The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (20 page)

Augerus had heard him once, talking to a Gather-Reeve, the rent collector. The poor fellow was bowing nervously in the presence of his master, trying to show the Abbot a confidence he
didn’t feel.

Abbot Robert had stopped at his side and peered down at him. ‘Aha! Reeve, and how is your lady this fine morning?’

‘Oh, she is well, Master, well.’

‘And your . . . let me see, you have two sons, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Master. They are well, very well.’

‘I am sure they are. And you, you are well?’

‘Yes, my Lord. I am very well indeed,’ the poor fellow had answered effusively, visibly relaxing. If the Abbot was so kindly, it was hard to remain scared.

‘Really? And yet my rents from Werrington have not been collected yet. I thought it was because you were unwell.’

‘No, Master.’

‘Or your children were.’

‘Um. No, Master.’

‘Or maybe even that your wife was ill.’

There was a disconsolate mumble.

‘Well, in God’s name get over there and do your job, man! You aren’t employed by me to sit about swapping tall stories and drinking ale all day!’

The memory of the man’s face as the Abbot rode off imperiously on his great mount would stay with Augerus for ever. He smiled as he worked, and when his jobs were done, he glanced out of
the window at the shadows in the court. In an hour or two he would have to prepare the Abbot’s table so that he could entertain whoever was with him today, but until then Augerus was free. He
walked out of the Abbot’s lodgings to the Great Court.

The
salsarius
, Brother Mark, who provided the salted beef and fish, also served the Abbey as
medarius
, holding the stocks of wine and ale. The Abbot himself had once drily
commented that the arrangement made sense – the
salsarius
could, by serving ale as
medarius
, assuage the thirst that his salted meat provoked.

Seeing Augerus, Mark smiled broadly and waved him over.

‘Aha! The Lord Abbot’s Steward is in need of a little refreshment, is he?’ he chuckled richly, and led the way into his domain. ‘Try some of this,’ he said, turning
the tap on a barrel and filling a little jug. ‘It only came in yesterday.’

‘It’s good.’ Augerus smiled, smacking his lips appreciatively, pulling a stool from beneath the table and sitting.

This was an irregular morning routine for both. They tried to meet up each day, but only occasionally could they manage it. Mark was always having to rush off to supervise the salting of slabs
of beef and pork at this time of year, ordering younger monks and novices about as the slaughtermen did their work, and often Augerus was held up as the Abbot demanded more paper, or reeds, or
inks.

The two were friends, each respecting the other’s value in the currency that really mattered in the monastery: information.

That was the hook which had formed their relationship early on, and although Augerus knew that Mark thought himself more religious, he also knew that Mark respected him as a source of prime
information about the Abbot’s thinking. That mutual trust was important to both. That was why they were wont to drink together when they had a chance. The last time had been only a few days
before the coining.

Ha! Augerus could vaguely recall their meandering route back to the Abbey after so much wine; they had drunk enough to sink a ship. In fact, it was a miracle that they had managed to find their
way back. For Augerus’ part, he had collapsed straight onto his bed after a few more jugs of wine with Mark.

It was the odd thing about Mark. He had the ability to consume vast quantities of wine without any apparent ill-effects. Now Augerus, next morning, felt as if someone had battered his body with
a club, and his insides were all in a turmoil. He couldn’t eat anything; when he looked at a cup of wine he threw up, and the only thing which began to stay down towards the end of the day
was a little water. Mark, on the other hand, had drunk more than Augerus, yet only suffered a mild headache. There was no justice in the world, Augerus reckoned.

Mind, Mark had had more practice. His red features and swollen nose bore testament to his regular consumption, testing to make sure all was well with his wines. He took his job seriously.

Now he was fixing Augerus with a serious glance. ‘I don’t like the look of Gerard,’ he said abruptly. ‘He looks like a boy with troubles on his mind.’

There was no need to say more. Both men knew that the only troubles which mattered in the Abbey were the thefts of the Abbot’s wine and the disappearance of the pewterer’s
plates.

‘I shouldn’t think he would dare to steal from guests,’ Augerus said.

Mark sniffed. ‘Talk of the devil.’ He waved a hand to attract the Steward’s attention.

Leaning forward to peer through the door, Augerus saw Gerard himself re-entering the court. The novice glanced about him, throwing an anxious look towards the Abbey church.

‘Did you see that?’ Mark said excitedly. ‘Did you? That lad is guilty, I’ll bet you a barrel of Gascon wine. Look at him! He’s definitely done something wrong. I
have seen guilty novices before now, but never one who looked as depressed as him.’

‘I am more intrigued by the stories about the others.’

‘Which others?’

‘Come, Mark! You must have heard the tale about the travellers on the moor? There is a party of foreigners out there, apparently.’

‘Oh, yes. But even if they did kill that miner . . .’

‘Wally.’

‘. . . Walwynus, yes – even if they did murder him, what on earth could they have had to do with the theft from the Abbey’s guests?’

Augerus smiled at the comment. In a way, it perfectly summed up Mark’s view on the world. A murder out on the moors might as well have been committed in Scotland, for all the relevance it
had to him. No, much more important was the embarrassment of thefts from those enjoying the Abbot’s hospitality. ‘You recall Milbrosa?’

‘That old nonsense? Who doesn’t remember it. But you can’t honestly believe that there’s any parallel?’

‘I don’t know,’ Augerus said. His attention had returned to the boy crossing the yard. ‘But the similarity seems curious, doesn’t it?’

‘Only superficially,’ Mark said definitely. ‘Nothing more than that. I don’t believe half of the story of the mad monks and the devil. No, I think that the good Abbot of
Buckfast was correct when he said that the monks fell into a mire and drowned.’

‘Don’t you believe in the devil?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Mark and crossed himself. ‘But the devil doesn’t have a monopoly. Accidents do sometimes occur. And I think that’s what happened to the monk
Milbrosa and his companions. They fell into a bog.’

‘After they had sold stolen church silver from the Abbey to the travellers.’

‘
If
the legend is true. Anyway,’ Mark said, leaning back on his stool as Gerard disappeared into the cloisters, ‘I’d be surprised if that young fool could have
found his way to the guest house without a guide, so surely
he
didn’t steal from the pewterer, guilty looks or no, I suppose. But I do wonder whether those travellers have something
to do with the rosaries and plate which have gone missing. If someone in the Abbey were to steal, it would be easy to sell the stuff to the travellers, wouldn’t it?’ and he shot a look
at Augerus.

‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Jeanne hissed after they had left the Coroner sprawled on a low bed in their solar.

‘My love, I had no idea what he was talking about. You saw that on my face,’ Baldwin protested. ‘In truth I have little desire to return to the moors.’

‘The moors are evil. The more I see of them, the less I like them.’ Jeanne was truly upset.

‘It is only land,’ her husband said gently. ‘And yet I admit this year has been oddly unsettling. What with the tournament, and then the vampires.’ He felt his ribs
gingerly. The great wound, which had felt like his death blow, which he had received during the Oakhampton tournament, had almost healed. The black and purple bruising had faded to a violent
yellowish discolouration.

‘We have seen so many deaths there this year,’ she said and shuddered.

Baldwin walked over to her and placed both arms about her body. Although she resisted momentarily, soon he was able to pull her to him, and rest his head upon hers while she nestled into his
shoulder.

‘My love,’ he said tenderly, ‘don’t fear for me. I am not afraid of the moors.’

‘You don’t understand!’ she declared, pushing him away with both hands on his chest. ‘I fear that because you don’t believe in the spirit of the moors, you will
leave yourself open to danger.’

‘We have talked about this before,’ he sighed, and indeed they had. His wife had been fearful before he went to investigate the murders in Sticklepath, and had tried unsuccessfully
to stop him going then.

She followed him now as he walked from the room and returned to his hall, picking up his jug and sipping at the wine. ‘The Bailiff feels the same way as you do,’ Baldwin mused,
‘and I confess that I cannot laugh at Simon’s reactions any more, since witnessing how disorientated I became when the mist surrounded us at Sticklepath. I can sympathise with other
people when they give respect to the moors – but they
are
only moors, not wild animals. I cannot pretend to be afraid when I am not.’

‘Baldwin, I—’

‘My Lady, I have spoken. I shall go with the good Coroner, and I shall help, so far as I am able, to solve whatever little riddle he puts before me. What is the reason for this visit,
anyway?’

‘He said it was a murdered miner.’

‘There you are, then. It is likely a man killed in a knife-fight near the Abbey. There is no need for you to worry. It is probably nothing more than a quarrel over a woman in the middle of
Tavistock, and no need to go near the moors. After all, that far south, in Tavistock, the moors don’t start until you travel half a morning eastwards.’

Her face was a little easier on hearing his words, but she still opened her mouth to speak again.

He held up his hand. ‘I shall be very careful, and I shall not take foolish risks, my love. But if the Coroner says that our good friend Abbot Robert wishes me to help, I can hardly turn
him down, can I?’ He gambled a final comment, watching her carefully. ‘After all, if it weren’t for the good Abbot, you and I might never have met, might we? He has given me my
most treasured possession –
you
. If I can ever help him, I must.’

Peter walked back to the Abbey, scarcely noticing the urchins begging at the street corners, the boys and girls who pointed at him and called out names. He had grown all too
used to the condemnation of others since that dread attack.

Those days felt so far-off now. An evil time, it was as though after the ruination of the Holy Kingdom of Jerusalem, God had decided to punish the impious. Hexham had been destroyed in 1296, and
the Scots grew braver at this demonstration of their might. They were always raiding, riding ever further into England. Nor was it only the Scots. The man who tried so hard to destroy Tynemouth was
the foul murderer Sir Gilbert Middleton and his ally Sir Walter Selby, two notorious English men. They and their followers, the
shavaldours
, were nothing more than marauders, killers who
robbed and kidnapped, fearless of punishment from men or God.

It was five years ago now, in 1317 when they had committed their most barbarous, daring act. The two Cardinals, John de Offa and Luca de Fieschi, had been sent to England by the Pope himself in
order to negotiate a settlement between the English King and the Scottish warrior, Bruce, the man whom the Pope himself referred to as ‘him who pretended to be King of Scotland’.

Except Sir Gilbert was furious still about the way that the English King was doing nothing about the devastation being wreaked upon his lands and upon those of the barons north of York. King
Edward seemed to care nothing for the north country. He merely enjoyed himself with his singing and dancing, acting like a peasant with his hedging and ditching, and bulling his favourites at
night. Pathetic, puny man that he was. He was no King of a realm such as England.

When Sir Gilbert’s cousin, Hamelin de Swinburn, was arrested for speaking sharply to the King about the abysmal state of the Northern Marches, it was no surprise that the furious Sir
Gilbert chose to take the law into his own hands. He met with the Cardinals and their party riding northwards from York, near to Darlington, and robbed them of their money, their goods and their
horses, and although he quickly released the two Cardinals to continue, more slowly, upon their way, he took Louis de Beaumont, Bishop of Durham, and his brother Henry hostage and ransomed
them.

That act was their last. Sir Gilbert was entrapped by neighbours shocked by his sacrilegious behaviour; they had him fettered and sent to London in his chains. There he was condemned, and in
January of 1318 he was hanged, drawn and quartered.

No one would have missed him. Certainly not Peter. After all, it was Sir Gilbert who had caused Peter’s wound a little while before he captured the Cardinals; unwittingly, it was true, but
if Sir Gilbert had not distracted the Priory by attacking, Peter wouldn’t have been hurt.

It was because of Tynemouth. Sir Gilbert wanted to sack the castle there, to ransack the stores and take provisions, which during the famine years were more valuable to him than gold and jewels,
although he probably wanted to see what plate and gold he could steal as well. Fortunately Sir Robert de Laval realised what was happening, and the castle and Priory were put on their guard. The
Prior, a wise old fellow, commanded the monks to help Sir Robert’s men to demolish the houses which ran up near to the monastery and the castle, and Peter had been one of the first to
volunteer to help. With the others, he had taken axe and bar to the old timber buildings, flattening them and clearing the space about the castle and Priory so that defenders could see for a good
bowshot. There could be no unseen attack.

Praise be to God, the castle and Priory were saved and Sir Gilbert’s men were driven off in search of easier pickings. Peter and his friends and Brothers began to think that they were
safe. That was when the Scots came.