Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

It was no good. He rose angrily, pulling his shirt and hose on, and selecting his third-best tunic and an old coat, for now the coining was all done and he had other work to be getting on with. First, though, he would deal with the neighbour.

Climbing down the stairs, he saw Art, his servant, asleep on his bench by the fire, and kicked him awake. When the lad didn’t rise immediately, but lay back rubbing at his eyes, Joce tipped the bench over and the boy with it. Art’s belt lay by his clothes on the floor and Joce picked it up, lashing at the child’s back and flanks while he howled, hurrying on all fours to the wall, where he crouched, hands over his head, crying for Joce to stop.

That at least made the Receiver feel a little better. He threw the belt at the boy and stalked from the room. There was no excuse for a servant to remain sleeping when his master was awake.

In the hall, he selected a blackthorn club, then opened his door. Outside, he stood under the deep eaves and glared at the boxes standing against his wall. Geoffrey Cobbler shouldn’t have had them left there. He’d dumped them on the day of the coining. Anger welled. His neighbour was a selfish, thoughtless bastard! But what more could you expect from a fool like Geoffrey, a newcomer from Exeter or somewhere, a blasted foreigner .

That was why he could only afford a moiety . When Tavistock had been made into a Burgh by the then Abbot, hundreds of years ago, the land here had been split into 106 equal divisions called messuages . Half had their own gardens, and it was one of these which Joce owned; others had no garden and were divided into two moieties , one of which held the civil rights of exemption from tolls and other benefits, while the other half was ‘without liberty’. Although both paid the same rents to the Abbey, the one without liberty was naturally cheaper to buy, which was why the cobbler could afford his mean little property. He couldn’t have afforded a place like Joce’s.

The man’s door was still barred. Joce hammered on it, waiting for an answer, and when there was nothing stirring, he beat upon the timbers with his club.

‘Who is it? What do you want?’ came Geoffrey’s sleepy voice.

‘Open this door, you shit!’ Joce roared.

‘I’m not opening it to someone who shouts like that at this time of the morning.’

‘Ye’ll open this door, or I’ll break it in!’ Joce’s temper, always short, was fanned by the recalcitrance of his neighbour. Weak, feeble-minded tarse! ‘You want to leave your garbage out here where it’ll wake your neighbours, do you? I’ll teach you to put it under my eaves, you great swollen tub of lard, you pig’s turd, you bladder of fart!’

There was a crowd of people near him now, all trying to watch while avoiding the worst of the rain, and he gestured with his club at the door. ‘This bastard son of a half-witted Winchester sow has no consideration. Listen to that! How could anyone sleep with a racket like that? This cretin should clear up his junk. Let him take it down to the midden, rather than leaving it here to irritate his neighbours.’

‘It’s not my fault.’ Geoffrey’s voice came as though disembodied. ‘I never put it there. Someone else did.’

‘You say it’s not your rubbish, you lying son of a fox?’ Joce roared.

‘It’s my stuff, but I never put it there. I left it by my door, but I’ll get it cleared up as soon as I have time.’

‘Come out here and do it now, you…’

Others in the crowd had heard enough. Two men exchanged a glance, and then went to Joce’s side. Under the terms of the Frankpledge , every man had a responsibility to keep the peace, both by their own behaviour, but also in preventing others from breaking the peace. If they didn’t, the whole community could be fined.

‘Come on, Master Blakemoor. Put up your club and return to your house.’

‘Keep your hands off me! I want that bastard out here, and I’ll beat his head in.’

‘I’m not coming out. I’m not!’

Joce gave a harsh snarl of rage. Exhausted, his eyes felt raw, his head light and dizzy, his belly queasy, and it was all because of this bastard. Leaping forward, brandishing his blackthorn, he swung it with all his strength at the door, and the wood cracked with an ominous splintering. Before he could swing a second time, the club was grabbed and wrenched from his fist, and he turned to find himself confronted by five men, all of whom watched him with stern expressions.

‘Leave him alone, Blakemoor. You may not like him, but he’s not doing any harm. What’s got into you?’

‘Hark at that racket! Could you sleep through that?’ Joce snarled.

‘It didn’t wake me ,’ said Andrew, who lived opposite Joce. ‘ You did, by all this shouting.’

‘Oh, well, I am sorry!’ the Receiver sneered.

‘If Geoffrey moves all this stuff today, will you be content?’ asked Andrew.

‘I want him out here now!’

‘You’ll only fight him and break the peace. We won’t have that, Joce.’

‘Get him out here!’

Andrew studied him. He was a big man, the sort who looked as though he would move only slowly, but although his mind tended not to race too speedily, his body was capable of surprising bursts of energy. His dark eyes were calm, rather than stupid, and now he nodded towards a man at Joce’s side. ‘We can ask him out, and you and he can make it up. I won’t have you fighting.’

‘I’ll do as I want,’ Joce said.

‘You’ll do as you’re told, unless you want to appear in the Abbot’s court, you fool,’ Andrew said firmly.

After promises of his safety, Geoffrey’s nervous features appeared around the side of the door. He was profusely apologetic, insisting that he’d had no idea that the mess outside the building would upset his neighbour, swearing that he would have it all moved later than day, and with all the folks about him, Joce allowed his hand to be taken while both agreed, Joce grudgingly, to keep the peace.

That done, Joce spat at the ground and jerked his arms free of the neighbours who had held him back, biting his thumb at Geoffrey’s door, and stomping back to his own house. His servant, Art, stood in the doorway, watching nervously. When Joce walked through to his hall and sat in his chair, Art scurried in and shed tinder and twigs on the fire, then began to blow, teasing a spark into flame.

Joce knew it wasn’t like him to fly off the handle like that. Usually he could keep his temper under control, at least while he was in public, but today he felt as though there was a band about his forehead, tightening. The pressure was building in him, and it demanded release.

He tapped his foot on the floor. There was the trouble with Sara to begin with. That useless blubbering bitch couldn’t accept that their thing was over. She’d believed his declaration of love.

The poor slut had thought she’d be able to talk him into marrying her in exchange for sex – well, she’d learned her mistake there, aye. What did she take him for – some starry-eyed youth with his brain in his tarse? Well, he wasn’t. He was Joce Blakemoor, and he took what he wanted when he wanted. She’d tried to blackmail him, saying that she was pregnant, that she’d tell the whole town he was the father, and he had laughed. That was at the coining. The stupid wench. As if her threats could harm him !

And then that cretin Wally had tried to scare him off as well, the fool, on the morning after the coining. Joce had seen him first thing, in the street near Joce’s house, and had nodded to him as he would any other fellow. Wally had looked away, as though ashamed to be acknowledged by him, but then he looked like he took his courage in both hands, and beckoned Joce into an alley. Joce had thought he had some more pewter or something, but no, the son of a donkey just wanted to persuade Joce to leave Sara alone. Wally said he was playing with her affections.