Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Not least of his troubles was the youngster hidden away. The boy could prove to be more than a mere embarrassment.

‘There are few halls about here,’ Simon observed.

‘ Ja , but we are tired. We have sung our way across France and now England. We were about to travel to York, but then we heard of the King raising his army, and we thought we would be more comfortable away from a war.’

‘Many would go with the armies,’ Simon said. ‘There is good money in entertaining men-at-arms.’

Rudolf smiled. ‘There is better money in a lord’s hall, and the food is better. Also the company.’

Baldwin gave a short nod of understanding. He motioned towards the women. ‘And a King’s Host is not the place for women – except those of a certain kind.’

‘ Ja ! I would not place my wife and children in danger.’

Eyeing him, Baldwin doubted whether this Swiss was actually worried. There was a hardness and competence about him, like that of a trained fighter. ‘We are trying to learn about a man’s murder.’

Rudolf appeared uninterested. ‘What has this to do with me?’

‘We wished to hear whether you had seen this man,’ Baldwin said, and described Walwynus, explaining about his final journey and the discovery of his body. Watching the Swiss closely, he was sure that Rudolf knew of Walwynus. His eyes had been fixed on Baldwin with a curiously intense concentration, but as soon as he realised that Baldwin was observing him closely, his gaze began to wander, first to Simon and the Coroner, then to the men walking about his camp, as though there was nothing in this to hold his attention.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not know of this man. I have seen so many miners here. They seem to be everywhere, and they leave the land like this.’ He encompassed the ruined plain with a hand. ‘You say he was here before last Thursday. We were here then, but many men came past here.’

‘There was a coining at Tavistock. All the miners would have gone,’ Simon said.

‘Are you sure you didn’t see this man?’ Baldwin pressed him. ‘He carried a leather satchel with him.’

‘I saw several men, but no one who was alone,’ Rudolf said.

The woman approached with a large loaf broken into pieces on a tray and a large metal pot of soup fresh from the fire. Placing bowls near the men, she passed bread to them, and one of the children brought a jug of good wine. The woman poured and gave each of them a cup, listening to the men as she did so.

When she reached Simon, he looked up to thank her, and saw that her attention was not on him. She was carefully absorbing the conversation between Baldwin and Rudolf, as though making sure Rudolf didn’t slip up. She reminded him of a woman he had once seen at a court, listening to her man tell his story at a trial of felony. Later Simon had learned that she and her lover had concocted a story between them, rehearsing it together, to give each other alibis. The jury didn’t believe them and the man had been hanged.

That sudden insight made Simon wary. He glanced over at the other men in the camp, and was relieved to see that they didn’t appear to be ready to launch themselves at the three, but he couldn’t shake off the sense of impending danger. Shifting slightly on his rock, which had suddenly grown uncomfortable, he repositioned his sword, moving the scabbard so that he could grasp the hilt more easily.

She saw his movement, and for a moment he saw naked fear in her eyes. It was fleeting, but he hadn’t missed it, and although he smiled up at her and questioningly held out his cup to be refilled, he saw that he hadn’t eased her anxiety. Her eyes went back to Baldwin with a kind of nervous exhilaration, as though fearful of what she might hear.

The Swiss picked up his cup of wine and took a good drink, glancing at Anna as he did so. She was all but petrified, and he smiled at her reassuringly, pleased to see that she appeared to be soothed by his easy confidence.

Baldwin stared up at the hills. ‘You know, I never visited the Forest Cantons. I hear that they are beautiful.’

Simon added, ‘And I have heard that the metalwork is excellent.’

Rudolf felt his stomach lurch. Behind him he heard a slithering noise, and he turned to scowl at Henry. His son shamefacedly allowed the bow to uncock, setting it aside. Turning back to face Simon, Rudolf stared at him coolly. ‘What of it?’

‘Nothing. I was only passing a comment. You have many pewterers in your country?’

‘Some.’ Rudolf was watching his face closely, wondering whether this was the face of a man who sought to destroy him, or whether he was a man who could be trusted. It was so hard to gauge. Some men who looked honourable were devious, lying fools who would kill you just to see how long you took to die, and would cut your fingers off because it was easier than pulling rings from them.

The shorter knight he didn’t like the look of. That man had dark features and black eyes like gleaming flint. The second knight had a face which had seen much misery, with lines of pain etched deeply into his forehead and at the side of his mouth. He and the Bailiff both looked like men who could be trusted, he thought.

Simon knew Baldwin was staring at him, but he refused to return the look. His eyes were fixed upon the Swiss, while his ears strained to pick up any signs of nervousness from the woman. ‘I heard you were a pewterer yourself.’

Rudolf lifted a hand and glanced over his shoulder, but the bows were unstrung. There was no need to worry about the hotter-headed fellows. He kept his hand in the air, beckoning his wife, and she walked to him and took it, grasping it firmly, like a drowning woman grabbing at a spar. ‘And what else have you heard of me, Master Bailiff?’

As soon as Peter had heard that dismal cry, the terrible anguished shriek of the widow, he felt his heart dissolve and a huge emptiness open up inside him.

‘Woman, who is dead? Who is it?’ he cried as he ran to her.

He was not the first to arrive at her side. Before him was a decrepit watchman, who stood helplessly wringing his hands. Peter grabbed her hands and kept them still, trying to impose his stolid calmness upon her. He stared into her maddened eyes and spoke soothingly. ‘Come now, woman. You know me, don’t you – hey? You know who I am. I’m Peter the Almoner. Now what’s all this about a murder? Who’s dead? Where is he?’

‘Help us! He’s in the alley! He only came home last night, and now he’s dead! In the alley, outside our door!’

Men were gathering about her, fingering their weapons, wondering whether they should be chasing after a murderer, and if so, whom they should seek. Peter shoved his way through them all, hurrying back along the alley from which she had come.

It was a noisome little place. Not much more than a couple of yards wide at the entrance, but with extended buildings reaching out overhead, some all but touching, and shutting out the sun so effectively that he felt as though he was swimming through an almost impenetrable murk.

He knew which was Emma and Hamelin’s house. If he didn’t, he soon would have, from the sounds of wailing children.

It was a tatty building, with the plaster falling from the walls and the lathes exposed. In the winter there would be terrible draughts whistling through, Peter thought absently. It said little for the couple that they hadn’t done the same as so many other peasants, and made a thick, sticky paste from the glutinous earth that lay all around to patch the wall to shut out the winds. But Hamelin was a miner, he remembered, so he probably rarely had time, while his wife was permanently exhausted from raising and feeding her brood.

Some of them were outside now, and as Peter approached, one young lad turned his head to him. With a shock of horror, Peter realised that the darkness about the fellow’s face was not the darkness of the alley, but was blood, great red streaks down both cheeks. His hands and fingers were covered in it, and he had transferred the blood to his face as he wailed.