Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

After the previous day’s rainy beginning, it had been a relief to wake to bright sunlight. Simon hadn’t needed the prodding finger of the novice to wake him, for he could feel the warmth of the sun reaching out to him even through his closed eyes. Lazily, he had opened them to find himself gazing at Sir Tristram’s bare body. The knight had swung open the rough board shutter and was staring down into the yard. Seeing him thus naked in the morning light, Simon was surprised at the number of wounds on his body.

There were two star-shaped scars, both on his upper left shoulder, which looked as though they must have been made by arrows. The great barbed arrows of old would have done far more damage, but the modern ‘prickers’, designed to penetrate mail, were little more than square-sectioned steel needles. Simon had seen other men wounded by these arrows, and they always had this characteristic star-shape. On his flank there was a great gouge lined with sore-looking red flesh that probably resulted from a sword or axe blow; his left upper arm bore a long, raking slash; both legs were mottled with scars, some fine, thin ones like cobwebs, others deep-looking stab wounds or slashes, as though he had been in a hundred different fights with all different types of weapon.

Simon couldn’t help but let a low whistle pass from his lips, and Sir Tristram whirled round.

There were many knights whom Simon had met who had been suave and silky in movement as well as tone, men who would turn elegantly upon hearing someone behind them. Others, like his old friend Baldwin himself, were strangely precise in their movements. These were the masters of defence, men who had trained all their childhood and youth, men who could pick up any weapon and use it effectively, men who could fight as though dancing, while holding a seven-pound sword in one hand as if it was as light as a willow-wand.

This was not one such. Sir Tristram spun around like a man expecting death and the devil. His face was pulled into a snarl, his teeth bared, his whole being transfigured. From a tall man at a window he became a crouching, bestial creature, one hand forward, the other held back, ready to punch. But there was something missing. It was as though Sir Tristram had seen knights fight and knew how to emulate them, but lacked their skill; a man might, after all, pick up a hammer and beat at a piece of metal, but it took a smith’s experience to bend that metal to his will.

Then, in an instant, Sir Tristram had reverted to a tall man at a window. He stood again with a faintly sneering smile. ‘Aha, Bailiff. I didn’t realise you were awake.’

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ Simon said carefully. ‘But I noticed your scars, and I was surprised to see so many.’

Sir Tristram’s face relaxed. He almost seemed to be listening to voices Simon couldn’t hear. ‘Perhaps you were just as surprised to hear how I spoke of the Scottish. This should explain why,’ he said, motioning at his flank and legs. ‘The Scots did all this. These fine scratches were from a razor. A Scot caught me on my own lands and sought to punish me. He intended to kill me, after torturing me, but I managed to get the better of him. A man of mine arrived and knocked him out, rescuing me, and I myself cut off his head, the bastard!’

‘What of the arrows? When were you hit by them?’

‘In the service of the King. One at Bannockburn, one at Boroughbridge. As you can see, places beginning with the letter “B” are not lucky for me!’

‘I have never seen so many scars as those which lie on your arms and legs.’

‘These are all from Scottish scum! They stole my inheritance from me, and whenever I have fought them to win back my lands, they have wounded me, but never have they conquered! Every encounter you see marked here upon my body, every one has been avenged. Not one man who marked me yet lives.’

‘And now the King wants more men to end the border fighting once and for all. That will be a good thing for you, I suppose. You can enjoy peace once the fighting is all done.’

‘Peace? Yes, I suppose so,’ Sir Tristram said, but without conviction. Simon had the impression that he was less interested in peace, more in the potential that his returned lands would give him for exacting punishment on those who had thwarted him over the last years.

He didn’t speak again while he and Simon dressed, but walked from the room as though sunk deep in thought. Simon was glad when he had gone. There was little pleasure to be gained from so morose a companion, and he groaned inwardly to think that he must remain with this man all day, surveying a crowd of grimy peasants all reeking of sweat, garlic and old ale.

When he found himself sitting at the table in the marketplace, inspecting all the men, the reality was even worse than his fears. The stench of unwashed bodies was almost overpowering in the still, hot air, and as each man stepped up to the table to be viewed and considered while his weapon was surveyed with greater or lesser contempt, the foul wafts from rotten teeth turned Simon’s stomach. It would be almost preferable, he thought, to be up on the moors at the side of the putrefying corpse.

He was here in a semi-official capacity, mainly to see that the Arrayer didn’t take too many of the Abbot’s men, and he found the task tedious, but knew that he couldn’t slip away. He must sit here and look intent, concentrating hard on serving the Abbot while also not appearing to help anyone obstruct the Arrayer. Waving at the innkeeper, he ordered a jug of ale and drank deeply as soon as it arrived.

By late afternoon, he had had enough. Rather the stinking remains of poor Walwynus than this slow repetition of the same old questions, followed by the same dull responses.

Simon was surprised at his reaction, for he disliked anything to do with corpses. However, in the last six years he had become increasingly involved in cases of murder than in the more usual aspects of his job – catching thieves, punishing miners or the peasants and farmers who lived near to Dartmoor and broke the Stannary laws. He was fortunate that his master, the Abbot, was keen to see that justice was impersonal, and that every murdered man still had access to justice.

If a man was murdered, he deserved to have his case looked into, and of course the Abbot couldn’t ignore the fact that his courts were also highly profitable: trying a man for murder was always lucrative. The felon’s chattels became forfeit, then there were the fines imposed upon him and any accomplices, plus the murder weapon became deodand , its value payable to the Crown…

With that idle thought, Simon wondered again what had happened to the murder weapon in Wally’s case, but at that moment he became aware of shouts from the back of the crowd. Even the peasants before him were growing restless at the noise, with some shifting from foot to foot, muttering amongst themselves. One, an older man, looked suspicious, as though a watchman was chasing him for some previous misdemeanour; another fellow, who was quite bald, looked equally alarmed. Simon vaguely recognised him, quite a young fellow, he thought, but he knew thousands of men by their faces on the moors. There was nothing too familiar about him. The guilty expressions made Simon want to laugh. The men must have come here knowing that the King had offered pardons for all those who enlisted, and hoped to have taken his money before they could be caught.

Glancing across at Sir Tristram, he exchanged a knowing look, then rose and made his way through the crowd. Sir Tristram should be able to take whomsoever he wished. The local Bailiffs and constables must leave their prey today, because the King’s need came first.

He arrived at the back to find a hot and flustered young monk.