Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Yes: he wanted to fight. Joce was frustrated and that had always made him turn to violence. It had helped him in business, forcing other men to give him deals which they would not have considered had Joce not stood over them; his natural aggression had also prevented some from taking revenge on him when a smaller, weaker man would have been attacked. Sometimes men tried to – but when they did, each time Joce had defended himself.

It was a lesson he had learned early in life. He had been orphaned when he was but a lad, and it was the kindness of the Abbey which had saved him. The Abbot had generously taken him on and seen him educated in the school with other boys, but like so many children with an obvious weakness, they had picked on him. Initially he was an easy target because all they needed to do was call him names and he would burst into tears, or weep as older fellows bullied him, but then one day he had snapped.

Usually he had been a calm, self-contained lad, but that one day he had already been pushed about, tripped up by one fellow and kicked on the ankle by another, both boys bigger than him. He hadn’t dared do anything to protect himself, and the sense of inability to defend himself added to his feelings of inadequacy.

That was in the morning. Afterwards, he had gone to the frater for his meal and sat at the table with all the other boys, under the stern and watchful eye of the novice-master. The older boys sat at one end of the table, one of his chief tormenters, Augerus Thatcher, among them, and doled out the food for each of the boys.

With a smile of contempt, Augerus served Joce’s food while holding his eye. He slopped the weak pottage into Joce’s bowl and passed it along the table. It was mere water, with scarcely any barley or greens to colour it. Joce stared at it disbelievingly. Augerus must have carefully held the ladle to the side of the pot to prevent any meat or vegetables falling into it, just to be mean. Then the bread was passed along the table, but when it arrived at Joce, all that remained was a thin, meagre loaf, one with hardly enough to fill a mouth, let alone a hungry belly. Joce looked at Augerus, but Augerus stared back as though daring him to complain.

Joce was silent. He had been beaten so often that one more insult was easy to swallow in public. He drank his soup, used his bread to soak up the last traces of liquid, and sat at his place gazing hungrily at his empty bowl while the voice from the pulpit droned on, reading some text about turning the other cheek.

Afterwards the older boys left first, walking out to the cloister; Augerus went into the yard, and Joce followed him. Augerus made his leisurely way to the Water Gate and went out beneath it to the bridge. As soon as he was through the gate, Joce leaped.

That Augerus had been unsuspecting was evident from his squeak of alarm. Joce caught his habit at the shoulder and pulled him towards him; unbalanced, Augerus toppled, and with a little effort Joce could haul him to the Abbey wall, shoving him hard against the unyielding rock. Augerus’ head struck the stone audibly, and his eyes opened wide as Joce’s fist thumped into his chest. His breath came in sobs, and his eyes clouded a little with pain and fear, then flinched as Joce drew his fist back a second time.

‘You’re not doing that again, you sod,’ Joce cried.

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You gave me small measure; you did it on purpose! You do that again and I’ll really hammer you!’

‘I didn’t, I didn’t!’

Joce wavered. There was a note of conviction in his victim’s voice, but he didn’t care. He had suffered from the boys here long enough. ‘I didn’t!’ he whined mockingly, and drove his fist as hard as he could into Augerus’ nose.

It was so satisfying. He could feel the bone breaking and there was a loud crack which he could feel and hear simultaneously, almost as though it was his own knuckle breaking. Augerus’ eyes gleamed a moment, then dulled with shock and fear, and then, only a moment later, the dams broke. First Augerus’ nose gushed with a crimson stream, then his eyes flooded and his wailing started.

From that moment on, no one had ever bullied him again. Not at the school and not afterwards. Joce was powerful; he was strong, but he also enjoyed inflicting pain on others. It was an almost sexual pleasure; once tasted, it led to a hunger that couldn’t be assuaged.

Watching Sir Tristram, Joce saw the man’s anger flee, to be replaced by a certain anxiety. He could read the thoughts running through his mind as clearly as if Sir Tristram was enunciating each one. Sir Tristram thought Joce a rough, uncultured bully, a fool who would be taught a lesson as soon as the King heard of this treatment; yet he couldn’t be sure that Joce didn’t have the law on his side. Perhaps it was Sir Tristram’s own failing, not having told the men to bring their own provisions. But Joce needed to be punished nevertheless. He should be beaten, maybe killed. That would teach him to raise his voice to a knight and an Arrayer. Especially since the Arrayer had all his recruits with him, over forty of them. And yet all these men were from the Burgh of Tavistock, and they all knew Joce. He was the Receiver of the town, and they might feel that they owed more allegiance to him than to their new leader, Sir Tristram. The latter could have tested them, could have ordered one or more to arrest Joce, but would they obey him?

Then Joce saw the knight’s eyes flicker to one face in the crowd, and he heard Sir Tristram say, ‘Oh, so it’s you again, Scot-lover!’

Peter shifted his staff from one hand to the other. Joce was some distance away, but Peter could sense him thrusting his way forward to stand belligerently in front of Sir Tristram. The whole place was held in the grip of powerful emotions, Peter thought. Men squaring up to each other like game-cocks, both determined not to strike the first blow, both keen to be seen to be acting in defence, neither willing to back down. It was the sort of behaviour that led to feuds.

‘Lordings, calm yourselves,’ he said loudly with an enthusiastic, cheery tone. ‘This is a silly situation. What a fine kettle of oats! Look at you both. You’re here, both of you, to do your duty, one to the King, the other to the town. But the town is the King’s and the King loves the town, so why should his officials come to blows?’

‘We do not have to give up our profits to the Arrayer. The men can fill their bellies once they are on their march, but they don’t get free food here,’ Joce grated uncompromisingly.

‘No more should they,’ Peter chuckled. ‘But there is no reason why they shouldn’t buy their own food, is there?’

‘They are the King’s men now,’ Sir Tristram blustered. He was staring past Peter, wondering what had happened to his Sergeant. Jack had been there, Sir Tristram was sure he had seen him. Jack had moved as though about to draw his sword, and Sir Tristram had transferred his attention back to Joce, thinking all he need do was keep him talking and distracted so that Jack could stab him in the back for delaying the King’s Arrayer, but he’d disappeared.

‘Then why d’ye not give the Receiver here a piece of paper that confirms that you have bought food from him on behalf of the King, and that the King must pay the town later?’

Joce laughed. ‘A paper like that, unauthorised by the King, isn’t worth the cost of the ink.’

‘Well now, if it was confirmed by the King’s Arrayer, so that if the King wouldn’t honour it, his Arrayer himself would, that would serve, wouldn’t it, Receiver?’

‘I’d consider taking that, I suppose,’ Joce agreed cautiously.

‘You may take it, but I wouldn’t give it!’ Sir Tristram spat, his anger rising again. ‘What, give an assurance that I’d cover the debt myself? I might as well give you my purse and the key to my manor!’