The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (3 page)

‘What could he do? No more than what he did. First he cleaned the undercroft with his friends; they scrubbed and washed and scrubbed again until all the flagstones were shining and clean.
Perhaps that would deflect the Abbot’s rage when he heard of their drunkenness at his expense. When their master returned, they must endure his chosen punishment, but that could be days away,
Milbrosa hoped, and in that time anything could happen. Perhaps by some miracle he would see a way through the problem.

‘But once a man has submitted to an orgy of dissipation and fed the beast within him, it is hard for him to forego the pleasures he has enjoyed. Thus it was with Milbrosa. He craved more
wine. Only used to ordinary ale like a monk should be, the heady stuff he had stolen had created a thirst he couldn’t appease.

‘It tore at him, this lust for wine, but how could he assuage it? Sunk deep in gloom he went to the
frater
and ate a meal with friends. They tried to persuade him that his sole
hope was to pray to God for peace and await the Abbot’s return. He should submit to his master and accept whatever penance the good Abbot Walter should impose upon him.

‘Perhaps he would have listened to them and recognised the good sense in their words, but then travellers arrived, and in among them, walking with them for security, was a messenger. Abbot
Walter had, he told them, completed his business and was travelling by ship to the Abbey’s possessions in the Scilly Isles, far to the west of Cornwall. He would not be coming straight back
to the Abbey.

‘It was enough! Instead of going to the altar and opening his heart to God, this drunken, foolish sot went down to the undercroft again with his friends. Instead of praying for help, they
worshipped their own gluttony with another barrel of wine. But this time, when Milbrosa awoke, his head pounding from the alcohol, he realised that he and his friends were truly lost. The theft of
one barrel was a foul crime deserving of punishment, but for this second offence the penalty must be severe. Milbrosa might even be exiled to the Scillies. Glancing about him at the bloated figures
of his friends, he acknowledged that their only crime was to have followed him, and he was racked with guilt.

‘He was still drunk, the fool, but he didn’t realise it. In his drink-bleared mind he thought he was wide awake and sober. Many a sotten oaf believes himself sensible and
clear-thinking when he is thrown from his tavern, and Milbrosa was like them. He was no more sober than a peasant at the end of harvest when the last of the cider barrel is gone, aye, and it was
while he was in this state that he thought he saw a way out of his shame.’

Almoner Peter’s voice dropped again, and he studied his audience still more keenly. ‘He left that undercroft, my lads, and stole silently and secretly to the court. Once he was
there, he hesitated. It was night-time, and although the weather was chill and ice lay all about him, the moon showed him that the whole of the Abbey was asleep. Alas! If only his Brothers had
woken and realised the vile crime he was about to commit! His breath hung in the air like a feather, and he shuddered; he thought from the cold, but no. It was his soul rebelling against the evil
of his deed. Aye, the Good God tried to send him sense, to persuade him that his sins were none so foul yet that he should lose his soul if he prayed for forgiveness, but he was deaf to God’s
entreaties!

‘For in the silence of that evil night, Milbrosa made his way to the Abbey church, entered, and walked to the chest, where he removed some silver plates and took them away with
him.’

There was a gasp, and the old monk nodded grimly, acknowledging their horror. ‘Imagine! He actually dared to go into God’s house to plunder God’s own silver. Milbrosa must have
lost his mind. He ran from the church, and secreted the plate beneath his bed, before returning to the undercroft and drinking himself to oblivion. At last falling into a troubled sleep at the side
of his friends, he tossed and turned. Dreams came to him, as the Saints called to him to return the plate and save his soul, but to no avail. Saint Rumon himself, our patron saint, beseeched him to
take back the plate and sin no more, but Milbrosa heeded none of them and pelted headlong to his doom.

‘The next morning he woke with a head still befuddled and as soon as the keeper had opened the gates, he collected the silver and made his way to the moors. There he found the travellers
among whom the messenger had mingled, and offered them the silver if they would pay him for it. They agreed, for they had no idea that the stuff was stolen from the church, and before breaking his
fast, Milbrosa had a full purse. He returned to the town and met with a merchant, who consented to send the money with a message to the Abbot of Buckfast asking for fresh supplies of wine, and then
he made his way to his bed and flung himself on to it, wallowing in crapulous relief that he could again replenish the Abbot’s stores.

‘But when he awoke hours later, he realised what he had done and he was riven with anguish. Sober once more, he knew that he had committed a mortal sin. If an ordinary man were to steal
from the church he would be named felon and would wear the wolf’s head; any man could execute him, and justly. Milbrosa was secure from that for he was a monk and could claim benefit of
clergy, but his crime was nonetheless so foul that he could expect a terrible retribution when the Abbot returned.

‘There was nothing else for him to do. He went to his friends and told them what he had done. Head hanging, penitent as only a true sinner can be, he begged them to help him, but one by
one as he appealed to them, they told him that they couldn’t help. How could they? None of them had any money. They couldn’t go and buy back the silver.

‘It began to look as though Milbrosa would after all be forced to confess his guilt to the Abbot and submit to whatever punishment he was given. It was plain enough that there was no way
of recovering the silver.

‘But then one of his friends had an idea. Or maybe it was Milbrosa himself who mentioned it. Whichever it was, surely the devil himself put the idea into their heads.’

Peter’s voice dropped into a hushed monotone. There was no fidgeting among the boys in front of him, only an appalled silence. Gerard could see the whites of their eyes, their mouths open,
fearful as the Almoner reached the final shocking chapter.

‘A voice suggested that they should go and beg money from a tin-miner. It said that there was this man who worked alone out in the wastes, a Jew – this was long before the Jews were
thrown from the kingdom – and he was known to be wealthy. Milbrosa needed no second bidding. He proposed to march straight to the tinner’s house and plead with him for money.

‘As good as his word, he packed his scrip with a little bread and set off. His friends, alarmed by his demeanour, went with him.

‘It was a good step, many miles from here. You have all seen the road that leads to the moors. It starts at the riverbank and climbs steeply, and once you have left the farming country,
once you have passed through Walkhampton you are in it, but I daresay not many of you have climbed that way?’

On hearing the chorus of denials, Peter sniffed. ‘When I was a lad, I walked to meditate and pray. I used to cover twenty miles each day when my Abbot allowed me, and since coming here
from the Northern Marches, I have already walked many miles on the moors, yet you haven’t even crossed the river, I suppose. Oh, aye, you modern youths are a feeble lot compared with my
peers.

‘The road goes up and up until you feel as if your knees will crack. That was how Milbrosa felt, for he was pushing himself on as quickly as he could. He
had
to have money to buy
the silver back from the travellers! When you breast the hill, there is a flat plain, and then you must pass on to the ancient cross called Siward’s, or Nun’s Cross, which marks the
border of the moors.

There it’s much more soft and rolling,’ Peter told his audience, ‘with a few rocky outcrops in the distance, and heather and grasses that hide the clitter. There are boulders
strewn about all over the place, and if you wander from the beaten track, you are forced to scramble up and down all the way. It is a broad, grey land, harsh and unwelcoming. There are no trees,
they are all gone, and when Milbrosa stood on the edge of the moors that day and gazed before him, he thought that this could be the ends of the earth. It looked like a place blasted by God’s
wrath. The only signs of civilisation were the fires rising from tin-miners’ homes and furnaces and the occasional pits dug all about, or the great heaps of spoil where miners had tipped
rubbish from their work. It is a foul, chill, unwholesome land, especially in the depths of winter, with the freezing winds blowing in your face and piercing your robes. Milbrosa felt his courage
fading as he stared ahead. His hangover was severe, his head felt as though it had been cracked open by a bill, and his belly wanted to spew up the vast amount of wine he’d drunk. Aye, he was
a most unhappy monk.

‘But with all his friends there he had no choice but to carry on. They walked eastwards along the rough tracks and paths until they came to the turn which led to the Jew’s house and
took it, going cautiously now, for there were many mires up there, great deep pools of bog in which a man could fall and disappear for ever.

‘At last they found the house. It was one of those rough miner’s dwellings. Ah, but you haven’t seen them, have you? intrepid lot that you are! It was a narrow, low place built
of granite, with the walls protected from draughts by piling earth against them and letting the grasses grow. The roof was of timber, with turfs thrown atop to stop the rain seeping in. When you
live so far from other people, you can’t always get straw to thatch, but grasses will keep out the worst of the wet.

‘There was no one there, but as they opened the door and gazed at the empty little hut, they heard the clop of hooves and a man’s voice, and there, behind them, they saw the Jew,
leading a mule.

‘Milbrosa was struck dumb at the sight of the man. His mule was heavily laden; he must have been about to set off on a journey or perhaps was just returned from one, and Milbrosa felt sure
this was a bad time to be asking him for favours. Aye, but although
he
was unwilling, his friends and companions urged him forward. If he was to save himself, they pointed out, he must
gain the man’s favour and win a purse to rescue the silver before the Abbot returned and learned of his crime. They thrust him forward, and he stood shivering in the cold before the Jew,
twiddling his fingers and licking his lips nervously.

‘ “What is it?” the old Jew snapped, for he was only just returned from the coining at Ashburton, and his legs were tired.

‘ “Master,” Milbrosa said hesitantly, “we are but poor monks from Tavistock, and we must beg for our food and drink. Have pity on us and give us some of your
money.”

‘This man might have been a Jew, but he was no fool. “Poor monks? You have an abbey to live in, with great estates all over Devon, and more wealth than I could dream of. Look at my
poor rude hut. I must live in that, and my only cup is a wooden one, whereas you drink from silver and pewter. Look at my bed, a palliasse of heather, while you sleep in good cots of timber with
mattresses strung from ropes for your comfort. My fire is mean and smoky, while you live in warmth with roaring hearths and chimneys to draw away the fumes. For my living I must scrape and dig,
while all you do is kneel and sit. Surely
I
should beg alms from
you
?”

‘Milbrosa didn’t want to dicker with him. He threw out his hands in appeal. “Master Tinner, we have nothing. Our buildings are God’s, our house is His, our beds are His.
Our duty is to serve Him, and sometimes we needs must ask for more from the people whose souls we save and preserve, so that we do not die of cold and hunger.”

‘Now this Jew was a kindly man, and truth be told, he had plenty of money. His mule was heavy with a chest of it because his workings had been fruitful and he had sold plenty of good tin
at the coining. He was of a mind to help this young monk, but even as he bent his head to pull some coins from his purse, Milbrosa found himself looking again at the mule.

‘ “Master Jew, your mule looks heavily laden. Are you off to the market?”

‘ “Just back from the coining, aye. I had to buy provisions.”

‘Milbrosa turned back and saw the heavy coins filling the Jew’s purse. He looked at the mule and noticed the chest. It was enough. He picked up a rock from the ground at his feet
while the Jew was peering into his purse, and suddenly Milbrosa slew him, striking with his rock until the Jew’s head was crushed like an egg trodden underfoot.

‘His friends had stood incapable of moving with the horror of it, but now, with the Jew’s brains spilled on the moor, they took Milbrosa by the arms and pulled him away, calling to
him, fearing he had become mad, thinking he was so distraught by his crimes that he had lost his senses. Yet he hadn’t. Oh, no. The clever, evil fellow smiled at them and said,
“Friends, release me! You don’t realise what you are doing. You see me here and think I am mad because I killed that Jew, but hear me out.

‘ “That man lying dead is not worthy of your concern. Wasn’t he a Jew? Who need fear for a man such as him? He was not one of God’s chosen, for isn’t it known that
all Jews renounced Christ and worship the devil? They are damned. How else could they have demanded that Our Lord be executed on the cross? Surely it is obvious that to kill a Jew is no more
heinous than to squash a fly?”

‘The mad fools who were his friends were appeased. Although they knew that their companion had committed another grave sin, they permitted him to sway them with his words. And then, when
some were yet wavering, he said this: “And it is fortunate for us that I have killed him, for look at the chest on his mule! It is heavily laden. It must be filled with money. Look at his
purse, that too is massy with coins. We might take both and use them to retrieve our silver, and yet have enough to purchase more silver, to the greater glory of God, to place on the altar in our
church. And if there is some spare, we can buy ourselves wine.”