Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘Why?’ Simon asked, grasping Ellis’s hand to halt him.

‘He got my sister pregnant, that’s why. Probably told her she’d be his wife or something. You know how it is. And you know how often a man will renege on his word when he learns there’s a child to support.’

‘She told you this?’

‘No one has told me. I saw them, and when I spoke to him later, he denied it. Lying git! I saw them, the day of the coining. She reached up to kiss him. Won’t be long before people see she’s carrying his bastard. And then,’ Ellis continued, gently withdrawing his hand from Simon’s, ‘her shame will be complete.’

‘You realise that might have been the day he died?’ Simon said.

‘Well, not only I saw him that day.’

‘What does that mean? Did you see someone else with him?’

‘No – he had been battered. Someone had blacked his eye and split his lip. He’d been in a fight that morning.’

Simon was quiet as Ellis finished. Once the first shave was complete, the barber stood back and surveyed his work, then drew another towel from the fire and draped this too over Simon’s face while he restropped his razor. Before long Simon had been shaved a second time, and a third hot towel was used to clean away the excess soap. Where there were spots of blood from irregularities in his flesh, the barber used ice-cold water to pat them clean, and the chill stopped the bleeding in moments. Any shave would always cause a little bleeding as the blade cut off occasional pimples and bumps, but Simon had felt none, the blade was so sharp.

‘An excellent shave,’ he said, passing the man a few coins.

‘Master, I look forward to shaving you again,’ Ellis said, glancing into his hand.

‘That is fine, but one thing: did you hear that this miner had ravished other women?’

‘No. I wouldn’t have thought he was the sort. Well,’ Ellis gave a harsh bark of laughter, ‘not being such an ugly shit!’

‘You said you spoke to him after you saw him with your sister. Where was that?’

‘I saw him on the way to his house, the following morning. He denied anything to do with her, the lying bastard!’

‘You sound like a man who would be prepared to see him suffer for what he’d done.’

‘Whoever killed him, I’d shake his hand,’ Ellis said.

‘There was a morning star at his side. That was what killed him,’ Simon said.

Ellis winced. ‘A bad way to die.’

‘You sometimes have to keep your patients still, don’t you?’ Simon said.

Ellis laughed drily. ‘You think this killed him?’ he asked, taking up his lead-filled sleep maker. ‘I don’t think so.’

Simon took it and weighed it. It was heavy enough to kill, but it was more practical as a means of knocking a man down before finishing him off. Yet at Ellis’s belt was a knife. If he struck a man down, surely he’d stab his victim, not break open his head?

‘Would you have killed him if he refused to support your sister?’

Ellis gazed at him levelly. He could have lied, but he saw no point. ‘There was no way he could afford to support my sister. She’s widowed, and I have to support her and the children. Another child means more for me to pay, not him. But if you mean, did I kill him, well, no, I didn’t. But if I’d had an opportunity, I’d have paid someone else to do so.’ He looked at the coins in his hand again, and thrust them into his purse.

Simon left the barber’s room in a thoughtful mood. ‘If I were you, Master Ellis, I would keep my mouth shut,’ he murmured to himself. ‘You are the most vocal suspect I have ever spoken to.’

He would have to see what others thought, but Ellis was certainly a convincing enemy of the dead miner.

It was only a short while after dawn and Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was relaxing before his fire when the clattering of hooves outside announced that he had visitors. He listened attentively as he strode across the floor to where his sword hung on the wall.

This was not peace. War had threatened for years now, for with a feeble King and over-powerful and ambitious advisers, the realm was like a keg of dried tinder standing under a brazier. It was only a matter of time before a stray spark must fall and ignite the whole kingdom. That was how Baldwin felt, and although he knew that his little manor near to Cadbury was safer than many parts of the country, it didn’t make him feel any more secure. When armies began to march, there was no safety for anyone, great or small, city-dweller or countryman.

As he threw his sword belt over his shoulder, gripping the hilt, Jeanne, his wife, appeared in the doorway which led up to the solar. He shook his head once, firmly, and jerked it upwards. She was anxious, but she could see his concern. Quietly she pulled the door closed behind her and slipped the bar across.

It wasn’t easy, but she knew that her man needed to be sure that she was safe in her rooms before he could concentrate on fighting, and she had no wish to be a distraction. She was only glad that he had insisted upon installing this sturdy metal bar earlier in the year. It made her feel more secure, knowing that no trail-bastons could simply push it open. She walked back upstairs to the bedchamber, where her maid sat rocking her baby.

Petronilla looked up with a smile, but Jeanne didn’t notice. She was listening intently.

Downstairs, Baldwin walked through the screens passage and out to the back door. He was already confident that there was no threat out here. Experience told him that if felons had arrived and intended to plunder his home, he would have heard more shouting by now. Once outside, he saw his servant Edgar holding the reins of a shortish man’s horse. He bellowed a greeting and climbed down as he saw Baldwin.

Coroner Roger de Gidleigh was a shorter man than Baldwin, but he had a barrel chest and shoulders that spoke of immense strength. He also had a large and growing belly from the quantity of ale he drank, which often put people off their guard, making them take him for a happy-go-lucky soul, the sort of man who would always welcome a stranger with a cheerful demand that they might share a jug of ale – but then the stranger might notice the shrewd, glittering eyes and realise that the only reason for the Coroner to be so interested and conversational was because he held a suspicion against his flattered babbler.

‘Coroner! Thanks to God!’ Baldwin cried with real delight.

‘Sir Baldwin! Greetings and Godspeed, my friend. How are you? And Lady Jeanne?’

‘Well, I thank you.’

‘So you thought it might be outlaws?’ Coroner Roger de Gidleigh said, nodding towards Baldwin’s sword as the two entered the hall.

‘It is best never to take risks. The rumours of war are as vigorous here as anywhere in the kingdom.’

‘True enough,’ the big man said, walking to a bench at the table on Baldwin’s dais. ‘We live in dangerous times.’

Baldwin rehanged his sword, then rapped sharply on the door to his solar, calling to his wife. ‘I hear that anyone who wishes to talk to the King must pay the Despenser whelp.’

‘You should be careful to whom you speak like that, Sir Baldwin. Some could report your words and accuse you of treachery to the Crown.’

Baldwin smiled. The Coroner was a friend, and he took the warning in the way it was intended. ‘I know that, Roger. But while Hugh Despenser the Younger is Chamberlain of the Household, no man can speak to the King without his approval, nor without paying. It is not enough that Hugh Despenser the Elder has been made an Earl, nor that his son has acquired the Clare inheritance – they will seek ever more money and lands to enrich their lives.’

Coroner Roger took the jug of wine which Baldwin proffered. ‘I dare say that may be true enough, but there is nothing we can do about it. It is human nature to enrich oneself, and that means depriving someone else.’