Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

He had forgotten the two crossbows. There was a hideous thump and grating friction at his shoulder. He felt his whole upper body jerk, his arm losing all power in a moment, and the knife flew from his hand even as his shoulder seemed to explode. As Anna staggered and fell to her knees before him, he was only aware of the sudden eruption from his shoulder: his tunic snapped away, ripped and shredded, and there was a violent effusion of blood which sprayed the grass for yards about, a solid mass in its midst. He could see it fly on, a blurred spot in the distance.

A moment later there was a second thud in his spine, and it slammed him down to the earth, where he lay, mouth agape, his remaining good arm scrabbling for purchase in the blood-clogged grass. He tried to speak, to bellow, but no words came. He could feel pain searing his breast like flames: the bolt had shattered in his spine, and fragments of wood and bone had pricked his chest, puncturing his lungs; now the blood was clogging his breath and as he opened his mouth to roar, a fine spray of crimson burst forth, staining the grass anew.

It can’t end like this, he thought. There was more astonishment at this than pain or shock. Of all ends, he had never anticipated this. He shivered, and suddenly he realised that his legs were shaking uncontrollably, quivering against the long grasses, and then the spasms spread upwards, to his groin, then his arms, and suddenly his eyes widened.

And then he was still.

When the Coroner returned to the town, riding on ahead of Sir Tristram, who was bringing Joce Blakemoor’s body back on a sumpter horse, Simon and Baldwin listened with keen interest to his story.

‘So the Swiss men shot him? A kind end to a violent man,’ was Baldwin’s comment.

‘It explains some of the story,’ Simon said.

‘Yes. We know that the acolyte ran away from the Abbey because he couldn’t cope with the pressure and fear. Augerus had made him steal for him, taking whatever he could from the Abbey’s guests, and so he ran away, joining Sir Tristram’s men. He hoped to be able to disappear with them. But I suppose when he saw or heard all of us arriving and questioning Sir Tristram, he panicked and bolted, and somehow Joce caught him and tortured him to learn where the pewter was gone.’

‘Yes,’ said Simon absently, ‘except…’

Baldwin chuckled to himself. ‘Come, there is little enough unexplained! You can be content with the scope of your discoveries.’

Simon smiled, but he was still unhappy at the amount he did not know. The acolyte had somehow found clothing; he had been shaved; he had been helped into the lines of men joining the Host, for he would have been spoken for. Someone must have confirmed his name and details when he applied to Sir Tristram.

And then he suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the pleasant, smiling face of Nob Bakere and his wife Cissy. ‘I think that we may learn a little yet,’ he said.

Leaving Simon’s faithful servant Hugh seated at the bedside of the wounded acolyte, Simon and Baldwin walked out through the Abbey’s gates and strode into the town once more.

‘Where do you want to go?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘There are some details we should learn,’ Simon said, and pushed open the door to Nob’s pie-shop.

It was empty apart from the cook and his wife.

‘Ah, um. Right, can we serve you gentlemen?’ Nob asked, trying to look innocent.

Simon ignored him, but spoke to Baldwin.

‘You remember when we came in here to look at sacks? I found a black tunic, and while I dropped it, unthinking, Nob came over and kicked it away from me angrily. At least, I thought he was angry at the time. We often kick out at whatever is near, don’t we? When Nob came to me, the nearest thing for him to kick at was the tunic. It flew into the corner. Where is it now, Nob?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Must still be there, if that’s where I kicked it, Master.’

Simon nodded at his cheerful attitude. ‘Well, I think it’s already burned. Which is a shame, because your son will have to buy a new one. Benedictine habits are not cheap, are they? Apostasy is one thing, but to burn a tunic – that is like burning your boats, isn’t it? Oh, Mark is being held by the Abbot, I should tell you, and Gerard is back at the Abbey. Much that was confusing us is now known. All we want is your story.’

‘Their son?’ Baldwin wanted to hit himself for being so dense. ‘I begin to comprehend. Their son is…’

‘Reginald the novice,’ said Cissy.

Simon snapped his mouth shut. He had been going to say that Gerard was their boy, and he was glad that he had been saved from making a fool of himself.

Baldwin was frowning intently at her. ‘ Reginald ?’

Cissy sighed and pointed with her chin to the ale barrel. ‘Nob, we might as well have a drink while we explain.’

‘All right, my little cowslip,’ he muttered.

‘And less of your smatter!’ she called after him. ‘Yes, Master Bailiff. I don’t know how you guessed, but our son is Reginald.’

‘And he is?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘Gangly, clumsy, dark hair. Oh, he’s his father’s son all right,’ Cissy laughed. ‘Reg is a fool. He got to thinking that Gerard was stealing, so he determined to talk to him and persuade him against his life of crime. Only, when he caught hold of the boy, he missed his hold and knocked him down. Reg was appalled. He was trying to help the boy, and when Gerard went down with a loud thud, he thought he’d killed him.’

‘You should have seen his face!’ Nob said, returning with the drink and passing pots to their visitors.

‘Anyway, Gerard confessed to him, and begged to be forgiven, but asked what Reg would do, and Reg didn’t hesitate. He said he’d ask his mum. Me.’

Baldwin lifted his mazer and saluted her. ‘And you advised?’

‘That he should stay where he was. But he said he feared Mark might kill him. That was what the monk had threatened – that he’d kill Gerard if he didn’t do as Mark wanted, and the same if he ever spoke about what he’d done.’

‘Yet he told you?’

‘He was so lost, the poor child. He didn’t know who to speak to, who to trust. By the time he came to us with Reg, he was almost past caring. The only thing he craved was certainty. And so the other possibility we suggested was that he should join the Host.’

‘We gave him some of Reg’s old clothes to wear, and I personally shaved him bald. I reckoned that would make him hard to recognise,’ Nob said with some pride. ‘When he went to join the Host, I spoke up for him, and I had paid some others to help, so that was no trouble. We thought he’d be far away by now.’

Cissy’s face hardened. ‘He hasn’t got away, has he? You’re not cheating us into telling you what happened?’

‘No, Cissy,’ Simon said quietly, and told her about the lad in the infirmary and the death of Joce.

‘Poor Joce. I never much liked him, but I wouldn’t wish that sort of death on any man,’ Nob shuddered.

‘Save your sympathy, you old fool! It’s Gerard you should feel sorry for,’ Cissy said scathingly. ‘The poor young fellow’s near death, from what these gentlemen say.’

‘Our Reg won’t be looked on with great favour, not once the Abbot knows what he did,’ Nob said.

‘Oh!’ Cissy cried. There was a terrible lurch in her belly at the thought, although she couldn’t deny a certain hope that he might be thrown from the Abbey so that he could marry and settle, just as she had always wanted.

‘We can only pray that Gerard recovers fully,’ Simon said.

‘I need hardly say how pleased I am with your work, Simon,’ the Abbot said at breakfast the next morning. He had invited Simon, Baldwin and the Coroner to join him, and he sat eyeing Reginald dubiously as the novice tried to serve the Abbot and his guests with the same professional skill as Augerus. ‘You have discovered the secrets of so many with such skill, that even now I scarcely comprehend the full story.’