The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (4 page)

‘That was enough for this greedy band. Eager hands tore at the mule and now Milbrosa took command. First he washed his hands of the Jew’s blood, and then he ordered that the body
should be carried some little way to a mire and thrown in, and thus their crime would never be discovered. They loaded the Jew’s body on to the mule, and the patient creature carried its
master to his grave. When the monks had hurled the Jew into the bog, the mule too was killed and pushed in, for Milbrosa had no taste for being accused of stealing it. At last they returned to
their booty, and picking it up, made their way homewards, confident that no man would ever know of their crimes.

‘The travellers were content to sell back the silver, and Milbrosa and his confederates soon recovered the plates and had some shillings besides, so when they were once more in the Abbey,
they bought wine to celebrate.’

Almoner Peter’s eyes met Gerard’s and the acolyte felt his heart thunder. ‘Soon afterwards snow fell, and they were pleased that no one would be able to learn of their crimes.
It covered the country with soft, clean powder and hid everything. To celebrate their success in concealing murder and theft, Milbrosa and his friends visited a low alehouse and drank some of the
shillings which they had left over from their theft. In such a way can the weak fall prey to evil,’ he intoned.

A young fellow of some eight or nine years, whose eyes, Gerard considered, ran the risk of rolling from their sockets, gasped, ‘So their crimes were never discovered, Almoner?’

‘Of course they were discovered, you poor dolt! How else do you think I could be telling you the tale if they weren’t?’ Peter rasped.

‘The men had all but consumed their wine when a messenger arrived. He was from Buckfast, he said, and the good Abbot there had witnessed a miracle in the church. The bells had been rung to
declare the wondrous event, but he asked that Milbrosa and his friends, since the Abbot was still abroad, should join him in a great feast there to celebrate the honour that had been done to the
monastery.

‘Nothing loath, for the opportunity of participating in the festivities was as agreeable to them as ale would be to a blacksmith on a summer’s day, they set off with the messenger.
Up the hill there,’ Peter said, pointing eastwards, and their eyes gazed at the solid wall as though they could look through it and see the group of monks toiling up the path beyond the
river, ‘he took them, always in front, always a little beyond them, his head cowled and hidden. It was terrible weather, cold and gusting, and there was the smell of snow in the air. Milbrosa
was happy that the guide knew the moors so well, but he began to grow concerned when a mist came down. Still they strode on, their heads bowed, their hands clasped, the thought of the fire at the
Abbey helping to draw them on.

‘The mist grew thick and their steps faltered. None could see more than a few feet in front of them, and they were forced to walk close together, but still their guide led them on, until
at last Milbrosa shouted to him, demanding that they should find a place to rest. The guide didn’t answer, but bent his steps northwards, and the monks stumbled along after him, muttering
bitterly and complaining about the cold.

‘They didn’t have to worry about it for long. No. A low hovel appeared ahead of them and, their hearts bursting with relief, they hurried forward. Suddenly the mist cleared, and they
could see where they were.

‘Milbrosa gaped. This shelter, this rude dwelling to which the guide had brought them, was none other than the Jew’s home. Here, before the door, Milbrosa could see that the place
where he had struck down the Jew was still marked with crimson, which seeped through the snow as though a cauldron of blood boiled beneath it. He felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth,
and he called to the guide in a voice that was suddenly hoarse. Then the guide turned to face him, and Milbrosa felt his heart lurch in his breast as the man lifted his hood.

‘The monks screamed as one. Their guide was the Jew. His head was crushed and his eyes were dead, his tongue protruding, and even as he raised a finger to point to Milbrosa, his face
melted away, and the monks could see that this was the devil himself, come to fetch them to make them pay for their crimes! Milbrosa and the other monks were lifted up by demons, their screams
heard by the miners who lived all about there, and carried off to hell, where they yet burn, hundreds of years later.’

Peter sat back, eyeing his audience with satisfaction. One of the boys had given a little yelp of terror as he came to the climax, and the Almoner nodded sagaciously. ‘So that was why the
Abbot’s Way came to be marked out.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Gerard said, and he spoke for them all.

‘After the disappearance of the monks, the Abbot of Buckfast refused to believe the tales of devilry. He had invited them to celebrate a miracle, and thought that his messengers and the
monks must have lost their way in the mists, and had fallen by accident into a mire. No one would dare to stand against the Abbot, especially not in defence of the Jew, no. So the monks were prayed
for, like any lost souls who go missing on the moor or who disappear at sea, and to try to prevent it happening again, the Abbot decided that there should be way-markers to help travellers. He had
great moorstone crosses planted like trees all the way across the moor, avoiding the dangerous mires and taking a good direct route from Buckland to Buckfast, so that in future monks and other
travellers would be safe.’

One of the boys relaxed visibly. ‘So there wasn’t really a ghost or the devil. They just drowned in a bog.’

Peter looked up at him, and his eyes narrowed into grim slits. ‘You think that, boy? You don’t believe in the devil? Perhaps you will go the same way as Milbrosa. He scoffed at
dangers and took risks because he didn’t truly believe. Now you know what happens to men who laugh at the Rule, to felons dressed as monks. No man may know of your sins, but God does, and the
devil too. He always takes his own. There is no escape. You may enjoy a short period of pleasure, but sooner or later, you will be found out and taken away like Milbrosa.’

He leaned forward, and his voice became a hiss.

‘And if that happens, my cockies, may God have mercy on your souls!’

The Almoner’s words struck at the children like a lash, and when the bell tolled for their beds, Gerard could see that they were relieved to be released from him. Rising with the others,
Gerard was about to walk out with them when he felt his sleeve caught by the old monk’s hand.

‘So, did ye like my tale, boy?’

Gerard jerked his arm away. ‘It made them think.’

‘And what of you, lad? Did it make
you
think?’

‘Me?’ Gerard tried to laugh lightly, but as he left Peter’s room, he could feel those eyes on his back, as shrewd and far-seeing as a hawk’s, and he knew fear again. If
he stopped thieving, he could be maimed, just as Peter was. Augerus had hinted as much, pointing to Peter and asking whether Gerard wanted to look like him. That was the alternative to continuing
his stealing, Augerus meant, and the casual brutality of the threat left Gerard feeling sick.

Now, with Peter warning him to stop, he felt as though everyone knew about his stealing.

Earlier on that same grey and overcast Tuesday, Hamelin had been working in the cold mizzle. Groaning, he slowly stood upright and stared out over the moors with the exhausted
gloom of a broken man.

‘You all right, Hamelin?’

‘Christ’s Ballocks!’ he murmured, leaning on his old spade. ‘How could a man be well in this, Hal?’ His tongue reached up to the sore lump in his gum. It was
painful, hot to the touch, and he couldn’t speak too loudly because the swelling hurt like a cudgel-blow with every movement of his jaw.

‘Poor bastard!’ Hal, older and, to Hamelin’s eyes as cragged and tough as one of the dwarf oak trees from Wistman’s Wood, dropped his pick and walked to his side.
‘You’d best get a man to pull that tooth. Your whole cheek’s blown up.’

Hamelin gave a non-committal grunt. Although he was grateful for the sympathy he had no money for treatment.

The last tooth he’d had pulled had cost nothing; it had been done by another miner, a brawny man with thick, stubby fingers and no sense. He’d grabbed Hamelin’s jaw and jerked
it down, then shoved the large pliers in and squeezed tightly before trying to drag the tooth out. That tooth and the one next to it had both broken off, leaving Hamelin in agony for weeks until
the abscess which had grown beneath had finally burst, flooding his mouth with foulness. The mere memory of that was enough to put Hamelin off the idea of going to another tooth-butcher.

‘That barber, Ellis, he’s supposed to be good,’ Hal said after a while.

This was true, but Ellis was a professional and wanted money in return for his skill, and Hamelin had nothing. Anything he did have, he should save and give to his wife. Emma needed the money
for food, for her and for their children.

Hal shrugged his shoulders and returned to his tool. ‘You should pay that Ellis a visit when we go to Tavvie for the coining on Thursday.’

Hamelin nodded slowly. Gazing about him at the scatterings of soil with the leat tumbling down its narrow way in the middle, he felt the desolation of the place sinking into his soul and
infecting him with despair.

Hamelin was not born and bred on Dartmoor. His father had been a serf who had run away from his master in Dorsetshire and made his way to Exeter, where he had lived for a year and a day without
being captured, thus securing his freedom. Hamelin had been brought up as a poor freeman with no training, for his father couldn’t afford to apprentice him, and yet he had managed to make
himself a small sum of money by hard work. Then his little shop burned to the ground and he lost almost everything. All his spare money was tied up, but he was lucky, so he thought, that at least
he had loaned cash to a local man who was plainly wealthy enough to repay the debt with a good rate of interest. Except he wasn’t. He had gambled the lot away, and then he went to the Abbey,
so the debt couldn’t be enforced.

That was why Hamelin had hurried to this desolate place. Cold, wet and grim, he had a loathing for it that bordered on the fanatical. He had come here determined to find a rich lode of tin. From
all he had heard in Exeter, it was easy. You walked about until you saw traces of the tin-bearing ore in a riverbed, and then traced the river back upstream until you found the source. You might
have to dig a few times, exploratory little pits designed to see whether you had the main line of the tin, but that was it. It had seemed incredible to Hamelin that everybody didn’t run to
the moors to harvest the wealth that lay beneath the soil.

But after six long years of intensive searching, after wearing through spades, after all but breaking his back moving lumps of moorstone and trying to bale water from pits he was trying to dig,
he felt as though it was all in vain. Luckily Hal had taken him under his wing. Apart from Hal’s friendship, the only wealth he had found was Emma. She was the only source of joy in
Hamelin’s life. The children he was fond of, but they were a continuing drain into which all his money was tipped, while Emma, with her smiling round face, was a comfort to him.

He had met her on one of his journeys to the Stannary town of Tavistock years ago. She had been serving in a pie-shop, and he had bought one pie, and then stayed there for the rest of the day,
chatting and teasing her. He had adored her from that moment. It was something he had never thought could happen to him, but she was kind, generous of heart, and made him laugh; and he seemed to
make her as happy in return. Soon they betook themselves to a tavern and drank, and that night they fell together on her bed. Within a week they were wedded, with many witnesses watching at the
church door.

That happiness was blessed with children, as the priests liked to say, but Hamelin spat on the idea.
Blessed
! How could children be thought of as a blessing? They needed food, and that
meant money. Hamelin had nothing. The children stared at him with their sunken eyes, their swollen bellies, each time he went to see them, every few weeks, and when he saw his lovely Emma and how
wizened she had become, he felt as though his heart would burst. She was broken down with toil, her back bent, her face aged beyond her years. As he took his leave-taking to return to the moors he
had grown to detest, she hugged him and kissed him and wept a little, as did he as his feet took him up the steep hill towards Walkhampton, over the common, and on to the Nun’s Cross at the
edge of the Great Mire. Yes, he wept too, for the life that he should have been able to offer his wife. If he still had his money, he’d be able to, as well.

Injustice! That was what tore at him. If he’d not made that damned loan to the bastard who’d fleeced him, he’d be able to support his family. Instead, he was out here, stuck in
the middle of this hell-hole.

From his vantage point at the top of Skir Hill, he could look all along the small valley that pointed northwards. His house was a huddle of stones, almost invisible among the clitter, with its
thick layer of turf for a roof. It was small and smoky, but at least it was warm in the winter, which was more than other miners’ places. His home was not too bad – but it was this
desert all about which appalled him. It was as though he had been convicted of a crime and punished with exile in this hideous land, all alone but for the occasional traveller passing by. If he
could only get at his money, he would be safe, but even the lawyers he had spoken to had laughed at the idea of appealing a monk. Who wouldn’t balk at the prospect?

He felt crushed by the unfairness. Today the sky was a grey blanket that smothered his soul. There was no pleasure here, only despair, he thought.

A sparkle caught his eye, and he frowned, peering northwestwards. There, on the track that led from Mount Misery towards the Skir Ford, he saw a tiny group of people and carts. Travellers. It
was tempting to go and speak to them, but he had work to be getting on with. Perhaps today he would find a rich seam, maybe enough to buy food for his wife and children.