The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (38 page)

‘He left his blood there,’ Simon said.

‘There were no fingers,’ Baldwin observed.

The Coroner muttered, ‘There are enough scavenging animals here to take them. Magpies, crows, buzzards . . .’

Simon nodded. ‘Why did you fear to speak to us, Rudolf?’

‘I had been seen drawing my knife against him in the town, and then again out by the rock. It seemed natural to me to think that I would be viewed as the man’s murderer when I heard
that he had died.’

‘Who saw you out by the cross?’ Simon asked.

‘It was a monk. I don’t know his name, he was just a man standing there with the cowl and habit. Oh, and he carried a stick.’

‘So! I suppose you’d defend this man’s murderer as well, would you?’ Sir Tristram sneered.

Peter hadn’t heard him walk up behind him, and now he turned, his lips still moving as he spoke the words of the
viaticum
. He refused to rise to the bait, and continued through
the office until he had completed the prayers, and only then did he stand and confront Sir Tristram. ‘Well? Are you so offended that I should serve another?’

‘You! You serve your own ends at all times, don’t you? Scotch-lover!’

Peter felt his scar pull as he smiled. ‘You never understood how our faith demands that we should protect and serve even our enemies, did you?’

‘The Bailiff told me that there was a monk here from Tynemouth. At the time it never occurred to me that it could be
you
! I thought you were dead long ago.’

‘You would have preferred it. If you had swung this blow . . .’

‘I would not have missed your scrawny neck, monk.’

‘You have never forgiven me, have you? All I did was help a brother monk to save a man’s life.’

‘He was a Scots raider. You are lucky you weren’t found with him. If I’d found you, you’d have died.’

‘My woman found him,’ Peter said. He could remember her racing towards him, her braids flying in the wind, panic in her face. His friend and he had hurried to the man’s body.
When he tried to turn his memory to her, he found himself seeing her broken body – although he had
not
seen it. She was buried while he lay near to death.

‘More evil. You are supposed to be chaste, yet you lived with your concubine.’

‘She was a good woman,’ Peter said defensively.

‘She was a Scottish whore.’

Peter’s anger flickered, but there was little energy to fan the flames. Not after so many years. ‘It was wrong. Yet it is also wrong to label her that way. She was an honourable
girl.’

‘Honourable? Perhaps the slatterns in the alehouses are honourable, then. And what did the man you saved do, hey? He took her for himself, didn’t he? He took her and raped her and
killed her. All because you saved him. You would deal with the enemy.’

‘She was no man’s enemy. She was a woman caught up in a stupid, irrational war of greed,’ Peter flared.

‘And she persuaded you to forswear your oath, Brother. You screwed her, didn’t you? And that makes you an oathbreaker.’

Peter looked away, his anger dissipating, trying to call her face to memory again. Somehow her smile was what came to him, and he thought of the girl in the tavern who had reminded him of her.
With a flash of insight, he realised why Wally would have gone to that tavern, why he had tried to secure her for himself before he had any money. It was surely because he remembered that girl,
high up on the Scottish moors in among the heather, Peter’s Agnes.

She had been a beautiful girl. Strong in the body, with long legs and powerful thighs, dark hair to her shoulders, a slim figure and small, high breasts. She was always laughing, although
whether at herself or at him was difficult to tell. More often than not, Peter was sure her laughter was aimed at him. It was no surprise. Now he looked back on himself, he could see how stuffy he
must have seemed. Agnes had lived for the moment, uncaring about what the next day might bring, while he was anxious every moment that he would behave as God would expect. His entire being was
focused on the life after this – she was content that the present moment was pleasing, to her and to those whom she loved. It was that attitude, more than anything, which had made him adore
her.

Walwynus loved her too, of course. Probably because she was such a good nurse to him. She had fed him with wine and bread while he suffered from his fever, and then helped him to take his first
tottering steps when the wound was almost healed. It was only natural that Walwynus should love her. He had wanted her, but she refused him. Not that her refusal had stopped Wally. When he was
well, he had left, but then the bastard repaid her kindness and Peter’s by returning. While Peter was lying wounded and waiting for death, Walwynus had gone and raped her, or led his friends
to her, so that they all had a share in her murder.

There was no law in the Marches. That was the first thing that a man realised as soon as he was old enough. No one lived there apart from the peasants and a number of poor devils who were tied
to the place, like the monks. Everyone else left as soon as they could.

Peter shook his head sadly. She was long dead now. And Walwynus had died too.

‘If she made me break my oath, so be it. It was many years ago.’

Sir Tristram spat into the dirt, sneering, ‘You blaspheme now! You think you can swear to God and then discard the oaths you choose? Which other oaths have you broken, monk?’ Then
his eyes hardened and there was a cruel glitter in them. ‘What now, eh? Have you another little goose here? I suppose a lusty man like you would find it hard to live without your piece of
skirt, wouldn’t you? I wonder which you have now. Perhaps the Abbot would like to know, too. Now there’s a thought. I wonder if he knows of your woman in Scotland?’

There was no need for Peter to answer. Sir Tristram’s smile showed that he could see Peter hadn’t told the Abbot.

‘So I wonder what the good Abbot would think of you, if he knew you had kept a whore, Brother?’

Nob had listened to their talk with increasing annoyance. Now he pushed the monk gently out of the way and stared up into the knight’s face. ‘Before that, what do you know about
“Red Hand”? Was he an Armstrong?’

Peter glanced at him in surprise. ‘Why? How did you hear of him?’

‘He was the murdering bastard nearly killed this monk and then slaughtered his woman,’ Sir Tristram said shortly. ‘Why?’

‘Your Sergeant there reckons he saw this man in the crowd today,’ Nob said.

‘Sweet Jesus! He can’t be here!’ Sir Tristram said, looking about him as though expecting one of the crowd to confess to being the outlaw.

‘Did you ever see him?’ Peter asked sharply.

‘I don’t think so, no. Jack did, but only once. No,’ the knight said, ‘he must have been wrong. The man couldn’t have got so far down south.’

‘Wally did, and so did Martyn Armstrong,’ Peter reminded him. ‘Whom did this Jack accuse, Nob?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nob lied, glancing at Peter. He wasn’t going to accuse a man for no reason. Especially before Sir Tristram. Nob didn’t like the Arrayer.
‘Someone in the crowd.’

‘He must have been mistaken. Where is he?’ Sir Tristram demanded, and when Nob told him, he hurried away.

‘What do you think, Brother?’

‘The Sergeant must have been mistaken. Perhaps I hit him too hard!’ Peter was still gazing along the alley after the knight.

Nob nodded. ‘Ah well, that’s a relief.’

Something in his tone caught Peter’s attention. ‘Why?’

‘The man that Sergeant accused: it was the Receiver, Joce Blakemoor.’

‘Joce!’ Peter hissed. He stared at Nob a moment, then slowly turned and made his way back to the Abbey.

He felt his wound flashing with pain as though he had been struck again. All those years ago he had been hit by a man, and he hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of a figure, no face. It
could have been anyone who swung the axe.

Wally had come here with Armstrong. Peter had thought that there was a curious coincidence in their arriving here, but perhaps a companion of theirs had advised them to return with him to his
old home? Perhaps Joce had told his comrades that if they wanted to be safe, all they need do was pass south with him and declare themselves miners. Thus they would become the King’s men and
be secure from capture.

Peter had reached the Abbey, and he turned to the Abbey Church, passing along the aisle in a daze, and then tumbling to his knees before the altar.

‘God, please don’t let this be so!’ he whispered. ‘Was it not enough that I had to live so near to Wally all this time? Didn’t you test me enough? Do you now tell
me that the man who tried to kill me is here as well? Perhaps the man who murdered my Agnes? And you had me save his life today?’

It was late in the afternoon when the three men arrived back at the Abbey, and Simon dropped from his horse feeling filthy, sweaty and tired. The weather felt thundery, with
heavy clouds forming in the west, and the humidity was almost intolerable. While he stood in the middle of the court, waiting for a stableboy to collect his horse from him, he glanced up at the
hills to east and west, rising high above the line of the Abbey’s walls, and rubbing at his chin. It was rough and itchy, and he decided to have a bath and another shave with Ellis. That
would take the worst of the dirt from his face.

The Coroner was hungry. Nothing would do but that he should be fed immediately, and he tried to persuade the others to join him, but to Simon’s dismay, Baldwin refused him and instead said
he would go with Simon for a wash. Seeing Hugh loitering near the guest rooms, Baldwin called to him to fetch clean clothes for them both, and then led the way to the barber’s.

His companionship was not welcome, to Simon’s mind. He had looked forward to a few moments of peace, during which he could forget his worries, especially Baldwin’s apparent alliance
with the Abbot and Simon’s own misery at the thought of his losing his job. It was painful to admit it, but this man Baldwin, who had become Simon’s closest friend in only a few years,
had now become almost a rival, an enemy. Baldwin had the appearance of a friend, but his mannerisms seemed to show that he was edgy in Simon’s presence.

The sack of pewter was still bound to Simon’s saddle. The Swiss had appeared almost relieved to be shot of it, saying with a grimace that he had got nothing but bad luck since he had
acquired it. Although he had paid good money for it, he was prepared to allow Simon to take it back to the Abbey if the Bailiff would swear to ask the Abbot to reimburse him, either by replacing it
all with fresh tin, or if not, by giving him back the money he had spent with Wally to buy it. The Swiss party would head for Tavistock as soon as they might to claim their recompense.

Simon felt giddy with the heat. Perspiration was dripping from him, his hair was glued to his forehead, and his armpits were rank. He licked his dry lips, which were gritty from the dust kicked
up by his horse’s hooves. Where the sweat was gathering on his forearm, he noticed a grey-black smear of dirt, and it revolted him. Then he wondered where it could have come from.
Thoughtfully he touched the sack. It left a black mark on his finger, like coal dust.

‘Curious.’

It was a relief when Baldwin offered to take the pewter to the Abbot’s lodgings. For Simon it meant at least a few moments of peace. It was only when Baldwin had gone that Simon suddenly
thought that the knight could have been taking it to the Abbot to curry favour. He rejected that idea almost instantly as being dishonourable and certainly unfair on Baldwin, and yet it was
insidiously attractive, coming so soon after his suspicions. Baldwin still appeared edgy in his presence.

The bath was in the barber’s room near to the infirmary, close by the brewery. Water was boiled in the brewery fire, and taken by bucket to the great barrel that was the bath, a strong
vessel cooped with strong copper bands. Simon called there for Ellis, and the barber soon appeared from a door that led to the brewery itself, wiping his mouth shamefacedly.

‘Ah, my Lord Bailiff! You wish for another shave?’

‘Yes, but first I need a bath. Have the thing filled.’

Simon felt considerably improved after soaking his body and washing away the filth of the moors. He sponged himself clean with water that was filled with fresh herbs, rubbing himself down with
soap and rinsing it off with fresh, rose-scented water. He was almost finished when Baldwin arrived, his dark face drawn into a scowl.

Once Simon’s hair was washed, he felt greatly refreshed. Sitting on Ellis’s stool while the barber draped almost-scalding towels over his features, he felt renewed, and a curious
sense of fatalism enveloped him.

This fear, this nervousness about Baldwin was ridiculous. If there was some suggestion from the Abbot that Simon was not to be trusted, that he was too incompetent to keep his job, that was not
Baldwin’s fault. In fact, if Simon was fair, it was the Abbot’s alone. Baldwin was probably fidgety because he knew that Simon was to lose his position, and feared how the Puttock
family would survive without the income that his post as Bailiff brought him. Perhaps that was all it was, Simon thought: Baldwin was consumed with compassion and sympathy for his old friend.

Anyway, Simon was no fool. He would soon find a new job even if the Abbot decided to dispense with him. There were always other masters. And if that didn’t work out, Simon should be able
to live on the proceeds of his farming. Other men managed to, and he had a good property in Sandford still, the place to which he had brought his wife when they married. She had always adored it,
with the far-off views of Dartmoor and the rolling hills surrounding it. They had been very happy there. It would be closer to Baldwin, too, and easier to see him and Jeanne more often. The life of
a free yeoman farmer was not so bad. Good food was plentiful, if the harvest was kind, while there should always be ale and wine to be drunk. Yes, Simon reckoned he could live happily as a farmer.
It would be different, there would be economies that he and Meg would have to make, but they would survive. And what else mattered, than that he and Meg should be able to live together in peace?
Meg was a farmer’s daughter. She would be pleased to return to a farming life.