Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘More evil. You are supposed to be chaste, yet you lived with your concubine.’

‘She was a good woman,’ Peter said defensively.

‘She was a Scottish whore.’

Peter’s anger flickered, but there was little energy to fan the flames. Not after so many years. ‘It was wrong. Yet it is also wrong to label her that way. She was an honourable girl.’

‘Honourable? Perhaps the slatterns in the alehouses are honourable, then. And what did the man you saved do, hey? He took her for himself, didn’t he? He took her and raped her and killed her. All because you saved him. You would deal with the enemy.’

‘She was no man’s enemy. She was a woman caught up in a stupid, irrational war of greed,’ Peter flared.

‘And she persuaded you to forswear your oath, Brother. You screwed her, didn’t you? And that makes you an oathbreaker.’

Peter looked away, his anger dissipating, trying to call her face to memory again. Somehow her smile was what came to him, and he thought of the girl in the tavern who had reminded him of her. With a flash of insight, he realised why Wally would have gone to that tavern, why he had tried to secure her for himself before he had any money. It was surely because he remembered that girl, high up on the Scottish moors in among the heather, Peter’s Agnes.

She had been a beautiful girl. Strong in the body, with long legs and powerful thighs, dark hair to her shoulders, a slim figure and small, high breasts. She was always laughing, although whether at herself or at him was difficult to tell. More often than not, Peter was sure her laughter was aimed at him. It was no surprise. Now he looked back on himself, he could see how stuffy he must have seemed. Agnes had lived for the moment, uncaring about what the next day might bring, while he was anxious every moment that he would behave as God would expect. His entire being was focused on the life after this – she was content that the present moment was pleasing, to her and to those whom she loved. It was that attitude, more than anything, which had made him adore her.

Walwynus loved her too, of course. Probably because she was such a good nurse to him. She had fed him with wine and bread while he suffered from his fever, and then helped him to take his first tottering steps when the wound was almost healed. It was only natural that Walwynus should love her. He had wanted her, but she refused him. Not that her refusal had stopped Wally. When he was well, he had left, but then the bastard repaid her kindness and Peter’s by returning. While Peter was lying wounded and waiting for death, Walwynus had gone and raped her, or led his friends to her, so that they all had a share in her murder.

There was no law in the Marches. That was the first thing that a man realised as soon as he was old enough. No one lived there apart from the peasants and a number of poor devils who were tied to the place, like the monks. Everyone else left as soon as they could.

Peter shook his head sadly. She was long dead now. And Walwynus had died too.

‘If she made me break my oath, so be it. It was many years ago.’

Sir Tristram spat into the dirt, sneering, ‘You blaspheme now! You think you can swear to God and then discard the oaths you choose? Which other oaths have you broken, monk?’ Then his eyes hardened and there was a cruel glitter in them. ‘What now, eh? Have you another little goose here? I suppose a lusty man like you would find it hard to live without your piece of skirt, wouldn’t you? I wonder which you have now. Perhaps the Abbot would like to know, too. Now there’s a thought. I wonder if he knows of your woman in Scotland?’

There was no need for Peter to answer. Sir Tristram’s smile showed that he could see Peter hadn’t told the Abbot.

‘So I wonder what the good Abbot would think of you, if he knew you had kept a whore, Brother?’

Nob had listened to their talk with increasing annoyance. Now he pushed the monk gently out of the way and stared up into the knight’s face. ‘Before that, what do you know about “Red Hand”? Was he an Armstrong?’

Peter glanced at him in surprise. ‘Why? How did you hear of him?’

‘He was the murdering bastard nearly killed this monk and then slaughtered his woman,’ Sir Tristram said shortly. ‘Why?’

‘Your Sergeant there reckons he saw this man in the crowd today,’ Nob said.

‘Sweet Jesus! He can’t be here!’ Sir Tristram said, looking about him as though expecting one of the crowd to confess to being the outlaw.

‘Did you ever see him?’ Peter asked sharply.

‘I don’t think so, no. Jack did, but only once. No,’ the knight said, ‘he must have been wrong. The man couldn’t have got so far down south.’

‘Wally did, and so did Martyn Armstrong,’ Peter reminded him. ‘Whom did this Jack accuse, Nob?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nob lied, glancing at Peter. He wasn’t going to accuse a man for no reason. Especially before Sir Tristram. Nob didn’t like the Arrayer. ‘Someone in the crowd.’

‘He must have been mistaken. Where is he?’ Sir Tristram demanded, and when Nob told him, he hurried away.

‘What do you think, Brother?’

‘The Sergeant must have been mistaken. Perhaps I hit him too hard!’ Peter was still gazing along the alley after the knight.

Nob nodded. ‘Ah well, that’s a relief.’

Something in his tone caught Peter’s attention. ‘Why?’

‘The man that Sergeant accused: it was the Receiver, Joce Blakemoor.’

‘Joce!’ Peter hissed. He stared at Nob a moment, then slowly turned and made his way back to the Abbey.

He felt his wound flashing with pain as though he had been struck again. All those years ago he had been hit by a man, and he hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of a figure, no face. It could have been anyone who swung the axe.

Wally had come here with Armstrong. Peter had thought that there was a curious coincidence in their arriving here, but perhaps a companion of theirs had advised them to return with him to his old home? Perhaps Joce had told his comrades that if they wanted to be safe, all they need do was pass south with him and declare themselves miners. Thus they would become the King’s men and be secure from capture.

Peter had reached the Abbey, and he turned to the Abbey Church, passing along the aisle in a daze, and then tumbling to his knees before the altar.

‘God, please don’t let this be so!’ he whispered. ‘Was it not enough that I had to live so near to Wally all this time? Didn’t you test me enough? Do you now tell me that the man who tried to kill me is here as well? Perhaps the man who murdered my Agnes? And you had me save his life today?’

It was late in the afternoon when the three men arrived back at the Abbey, and Simon dropped from his horse feeling filthy, sweaty and tired. The weather felt thundery, with heavy clouds forming in the west, and the humidity was almost intolerable. While he stood in the middle of the court, waiting for a stableboy to collect his horse from him, he glanced up at the hills to east and west, rising high above the line of the Abbey’s walls, and rubbing at his chin. It was rough and itchy, and he decided to have a bath and another shave with Ellis. That would take the worst of the dirt from his face.

The Coroner was hungry. Nothing would do but that he should be fed immediately, and he tried to persuade the others to join him, but to Simon’s dismay, Baldwin refused him and instead said he would go with Simon for a wash. Seeing Hugh loitering near the guest rooms, Baldwin called to him to fetch clean clothes for them both, and then led the way to the barber’s.

His companionship was not welcome, to Simon’s mind. He had looked forward to a few moments of peace, during which he could forget his worries, especially Baldwin’s apparent alliance with the Abbot and Simon’s own misery at the thought of his losing his job. It was painful to admit it, but this man Baldwin, who had become Simon’s closest friend in only a few years, had now become almost a rival, an enemy. Baldwin had the appearance of a friend, but his mannerisms seemed to show that he was edgy in Simon’s presence.