The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (7 page)

His belly was full of bile, but he made a conscious effort to act naturally, to listen and chat as Nob spoke. He didn’t want to appear distraught. If he was to have revenge on Joce, he
must seem innocent. How to hurt Joce, though? That was the question that nagged at him now.

‘I don’t understand how monks and farmers get so much from the ground,’ he said, forcing himself to speak conversationally to Nob, ‘All of my vegetables wither as soon as
I plant the buggers.’

Nob gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘It’s a hard life on the moors.’

‘Aye. Down here there are women, ale and warm houses,’ Wally agreed. Out in the street, he bit into his pie and, when he looked up, he saw his young friend hurrying back towards the
Abbey, his ginger hair flaming in the wind. ‘Gerard!’ he shouted, and the lad stopped, staring about him with confusion.

When he caught sight of Wally, a smile spread over his face. ‘Oh, it’s you! Are you here for the coining?’

‘I was, but the sight of that arrogant oaf standing there so self-important makes me want to puke,’ Wally said.

‘Yeah, well. I have to get back,’ Gerard said, his eyes going to the church tower, gauging the time.

It was then that Wally had the idea that would cost him his life. ‘Wait! Do you have two minutes?’

‘Not really. I’ve got to—’

‘Two minutes to avenge your sins, Gerard? That’s all it will take,’ Wally said.

Gerard eyed him doubtfully. There was a brightness in the other man’s eye that was almost like madness. ‘What are you planning, Wally?’

The messenger led the two men back to the Court, and Simon was about to bend his steps towards the Abbot’s rooms, when he was surprised to find that they were going over
to the cloister itself.

‘The Abbot’s not in his lodging?’ he enquired.

‘No, Bailiff. He’s in the undercroft. This way.’

Simon grunted. The lad who accompanied him was clearly not yet a Brother, although he didn’t look new to the monastic life. He was probably in his mid-teens, a gangling youth with dark
hair and a very pale complexion. Not someone who had spent his childhood on the moors or in outdoor exercise, Simon thought. A wealthy boy would have been out hunting, riding, practising with
lances, swords and daggers. Some fellows, who were less likely to inherit their fathers’ estates because of older brothers, could be pale and weakly-looking, because they were trained up to
be academics, lawyers or priests, but this boy had more the look of a serf’s child. His hands were calloused from heavy work. For all that he possessed a kind of boyish awkwardness, with his
loose build and clumsy gait, Simon could see that he was no weakling. His shoulders were broad enough, and his arms looked as though they might have a certain sinewy strength.

‘Here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Simon pushed at the door. He recalled this place only too well from a previous visit. Then he had thought that his friend Baldwin could die in there. Something about the memory stirred him, and
he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He was glad to know that Hugh was behind him.

The undercroft was a great long room, smelling strongly of fresh wine and preserved meats, but with the ever-present scent of rats. The ceiling was quite high overhead, well-built with neatly
fitted stones mortared together to form the vaulting, and it needed to be because in this room were many of the stores for the brethren, and the barrels were stored on top of each other in ranks.
Light entered from narrow windows set high in the walls, and the shafts lighted the motes of dust which perpetually spun and danced. Flies and beetles droned through in their search for food, and
occasionally struck a cobweb, making it shimmer and vibrate until the fly was wrapped in spider silk.

‘At last, Bailiff. I wanted to show you this,’ the Abbot said.

His voice was rough with anger, and Simon was about to bow his head to accept whatever punishment his master deigned to hand down, when he realised that the Abbot was pointing to a barrel not
far from the door.

‘Look at that, will you?’ the Abbot grated. ‘I had these barrels brought here from Boulogne myself. I was told about the vineyards by a Brother Abbot in Guyenne, ordered the
wine once it was ready, paid for the transport, everything – only to have some thieving cretin drink the lot!’

The Abbot wasn’t alone. As Simon approached, another monk stepped forward, a tall shape who stood with his head bent. As soon as he spoke Simon recognised the curious wheezing tones of
Brother Peter. No other monk at Tavistock had such an obvious speech impediment.

‘My Lord Abbot, perhaps there was simply a mistake? Isn’t it possible that the wrong barrel was broached before, and now it is clearly empty when it should be full because your own
Steward served you from the wrong barrel?’

In answer the Abbot jerked his head at an anxious-looking clerk. ‘Well, Augerus?’

The Abbot’s Steward was a pale-skinned man with deep-set blue eyes in a long, fleshy face and a nose which had been broken and only badly mended. He had a thick, bushy beard, but his upper
lip was clean-shaven. A foolish-looking fashion, to Simon’s mind.

‘No, my Lord Abbot,’ he answered. ‘I wouldn’t have touched this barrel. I know which I am supposed to open, and you yourself told me that this was a special one, not to
be broached until Bishop Stapledon came to see you.’

‘Quite right!’

‘When would this wine have been taken?’ Simon asked.

‘When do you think? You remember I told you I was only recently returned from seeing my Brother Abbot in Buckfast? It is an arduous journey, not one to be undertaken lightly. I only ever
go there when there is a good reason, and I do not hurry to return.’ A glimmer of a smile softened his features for a moment. ‘The hospitality is good, and my Lord Abbot has a good pack
of raches.’

‘Did you realise it had been stolen as soon as you returned?’ Simon enquired.

‘No. My Steward has only now discovered that an entire barrel has been emptied behind his back,’ the Abbot said heavily.

‘I see. And when did you last check this barrel, Augerus?’

‘When the Abbot was away. Since his return I’ve been too busy, what with restocking and seeing to my Lord Abbot’s needs.’

There was an almost frantic eagerness in the man to persuade Simon of his innocence, and the Bailiff was inclined to believe him – especially since there was no sign of a break-in.

‘Well,’ Simon said, crouching at the barrel, ‘it’s definitely been broached, and there’s little left. From the puddle on the floor, I’d say they used a plug,
not a tap. If you open a barrel by knocking in a tap to force the bung out, often you’ll get no waste. Then as you turn the tap, you may get some drips, but look at this lot!’ He waved
his hand at the damp stain on the stone flags. In the cool, still air, little had evaporated. There was no way of telling how long ago the wine had leaked.

‘Whereas if you shove a bucket beneath and push the bung out, only stopping the flow by pushing a plug into the hole, you always lose a great deal,’ the Abbot acknowledged
caustically. ‘I think I was aware of that, Bailiff. So what does that prove?’

‘That your Steward is innocent. He wouldn’t be so crass as to waste this much wine; he’d have used a tap.’ Simon saw Augerus throw him a grateful look.

‘I see your point,’ the Abbot grunted.

‘Can you suggest someone else who might have done this terrible thing?’ Brother Peter asked. There was a strange note in his voice and Simon eyed him a moment before answering.

Peter’s dreadful wound seemed to shine in the gloomy light of the undercroft, and not for the first time in the years since Simon had first met him, he thought that a wound like that would
have killed anyone else. The pain and horror of such a shocking blow would have finished them off, or the wound would have got infected. Peter was very lucky to be alive, Simon thought – or
exceptionally unfortunate, forced to go through life with a blemish that made him repellent to men and women alike.

It was especially tragic, because he looked as though he had been a handsome fellow once – tall, strong-looking, with those square features and a high brow. Not now. He had adopted some
odd little mannerisms too, Simon considered, such as talking with a hand near his face as though to conceal the wound, and his habit of turning his face slightly, so that it was away from those to
whom he spoke.

Simon wondered whether he would want to live with a hideous mark like that ravaging his features. He concluded that he would have preferred death.

‘I am suggesting no one,’ he said finally. ‘I wasn’t here.’

‘It must have been someone from the town,’ Peter said briskly. ‘No monk would dare – or bother. We all receive our daily allowance, after all.’

The Abbot was gazing down at the barrel. ‘Whoever it is, I will pray for him that he should give up his career of felony. Perhaps he will come to me and confess his theft, and if he does,
I shall pray with him.’

And issue a highly embarrassing and shaming penance, Simon added to himself. He liked Abbot Robert, and respected him, but he knew that the Abbot would look harshly upon anyone who could dare to
steal his favourite wine. It would rank as foully as stealing his best mount or rache in the Abbot’s mind.

‘Bailiff, come with me. Peter, please arrange for this mess to be cleared. At once!’

‘Yes, my Lord Abbot.’

The Abbot swept from the room, his habit rustling the leaves and twigs along the floor. Simon and Hugh hurried after him.

‘So, Bailiff. The coining is proceeding apace, I trust?’

‘It was when you called me.’

‘My apologies for dragging you away,’ the Abbot said drily. ‘I am sure you would have wished to remain to observe such a thrilling sight.’

Simon said nothing. It was very rare for him to hear the Abbot sounding so . . . so petulant.

His master stopped and looked about him, then he motioned to Hugh to leave them and crooked a finger to beckon Simon to his side. They were alone in the space before his lodgings, and no one
could overhear the Abbot’s words. ‘Bailiff, I apologise for asking you here. It is important that you tell no one outside the Abbey what you saw in there. You understand me?’

‘Of course. But why?’

The Abbot gave a dry, humourless chuckle. ‘Sometimes when one wishes to spread gossip it is necessary to have the right person overhear it. No!’ he said hurriedly, noticing
Simon’s offended expression. ‘Not you, Simon. There was another man there in the undercroft who may choose to repeat what we said.’

‘I see.’ Simon assumed that Abbot Robert expected either his Steward or Brother Peter to chat about the discovery to other Brothers, and noted the fact. He would not confide in
either, he decided. ‘What now? Do you wish me to seek the thief?’

‘No, no,’ the Abbot said hurriedly. ‘There is no need. This is abbey business, and outside your sphere. Surely the guilty party is a monk who sought wine for
himself.’

‘And took an entire barrel?’

‘It would not have been easy. No matter. The knowledge that I have shown
you
, the well-known and feared enquirer after the truth, a man known for his integrity, will drive the
thief to panic and confession.’

‘So you wish me to do nothing? You merely hope that the monk who did this will tell you of his own accord?’ Simon queried.

The Abbot gave him an odd, measuring look. ‘My friend, I know you have many other pressing responsibilities. I wouldn’t want to load more work on you.’

‘My Lord Abbot, I can easily . . .’

‘Bailiff, this is an abbey matter, not something for you to worry about. Please give the matter no more thought.’

Oddly, when the Abbot left him a short while later, Simon for the first time since he had met the Abbot, was left with the impression that the man’s words were less than entirely
honest.

Brother Mark could easily have been a tavern-keeper if he hadn’t joined the monastery. He was a cheerful, rotund man, with the ruddy complexion, multiple chins and
expansive belly that so often seemed to go with the position of
salsarius
, the monk responsible for the preserved fish and flesh. His rumbling bass voice could often be heard as he went
about his business in his dark, cool undercroft; singing hymns sometimes, but more commonly, when he thought that no one could hear, or when his ebullient nature got the better of him, he sank to
saucy little songs that shouldn’t have been heard outside the lowest alehouse.

When, looking up, he saw the Bailiff, he picked up his long leather hose to coil it and called out a cheery greeting. ‘Godspeed, my friend. And how are you this perfect morning?’

‘I am well, I thank you,’ Simon returned, but it was hard to speak with his teeth clenched.

Mark glanced after the Abbot. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s a good man, even if he can be a little acerbic at times. We’ve all caught the lash of his tongue on
occasion.’

‘It’s not that. I just . . .’ Simon wished that Baldwin or his wife were here. It was impossible to talk to a monk. As the Abbot himself had said, the Brothers were
incorrigible gossips.

‘Come into my chamber, Bailiff. I have some wine that will ease your soul. Come!’

Simon followed him to a pleasant room near the Water Gate which was filled with the odours of his trade: spices and smoked, curing meats.

‘A good location, eh? Views all over the court from here, so I can keep my eyes on whoever may come into the Abbey, and if they look dangerous – why
phit
! I can be out of
the Water Gate like a scalded cat! Hah! We got one last week, too. Some damned mange-ridden beast that kept getting into the garden and shitting in the beds. It’s ruined the carrots. We have
had the seedlings springing up all over, instead of in our usual careful rows, because this cat kept digging and scattering all our seed. Always looked for the softest soil where the choicest crops
had been placed. Anyway, we caught it last week, trapped it in a box, and then tipped boiling water over it as we let it go. You should have seen the thing run!’

Simon sat at the monk’s bidding and took a cup of wine from him. ‘Thanks.’