The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (47 page)

Simon could see the red marks of fingers and a thumb. ‘Good Lord! Why?’

‘He wanted me to walk with him to his house. I think he wished to fetch fresh clothes, because he had fallen or been thrown from his horse, but I wouldn’t go with him. I have some
pride left, even after his deceits!’

‘What happened then?’

‘He ran from me because two guards saw me being attacked by him at his back doorway.’

Simon nodded. ‘And where did he go?’

Ellis answered. ‘He knocked a man from his horse and stole the beast, riding up the road to the moors.’

‘Then he shall be caught by Sir Tristram’s men,’ Simon stated.

‘Won’t you fetch him?’ Sara asked.

‘I have other pressing matters,’ Simon said as gently as he could.

‘Did you know that Joce beat Wally on the day after the coining?’ Sara interjected quickly. She was determined that the Bailiff should know. Seeing Simon’s quick interest, she
told him about Joce’s words. ‘He said he had beaten Wally because Wally told him to leave me alone. Perhaps he did more than beat Wally, though?’ she finished.

Simon nodded doubtfully. No one had seen Joce up on the moors, so far as he knew. Ellis had said that Wally had been in a fight that morning. Maybe it was Joce who had beaten him. Joce himself
showed no sign of having been thumped. Could he be so professional that he could protect himself against a strong lad like Wally?

‘I am grateful you told me this,’ he said, signalling to a passing novice.

‘Find Sir Tristram for me, lad. I think he is in the guest house still. Tell him that Joce Blakemoor has taken a horse towards his men.’ Turning to Sara, he added, ‘I shall
tell the knight about his escape. Sir Tristram will find him and bring him back, never fear.’

She nodded fretfully. ‘I had hoped
you
would fetch more men and seek him out.’

‘There is no need,’ Simon said. He could see Sir Tristram, who descended from the guest rooms with a pot of wine in his hand.

‘Well, Bailiff? What is so urgent?’

Simon explained briefly. ‘This man Joce must be caught.’

Sir Tristram threw him a contented smile. ‘Fear not but that he shall be back here this evening, whether dead or alive!’

Simon left him then, as he bellowed for a fresh horse, and made his way up to the infirmary. At the doorway, he stopped, looking back.

Sara and Ellis still stood in the same place, Ellis with his arm about his sister’s waist, she with her eyes streaming with tears for her lost future, while Ellis merely gazed about him
dumbly, like a man who had known that the world was cruel, but who had still hoped for better. He looked entirely crushed.

Joce slapped the reins over the horse’s flanks, whipping the old beast onward, even though the brute was faltering.

‘Fucking thing!’

The owner must have ridden this nag miles already. It was so frustrating! All he needed was a good animal to get him away, and here he was astride this broken-winded, knackered bag of bones. It
was only good for the tanner’s yard.

‘Hurry up or I’ll slay you,’ he hissed, kicking as hard as he could, wishing he had spurs.

They were almost at the moors now, and they hadn’t passed any sign of the men yet. He was hoping that they might have continued along the line of the trees, in which case he should have a
clear run to the Swiss travellers, but even as he hoped this, he saw someone else on the road ahead, another rider.

The horse was close to collapse. Rather than see it expire beneath him, he yanked on the reins to slow it, then stood, panting a little.

If only that bitch had gone in with him so that he could have changed his clothes. Then he wouldn’t be in this state. Silly cow! He could have killed her inside, away from prying eyes, and
got a fresh change of clothing, before escaping. Now, all because of her, he had to hide until he could steal a change of clothes and get rid of these tatters.

He trotted into the security of a small clump of trees near a cross, listening as the sound of hooves approached, but then they stopped. ‘Well, friend, are you going to come out here, or
do I have to get you out?’ a voice bellowed.

Joce froze at the words. He didn’t recognise the voice, but there was unmistakable menace in the words, and to match them he heard the slithering sound of steel against wood as a sword was
drawn.

‘I was only concealing myself in case you were a ruffian,’ he declared, allowing the horse to walk forth. ‘I am no villein.’

‘Joce Blakemoor?’ the man asked, peering at him.

‘Aye. That’s me.’

‘I’m Jack, Sergeant to Sir Tristram! I remember you, Joce Red-Hand!’

In a moment the sword was whirling through the air towards his head. Joce fell back against his horse’s rump, then slipped his weight to one side, avoiding the first thrust and slash, but
then his own sword was out and he could parry the next blow.

‘Attack an innocent, will you?’ he roared, and turned his blade as Jack’s met it, slicing it down into Jack’s thigh. The Sergeant screamed, and his horse danced away
nervously even as Joce’s backed, but Joce thrashed it with the flat of his sword. It stepped on reluctantly, and Joce whirled the sword about his head, swinging it at Jack’s neck. Jack
brought up his own, but Joce could feel that the man’s strength was ebbing, and then he saw why. He had severed a blood vessel in the man’s thigh, and there was a spray of arterial
blood pumping. Joce smiled, and snarled, then brought his sword round again, beating at Jack until Jack failed to move in time. There was a soft, shuddering contact through Joce’s arm, and
his vision was blurred for an instant as blood fountained, and then he saw that Jack’s headless body was still mounted, but the hands were empty. The sword was fallen.

Joce wiped his face free of the blood, and reached for Jack’s horse’s reins, but the beast was maddened with fear. The smell of blood, the terror of death, combined to make it
insane, and it bolted, running straight for Tavistock, the body lurching in the saddle. Joce swore as he watched it as it gradually sagged to the right and toppled to the ground. All he felt was
rage, pure fury, that he should be thwarted again. He needed that mount, a strong, fresh horse that would take him farther.

Joce wearily pulled his horse’s head around until it faced east again. Beating it with the flat of his sword, he urged it into an irregular canter, eyes skinned for more enemies.

Baldwin was still sitting on the stool watching the boy when he heard footsteps approaching. He felt no need to rise, and merely nodded to Mark when the monk entered and bowed
at the altar.

‘Brother.’

‘Peter told me he was here. How is he?’

‘Weak.’

‘Perhaps he will survive – but he looks terrible.’

Baldwin could not argue with that. ‘It is unlikely that he can live.’

Gerard was stirring again. He grunted, then shouted out, ‘Joce, please, no! Don’t kill me!’

‘That,’ Baldwin said, ‘appears to be proof of that man’s guilt. I had not suspected that Joce could have tried to do this.’

‘A town’s Receiver attacking an acolyte. It is almost unbelievable.’

‘As is the idea that a Receiver should try to force an acolyte to steal plate from the Abbey,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘I wonder why he felt he could do that?’

‘Has he been arrested?’

‘No.’ Baldwin stared sorrowfully at the figure of Gerard. Now that the blood had been washed away by Peter, Gerard’s wounds stood out more more horrifically. His nose was
notched, almost cut in two, while his ear had been taken off. The obscene flap of cheek had been cleaned and rested back in place, but Baldwin doubted that it could remain. That cheek would remain
a hideous scar for the rest of the boy’s life.

‘You go and rest, Sir Baldwin. You look very tired,’ Mark said understandingly.

‘That is very kind,’ Baldwin said, but then he grew aware of more feet ascending the stairs. ‘Simon? Did you learn anything?’

‘I think so, yes,’ Simon answered. He shot a look at Gerard, relieved to see that he was alive. Facing Mark, he said, ‘I am glad to have seen you again, Brother. I was thinking
about the day when I had seen the Abbot and saw you at your room.’

Mark smiled but his face was largely blank. ‘I don’t think I understand.’

‘You will. I had been so tied up with the murders, I forgot all about the theft of the wine. The pewter being taken, and the dead miner – both seemed so much more important. Yet of
course they were no more important. A man who is prepared to steal from the Abbot of a place like this, would be prepared to commit any crime.’

‘I could hardly disagree in principle,’ Brother Mark said politely, ‘but the theft of wine is surely very different from stealing pewter from the Abbey’s guests. Anyway,
we know who the thief was: as I told the Abbot some days ago, it seems certain that the thief was Gerard.’

‘
You
told the Abbot?’ Baldwin exclaimed. ‘I thought Peter must have told Abbot Robert.’

‘I don’t know why you would think that. Heavens! Peter tell the Abbot something like that? I shouldn’t think so. He prefers to keep secrets from others, not blurt
them.’

‘Perhaps he feels other men’s secrets are their own to keep or divulge,’ Simon said pointedly. ‘And the master of a thief might decide to surrender him in order to save
his own hide.’

Mark gaped.‘You think to accuse me of controlling the lad? You suggest I was his accomplice?’

‘Simon,’ Baldwin interrupted hastily, ‘Peter and I were here when we heard Gerard declare Augerus was the man who persuaded him to steal; Augerus and Joce Blakemoor.’

‘I am sure Augerus was,’ Simon said. ‘Guilty of taking the pewter and having Walwynus carry it away to Joce, more than likely. But I will say this: Augerus was
not
guilty of stealing the wine. Was he, Mark?’

‘I couldn’t say, Bailiff.’

‘No? Then let us consider the matter. The room where the Abbot kept his wine is quite large, and there are only tiny windows, aren’t there?’

‘Yes. I certainly couldn’t break in through one.’

‘No. Augerus, of course, if he wanted to steal the Abbot’s wine, would merely have taken his key and filched what he wanted. Except if he entered by unlocking the door, everyone
would know it was he who had stolen the stuff. He couldn’t do that. So if Augerus had done this, he would have made it more obvious, and would have shown a forced door or window to cover his
crime. But another man wouldn’t have keys. Such a man might decide to get in anyway, but how would he get the wine
out
? The barrel remained inside, yet it was emptied, as though a
party had been going on inside there.’

‘It is a mystery,’ Mark offered.

‘No. All the man needed to do was let an accomplice get in, then pass him a tube under the door, and let the wine run from the Abbot’s barrel, out under the door, and into a fresh
one. It wouldn’t be very neat – there would be wine spilled all over the floor – but substantially more of the wine would make it. And then the acolyte could be retrieved and no
one the wiser. Especially if you had someone like Gerard, whom you could blackmail.’

‘Blackmail?’

‘Yes. You knew he had stolen things. Perhaps you caught him red-handed and forced him to steal for you as well.’

Mark shook his head, but he had grown deathly pale. ‘I would do no such thing.’

Simon continued relentlessly, ‘And then you killed Walwynus. You were seen. Ellis saw you – so did Hamelin. He told his wife. Was that why Hamelin had to die as well? Did you know he
saw you up there?’

‘No! My God in heaven, this is all nonsense!’

‘Then you had best tell us the truth,’ Simon said. ‘Because if you don’t, I swear I shall take all this information to the Abbot myself and accuse you.’

‘How could you think I would do such a thing as steal from the Abbey?’

‘You took the wine, didn’t you? You made a point of showing me where your syphon tube was, coiling it before me after I saw the Abbot, as though you wanted me to be quite convinced
that anyone could have got hold of it.’

Mark allowed a small smile to pull at the corners of his mouth. ‘I did show you that, yes, but only so you could see how anyone could have got in there. Look, all I did was share some wine
with Augerus. We had been in town that evening, and when we returned here, we went to his master’s undercroft and tried some wine. We didn’t think much about it. Augerus was going to
refill it with other wine, and if the Abbot noticed, he’d simply say it was a bad barrel. He’s done it before.’

‘The barrel was empty,’ Simon reminded him.

‘Yes, well, the Abbot had been away for some weeks. We had gone there a few times. It was so tempting. That wine was excellent. Much better than the horse’s piss we usually get in
here. And one morning we woke up and heard the Abbot was coming back . . . Well, the night before we’d had a few more drinks than usual, and when we went to the undercroft to top up the
barrel with some cheaper wine, we realised we’d emptied it. The tap was open and wine was puddled all about it.

‘Augerus panicked. I said we should fill it with some rough stuff that had turned to vinegar, and tell the Abbot that it was gone off, but Augerus said that the Abbot could always tell a
good wine which had gone off compared with a bad wine. He kept insisting that there was nothing to be done other than we should show that the wine had been stolen. It was his idea to prove that
there had been a clever thief by leaving the door locked. Either someone had taken the keys from him, or they had entered without keys. Whichever was true, he reasoned that it would be a
mystery.’

‘And that this boy would probably be blamed, although he was blameless,’ Baldwin observed.

‘Blameless? When he robbed people inside the convent, to the risk of the convent’s reputation?’ Mark said pointedly. ‘I should not feel too much compassion for someone
with that guilt on his conscience.’

‘On the day Wally died,’ Simon said, ‘you were up on the hill. You spoke to Wally. You were seen there by Hamelin and Ellis.’

‘Yes. I spoke to him.’

‘Come on, man!’ Simon exploded. ‘You were the last man seen with him. Do you tell us you killed him?’