to march against Thomas of Lancaster earlier this year, he demanded that I should act as his recruitment officer. Now a man has arrived telling me I must do so again, and find men for him at the same time as paying a fine because I, as an Abbot, tend not to maintain knights here in the cloister. Pah! He wanted me to provide him with money to hire mere mercenaries, knaves and churls who will fight for any man if the money is right, against every element of Christ’s teaching, and at the same time he demands my best, healthiest, strongest peasants to fill his army: no matter that he denudes my fields of the men I need during the harvest. My God! Save me from bellicose monarchs!’