Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘Childe’s Tomb. ’Tis said Childe was a hunting man, and he was out hunting here in the winter, when the snow began to fall. He knew he had to get home, but all was white. He couldn’t see anything. No sign of the trail, no hills, nothing. That’s what the weather can be like out here.’

Baldwin remembered Belstone in the snow. He nodded slowly. ‘When the snow falls, you had best find yourself beside a fire.’

‘Ah. True enough, Master,’ the miner said emphatically. ‘Childe, he had no fire. Only him and his horse. He couldn’t ride forrard because he didn’t know which way was forrard. He might ride straight into the mire, see? So he went over to a hill and got off his horse, and he killed the horse and disembowelled it, thinking, see, that he’d got shelter and heat all in one, and he climbed inside, away from the bitter wind.’

The Coroner lifted his brows enquiringly. ‘And that worked?’

Baldwin motioned towards the cross. ‘Our friend called that a tomb, Coroner.’

‘Aye,’ the miner agreed, seemingly pleased that Baldwin had spotted the weakness of Coroner Roger’s suggestion. ‘Childe was found there days later, still inside his horse, as cold as the snow all about him.’

‘Wouldn’t he have been covered in snow?’ the Coroner asked.

‘Maybe the snow had all gone. That was why they could see him.’

‘Oh. So he wasn’t that cold, then. If it was warm enough to drive off the snow, he must surely have…’

Seeing the glower sweeping over the miner’s face, Baldwin interrupted smoothly. ‘And why should the folk have seen fit to bury him here and with such a magnificent tomb? Was he much loved?’

‘ ’Tis said that he was a rich man, and he left a paper…’ He stole a glance at the Coroner. ‘I think it was written on a piece of the horse’s hide, written in blood.’

The Coroner gave a loud sniff of derision.

‘ ’Tis what’s said! Anyhow, this paper said that whosoever found and buried his body could have his lands. So the folks, when they heard, all came to get him. The monks of Tavvie, they got to him first, and they were all set to carry him home, when the people of Plymstock appeared. Childe’s lands were all Plymstock manor, and the folk there didn’t want them to be given to Tavvie, so they stood on the riverbank and threatened to steal the body back. Except the monks, they builded a little bridge and got over further up. And got him home to Tavvie and buried him.’

‘So we can find his tomb in Tavistock?’ the Coroner asked.

‘Aye. You’ll find it there.’

‘So why was this tomb erected?’

Baldwin quickly said, ‘They buried him here, obviously, until they realised that the monks of Tavistock could benefit from his testament. Then the monks came and disinterred him and took him back with them as this good miner has said.’

‘He didn’t say…’

‘Perhaps we should simply continue?’ Baldwin said, and as they rode on, he mused, ‘There are so many ways for a man to die out here, so far from family and friends. It is a hard land.’

‘Not hard, Master,’ the miner corrected him. ‘Just unforgiving. You have to be hard yourself to survive out here.’

‘Do you think this dead miner Walwynus was hard enough?’ Baldwin asked curiously.

‘I did think so when he first came here.’

‘How long ago would that have been?’ Baldwin said.

‘Several years ago. He arrived with a friend, but they argued and one attacked the other. Wally lived, Martyn didn’t. Martyn was an arguing, vexatious man, while Wally was no harm to anyone, so it was easy to see that Wally had been innocent. He never fought, normally. Here on the moors you have to fight sometimes, even if you don’t want to. Wally wasn’t that hard. So he’s dead.’

The Coroner nodded. ‘I told you I remembered this area, Baldwin, that I’d held an inquest here? It must have been Wally who killed the other fellow. What was the victim’s name?’

‘Martyn Armstrong. He was a vicious bastard, he was. An evil tongue in his mouth, too. There were plenty were glad that Wally got rid of him.’

‘That’s the bugger!’ the Coroner cried with satisfaction. ‘Yes, Martyn the Scot, I remember now. The two men had been drinking, and Martyn was seen to pull a knife and thrust at his friend, but Walwynus managed to grapple. He got his own knife out and killed Martyn, although he was wounded at the same time. Still, he was released by the jury. They all agreed with him that Martyn had it coming.’

‘But they had been friends?’ Baldwin enquired, looking back at their guide.

‘Yeah.’ He spat a long dribble of phlegm at the ground and eyed the horizon thoughtfully. ‘I was on the jury, and I reckoned with the rest that it was almost certainly Armstrong’s fault. Wally was always pacifying him when he lost his temper. Not that he ever did with Wally. I thought that they had some sort of bond, like warriors. You know? You see two men who have served in the King’s Host, and they’ll be companions for life. These two seemed that way. But one day they flared into an argument. Hal was nearer – he reckoned he heard them shouting about some girl. It’s often about a woman, isn’t it?’

‘Local girl?’ Baldwin asked.

The Coroner answered first. ‘No, it was a girl from their home, up in Scotland. I recall now: Walwynus said that some wench had been raped and killed, and Martyn made some comment about her.’

‘That’s right,’ the miner said. ‘Hal heard them and he asked Wally about it later. Wally told him this girl, she’d saved his life when he’d been at death’s door. She’d nursed him and protected him, and Martyn took her memory and insulted her. He was in his cups, of course, but he said something about her being a brave, eager slut, and that got Wally so angry, he was about to jump on Martyn, but Martyn saw he’d gone too far and pulled his knife first. And that was that.’

‘Did you ever learn where these two came from?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Christ! Miles away. Up northwards somewhere. They always spoke like foreigners. Scotland somewhere.’

‘Would anyone else know more accurately? A friend or someone?’

‘That monk, the scarred one. He knew them up north, I heard tell. Hal said so. Said Wally told him. They weren’t friends, though. Wally was terrified of the monk.’

‘You think he thought the monk posed a danger to him?’

‘Don’t know about that so much,’ the miner grunted. ‘But he was scared, right enough. Scared shitless.’

‘Did Walwynus have many enemies?’ Baldwin asked.

‘No. Most liked him.’

‘Then was he killed for money?’

‘Doubt it. He had little enough.’

‘Can you think of any other reason why someone might choose to kill him?’

The miner gave a sly grin. ‘There is a man might know.’

‘Who?’ Coroner Roger demanded. ‘Come on, fellow, this is like drawing teeth!’

‘True enough!’ the miner cackled. ‘You should ask Ellis the tooth-butcher. See what he has to say.’

They had arrived at a flat space, and Baldwin could see a body lying on the ground almost at the same time as he smelled it. A scruffy man in worn clothing stood blearily by, a long polearm in his hand as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. At his side was a small barrel which showed the cause of his lethargy.

The Coroner dropped from his horse and began to study the corpse without touching it.

While he was thus occupied, Baldwin leaned to the miner again. ‘Who is this Ellis? Why should he wish to see the man dead?’

‘Because Ellis reckoned Wally here was giving his sister one! You ask Ellis about his sister Sara.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Because Ellis was here last Friday morning. I saw him, heard him shouting and threating Wally. Go on – you ask Ellis!’