Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Gerard felt his heart begin pounding. He was sure that Peter was warning him obliquely, but he couldn’t speak. He knew Augerus would always tie the stolen goods in a small sack and dangle it by rope from a small window in the Abbot’s own lodging, and Wally would come and collect it. Wally had told him so.

Their friendship had been short, but in some ways Gerard felt closer to Wally than to anyone else. Augerus had taken Gerard to a tavern one day, and Wally was there. While Gerard watched, the Steward passed a small purse to Wally, and Wally filled it with coins. Later, when Augerus left to piss outside, Wally and Gerard spoke briefly, and found in each other a kindred feeling. Gerard missed his family and felt forced into the thefts, and somehow he got the impression that Wally felt the same.

‘You knew he hadn’t found tin for over a year?’

Peter’s words drew him back to the present. ‘Why should I know that?’

‘Common chatter, no more. Still, I thought you might have heard. It must be hard to keep body and soul together with no money. A man could turn to thieving.’

Gerard said nothing, but rebelliously averted his gaze.

‘Odd that he’s dead, up there so far from anyone, and on the Abbot’s Way, too. Just like Milbrosa. You’ll remember that story I told? About how the Abbot’s Way was created?’

‘Yes, but I don’t see what any of it’s got to do with me,’ Gerard blurted.

‘Ach, what could it have to do with a young laddie like you? You aren’t allowed out, are you? No, you couldn’t have killed that fellow, could you? I reckon,’ Peter said, glancing up at the sun to gauge the time, ‘it must have been those travellers.’

‘Travellers?’ Gerard stammered. ‘What… travellers?’

‘Didn’t you hear?’ Peter said as he led the way westwards to the Maudlin. ‘There were a gang of them up there. Probably came here for the coining, and killed Walwynus on their way – or on their way back. You can’t trust strangers on the moor, can you?’

‘Who would know about these folks? I don’t believe you. No one was up there, it was just an accident that Wally got killed. Someone thought he was a rich miner, that’s all.’

‘On his way to the coining, perhaps?’ Peter asked.

‘Where else would he have been going?’

‘Oh, I just wondered whether he could have been on his way back.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Maybe someone saw him here in town. Talked to him. And then he went home, and on his way, he was murdered,’ Peter said ruminatively.

Gerard asked quickly, ‘And who are these travellers? Has anyone seen them? I haven’t heard about them.’

‘I saw them. I was up on the moors that day,’ Peter said.

Gerard felt his heart stop within him on hearing the monk’s mild tone, and when he glanced at Peter’s face he saw a flash of keenness in the old man’s eyes which was soon followed by a knowing leer. He had spoken to provoke, and he had succeeded.

‘So you murdered Wally?’ was what Gerard wanted to say, but just now, looking into those bright, astute eyes, he found his throat drying.

He was terrified.

The pie-shop which Joce entered was a little single-storey building, with no upper chamber like so many of the other places in the street, but that didn’t affect Nob Kyng, also known as Nob Bakere and Long Nob, ironically, on account of his short and rotund shape. He didn’t care. People could call him anything they wished, he reckoned, so long as they left him alone to do what he was best at, which was cooking.

He and Cissy his wife had come here many years before, making the arduous journey from far in the north when they were both in their mid-twenties, intending to create a new life, and so far they had been very successful. Nob had found a little place in which to set up shop, and with his meagre store of pennies, had leased it from the Abbot. At the time there were only two other pie-shops in the town, and although Nob had to work hard, he soon built up a good clientèle and felt as though he had never lived anywhere but here in Tavistock.

Cissy was a jolly, constantly smiling woman who originally came from Devonshire, so returning to the county felt quite natural for her. Although people had looked askance at the pair of them when they first arrived, Tavistock was a friendly enough town, and in a short space of time the two felt entirely at home. Nob would remain in the back of his shop, sweating over his great cauldron, braziers and oven, while Cissy transferred the cooked pies from her trestle table to the hands of her customers. It was easy and lucrative. Never more so than during the five coinings each year. They had done well for themselves here, and their son and two daughters were testament to their happiness.

‘Come on, wench! I need to get these off the fire,’ Nob called.

A merry fellow with gleaming blue eyes and a ginger beard, he was dressed carelessly, in a short tunic that was marked by a thousand fatty explosions, while his arms were protected by his torn and frayed shirt. Through the rope that encircled his belly had been thrust a cloth to serve as an apron, ‘and to protect me cods!’ as he often happily declared.

Cissy called, ‘All right, all right, you old fool. I won’t be long,’ and returned to chatting with Sara.

Nob could see her talking, but he let her continue. Cissy attracted women who needed advice like a candle-flame attracted moths. Yesterday it had been Emma, and now apparently Sara wanted help.

Sara was always seeking the friendship of one man or another now she was widowed, and Nob had no doubt that his wife was offering some friendly and probably long overdue advice on how to disentangle herself from her latest admirers. There was always more than one, which was no surprise when a man considered her long, lithe body, slim haunches, tiny waist and swelling breasts. And all that, as Nob told himself, under a fair halo of strawberry-golden hair, slanted, humorous green eyes and those succulent lips, bright and red and soft as rose petals. Bloody good-looking, she was.

Cissy was going to be with her for a while, from the look of things, so Nob pulled the pies from the heat himself and set them on a large wooden tray to cool, taking them to the trestle.

‘Now then, lass,’ he called out. ‘Is it more talk about men or not?’

‘Shut up, Nob. If you want to be useful, fetch us a jug of water,’ Cissy snapped curtly.

Nothing loath, for at the side of the water barrel was a second one filled with ale, Nob hitched up his rope, sniffed, and walked out.

‘ Nob !’

He poked his head around the doorway. ‘Yes, my little turtle dove?’

‘Enough of your smatter. And don’t empty the ale barrel while you’re there.’

Grunting, he tugged at his rope belt again. Since Cissy had already turned her back to him, the effect was somewhat lost, but he cocked an eye at Sara. ‘Eh, Sara? How comes you always have all these fellows drooling over you, eh? Tell ’em you’re mine, girl, and they’ll leave you alone. None of ’em would mix wi’ me, lass.’

Sara gave him a weak smile, and he winked and grinned before walking out to his barrel, reflecting that she appeared more upset than she usually did when she was suffering from man trouble.

Sitting with his large pottery drinking horn in his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow and upper lip, then the back of his hair, using his cloth. Draping it over his shoulders, he sat back.

It was a long day’s work, cooking. Up before dawn to light the first of the fires, then mix the flour and water to make the paste, and leaving it to rest a while before rolling out the little pastry coffins and filling them. Some liked plain meats – beef, pork, chicken, lark or thrush; others liked thick gravies or jellies. He always had half a calf’s head and offal boiling in one pot ready to make gravy, while the animal’s hooves were simmering in another for the jelly. No matter, Nob liked his work, and with the profit of the coining last week, he and Cissy had made enough money to be able to survive through to the big coining in the late autumn. That would be the last for a while, and the money he saved from now, together with the profit from the next, would have to keep them going through the winter.