The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (29 page)

‘Well? Come on, Nob, you great lump!’

‘It wasn’t my fault.’

‘That’ll make a nice change for you.’

Nob scowled. ‘What would you have done? Left him to his fate?’

‘It’s none of our business, that’s all.’

‘Oh, wonderful! So we just leave him to get killed because it’s nothing to do with us?’

‘He wouldn’t have been killed.’

‘How do you know, Cissy? He certainly thought he would, and that’s what matters.’

Cissy sniffed. ‘If only that fool Walwynus hadn’t gone and died.’

‘Well, I doubt he wanted to.’

‘Don’t you snap at me, Nob Bakere! I won’t have that in my own shop.’

‘It’s
our
shop, woman. And I’ll talk how I bloody want in it.’

‘All I meant was, if only he hadn’t been so stupid. Bloody Wally. Well, he lived up to his name, didn’t he? He was a right Wallydingle.’

‘Was he the man Sara said had got her with pup?’

‘No, she said nothing about the man. Wouldn’t talk.’

Nob nodded morosely. He walked out to the back of the shop and fetched a jug of wine. Taking a good swig, he passed it to Cissy and sat at her side.

‘Poor old Wally,’ Cissy sighed.

‘Not so poor, though, was he?’ Nob tapped the side of his nose.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Well, he had the money after all, didn’t he?’

‘He had some, but maybe that was just from selling some veg.’

‘Cissy, he was drinking all day and much of the night. That’s more than the price of a bunch of carrots and a turnip, and then he gave all that to Hamelin. You saw how
much.’

‘What are we going to do?’ she said quietly after a pause.

‘Where could he have got that money from?’

‘Who cares about the money?’

Nob looked at her. ‘Probably the man who killed him.’

‘But if Ellis killed him because of Sara, then he wouldn’t have been interested in stealing from him, would he?’

‘I don’t reckon Ellis had anything to do with it. Wally had money, Cissy. Think! How would anyone know that he had cash on him? If someone bought something from him, then just maybe
that same someone decided he’d prefer to keep the thing
and
the money both.’

‘Any idea who that could be?’

Nob shrugged. ‘Not a single one.’

‘So we’re back where we started. All we know is that we’ve committed a mortal sin.’

He sighed along with her. ‘Yes. Still, if that young lad wasn’t suited to the convent, surely God will forgive us?’

Cissy sniffed. All at once the tears were close again. ‘We’ve been happy here, haven’t we? And now we’re going against the Abbot’s own wishes. He’ll not look
kindly on us, not when he learns we’ve helped one of his novices to commit apostasy.’

Nob shook his head gloomily, taking a long swallow of wine. ‘No. Well, that’s just something we’ll have to get used to, I think.’

‘Perhaps. But I don’t feel guilty. I feel that I may have saved a life,’ Cissy said. And it was true. She could see the acolyte’s face so clearly as they helped him climb
into normal clothes and bundled up his habit.

‘Poor boy,’ she said. Gerard had looked so lost, so scared.

Surely it was their duty to save him.

Baldwin and the Coroner had travelled a good many miles in two days, and Sir Roger spoke for both when he said, ‘My arse feels like it’s been beaten with hazel for
hours. I want a good, solid chair that won’t move and a jug or two of strong ale. Then I need a haunch of beef or pork, hot, and dripping with fat and juice. After that I might feel half
human again.’

‘I see. Half human is as close as you feel you can ever hope to achieve?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘If I wasn’t so bruised, Sir Knight, I’d force you to regret your words,’ Coroner Roger said, grimly rubbing his behind. ‘But under the circumstances, I’ll
forgive you if you only find a means of shoving a quart of ale in my hands.’

‘Come with me,’ Simon said. ‘I know a small tavern which keeps a good brew.’ He led the way from the gate and into the town itself. ‘Ah, I’d thought
he’d have finished,’ he breathed.

Before them was the tavern outside which Sir Tristram had been gauging his recruits. He was still there, speaking seriously to the clerk who had been scribbling the names of the men he had
recruited and which weapons they had brought with them.

Seeing Simon, Sir Tristram straightened. ‘You decided to come back, then?’ he said rudely. ‘This town has a poor number of men, Bailiff. Very poor quality. It must be the wet
weather down here. The damp settles on the brain, I understand. Maybe that’s why these clods are so gormless.’

As he spoke his eyes passed over Baldwin and Roger, appraising them. His attention rested for a moment on their swords: Coroner Roger’s a heavy-bladed, rather long and slightly outdated
lump of metal with a worn grip; Baldwin’s by comparison a very modern blade with a hilt of fine grey leather. Simon could almost hear the thoughts in Sir Tristram’s mind: one looked
heavily used and was familiar to the wearer’s hand, while the other was new, which could mean that the knight was new to his status, or that his last sword was broken and he had chosen to
replace it with the very latest model.

Simon hurriedly introduced his friends to Sir Tristram. ‘The King’s Arrayer,’ he added. ‘Sir Tristram is here to recruit for the King’s war in Scotland.’

‘I wish you Godspeed, then,’ Coroner Roger said. His eyes were moving beyond the knight already, to the bar in the tavern, and, joy! to the serving girl who caught his eye even as he
lifted his brows hopefully. She smiled and held up four fingers. The Coroner hesitated, then gave a faint shake of his head and held up three.

Sir Tristram didn’t see his glance or movement. ‘I thank you. With some of these oafs, I’ll need it.’

‘Will you see more tomorrow?’ Simon asked.

‘There would seem to be little point. I have found forty men and two who could function as
vintenars
, so I am ready enough to fulfil the King’s requirements. I shall leave
tomorrow or the next day, when I have provisions, and hope their feet will survive the journey. God knows but that I am doubtful. In the meantime, I shall stay at the inn, rather than abusing the
Abbot’s generosity,’ he added with a harsher tone. ‘I can collect my horse tomorrow.’

He left them, graciously taking his leave and bowing, and the three men watched him in silence as he passed off along the street.

‘What an arrogant . . .’

‘Master Coroner, there is no need to use language which could embarrass the serving maid,’ Baldwin said with mock severity.

‘Embarrass you? Could I?’ Coroner Roger asked archly as the girl appeared.

She giggled as his hand quested the length of her thigh. ‘If you worked hard at it, Master.’

‘I may just do that, my dear,’ he drawled as she walked away. Then his face fell and he took a long draught of his wine. ‘Trouble is, she’s the right age to be my
daughter.’

‘Grand-daughter,’ Simon corrected.

‘Don’t rub it in. My wife does that often enough.’

‘How is the lovely Lady de Gidleigh?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The same as usual,’ Roger said glumly. ‘I think if I were to give her poison, it’d only make her stronger. She’s built like a mule, there’s nothing can knock
her down. Even a simple disease gives up at the sight of her. She never loses her balance. Her humours seem as steady as a lump of moorstone. It’s not fair. Hah! No, if I were to find some
poison, I’d be better off drinking it meself. It would,’ he added with a slow shake of his head as though in deep gloom, ‘at least end my suffering,’

‘My heart bleeds for you. You’d be terrified if the girl agreed to bed you,’ Simon said with a smile. He and Baldwin knew that for all his harsh words, the Coroner was devoted
to his wife.

‘You think so? I tell you, I’d take her tonight, except it’s hardly respectful to the Abbot to take a wench back to his own guest room and use it for a bulling shop, and it
would be a rude rejection of his hospitality to stay here the night with her.’

‘You are so thoughtful,’ Baldwin said with a straight face.

‘Some of us are. It is a hard cross to bear, though, old friend,’ Roger sighed.

Simon was desperate to find out what the Abbot had wanted to see Baldwin about, but Baldwin avoided the subject. There was something about his manner which sent a tingle down Simon’s back.
Baldwin would not hold his gaze. His eyes seemed to touch on Simon fleetingly, then move on as though he was ashamed or nervous about something, and his fingers drummed on the table-top like a man
waiting to be interrogated, rather than a man who was used to questioning others.

‘Tell us what you know about this murdered man,’ Baldwin said, apparently considering the barrels racked at the far end of the room.

Simon told them all he knew about Walwynus, and then spoke about the weapon, and how it had disappeared when he visited the second time.

‘Interesting,’ Baldwin murmured, his eyes narrowed.

‘Could the guard have fallen asleep?’ Roger said. ‘I’ve heard of animals getting up really close to a man to steal a lump of meat. Look at rats. They’ll take food
from your hand while you sleep. Maybe a wildcat or wolf took this thing because it smelled of blood?’

‘Roger, please!’ Baldwin scoffed. ‘A balk of timber? You honestly think a wolf would be stupid enough to carry that away when there was an easy meal within reach? No, that
cudgel was removed by a human. The question is, was it taken away by the killer, which would be worrying, or was it grabbed by someone else?’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Simon said quickly. If the Abbot had suggested that his mind was fogged or stupid, Simon wanted to prove to his two friends that the Abbot was wrong.
‘If the killer went back to take it, then he might intend to kill again. A weapon like that is impossible to trace to a particular man.’ He decided not to mention the marks, or
Augerus’ words. Perhaps he could raise that later, to impress the Abbot.

Coroner Roger stirred and snorted. ‘What if it’s not the murderer?’

‘Why then,’ Simon finished, ‘it might well be someone who knows who the killer is and intends to avenge Wally with the very same weapon that was used to murder
him
.’

‘There is another possibility, of course,’ Baldwin said mildly.

‘What?’ asked Simon.

‘That the club was taken purely in order to conceal it more effectively. Perhaps there
was
some way to identify it that you couldn’t see, Simon, and someone took it in order
to stop us finding the killer.’

‘So he could himself kill the murderer,’ Simon nodded.

Baldwin shot him a look from narrowed eyes. ‘Perhaps . . . but perhaps the murderer was well thought of. Maybe this Walwynus was not liked and the miners about him were not distressed by
his execution. It is a thought.’

‘I don’t see it would make much sense,’ Simon protested.

‘There is another thing, too,’ Baldwin said. ‘The killer need not have been a man. A woman could wield a morning star as easily as a man.’

‘Surely few women could so devastatingly crush a man’s skull?’

‘No, I daresay you are right. I am merely speculating. But I shall look forward to seeing this corpse again and considering the wounds. I hope it hasn’t disintegrated too badly
before we get to it.’

Simon shrugged. Baldwin’s smooth summary of the position had made him feel his own inadequacy compared with the knight’s, reminding him of his incompetence before the Abbot. It was a
terrible thing to recognise it in himself, this stupidity that could cost him his job.

Baldwin could see that Simon was upset, so he smiled and patted his friend’s arm. It was always the case that Simon felt sick at the sight of a dead body. ‘You do not have to come
with us to the inquest if you do not want to,’ he said kindly.

Simon’s eyes hardened, and Baldwin withdrew his hand in surprise at the Bailiff’s sharp tone. ‘Why? Don’t you think I can help you? Am I too stupid?’

Baldwin was too astonished to answer immediately. He could see that he had insulted or offended the man, but he had no idea how. When a scruffy messenger appeared, he was glad of the
diversion.

‘Sir Baldwin, the Abbot wants to see you again, sir. As soon as you can, please.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘No need for you two to leave your wine. I shall see you later.’

To his dismay, he saw that his words seemed only to increase Simon’s gloom.

Hamelin approached the door of his house in Tavistock with dread curling in his belly like a worm. Again, there was no noise, no wailing or weeping, but he stood outside for a
moment or two, listening, wondering how Joel, his infant son, fared.

He had been back at the mine since Friday, trying to concentrate on digging and keeping the flow of water at the right level, while Hal busied himself looking for a fresh source of metal. This
area was all but mined out, but Hal had a nose for tin, and he said he thought that there was a new spot which others had missed – but if it was there, they had yet to find it. Still, it had
taken Hamelin’s mind off his sick son.

Hal had discovered the body of Wally first thing on Monday. He’d gone up there because he was beginning to wonder why there was no sign of a cooking fire or any other evidence of life at
Wally’s place; the corpse sent him running back to Hamelin to tell him, and then he took his pony and hurried off to town to inform the authorities, leaving Hamelin to protect the works. In
all honesty Hamelin was incapable of concentrating. Hearing that Wally was dead had dulled his mind, and for much of Monday he merely sat and stared at the water running through the wooden
leat.

Wally’s death affected him profoundly. It felt as though there was a sign in this, as though Wally’s life and his son Joel’s were connected. One had died – perhaps the
other would live? It was something to cling to.

It had been hard to get anything much done for all that long day. Hal, who had ridden back from Tavistock, stayed over at the corpse’s side to protect it, but when he finally returned late
on Tuesday morning, he was gruff and uncommunicative. He cast odd glances at Hamelin every now and again, but then looked away. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere, and Hamelin was relieved
when Hal went into the hut to sleep; next morning, he announced that he would return to the body and take over from the man waiting there.