Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Next time she saw Sara she’d ask his name. Not from nosiness; she wanted to know if he was preparing to try it on with another girl. Cissy wouldn’t have him doing that if she could stop him.

Simon had been woken a little after dawn by a small and nervous-looking servant. He hated waking in a strange bed, and he much preferred to come to life with the gentle insistence of his wife Meg than with his shoulder being prodded by a pimple-faced youth whose fore-teeth had fallen in or been punched out. Probably the latter, he thought uncharitably as the boy hurriedly withdrew.

There was no sweet wakening here. No gentle kisses or soft, teasing caresses from his wife. Instead, as he yawned and stretched, he was reminded that he was in a room filled with strangers. There was the reek of armpits, of unclean teeth and rotten gums, of feet that craved cleaning with a sandstone rather than with water, and the foul odour of sulphurous bowel gas.

‘Someone needs a physician. He’s got a dead rat up his arse,’ he muttered as he climbed from his bed and searched for his clothes on the floor, scratching at an itch on his lower belly and wondering whether it was a flea. If so, it could have come from the bed – or from the man with whom he had shared it last night. Hugh would still be asleep in the stables, where he could keep an eye on the horses. Simon had sent him there before going to the Abbot when he saw how many were making use of the Abbot’s hospitality, for there were never any guarantees that a mount was safe when there was a thief about, but it was an irritation that Simon must seek his own clothing rather than have it presented to him as usual.

He glanced down at the man who had been his bedmate. The fellow still slept easily, lying on his back, a calm smile on his roundish face, his mouth slightly open to display one chipped incisor. On his chin was a dark stubble, while his brown hair had an odd reddish tinge at his temples that gave him a slightly distinguished look. He didn’t look or smell like the sort of man who would harbour fleas, Simon acknowledged. At his side of the bed was a richly-scabbarded but well-used riding sword of the sort that knights would wear on a journey, light enough not to be uncomfortable over a distance, but still strongly built and balanced as a good weapon.

The others in the room were a less distinguished group. Those who had visited for the coining were gone, and they had been replaced by men who, from the look of them, were of a lower general order: traders of all types, one young friar who had craved a bed for a night, two pewterers who had come for the coining and were enjoying a break before returning, and a man who had a rascally dark head of hair and a scar on his breast, together with the swarthy features of one who has spent many days in the sun and rain.

If any of them were a recruiting officer, Simon thought, it was surely him. He would take money from one man to avoid putting his name on a list, and would replace it with another fellow’s name, no matter that the second was broken-winded, half-blind, a drunkard and had only one arm. Money mattered, nothing else, and an Arrayer, a recruiting officer, would be paid a bounty for all the men he took on irrespective of quality.

With this sombre thought, Simon walked out and sought the services of the barber. The rain had stopped only a short while before, and the air was scented with fresh, earthy odours. It smelled as if the whole town had been washed. As Simon avoided the puddles, the sun came out, with enough strength to give him the hope that the day would remain dry.

The gatekeeper told him that the barber whom the Abbey used was called Ellis; he could be found two streets away. Simon located him in a small room near a cookshop, just behind a brewery. A brazier of glowing coals made the room unpleasantly hot, and a pot of water was boiling on top, with towels dangling. A pair of long-handled wooden tongs stood in it, jumping as the water bubbled below the cloth, threatening to push the tongs out every few minutes, as though a wild animal was trapped beneath.

Ellis the barber was a wiry man with green eyes and almost black hair. His oval face, which lit up with an easy smile as he saw Simon, instilled a measure of confidence, but more crucial than that, to the Bailiff’s mind, was the fact that monks were keen on their own comfort. A barber who nicked the abbatial chins was likely to find himself unemployed right speedily.

‘Aha! My Lord, how can I help you?’

‘I was told that you serve the needs of the Abbey?’

‘That is right, my Lord. I usually get there a little later in the day, though.’

‘Good. I need my beard shaved. Have you razors?’

‘Master, I have everything,’ the man declared, arms held wide. ‘Whatever you need, I, Ellis of Dartmouth, have it. Please sit here on my stool.’

So saying, he pulled the three-legged seat out to the doorway where the light was better, and darted about gathering his tools. A long strip of leather he hung from a hook set into the doorway at his chest height, and he picked up a razor, testing the edge on his thumbnail. Satisfied, he whipped it up and down the strop while chattering.

‘Yes, I am known as one of the fastest shavers in the whole of Wessex, my Lord. Anyone wants a clean chin, they ask for Ellis. No one else will do, not once they’ve been done by me.’

‘Do you ever shut up long enough to shave a man, or perhaps you just keep wittering on until your victim passes out through boredom?’ Simon growled.

‘No one falls asleep on me, Master. Well, not unless I intend them to so I can pull out a hard tooth, anyway,’ Ellis chuckled.

Simon grunted. Fortunately he hadn’t needed the services of a tooth-puller for many a long year. The memory of the last time was unpleasant enough for him to wish to avoid it in future. Just the thought made him reach into the crevice with his tongue.

‘Don’t pull your face about like that, Master. I might cut off your nose!’ Behind the banter there was a genuine note of caution and Simon quickly set his jaw again.

‘Good, Master. Now just a little warm water…’

He pulled a towel from the pot of water set over his fire, and waved it, steaming, in the air until he frowningly judged it to be ready, and draped it over Simon’s entire face.

Simon leaned back so that his shoulders were against the doorframe, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender which had been left infusing in the water with the towels. The heat was wonderful, making his beard tingle, and just when he thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, Ellis whipped it away and threw it over his shoulder. While Simon had been covered, Ellis had shaved slices from a cake of soap and beaten them with more hot water and a brush of badger fur, and now he daubed Simon’s face with the light, hot foam. Satisfied, he stood back, swept his razor up and down the strop once more, ‘For luck,’ he smiled encouragingly, and held it up vertically. ‘You haven’t any enemies, Master, who’d pay me to slip, have you?’ Seeing Simon’s expression, he laughed aloud, and before the Bailiff could stand, he leaned forward, a thumb pulling Simon’s cheek taut, and drew the blade in one long, slow sweep from his ear to his jaw.

Simon was glad that the man was steady while he performed his duty. So often a barber could be found with a morning’s shake after too many ales the night before, but this one had an easy confidence.

‘So, Master Bailiff, are you to be leaving us soon now the coining is done?’

‘I have other duties,’ Simon said as Ellis stropped the blade again. ‘Like finding the murderer of the miner.’

‘That bastard Walwynus?’ Ellis stopped and stared, then shrugged as he returned to Simon’s face. ‘He won’t be missed.’