Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

A young fellow of some eight or nine years, whose eyes, Gerard considered, ran the risk of rolling from their sockets, gasped, ‘So their crimes were never discovered, Almoner?’

‘Of course they were discovered, you poor dolt! How else do you think I could be telling you the tale if they weren’t?’ Peter rasped.

‘The men had all but consumed their wine when a messenger arrived. He was from Buckfast, he said, and the good Abbot there had witnessed a miracle in the church. The bells had been rung to declare the wondrous event, but he asked that Milbrosa and his friends, since the Abbot was still abroad, should join him in a great feast there to celebrate the honour that had been done to the monastery.

‘Nothing loath, for the opportunity of participating in the festivities was as agreeable to them as ale would be to a blacksmith on a summer’s day, they set off with the messenger. Up the hill there,’ Peter said, pointing eastwards, and their eyes gazed at the solid wall as though they could look through it and see the group of monks toiling up the path beyond the river, ‘he took them, always in front, always a little beyond them, his head cowled and hidden. It was terrible weather, cold and gusting, and there was the smell of snow in the air. Milbrosa was happy that the guide knew the moors so well, but he began to grow concerned when a mist came down. Still they strode on, their heads bowed, their hands clasped, the thought of the fire at the Abbey helping to draw them on.

‘The mist grew thick and their steps faltered. None could see more than a few feet in front of them, and they were forced to walk close together, but still their guide led them on, until at last Milbrosa shouted to him, demanding that they should find a place to rest. The guide didn’t answer, but bent his steps northwards, and the monks stumbled along after him, muttering bitterly and complaining about the cold.

‘They didn’t have to worry about it for long. No. A low hovel appeared ahead of them and, their hearts bursting with relief, they hurried forward. Suddenly the mist cleared, and they could see where they were.

‘Milbrosa gaped. This shelter, this rude dwelling to which the guide had brought them, was none other than the Jew’s home. Here, before the door, Milbrosa could see that the place where he had struck down the Jew was still marked with crimson, which seeped through the snow as though a cauldron of blood boiled beneath it. He felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he called to the guide in a voice that was suddenly hoarse. Then the guide turned to face him, and Milbrosa felt his heart lurch in his breast as the man lifted his hood.

‘The monks screamed as one. Their guide was the Jew. His head was crushed and his eyes were dead, his tongue protruding, and even as he raised a finger to point to Milbrosa, his face melted away, and the monks could see that this was the devil himself, come to fetch them to make them pay for their crimes! Milbrosa and the other monks were lifted up by demons, their screams heard by the miners who lived all about there, and carried off to hell, where they yet burn, hundreds of years later.’

Peter sat back, eyeing his audience with satisfaction. One of the boys had given a little yelp of terror as he came to the climax, and the Almoner nodded sagaciously. ‘So that was why the Abbot’s Way came to be marked out.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Gerard said, and he spoke for them all.

‘After the disappearance of the monks, the Abbot of Buckfast refused to believe the tales of devilry. He had invited them to celebrate a miracle, and thought that his messengers and the monks must have lost their way in the mists, and had fallen by accident into a mire. No one would dare to stand against the Abbot, especially not in defence of the Jew, no. So the monks were prayed for, like any lost souls who go missing on the moor or who disappear at sea, and to try to prevent it happening again, the Abbot decided that there should be way-markers to help travellers. He had great moorstone crosses planted like trees all the way across the moor, avoiding the dangerous mires and taking a good direct route from Buckland to Buckfast, so that in future monks and other travellers would be safe.’

One of the boys relaxed visibly. ‘So there wasn’t really a ghost or the devil. They just drowned in a bog.’

Peter looked up at him, and his eyes narrowed into grim slits. ‘You think that, boy? You don’t believe in the devil? Perhaps you will go the same way as Milbrosa. He scoffed at dangers and took risks because he didn’t truly believe. Now you know what happens to men who laugh at the Rule, to felons dressed as monks. No man may know of your sins, but God does, and the devil too. He always takes his own. There is no escape. You may enjoy a short period of pleasure, but sooner or later, you will be found out and taken away like Milbrosa.’

He leaned forward, and his voice became a hiss.

‘And if that happens, my cockies, may God have mercy on your souls!’

The Almoner’s words struck at the children like a lash, and when the bell tolled for their beds, Gerard could see that they were relieved to be released from him. Rising with the others, Gerard was about to walk out with them when he felt his sleeve caught by the old monk’s hand.

‘So, did ye like my tale, boy?’

Gerard jerked his arm away. ‘It made them think.’

‘And what of you, lad? Did it make you think?’

‘Me?’ Gerard tried to laugh lightly, but as he left Peter’s room, he could feel those eyes on his back, as shrewd and far-seeing as a hawk’s, and he knew fear again. If he stopped thieving, he could be maimed, just as Peter was. Augerus had hinted as much, pointing to Peter and asking whether Gerard wanted to look like him. That was the alternative to continuing his stealing, Augerus meant, and the casual brutality of the threat left Gerard feeling sick.

Now, with Peter warning him to stop, he felt as though everyone knew about his stealing.

Earlier on that same grey and overcast Tuesday, Hamelin had been working in the cold mizzle. Groaning, he slowly stood upright and stared out over the moors with the exhausted gloom of a broken man.

‘You all right, Hamelin?’

‘Christ’s Ballocks!’ he murmured, leaning on his old spade. ‘How could a man be well in this, Hal?’ His tongue reached up to the sore lump in his gum. It was painful, hot to the touch, and he couldn’t speak too loudly because the swelling hurt like a cudgel-blow with every movement of his jaw.

‘Poor bastard!’ Hal, older and, to Hamelin’s eyes as cragged and tough as one of the dwarf oak trees from Wistman’s Wood, dropped his pick and walked to his side. ‘You’d best get a man to pull that tooth. Your whole cheek’s blown up.’

Hamelin gave a non-committal grunt. Although he was grateful for the sympathy he had no money for treatment.

The last tooth he’d had pulled had cost nothing; it had been done by another miner, a brawny man with thick, stubby fingers and no sense. He’d grabbed Hamelin’s jaw and jerked it down, then shoved the large pliers in and squeezed tightly before trying to drag the tooth out. That tooth and the one next to it had both broken off, leaving Hamelin in agony for weeks until the abscess which had grown beneath had finally burst, flooding his mouth with foulness. The mere memory of that was enough to put Hamelin off the idea of going to another tooth-butcher.

‘That barber, Ellis, he’s supposed to be good,’ Hal said after a while.

This was true, but Ellis was a professional and wanted money in return for his skill, and Hamelin had nothing. Anything he did have, he should save and give to his wife. Emma needed the money for food, for her and for their children.