The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (12 page)

Gerard shivered as he came to the
reredorter
and walked to the wooden plank with the holes cut out. His bowels had felt loose ever since news of Walwynus’ death had reached his
ears. He had never thought, when he succumbed to the temptation of stealing a little bread, that it would come to this. He knew he should confess to Abbot Robert, but his master was such an
intimidating man. Someone like the Bailiff who knew the Abbot only as a businessman or friend wouldn’t see him in the same light, but to Gerard he was the strict interpreter of God’s
will, the man who translated His will for the poor fools like Gerard himself who couldn’t comprehend it. Abbot Robert was the supreme master in this, his Abbey, and Gerard could no more face
standing before him and confessing his crimes than he could before the King.

If only it had been the wine alone. Gradually, step by step, he had been drawn ever further into crime. Not because he wanted to, but because that evil bastard had forced him to. He could weep
now, to think of the coins, the baubles, the little strings of beads, the wine and dried meats . . . All stolen by his nimble fingers, all gone. He was to blame, and the Abbot would exact a severe
penalty for his crimes. At the least he would be humiliated, but he might receive a worse punishment. Perhaps he could even be sent to the Scillies, to the islands of St Nicholas, St Sampson, St
Eludius, St Theona the Virgin and Nutho. Gerard had never been to the islands, and didn’t want to. To be sent there was the punishment for only the most hardened of conventual criminals. The
islands were tiny, with small communities of weather-beaten, uncommunicative men to whom piracy was a way of life whenever fish were scarce.

He hadn’t wanted to get involved. Life as an acolyte was hard, in a regime like this, and he had occasionally stolen spare food or a little wine, but then he was spotted. Suddenly he had a
master, a wheedling fellow who persuaded him to take ‘Just one little loaf from the kitchen. Such a little thing.’ And so it was, something which the two could share, and all for a
small wager. If he had been discovered, it was no matter. He could have borne the strap on his bared arse. That was nothing – the sort of thing that all boys were used to. After all, a
beating was easy, three or four rubs and the pain was gone. Far better to have the strap than to be detained indoors on a warm, summer’s afternoon when the birds were tempting a shot with a
sling, or when the dogs were baiting a bull in the shambles.

Although that was the beginning, it wasn’t the end. If only it
had
been. The suggestions went from a loaf to loaves. There was nothing to it. Gerard was small, slender-waisted and
narrow-shouldered, and could wriggle through the smallest of windows. He found it easy, and it was fun. There was never anything serious about it. Not for him there wasn’t, but soon he was to
realise that his exploits were not viewed in the same light by his confederates.

His enjoyment dimmed when his wheedling master neatly trapped him. He had been stealing to the order of his master, who now insisted that he continue. If he didn’t, at the least he would
be exposed; at worst, tortured. But if he complied, he would be safe.

Gerard had been tempted to go to the Abbot and confess everything, but then he realised how weak his position was. Gradually he had taken more and more and his easy manner had begun to fail him.
Whenever he saw the Abbot’s eye resting upon him, he was convinced he was about to be accused. It seemed so obvious. He became a nervous wreck. And then he had been told to steal the
wine.

It made no sense to him. What was the point? They had no need to steal the better part of a pipe of the Abbot’s best wine. It could only bring attention to them. To
him
. If only
he had not succumbed to stealing the bread in the first place, then he would be safe. Perhaps he still could be.

He would never again steal from the Abbey, he promised himself. There was no cure for his soul for the damage he had already done, but at least he could try to atone by not stealing again, and
try to make amends for the things he had already taken. That would be best.

Filled with this resolve, he rose and washed his hands in the trough before making his way out to the
frater
. This massive block was opposite the Abbey church, at the other side of the
cloister, and he must walk down the steep stone stairs outside the
reredorter
and cross a narrow passage between the buildings to reach it.

At the bottom of the stairs he licked his lips nervously. A fresh thought had occurred to him. If Walwynus was dead, then the man who had killed him might have been motivated by the simple urge
to steal whatever Walwynus had, as the majority of the monks suspected. Someone might have seen Wally walking about with a sack on his back on the day of the coining and decided to kill him and
take whatever was inside. There were plenty of outlaws even in Devon who would be prepared to murder on the off-chance. And any man who did that would have found themselves in luck, from the
quantity of pewter that was in Wally’s sack.

Then another thought struck him, and Gerard felt his belly gurgling.

What if Joce had seen them taking the stuff from his house? Maybe he didn’t even need to see them. For all Joce knew, only Wally had any idea where the metal was stored. He could have
killed Wally and taken back his stolen metal. Unless Wally had already got rid of it, as he said he would. Then Joce would be discomfited, Gerard thought with a sudden grin.

But then his expression hardened. If Joce
had
caught Wally and then learned that his metal was gone, he would be enraged. Perhaps he had tortured Wally before killing him, demanding to
know where the metal was, or to learn whether he had a confederate . . . What if Joce had learned that Gerard himself was involved, that Gerard had aided Wally’s theft of Joce’s
stock?

All of a sudden, the acolyte felt the need to return to the
reredorter
.

Simon sat at the table comfortably replete. The meal, as usual at Abbot Robert’s board, had been excellent, the wine even better, and the Bailiff was aware of a gentle
drowsiness stealing over him. Fortunately only one barrel of the special wine had been stolen, as the Abbot said, and this, as Simon was happy to agree, was a very good wine indeed.

As was usual when there was Stannary business to discuss, the Abbot was entertaining Simon alone. Other guests of the Abbey had to make do with the hospitality at the gate-house, but Simon
merited rather better treatment. He and the Abbot had enjoyed a good working relationship for many years.

It was that fact which had annoyed Simon so grievously about the affair with the coining hammer, because he had never knowingly let the Abbot down before. He had always made sure that the
Abbot’s work was done, no matter what, and up until this year, he had been efficient and capable. The mines worked well, the law was generally observed, and Abbot Robert had little cause for
complaint. Simon was sure of it.

While the Abbot spoke to one of his servants at the end of the meal, Simon’s mind wandered.

This year, things had gone wrong: he couldn’t deny it. First there was the fiasco of the tournament at Oakhampton, which was a terrible embarrassment to Simon personally; then the hideous
murders at Sticklepath. Somehow they had laid a gloom over the Bailiff’s usually cheerful demeanour. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with the problems he had encountered, and was more to do
with the way things were at home.

Edith, his daughter, had been his most prized companion, maybe even above his wife herself, and now he was losing her. Just as Meg had said so often, she was growing, and with her slim good
looks, she was attracting all the boys like bees about a honeypot. The difficulty was, Simon wasn’t ready to let her go. He adored her, and seeing the unchivalrous, oversexed local youths
pawing at her or doting upon her every word brought out the heavy father in him. Simon wanted to demand who their fathers were, how much land did they own, how much was it worth annually, and what
were the lads’ prospects . . . He had actually tried to do that once, but Meg had skilfully distracted him and led him from the room. As she later said to him, it was bad enough for Edith
trying to mix with boys of her own age and class with her father scowling in the corner of the room like an ogre from the moors, without him interrogating them like the Bailiff he was.

They still had little Peterkin, of course. Their son was a continual source of pride and pleasure to him, but somehow Simon already knew that his son would be the favourite of his wife. It was
his daughter who had been his own especial friend. Astonishing, he thought now, how good wine could make a man see his troubles so clearly.

Glancing up, he saw that the last of the food was gone from the table, and only the dishes remained to be cleared. Thinking that their meeting was over, he thanked the Abbot and prepared to
stand and make his way to the guest’s lodgings over the Court Gate, but the Abbot motioned to Simon to remain in his seat a while longer. He said nothing while the trenchers and plate were
being collected by his two servants, but when they were gone, he leaned forward and beckoned to his Steward to pour them more wine.

‘Bailiff, you appear less than comfortable. Have you received bad news? Is that why you forgot the hammer?’

Simon smiled thinly. ‘It is nothing so important as to merit the title of news, my Lord. No, it is merely the ordinary trials of a father. I apologise for having allowed my domestic
affairs to affect the coining.’

‘I trust it will not last a great while.’

Simon gave a rueful shrug. ‘I trust not,’ he said, thinking that no matter what he wished, his daughter must soon find herself a lover and husband.

‘I am glad. I almost mentioned this to you before, but I admit that I was annoyed after that hammer nonsense. No, not because of you alone,’ the Abbot added, holding up a hand to
stem Simon’s expostulations. ‘I had an inkling of something being wrong here in the Abbey, and then there was the stolen wine . . . You can imagine my feelings to then hear that my most
respected Bailiff had made such a foolish error.’

‘I can understand,’ Simon said. He felt deflated. The meal and wine had persuaded him that the affair was over and done with, but the Abbot’s words indicated that it was not
yet forgotten.

Abbot Robert was toying with his goblet now. ‘And now there is this poor fellow on the moors: Walwynus. His corpse is guarded?’

‘I left the miner Hal Raddych up there. When the Coroner arrives, we can investigate more fully.’

‘Of course. Who could wish to kill a poor fellow like him? It seems insane.’

‘There are madmen about,’ Simon said.

‘Yes, but one hardly expects to meet them here. Do you think that this was a random attack from an outlaw? Someone who knocked him down just to filch his purse?’

‘It is very hard to say, my Lord Abbot. But I shall enquire as I may, see if I can dig up something for the Coroner to use. When should he arrive?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Tomorrow or the day after, I hope.’

Tuesday or Wednesday, Simon noted. He sighed. ‘I only wish Baldwin were here.’

‘Yes. He is a man of excellent judgement.’

Simon nodded, burped gently, and sipped at his wine. ‘Baldwin is a good man to have at your side in an enquiry. He’s so used to running his own courts as Keeper of the King’s
Peace that questioning people is second nature to him.’

‘He has many duties,’ the Abbot murmured. ‘The duties and responsibilities of an Abbot are equally onerous: varied and always increasing. We are now to be asked to help the
King again. His Host is marching to Scotland, I hear.’

‘I had thought that they would have crossed the border by now.’

‘Perhaps they have. The King is up in the north, I understand.’ The Abbot smiled humourlessly. ‘He wishes money for his bastard, Adam. The lad is to be blooded in Scotland, so
we must all pay the King taxes so that he can afford to buy a horse and new armour for his whelp, I suppose.’

His tone was bitter. Simon knew that Abbot Robert resented having to send more of his hard-earned money to support the King in one of his campaigns.

‘Every time he calls on his Host he expects us to pay our fee,’ the Abbot continued. ‘This Abbey once had to support fifteen knights, but now we commute that service with
scutage
, we have to pay for sixteen. Not only that: his sister is to marry, and he wants a subsidy from
me
to help pay for her wedding! When the King decided to march against
Thomas of Lancaster earlier this year, he demanded that I should act as his recruitment officer. Now a man has arrived telling me I must do so again, and find men for him at the same time as paying
a fine because I, as an Abbot, tend not to maintain knights here in the cloister. Pah! He wanted me to provide him with money to hire mere mercenaries, knaves and churls who will fight for any man
if the money is right, against every element of Christ’s teaching, and at the same time he demands my best, healthiest, strongest peasants to fill his army: no matter that he denudes my
fields of the men I need during the harvest. My God! Save me from bellicose monarchs!’

Simon nodded understandingly, but he failed to see where this conversation was heading. Outside, the light had faded, and he wondered how much longer the Abbot was going to talk. For his part,
the ride to Tavistock, the quick return to Lydford and back, followed by the trip to Wally’s body, had made his entire body ache; the Abbot’s good red wine hadn’t helped. Simon
longed to sprawl back in his seat, to close his eyes and dream of his wife, but he wasn’t fooled by his host’s affable manner. Abbot Robert was Simon’s master, when all was said
and done, and if he wished to talk on, Simon must listen. He felt his eyelids grow heavy.

‘Bailiff, you seem tired.’

‘No, my Lord. I am fine. You were talking about the King?’

‘Yes. He wants more men, but he also wants money. I have no recruiting officers, and finding one in whom I can place any trust . . .’