Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘Joce, let’s talk, all right? I came here as soon as I heard.’

‘Heard what?’

‘That the boy has bolted! Gerard, the acolyte we used to steal for us, he’s gone! Ran off last night, from the sound of it.’

‘So what?’

‘What will he live on, Joce?’ Augerus allowed a little sarcasm to enter his voice. ‘We monks are sworn to poverty, aren’t we? What if he takes money or plate from someone else to pay for his escape?’

Joce wavered, drew his head back and eyed Augerus. ‘What are you saying?’

‘He’ll be caught. He will have to steal to live, won’t he? And he’ll get caught. Felons always do. And when he is, he’s bound to tell them everything, isn’t he? He’s committed apostasy already, so there’s nothing to lose by telling the truth.’

‘Shit!’ Joce licked his lips. ‘I’ll clear it all tomorrow. It’s earlier than I intended, but I’ll have to. Once it’s all in Exeter, sold, no one can appeal us.’

‘Good. Be quick, then. All that plate came from the Abbot’s coffers or the church. Christ Jesus! If they find it on you, you realise you’ll hang?’

‘Get out, you craven cur. Leave it to me as usual. I’ll get it sorted.’

Augerus nodded and slipped through the doorway like a wood-louse scuttling under a stone.

Joce locked the door and marched back to his hall. The cupboard was at the wall opposite, behind his table, and he went straight to it, fumbling with his keys. Then he pulled the doors open.

He was so astonished to find it bare that, although his mouth dropped open, he didn’t have the wherewithal to swear.

The camp was set out in the bend of a little stream, one of those few whose course had not yet been changed. So many were being diverted to feed the miners’ works, it sometimes seemed as though there was nowhere which was left alone. There were times, when he rode over the moors, when Simon felt as if the place was being systematically raped rather than farmed.

Here there were plentiful signs of mining. Small pits had been dug all along the plain before him, the smooth surface of the grass ruined, like a beautiful woman’s face scarred by the pox. These were the results of prospecting. All miners were constantly searching for a new lode because either the existing workings were soon to be exhausted, or they already were. No miner could afford to be complacent.

This place had been worked extensively. There were what looked like thousands of pits, some of which had grown to become great trenches, while others had deepened into shafts. Small piles of rock showed where miners had stored their tools, and little turf-roofed sheds stood all about where the men had lived, but now all looked desolate. They had overtaken several miners on the way here, but this area wasn’t empty because of the inquest, it was deserted because the area had been worked to extinction. Simon could remember when the miners had been here, four or five years ago now. Wally had been here before that, six years ago, digging with his friend in a small claim. After the death of his companion, he had enjoyed some little success, Simon recalled.

But the place wasn’t empty now. Smoke curled up from the fires of the small band of travellers.

They were a colourful group. Men and women alike wore bright reds and greens, oranges and purples. Some of the younger women had their hair braided and unconcealed by wimple or veil, while the men had their hair longer than was strictly fashionable. Simon grunted to himself, thinking that they looked like a band of actors or musicians on the move.

That they were not intending to remain here in one place for long seemed evident by the pony carts that created a defensive wall; one, with a badly broken wheel, sat in an ungainly manner, its shafts pointing to the sky. The folk rested inside this palisade, their rear defended by the stream and, from the look of the cotton-balls dancing in the wind, a bog of some sort.

As the trio rode slowly down through the thicker grass, watching carefully for stones or pits which might harm their mounts, Simon could see that the people were wary and alert. Three men stood and walked forward, all grabbing long staffs or axes; two youths stood behind them with crossbows strung, bolts held negligently, ready to be fitted in the slots. The women grouped near the stream, children protectively gripped by the shoulders.

Glancing across at his companions, Simon acknowledged that they had good reason to suspect any visitors. This was too out of the way for most travellers, and it was always alarming to find horsemen approaching, even when two of the three were clearly belted knights – or perhaps especially because two were knights: there were too many men of noble birth who were prepared to resort to robbery and murder. No one on the road could afford to take the risk that the smiling face of the man next to him didn’t belong to the advance guard of a raiding party whose sole intention was slaughter and pillage.

‘Godspeed!’ Baldwin called as they approached within hailing distance, lifting his hand to show he meant no harm.

Simon kept his eye on the two bowmen. They were still standing without pointing their weapons at the three, but the bolts were fitted now, ready to be fired.

‘God’s blessings on you.’

The man who spoke was dark-faced, with raven-black hair and clear, unblinking brown eyes. His lips were bright, like those of a woman, but although they made him look young, Simon saw that he was older than he appeared at first sight. As he sat on his horse swatting the flies away, Simon could see that the man wore fine wrinkles at eyes and brow.

His accent was strong, but curious. Simon hadn’t heard it before. It was strangely guttural, quite thick.

It was clear that Baldwin had heard his accent before. The knight smiled and bowed to the man. ‘ Grüss Gott . It is pleasant to hear a man from your land again. You are from the mountains?’

The man bowed with a faint smile. ‘Yes, we are from the Forest Cantons.’

‘Then believe me when I say that you need have no fear of English knights,’ Baldwin said, introducing himself and the others. ‘We are here to ask your help.’

‘You are welcome. I am called Rudolf – Rudolf von Grindelwald. Would you like a little wine?’

Soon the three were dismounted, and they took their seats outside the little encampment on a group of rocks. The two men with crossbows removed their bolts and carefully released the tension in the bows, while the others set their own weapons to rest on carts, although none of them let them far from their hands, Baldwin noticed. He would not have expected them to.

The woman who came to serve them as guests of the leader of the travellers was a buxom creature in her late thirties, with hair pulled back and tied in a bun. Her limbs were long and elegant, her hips broad and swaying, her waist narrow. Her face was long, somewhat oval, with prominent cheekbones and full lips. Not beautiful, she was nonetheless extremely attractive, with the slow, economic movements of a dancer, and Baldwin thought her great blue eyes calming. She wore a long tunic, but at the hem and on her apron there were a multitude of tiny embroidered flowers. When Baldwin looked up at her, she smiled with her eyes, although not her mouth; it gave her a soothing expression that could calm a man’s nights for the whole of his life, he thought.

‘What do you do?’ Baldwin asked.

‘We have been attending fairs. We sing and dance to amuse. Many men call us to their halls for entertainments,’ Rudolf lied. It was untrue, but the sort of thing that these men would believe.

He could kick himself. If only they had ditched the rest of their things. Welf had only returned a short while ago, and the pony he had brought was scarcely able to carry half the load which they had on the cart, so they might as well have carried on the day before. By now they could be lost in the streets of Ashburton, far from an enquiry. Instead here they were, being questioned by three grim-faced officials.