Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

All had brought weapons with them – a selection of bills, swords, axes, bows and arrows – while on their heads some wore cheap helmets or soft woollen caps. To Simon’s eye, the healthiest men seemed to have the best-used weapons, another fact that spoke of misbehaviour. Still, the King wouldn’t want soft-hearted boys for his army. He would be after strong, capable killers.

Looking about him, Simon was content with his first impression: these were the very dregs of the Abbot’s manor. Whether or not they would seriously alarm the vicious warriors of the Scottish March, he had no idea, but he would be happier the sooner they were off and away from Devonshire.

‘Three and forty,’ Sir Tristram said. ‘Is this the best the Abbot can do for the King from his manor of Werrington?’

‘I’m sure you’ll find that the Abbot has not had anything to do with selecting the men here,’ Simon said. The Abbot would have made quite sure he had no direct involvement with picking this lot. And yet a man like Abbot Robert could make his wishes plain enough without putting them in writing, and the manor had obeyed the unspoken message in his summons. While men, women and children were still out with the harvest, no vill or hamlet was going to spare its strongest and fittest young men for service with the King. Instead they had picked all those who could be sent without imperilling their crops.

Ignoring the obvious felons, Simon considered that, of the young and simple there were three, while of the old and stupid, seven; of the rest, all were undernourished and weak. One had a massive goitre growing on his neck, making his throat look as though it had been taken from an ox and placed beneath his head in some cruel joke. Others had the thick lips and heavy, drooping eyelids of the mentally subnormal. The few fit and healthy men looked hopelessly out of place.

‘This won’t do at all,’ Sir Tristram muttered. With him was a tough-looking, sandy-haired Sergeant called Jack of the Wood. This fellow stood grimly, staring at the recruits, and then, when Sir Tristram began to call men forward, he shook his head as though in horror at the quality of them. Sir Tristram waved the more obviously dim or ill away and began to take the details of the few he could use, discussing each with Jack, while a clerk sent by the Abbot scribbled his records down. He must note the name and weapons of each recruit.

There was little for Simon to do. He sat back, scratching at his head while Sir Tristram questioned the different men, telling each doubtful-looking villein that they had a duty to serve their King, describing with a sort of enthusiastic boastfulness the rewards they could expect from their King: money, plunder, and many women, because women liked strong, virile soldiers. They always did.

Simon had heard enough. He caught the eye of the innkeeper and nodded meaningfully, then rose and went in. Soon he was standing at a broad plank of wood which the keeper used as a bar counter, and drinking deeply from a quart pot of strong ale. It tasted very good compared with sitting outside listening to Sir Tristram’s lies.

‘Do you think all those poor devils are going to be sent up north?’ the innkeeper asked, pouring himself a jug.

‘Could be. Let’s hope it’s all over before they’re needed.’

‘It is always the same, isn’t it, Master? The poor folk who are tied to the land are pulled away, while those who can afford to avoid it pay to stay safe.’

‘I don’t know that Sir Tristram there will be taking anybody’s money to avoid danger. I get the feeling he is serious about providing troops for the King.’

‘Do you think so?’ The innkeeper sank a quarter of his pot and sighed happily. ‘One of my best brews. Wonderful. I’ll never be able to duplicate it. No, Master Bailiff, I reckon that fellow out there is going to make a good profit on this recruiting. Not that it’s unfair. If the King wants him to help, he ought to be paid, that’s what I’d say. Why should a man do something for nothing? But what I meant was, what about all those bastards up on the moors? They should go as well.’

‘The miners are safe, you know that. They’re the King’s own.’

‘And a more murderous bunch of cut-throats you couldn’t hope to find,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Look at that poor devil killed up there.’

‘Wally? Did you know him?’

‘Of course. He was often here. I tend to get to know all the miners while they have money.’

‘Did he stay here with you?’

‘Oh, no. He had a comfortable lodging with friends of his – Nob and Cissy, up at the pie-shop. They were cheaper.’

‘Do you think he was murdered by a miner?’

The innkeeper gave a low snigger. ‘Think it? Who else but a miner? Wally came into town for the coining. He was in here on Thursday, and stayed behind to drink for some while.’

‘I thought he had no money.’

‘He didn’t make much from his mining, no, but he never missed a coining. It was the one chance he had of meeting friends and having them buy him ale with the money they made from selling their tin to the pewterers. He always came in for a few drinks.’

‘With his friends, you mean?’

‘Usually, yes. He turned up last week during the coining with some new friend of his.’

‘Who was that?’ Simon asked keenly.

‘Foreigner. A pewterer, I think. He was here with all his family, and I think I heard someone talking about pewter and how good the man’s stuff was.’

‘And they were talking to Wally?’

‘Yes. Very matey they were, too. Came in, Wally and him, and sat in a corner. Wally had a sack with him, and they sat talking for ages. Never seen the man before, myself. Later Wally came back, and then he started throwing his weight around and buying drinks.’

‘So he had money?’

‘Yes. And not just that, he was in a happy mood. He was really content, not just cheerful from the ale. I’ve never seen him like that.’

‘No?’

‘He always had a small cloud all of his own hanging over his head, you know? Nothing was ever right. Like he had a ghost at his shoulder.’

‘But why should you think that a miner killed him?’

‘Who else would have been up there on the moors?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s near the Abbot’s Path, the track from here to Buckfast. Maybe it was a traveller.’

‘What, like that foreigner?’ the host mused. ‘Odd accent, he had.’

‘What, he came from London? The north?’

‘No!’ the man said scathingly. ‘When I say foreign, I bloody mean it. He wasn’t French. I’ve met some of them. Could have been from Lettow, I suppose. I knew a Teutonic Knight once. He spoke a bit like this one.’

‘You think he could have killed Wally?’

‘Doubt it. Why should he? If a foreigner wanted to rob a man, he’d pick a more likely-looking fellow. No, Bailiff, like I said, it was the miners. Who knows, perhaps Wally had actually found himself a working piece of land at last? Maybe he had sold some tin and had money in his pocket from that. It would explain why he was murdered.’

Simon nodded. ‘Maybe.’ He would ask the Receiver whether Wally had sold any tin.

‘Who else could it have been – the monk?’ the publican demanded.

‘What monk?’

‘Dunno – I wasn’t there. If you want to know, speak to Emma, Hamelin’s wife. She said she saw a monk running back to the town. Why, do you reckon it could have been a Brother? Wouldn’t surprise me. The bastards are capable of anything, I reckon.’

‘You honestly think that a monk could be a murderer?’ Simon asked with a cynical smile.

‘They are men, just like any other! The only difference is, they think they have a direct call to God when they’ve misbehaved, and get special treatment from Him. Me, I see them here all the time. Even the Abbot’s own Steward. He was here a few days ago with their fat wine-keeper whatever he’s called. Drunk as Bishops, the pair of ’em. I was surprised they could get out into the road, let alone get home. I sent one of my lads with them to make sure that they were all right in the end. If they’d come to grief, I’d never have heard the last of it!’