Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Simon had said nothing about his concerns to Baldwin. Indeed, the two men had scarcely spoken. When Baldwin had returned from his private meeting with the Abbot, Simon had hoped that he would say something – but Baldwin made no reference to the lengthy interview. This made Simon think the worst – that the Abbot must have wanted to talk about Simon, probably warning Baldwin that he wasn’t capable of doing his job any more.

It was terrible, this certainty that his best friend was aware of his position; Simon felt as though he was marked out, like a felon waiting to be caught. Not that there was any guilt, as such; it was more a deep sense of failure. He wanted to shout, to punch someone, to take control of events which seemed to be conspiring against him, to show that he was the same man, unchanged, as able as any other. But he couldn’t.

He rode silently to a gorse tree that stood a few yards from the body, thankful that it was upwind of Wally’s remains. Dropping from his mount he gave Baldwin a pleading look, and the knight gave him a nod as he too dismounted.

In the past Baldwin would have smiled or winked at his old friend, but his sympathy was beginning to wear thin. It wasn’t a bit like Simon to be so… what, sulky? It was the best word Baldwin could find to describe his morose temper.

Occasionally, it was true, Simon could be pensive, such as when something occurred to him that might have a bearing on a matter that they were investigating, but more usually they enjoyed an open, easy relationship. When the Coroner was with them, all three relished telling jokes or stories about the fire. They were comfortable with each other, unworried about hurting feelings, but last night Simon had been gruff and all but silent. Soon after they had returned from the alehouse, he complained of being tired and went to his bed, but Baldwin knew it was not to sleep. There was no grunting and snoring, but a deathly silence.

It wasn’t only he who felt the atmosphere. The Coroner himself had spoken in a hushed voice, with many a glance at Simon, as though wondering whether Baldwin and he had fallen out. It was almost as though Simon suspected Baldwin of molesting his wife – a ridiculous thought, but that was the only comparison Baldwin could think of that in any way reflected Simon’s attitude.

Perhaps it was because he simply did not wish to be here, Baldwin thought. Although the knight could never quite understand why Simon was so squeamish about corpses, he could appreciate that for some people, the sight of a putrefied mess could be the last straw.

With that thought, he began to concentrate on Wally. Although the body’s odour was not pleasant, it was as nothing compared to the stenches Baldwin had been forced to experience in Acre during that city’s siege in 1291, when the fresh corpses would be bloated and fly-blown within a few hours of death. It was impossible to eradicate that odour from his memory. In comparison, this corpse smelled almost fresh.

While the clerk whom the Abbot had sent with them to take the Coroner’s notes sharpened his reeds and prepared his papers and ink, his eyes enormous and fearful as he gazed at the figure, Baldwin and Coroner Roger squatted by the corpse.

‘All consistent with a beating,’ Baldwin observed. ‘Extensive damage done to his skull, poor devil.’

‘Yes. Nothing to give us an idea of who did it or why, just a ravaged skull. What of the rest of him?’

The two stood aside while two men stepped forward. One was a gravedigger and sniffed unconcernedly, grabbing the shoulder and hose to pull Wally on to a blanket brought for the purpose. ‘Good clothes, these,’ he said appraisingly. He would be wearing them in a few hours, Baldwin thought.

His companion was more reluctant, a younger lad who wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes, as though he was likely to be sick at any moment.

Baldwin and Roger moved to a more open space in front of the jury while the two men dragged the body on the blanket over to them, dropped the corners and waited for another order. The Coroner told them to remove the victim’s clothes, and while the older man immediately bent to his task, the younger one vomited noisily into a gorse bush.

‘Don’t worry, boy. You’ll get used to ’un,’ the gravedigger said as he worked a puffy arm through a sleeve.

Baldwin and Coroner Roger were soon confronted by the body of a man in his early thirties, slender of build, like one who has worked long and hard with not enough food or drink. His face was terribly beaten, his jaw broken, one eye-socket smashed in and the temple crushed. Dark brown stains of his blood lay all over his body, yet, as the gravedigger turned him over and then over again, there were clearly no recent stab wounds nor any sign that the fellow had been throttled, although there were some appalling scars from previous wounds, well healed now, about his shoulder, his flanks and one leg.

‘What do you think, Sir Baldwin?’ the Coroner asked.

‘You can see as much as I,’ Baldwin responded thoughtfully. ‘He was killed by a blunt weapon, and I am sure Simon was right when he suggested that the studded timber he found was responsible. Apart from that, his body has lain here unmoved, from the look of the grass beneath him. It’s paler compared with the rest.’

‘I agree.’ Coroner Roger eyed the jury of miners and began to call out his findings for the clerk to record. Later, when the Sheriff came on his annual perambulation, these records could be presented by the Coroner so that the guilty man might be held. Still later, when the Justices came in their own turn, the Coroner would once more attend the court and his records would be used to confirm the guilt or innocence of the accused man and, some felt more importantly, to gauge the extent of the fines and taxes to be imposed on the populace.

‘There are no obvious stab wounds,’ he said, eyeing the clerk sternly. Hastily the man began scribbling.

‘No, but there are many scars. All healed now, but he must have been severely treated at some point,’ Baldwin noted.

‘Who saw this man last week?’ Coroner Roger called out. ‘Does anyone know what led to this happening to him?’

‘I saw him on the day before the coining.’

Baldwin leaned to his left, peering past a tall red-headed man with a fierce-looking, bristling beard. Behind him was a shorter man with sallow complexion and intensely bright blue eyes in a weather-beaten face.

Roger pointed to him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ivo Cornisshe. I work at the bottom of Misery Tor, not far from Wally’s old place, and I saw him setting off for Tavistock early on the Thursday morning.’

Simon scowled about at the men. ‘Where is Hamelin? He lived nearest, up at Wally’s old place. Why isn’t he here?’

There was no answer from the men arrayed before them.

The Coroner nodded to Ivo to continue. ‘How was Wally when you saw him?’

‘Cheery. I asked him why and he said he was looking forward to a good quart of ale. He hadn’t made much money recently, he said, and he was miserable as the Tor itself with the thought of drinking any more water off the moors.’

‘His mining wasn’t successful?’

‘It wasn’t too bad, I suppose,’ Ivo said with transparent honesty. ‘He did well at first, but then he could only just scrape together enough to live on. That was why he tried farming instead.’

‘Near here?’

‘Yes. A mile or so. His rabbits and vegetables kept him fed. At least he didn’t have a family to keep. Trouble is, veg is tough to grow on the moors. Especially if the rabbits get to them,’ he added as an afterthought.

Coroner Roger glared about him to quell the sudden ripple of laughter that spread about the gathering. ‘And he had little money?’