Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘Come, now,’ said Peter. ‘You tell us that it’s the King’s service you’re on, that these men are owed food from their service to the King. Surely since they’re in his service, any food they crave must be bought at his expense.’

‘It is the custom that towns feed the King’s Host.’

‘Then the King would seek to recover any money paid out, wouldn’t he?’ Peter said. ‘So you need have no fear on either account. If you are right, of course.’

‘You are threatening me?’

Joce smacked his hand against his sword-hilt. ‘No, Arrayer, I am threatening you. This good monk is trying to save you injury.’

He watched as the knight gave in with a bad grace. It was a pity, because Joce had expected, had craved, an opportunity to stab someone in the belly. He yearned for that moment of release. Yes, Joce regretted not being able to test himself against this knight. Sir Tristram didn’t look very competent. Not compared with some Joce had fought.

He nodded curtly to the Brother, and set off homewards. At the steps which led to the entrance to his shop, he paused and glanced back at Sir Tristram, and in his angry, flat stare, he felt sure that he would soon have an opportunity to test himself against the knight. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come too soon.

Joce had only gone a few yards down the alley when a figure darted out from a doorway. He drew back, his hand falling on his dagger. Then he saw who it was.

‘Sara, what do you want?’ he sneered. ‘Come to ask me to wed you again?’

‘It’s not for me, Joce. It’s my brother. Won’t you help us?’

‘Piss off, wench! I’ve got business to see to.’

‘Joce, just a favour – please! You can help us.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because,’ Sara swallowed hard, ‘because I’ll swear to deny you fathered this child. I won’t cause you more expense.’

‘It means nothing to me. You can charge me with whatever you wish, but I don’t think your litigation would succeed,’ he said coldly. He thrust the dagger home in the scabbard with a flourish. ‘No, I don’t care to help.’

‘All I ask is that you use your influence, that’s all,’ Sara said hurriedly.

‘For what?’

‘Ellis! He went to see Wally the day that he died because Ellis thought Wally was the father of this child. I didn’t tell him about you.’

‘Does he still think that?’

‘No. I’ve told him the truth now. But Ellis was there, on the moors, and he saw Wally. People saw him; they could believe him guilty of the murder.’

‘Aye. I could myself, at that.’

‘But Ellis couldn’t do something like that – you know that full well! All I ask is that you speak for him if he goes to court. Tell the truth about him.’

Joce shook his head. ‘No. He could well have killed Wally. If he is accused, then damn his eyes. I don’t care whether he hangs or not.’

Sara felt her blood chill. She had thought that this man who, when he tempted her into his bed had been so suave and sophisticated in his flattery, would at least agree to help her with this. Although he denied that his oaths last Thursday had been made honestly, she had persuaded herself that he must hold some affection for her, but his face and demeanour denied it. He was as cold as a lizard.

He continued, ‘It seems my whole life is taken up with you. The last time I saw Wally, I had to thrash him. You know why? Because the fool sought to warn me away from you. He told me not to play with your affections. And now you say your brother went to see him? Perhaps all Wally’s bruises at my hand will be laid at your brother’s door!’

She could take no more of his gloating.

Suddenly she felt rage explode within her. She took the hilt of her little dagger and pulled it free, then with a wild shriek she launched herself at him.

He scarcely bothered to exert himself. As she aimed the point at him, he sidestepped, wrapping the edge of his cloak about his forearm with a rapid whipping motion, and clubbed her knife down. His other hand rose to her shoulder and thrust her back, hard, against the wall, then he took hold of her knife hand and wrenched it severely until she gasped and dropped her blade.

‘You pathetic little whore,’ he hissed. ‘Should I demand compensation for this? Maybe I should take you indoors now, get you to undress one last time for me. Or should I just kill you now?’ He chuckled unpleasantly. ‘Or leave you alone to think about what will happen to your brother? He’s a hothead. Maybe he did murder Wally. So, perhaps he’ll soon be in gaol, and when he is, and you have no money to support yourself, why maybe then I’ll let you come to my house every so often. You can warm yourself by my fire, for as long as you behave. Wouldn’t that be amusing?’

With a last effort, she snatched her arm from him and drew away. ‘Ellis won’t be hanged. Nobody could think he was guilty,’ she said in a voice that shook.

‘We’ll see,’ Joce jeered. He thrust her aside and entered his house, bellowing loudly for his servant.

But Art could not hear him.

As soon as Joce had left the house, the boy had put his plan into action. It wasn’t fair, that bully thrashing him every time he was angry. It wasn’t Art’s fault if he couldn’t read Joce’s mind and know what his master expected from him, and he was determined that he wasn’t going to suffer like this any longer. So when Joce was called away by the meat-seller, worried about whether he’d ever get paid if he supplied Sir Tristram’s men, Art packed his meagre belongings into a large cloth, tied his bundle together, took a stick from the pile lying ready to feed the fire, and left.

He knew which way Joce had gone, and he consciously took the opposite direction, walking to the Abbey, then circling around it to the bridge and crossing over the Tavy. As soon as he did so, he knew he was committed. The river was his personal boundary. Now he had passed over it, he felt as though he was free, and it was with a joyful scampering gait that he set off on the steep roadway that led up to the moors.

At the top, he took deep breaths, surveying the view. This, he knew, was the last sight he would ever have of Tavistock. He was going to where the money was – Exeter, maybe, even London. Perhaps he’d take a ship and learn to be a mariner – that appealed. There were so many possibilities.

The lad was less fit than he had realised. Two years in Joce’s service had weakened his frame, and he had to stop often before he had covered five miles. There were occasional travellers passing by this important path, taking the direct route from Tavistock to Buckfast, but he avoided all. He had a small loaf, and this he ate when he was hungry, and then he realised that he had nothing else. It should not matter, he decided. He would arrive at Buckfast and ask at the monastery for charity, food and a bed. That would be sufficient for him.

Yet as he travelled, he grew aware of a great noise of men, and suddenly realised that he was near to the inquest. He had heard that there was to be one, but he hadn’t thought of it. Joce could be there! Without hesitation, he dropped into the path of a stream and followed it away from the noise, trusting to the water to keep him safe.

Cold, shivering and fearful, he continued miserably on his way. The early optimism which had fired him was gone, and now he was a bedraggled, weary and hungry soul.

When the strange man jumped up from behind a rock and drew his sword, Art felt only relief. A man meant fire and warmth.

Peter held on to his staff with that little, apologetic smile still on his face. He could see the raging anger in Sir Tristram’s eye and wouldn’t turn his back on the man, but he made no threatening gestures, simply stood peacefully, all the while gripping his staff, ready to defend himself should it become necessary.