Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘Do the monks often come down here?’

‘When the Abbot’s away, yes. Not usually.’

Simon swallowed the remains of his ale. It was likely a miner who had killed Wally, but he supposed that it would be just as easy for another man to manufacture a club.

Even a monk.

It was quiet in the dorter when Gerard poked his head around the door, but as he walked inside, one of the other novices, a tall, well-made boy called Reginald, came pattering up the stairs and walked in after him, a determined expression on his face.

Gerard made a point of paying no heed, but instead walked through to the reredorter behind, and sat on the plank over the drop. Down below was a stone vault which was washed by a stream, removing the odours while leaving the valuable faeces behind so that they could be collected and spread over the fields. They were essential for the crops, but the stench was appalling in the summer, when the faeces gathered and the stream shrank.

Not that the smell affected him today. No, it was the realisation that the others knew it was him.

They knew he had stolen. He was sure of it. That was why Reginald was in the dorter : they’d guessed that Gerard was the thief and had set a boy to watch him. They wouldn’t leave him alone in their rooms. None of them was supposed to possess anything, for they were committed to poverty and must give up all their possessions on entering the Abbey, but that didn’t prevent a few from keeping trinkets and other oddments. Gerard knew that one of the boys had a small jewel with a chain which his mother had given him, and another had something hidden in a box, but he’d never been able to see what was inside it. The last time he had seen the boy looking inside the box, he had carefully moved it so that his back hid the contents from Gerard.

But he hadn’t troubled his fellow acolytes. Only strangers! And no one had actually seen him. He was sure of that much. Maybe it was just that Reginald alone suspected him. Or more likely Reginald doubted all of them and thought it worthwhile to watch over his own little store – whatever might be there.

He stood and cleaned himself, washed his hands and slowly made his way back to the dorter . Reginald was sitting on his bed, and met his casual glance with a blank expression. There was no friendship in his look, only utter indifference. The complete lack of any emotion in his face was enough to convince Gerard that there could be no safety or peace for him in the Abbey now. He and Reginald had never been friends, but the other boy’s attitude proved, if proof were needed, that Gerard’s secret was known.

Walking past him with his head held high, Gerard averted his gaze, but before he could get to the door, he felt Reginald grab his habit. The larger boy tugged him backwards by the shoulder, kicked his legs away and hauled him over to fall on his back.

Gerard felt his head strike the corner of the nearest bed, and the jolt snapped his teeth together with a crunch that made him feel sick and faint. There was a rushing in his ears that sounded like the River Tavy in spate, and it was only with difficulty that he could hear Reginald speaking quietly.

When he was done, an angry Sir Tristram dismissed the men, giving them a penny each and telling them to return the next day. Once he had viewed the remainder of the Abbot’s men, he would take the whole force and they would begin the march northwards. As the peasants filed from the yard, he turned and bellowed to the innkeeper for ale, before turning hard, cold eyes on to Simon.

‘You are sure that the Abbot didn’t intend this to happen?’

‘What?’ Simon asked innocently.

‘Don’t take me for a fool, Bailiff,’ Sir Tristram grated. ‘I have seen how men avoid losing their serfs before now. They leave the strong and hale men in the fields and send only the broken-winded, lame and stupid to the Arrayer.’

‘I am sure that the good Abbot would be shocked to think that you could suspect such a thing. He would not break the law or try to hamper the King’s plans.’

‘Really? Then he must be unique amongst Abbots. He’s like every other landlord. So long as his harvest is in, he doesn’t care what happens in the north of the realm. It is men like him who conspire to see the Scottish destroy the whole land.’

‘You surely don’t suggest Abbot Robert is guilty of–’

‘Don’t look so shocked, Bailiff. I can say what I want, and I say here and now that I do not believe the Abbot’s healthiest men were sent to me from that vill. My commission gives me the duty to select the best and fittest from all the men of sixteen to sixty, and take them to the King.’

‘Are you from the north yourself?’

‘I wasn’t born in Scotland, if that’s what you mean, no. But I have lands near Berwick which the last King, bless his memory, gave to my father for his efforts in pacifying the land during the old King’s wars. My father helped bring the Stone of Scone to King Edward I, and it was for that service that the King gave him his own manors up there and the duty to protect the border, not that he could. The Scottish raided while my father was away and razed our house to the ground. Bastards! All they know is robbery and murder. They sweep over that border with impunity and devastate all the north, even down to York sometimes, and there is nothing we can do. They avoid our armies because they know they would lose in a fair fight. They are rebels and cowards.’

‘So now our King will invade again?’

‘We have to punish their crimes. Their whole life is based upon theft. They come into England to steal our cattle and horses, and then return, burning and slaughtering unnecessarily. They destroy the livelihoods of peaceful English farmers to their own profit. They are a cursed race, forever warring.’

‘And you will lead men from here in Devonshire to make war on them,’ Simon said, once more considering what the innkeeper had said. The Almoner Peter was from the north, he remembered. From interest, he asked, ‘Is it true that the Scots make war upon monasteries and nunneries?’

‘Aye, true enough. Those sacrilegious sons of the devil rape nuns, slaughter monks and rob any churches they come across. I tell you, they are the devil’s own spawn.’

‘Well, there are felons aplenty even here in Devonshire who would dare to steal the plate from a church at need,’ Simon said calmly.

‘Christ Jesus! Even here?’

‘There is a monk here who was attacked and left for dead up in the north.’ It was some months since Simon had last spoken to Brother Peter, and now he had to rack his brain to recall where he came from. ‘Up near the border, I recall. Or was he near the coast? Ah, yes, Tynemouth. He was of the Priory there.’

‘I know the area,’ Sir Tristram said and spat. ‘You know the worst problem with them? Those sodomites were the friends of the Scots! They cosseted wounded Scottish and parleyed with the Scottish King! Cowards and traitors the lot of them! If there’s one of that immoral congregation here, keep the arse away from me, or I may throttle the life from the shit!’

The rest of the day was quiet for Simon. He preferred to avoid the Arrayer, finding peace in solitude. After taking a little lunch, he rode up to the site of the body with his servant, but when he and Hugh arrived, they found that Hal had gone and in his place was a new watchman. Still, it was with relief that Simon saw that the corpse was not being further destroyed by rats or dogs.

However, he and Hugh were glad to get away from the place. The stench of putrefaction seemed to reach into Simon’s nostrils and lie there, as though it had made his own sinus rot by contact. As he inhaled, he knew that the odour would remain with him for days. It was like pork that had been left out too long: sweet, but unbearably repellent.