Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

It had been a cleverly worked out scheme, though. He could admire Augerus’ cleverness while detesting the way the older man had entrapped him in it.

An Abbey like Tavistock always had a certain number of people taking advantage of the Abbot’s hospitality. Because of the location, near to some of the best tin mines in Europe, it was normal for several of the guests to be wealthy traders, pewterers or merchants, and often these men would carry plates or goblets instead of large sums of cash. They would know that they could hawk their metalwork for cash, and if need be, they could redeem their pieces later. It was easier and safer than carrying money.

Except, of course, when Augerus learned who the wealthiest visitors were, he could easily advise Gerard, and the boy would climb in to take the choicest bits and pieces. Never too much, and never too regularly. That might lead to questions. But once in a while, whenever Wally was due to be in town, then Gerard would go on his visits and bring whatever he could find to Augerus. Augerus in his turn would pass them items on to Wally, who would take them straight to Joce. That way, even if there were a complaint, there would be no evidence in the Abbey. A simple, but effective scheme.

Or so it had seemed until Wally died.

The court looked empty, but the shadows thrown by the trees lining the cemetery were so dark compared with the brightness of the area lighted by the stars, that he couldn’t truly be certain. Mark, Peter, or another novice, like Reginald – the Abbot himself even – could be there, watching him now.

Nowhere was safe.

That thought ate its way through his brain like a worm eating through an apple. He had to gulp to prevent himself sobbing. It was too late now. His life’s course had been defined, and he must accept the consequences. At least he had now made sure of his position, he thought, as he silently sat outside the door to the church, waiting for the monks to wake so that he could file in with them as soon as Mass was called.

Perhaps he was being foolish. It was possible that Wally had been killed by accident, or that he had been struck down by a common footpad. There wasn’t anything to suggest that it was something to do with him . Surely nobody would connect Gerard with Wally. No, it was rubbish. Anyway, no monk would be able to kill. That was just madness. Although no monk was supposed to steal, either, and Gerard had been forced to do just that – by a fellow monk. And wasn’t it said that a man who incites another to commit a criminal act is a felon, just as plainly as the man who actually carries it out?

Gerard sniffed miserably. At first it was fun taking the loaves, but he hadn’t realised how things would escalate. And when Augerus gripped his shoulder as he dropped down from the high windowsill with the things in his hand, he had thought all was well; it was only later he realised his error. By then it was too late.

Augerus had greater plans for him. He had no intention of telling the Abbot and losing so useful a thief.

Brother Mark the salsarius closed his shutter and walked back to the low bed, but he wasn’t ready to sleep, having seen Gerard scuttle across the court. Instead he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the candle guttering in the gentle night breeze.

The thought of telling the Abbot about Gerard’s thefts was unpleasant, but probably necessary. The acolyte had been stealing too many things just recently, and he could not stop because, as Mark well knew, Augerus was driving him to steal, and Augerus wanted the money to continue to flow into his coffers. It went against the grain to speak of another’s crime, and up until now Mark had not been overly bothered, but matters were getting out of control. The reputation of the Abbey could be at stake.

Augerus was a greedy soul. Mark valued him, because the Steward was the source of a lot of useful information about the Abbot and the Abbot’s thoughts, but Mark had no doubt that, should he report Augerus and Gerard to Abbot Robert, he would soon get to know Augerus’ replacement and find him in every way as reliable as the Steward had been.

Mark didn’t dislike Augerus. He didn’t really dislike Gerard either. The ones he did dislike were the others, men like the pewterer who had lost his plates. The fool deserved to lose them. Mark wandered to his jug and poured a good portion of wine while he considered. The pewterer had enough money to live on, but still tried to make more. It was against God’s rules, just as Mark’s life had been before he came to the Abbey.

Just as Walwynus broke God’s rules. Mark had known about him for a while. One night he saw Augerus dangling his rope with a small sack attached and later saw Wally walking from the garden carrying what looked like the same sack. An easy transfer. Mark wondered what Augerus would do now, with no confederate to collect his stolen goods.

Then, of course, Mark hadn’t realised it was stolen property. None of the Abbey’s guests had complained. It was only because that avaricious pewterer had gone whining to the Abbot this morning that Mark had realised what he had seen. He had found Gerard skulking about, it was true, but he hadn’t realised why the lad was there. Now it made sense. Gerard took people’s things, Augerus passed them to Wally, and he sold them on. A simple and effective chain.

Wally had deserved punishment. Surely he had tempted Augerus and Gerard into crime. Wally deserved his fate. No doubt with Wally dead the thieving would stop. Perhaps Augerus and Gerard would see the error of their ways and beg forgiveness.

Mark drained his wine and sat back. Yes. There was no point in running to the Abbot with stories. Better to wait and see what happened.

Still not asleep, Simon rolled on to his back once more and lay staring at the ceiling. A lamp outside in the yard threw a pale, flickering yellow light that caught the dusty cobwebs, making them look like small wraiths against the whitewashed ceiling; he tried to lose consciousness by watching their dance, but knew it wouldn’t work. Instead he turned to face the small altar, placed there for the convenience of guests, and muttered a prayer, but that failed to bring on sleep as well.

The room felt close, hot and humid, and his bladder was full. Swearing to himself, he got up and walked to the window, which gave on to the court. He quietly slid down the shutter and was about to relieve himself when he saw a dark figure passing over the yard. It was a monk, but even at this distance he could see that it was a different one from the man he had seen earlier. This monk was tall, if slightly stooped, just like Brother Peter the Almoner.

Simon watched him pass from the Water Gate around the pig sties and across the court, moving silently like a great cat, slow and precise. Only when the monk had disappeared from view did he at last urinate, grunting as he shook himself dry. It was a peculiar time for a monk to be up, he thought, but then perhaps the Almoner had some special duty that he didn’t know of.

Satisfied with his conclusion, he yawned, slid the shutter closed and plodded back to his bed.

The rain woke Joce Blakemoor. The thatch on his roof was silent, and even in the heaviest downpour he could sleep through it, but his neighbour, a cobbler, had put a set of boxes filled with broken pots beneath his window on the day of the coining, and now the rain falling on them set up such a din that Joce could get no rest. Some people might have thought it a musical sound, but to Joce it was a cacophony; no more attractive than a chorus of tom cats.

He rolled over and over in his bed, hauling the blankets up to his chin, pulling his pillow over his head, but nothing could drown out that incessant row. Eventually he lay with his bleared eyes open, staring at the shuttered window, waiting for the dawn.