Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘Bailiff, this is my sister. I couldn’t tell you her secret before, but she is happy to tell you herself now.’

Simon glanced at her. ‘Lady? I don’t need to know if it will embarrass you.’

‘Embarrass me?’ She stared at him, her face empty for a moment as she recalled the last minutes she had spent with Joce. A sob threatened to burst from her bosom. All her hopes, which had been crushed on the day of the coining, then briefly fanned to life again today, had at last been shattered in horror as he attempted to throttle her. ‘My Lord, Joce swore his oath of marriage to me, in secret, purely so he could enjoy my body. Then he denied that oath in public, shaming me, and calling me whore. Today I saw him in town, and he assured me that he was my husband, that he would protect me and my child, but then he tried to kill me! He took me by the throat, see?’

Simon could see the red marks of fingers and a thumb. ‘Good Lord! Why?’

‘He wanted me to walk with him to his house. I think he wished to fetch fresh clothes, because he had fallen or been thrown from his horse, but I wouldn’t go with him. I have some pride left, even after his deceits!’

‘What happened then?’

‘He ran from me because two guards saw me being attacked by him at his back doorway.’

Simon nodded. ‘And where did he go?’

Ellis answered. ‘He knocked a man from his horse and stole the beast, riding up the road to the moors.’

‘Then he shall be caught by Sir Tristram’s men,’ Simon stated.

‘Won’t you fetch him?’ Sara asked.

‘I have other pressing matters,’ Simon said as gently as he could.

‘Did you know that Joce beat Wally on the day after the coining?’ Sara interjected quickly. She was determined that the Bailiff should know. Seeing Simon’s quick interest, she told him about Joce’s words. ‘He said he had beaten Wally because Wally told him to leave me alone. Perhaps he did more than beat Wally, though?’ she finished.

Simon nodded doubtfully. No one had seen Joce up on the moors, so far as he knew. Ellis had said that Wally had been in a fight that morning. Maybe it was Joce who had beaten him. Joce himself showed no sign of having been thumped. Could he be so professional that he could protect himself against a strong lad like Wally?

‘I am grateful you told me this,’ he said, signalling to a passing novice.

‘Find Sir Tristram for me, lad. I think he is in the guest house still. Tell him that Joce Blakemoor has taken a horse towards his men.’ Turning to Sara, he added, ‘I shall tell the knight about his escape. Sir Tristram will find him and bring him back, never fear.’

She nodded fretfully. ‘I had hoped you would fetch more men and seek him out.’

‘There is no need,’ Simon said. He could see Sir Tristram, who descended from the guest rooms with a pot of wine in his hand.

‘Well, Bailiff? What is so urgent?’

Simon explained briefly. ‘This man Joce must be caught.’

Sir Tristram threw him a contented smile. ‘Fear not but that he shall be back here this evening, whether dead or alive!’

Simon left him then, as he bellowed for a fresh horse, and made his way up to the infirmary. At the doorway, he stopped, looking back.

Sara and Ellis still stood in the same place, Ellis with his arm about his sister’s waist, she with her eyes streaming with tears for her lost future, while Ellis merely gazed about him dumbly, like a man who had known that the world was cruel, but who had still hoped for better. He looked entirely crushed.

Joce slapped the reins over the horse’s flanks, whipping the old beast onward, even though the brute was faltering.

‘Fucking thing!’

The owner must have ridden this nag miles already. It was so frustrating! All he needed was a good animal to get him away, and here he was astride this broken-winded, knackered bag of bones. It was only good for the tanner’s yard.

‘Hurry up or I’ll slay you,’ he hissed, kicking as hard as he could, wishing he had spurs.

They were almost at the moors now, and they hadn’t passed any sign of the men yet. He was hoping that they might have continued along the line of the trees, in which case he should have a clear run to the Swiss travellers, but even as he hoped this, he saw someone else on the road ahead, another rider.

The horse was close to collapse. Rather than see it expire beneath him, he yanked on the reins to slow it, then stood, panting a little.

If only that bitch had gone in with him so that he could have changed his clothes. Then he wouldn’t be in this state. Silly cow! He could have killed her inside, away from prying eyes, and got a fresh change of clothing, before escaping. Now, all because of her, he had to hide until he could steal a change of clothes and get rid of these tatters.

He trotted into the security of a small clump of trees near a cross, listening as the sound of hooves approached, but then they stopped. ‘Well, friend, are you going to come out here, or do I have to get you out?’ a voice bellowed.

Joce froze at the words. He didn’t recognise the voice, but there was unmistakable menace in the words, and to match them he heard the slithering sound of steel against wood as a sword was drawn.

‘I was only concealing myself in case you were a ruffian,’ he declared, allowing the horse to walk forth. ‘I am no villein.’

‘Joce Blakemoor?’ the man asked, peering at him.

‘Aye. That’s me.’

‘I’m Jack, Sergeant to Sir Tristram! I remember you, Joce Red-Hand!’

In a moment the sword was whirling through the air towards his head. Joce fell back against his horse’s rump, then slipped his weight to one side, avoiding the first thrust and slash, but then his own sword was out and he could parry the next blow.

‘Attack an innocent, will you?’ he roared, and turned his blade as Jack’s met it, slicing it down into Jack’s thigh. The Sergeant screamed, and his horse danced away nervously even as Joce’s backed, but Joce thrashed it with the flat of his sword. It stepped on reluctantly, and Joce whirled the sword about his head, swinging it at Jack’s neck. Jack brought up his own, but Joce could feel that the man’s strength was ebbing, and then he saw why. He had severed a blood vessel in the man’s thigh, and there was a spray of arterial blood pumping. Joce smiled, and snarled, then brought his sword round again, beating at Jack until Jack failed to move in time. There was a soft, shuddering contact through Joce’s arm, and his vision was blurred for an instant as blood fountained, and then he saw that Jack’s headless body was still mounted, but the hands were empty. The sword was fallen.

Joce wiped his face free of the blood, and reached for Jack’s horse’s reins, but the beast was maddened with fear. The smell of blood, the terror of death, combined to make it insane, and it bolted, running straight for Tavistock, the body lurching in the saddle. Joce swore as he watched it as it gradually sagged to the right and toppled to the ground. All he felt was rage, pure fury, that he should be thwarted again. He needed that mount, a strong, fresh horse that would take him farther.

Joce wearily pulled his horse’s head around until it faced east again. Beating it with the flat of his sword, he urged it into an irregular canter, eyes skinned for more enemies.

Baldwin was still sitting on the stool watching the boy when he heard footsteps approaching. He felt no need to rise, and merely nodded to Mark when the monk entered and bowed at the altar.

‘Brother.’

‘Peter told me he was here. How is he?’

‘Weak.’

‘Perhaps he will survive – but he looks terrible.’

Baldwin could not argue with that. ‘It is unlikely that he can live.’