Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘I see. It’s the Coroner’s, is it? I saw that he had arrived.’

‘No. It’s a knight’s. Friend of C’roner’s.’

‘Oh, someone who’s here to help the Coroner, I suppose. Another dull-witted clod of a city-dweller who thinks he knows all about moors, livestock and horses. They see a few animals in their markets and think they know enough to tell farmers how to raise them; show them a good Arab horse and they’d use it in a plough.’ He gave a dry laugh.

‘Most of ’em are daft enough to put a mount like this to a cart,’ Ned agreed, a gleam of amusement in his eyes at Peter’s sally – but then Peter had often brought him wine when the weather was cold over winter and had never commanded him to do anything. By comparison, Augerus had always been keen to let the servants know his own importance.

‘Let’s hope this daft fellow won’t cause too much trouble, then, eh?’

‘This ’un’s not here just for the murder. Abbot asked ’un ’bout the theft.’

Peter feigned astonishment. ‘The theft? Which?’

‘Which do you think? The wine, of course. You want to know how I know?’ The Ostler lowered his voice. ‘That overblown bag of wind Augerus was told to clear out of the Abbot’s room, right? So he couldn’t stand and eavesdrop like he’s wont. That means it must affect him . So, Brother – what’s happened that affects him? The stealing of the wine, that’s what! I reckon the Abbot thinks his Steward has a taste for strong red wine.’ Ned guffawed.

‘My friend, I think you have a most perspicacious mind,’ Peter said with genuine respect. Ned’s argument did indeed make sense, and the Almoner wondered whether the Abbot had heard evidence against Augerus. It was possible. For his own part, Peter was convinced that Augerus was a malign influence on the boy. It was for that reason that he had spoken to Gerard, trying to warn him to stop thieving.

‘Not just that,’ the groom said. He sniffed loudly, hawked and spat. ‘Reckon Augerus has his hose in a tangle.’

‘Why?’

‘That Gerard. He’s disappeared.’

‘Oh?’ said Peter. ‘Really?’ Although he tried to feign surprise, he gave Gerard the thief little thought. There were more important matters for him to consider. After all, he knew what had happened to Gerard.

Cissy was relieved to close up that night. Nob had kept away from her, sensing her mood, and had remained behind the trestle, cooking with an urgency she had never seen before. Now that all the customers had gone, he could avoid her no longer.

‘Well? Come on, Nob, you great lump!’

‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘That’ll make a nice change for you.’

Nob scowled. ‘What would you have done? Left him to his fate?’

‘It’s none of our business, that’s all.’

‘Oh, wonderful! So we just leave him to get killed because it’s nothing to do with us?’

‘He wouldn’t have been killed.’

‘How do you know, Cissy? He certainly thought he would, and that’s what matters.’

Cissy sniffed. ‘If only that fool Walwynus hadn’t gone and died.’

‘Well, I doubt he wanted to.’

‘Don’t you snap at me, Nob Bakere! I won’t have that in my own shop.’

‘It’s our shop, woman. And I’ll talk how I bloody want in it.’

‘All I meant was, if only he hadn’t been so stupid. Bloody Wally. Well, he lived up to his name, didn’t he? He was a right Wallydingle.’

‘Was he the man Sara said had got her with pup?’

‘No, she said nothing about the man. Wouldn’t talk.’

Nob nodded morosely. He walked out to the back of the shop and fetched a jug of wine. Taking a good swig, he passed it to Cissy and sat at her side.

‘Poor old Wally,’ Cissy sighed.

‘Not so poor, though, was he?’ Nob tapped the side of his nose.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, he had the money after all, didn’t he?’

‘He had some, but maybe that was just from selling some veg.’

‘Cissy, he was drinking all day and much of the night. That’s more than the price of a bunch of carrots and a turnip, and then he gave all that to Hamelin. You saw how much.’

‘What are we going to do?’ she said quietly after a pause.

‘Where could he have got that money from?’

‘Who cares about the money?’

Nob looked at her. ‘Probably the man who killed him.’

‘But if Ellis killed him because of Sara, then he wouldn’t have been interested in stealing from him, would he?’

‘I don’t reckon Ellis had anything to do with it. Wally had money, Cissy. Think! How would anyone know that he had cash on him? If someone bought something from him, then just maybe that same someone decided he’d prefer to keep the thing and the money both.’

‘Any idea who that could be?’

Nob shrugged. ‘Not a single one.’

‘So we’re back where we started. All we know is that we’ve committed a mortal sin.’

He sighed along with her. ‘Yes. Still, if that young lad wasn’t suited to the convent, surely God will forgive us?’

Cissy sniffed. All at once the tears were close again. ‘We’ve been happy here, haven’t we? And now we’re going against the Abbot’s own wishes. He’ll not look kindly on us, not when he learns we’ve helped one of his novices to commit apostasy.’

Nob shook his head gloomily, taking a long swallow of wine. ‘No. Well, that’s just something we’ll have to get used to, I think.’

‘Perhaps. But I don’t feel guilty. I feel that I may have saved a life,’ Cissy said. And it was true. She could see the acolyte’s face so clearly as they helped him climb into normal clothes and bundled up his habit.

‘Poor boy,’ she said. Gerard had looked so lost, so scared.

Surely it was their duty to save him.

Baldwin and the Coroner had travelled a good many miles in two days, and Sir Roger spoke for both when he said, ‘My arse feels like it’s been beaten with hazel for hours. I want a good, solid chair that won’t move and a jug or two of strong ale. Then I need a haunch of beef or pork, hot, and dripping with fat and juice. After that I might feel half human again.’

‘I see. Half human is as close as you feel you can ever hope to achieve?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘If I wasn’t so bruised, Sir Knight, I’d force you to regret your words,’ Coroner Roger said, grimly rubbing his behind. ‘But under the circumstances, I’ll forgive you if you only find a means of shoving a quart of ale in my hands.’

‘Come with me,’ Simon said. ‘I know a small tavern which keeps a good brew.’ He led the way from the gate and into the town itself. ‘Ah, I’d thought he’d have finished,’ he breathed.

Before them was the tavern outside which Sir Tristram had been gauging his recruits. He was still there, speaking seriously to the clerk who had been scribbling the names of the men he had recruited and which weapons they had brought with them.

Seeing Simon, Sir Tristram straightened. ‘You decided to come back, then?’ he said rudely. ‘This town has a poor number of men, Bailiff. Very poor quality. It must be the wet weather down here. The damp settles on the brain, I understand. Maybe that’s why these clods are so gormless.’

As he spoke his eyes passed over Baldwin and Roger, appraising them. His attention rested for a moment on their swords: Coroner Roger’s a heavy-bladed, rather long and slightly outdated lump of metal with a worn grip; Baldwin’s by comparison a very modern blade with a hilt of fine grey leather. Simon could almost hear the thoughts in Sir Tristram’s mind: one looked heavily used and was familiar to the wearer’s hand, while the other was new, which could mean that the knight was new to his status, or that his last sword was broken and he had chosen to replace it with the very latest model.