I only hope you don’t feel the same as them!
Michael Jecks
Dartmoor
July 2001
Prologue
When they sat down in the old man’s room on that Tuesday evening, it was the scar that initially held them all spellbound, rather than his stories.
The room was only small, the fire resting in a slight hollow in the middle of the floor, and the novices seated around it. The Almoner hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head moving from side to side as he studied each boy. Gerard the young acolyte felt a shudder of revulsion pass through his frame as Brother Peter’s gaze passed over him. In this dim light, the Almoner looked like a demon viewing his prey. Gerard almost expected to see him sprout wings.
Away from the fire there was no light at this time of night, and the wind was gusting in the court outside, making a curious thumping as it caught ill-fitting doors and rattled them in their frames. This dismal sound was accompanied by the constant rumble and clatter of the corn mill next door; its low grumbling made itself felt through Gerard’s bony buttocks as he sat on the floor.
Gerard gawped at the Almoner’s terrible wound, knowing he shouldn’t, fearing that at any moment, the man would look up and catch him at it.
Old Peter was aloof mostly, far above the novices in his supreme authority, yet most of them rather liked him. He rarely had to raise his voice to command their respect, rarely had to offer them the strap; he could keep them obedient and quiet through the mere force of his will. Yet Gerard didn’t much care for Brother Peter. Not now. And the lad was incapable of averting his eyes. Even as the Almoner turned his gaze from them to the fire, his thin head nodding, his lip curled ever so slightly at the sight of the novices, as though it was hard to imagine that so pathetic a bunch of young males could have been selected from the length and breadth of Devon, Gerard fixed on that hideous mark, wondering anew how painful it had been.
Even after four or five years, Almoner Peter’s wound glowed in the firelight, a livid, six-inch cicatrice that began beneath his ear and ran along the line of his jaw to his chin.
It must have hurt like hell, Gerard told himself as the Almoner began his story. Most men would have died after receiving such a blow; it said something about Peter’s powers of endurance that he had not only survived it, but had managed to teach himself to talk again, even with his jawbone shattered and no teeth on that side. The boy shuddered as he imagined a heavy blade shearing through his flesh, his bone, his teeth.
Old Peter enjoyed talking, particularly when he was relating tales like this one. Gerard could see his eyes glinting, reflecting the sparks from the fire as the logs settled. To Gerard tonight, he looked mean and malevolent, cunning and cruel. It wasn’t Peter’s fault, it was the acolyte’s reaction to the threat he’d been given. He kept darting nervous looks at his neighbours: any one of them might be the agent of his ruin, simply by seeing him going about his business. Not that any of the novices looked too bothered right now. They were all busy listening open-mouthed to the Almoner as he related another of the old legends.
‘Aye, it was a miserable winter’s day, when Abbot Walter set off for Buckfast, many years ago now, and Abbot Walter had a long, hard way of it. Strong of character, he was. Brave. Off he went, aye, him with none but his advisers and a few clerks to take notes, and all because of an argument between Tavistock here and the Brothers at Buckfast.’
The Almoner paused and stared about him, mouth slightly open, tongue noisily burrowing at the gap where his teeth should have been. He often did this, as though it was an aid to thought, but Gerard privately believed that it was an affectation, one which Peter had cultivated to repel novices.
‘Aye, Abbot Walter was a good, holy man. He lived as the Rule dictated, and he expected his monks to do the same.’ He glowered at the boys as though expecting modern youths like them to dispute the justice of Abbot Walter’s attitude. Shaking his head he stared into the flames before continuing gruffly.
‘Like you, they were, some of them: always wanting more ale and wine and meat than they needed. And when the Abbot was gone, the bad ones among them decided to make the most of his absence. One in particular, there was – an acolyte called Milbrosa, learning the ways of the chantry, a happy, cheery fellow with a winning manner and an open, honest face, the sort of man who finds it easy to make friends. Bold, he was, and disrespectful – always prepared to make jest of older monks. He scoffed when he was told that his levity would lead to punishment – if not in this world, then in the next.
‘Aye, he behaved like many of you would. When a cat dies, they say that the rats will dance and sing, and that’s how Milbrosa and the younger monks were when Abbot Walter left. Before his packhorse had even crossed under the Court Gate, Milbrosa led a few of his friends down to the undercroft beneath the Abbot’s lodging, and there they broke into a barrel of his best wine.’
There was a subdued intake of breath. The novices listened intently, utterly absorbed as he spoke, not because his strange, slurred speech made him difficult to understand, but because Peter seemed to take an almost sadistic pleasure in seeing how badly he could terrify his young audience. And the youngsters loved to be thrilled by his fearsome tales.
His voice dropped, and all had to lean forward and strain to pick up his words as he said grimly, ‘You can imagine it. Five monks all vying to swallow more than any other, like so many Scotch gluttons set loose to pillage a tavern!’
Gerard could hear the hot fury in his voice, and he saw a small gobbet of spittle fly from Peter’s lips. It flew through the air, falling with a short hiss into the fire. Yet when he lifted his eyes to the old monk, Peter’s angry mood had flown. He was contemplatively tugging at a thread of his gown.
‘Aye. Drunks. A terrible thing. Milbrosa was the worst of them. He’d have emptied a whole pipe on his own if he could. They guzzled their fill, getting horribly, beastly drunk, befouling themselves, spewing and retching, and yet returning to wash away the taste, drinking more and more, forgetting their divine duties, ignoring the bells calling them to Mass, not attending the Chapter meetings. It was a terrible thing. Terrible.
‘But they couldn’t remain besotted for ever. After some days, they gradually stirred themselves among the wreckage and filth they had created there, and when they saw what they had done, the appalling truth of their crimes broke upon them like a thunderous wave smiting a ship.’
He sat with that characteristic twisting of his features as he imagined the scene in his mind’s eye. Gerard wondered whether the hideous grimace was in truth nothing more than a relaxation of his face – it was the nearest the Almoner could come to a smile since the Scottish reivers he so detested had attacked him and left him for dead.
‘You can just see it, can’t you? There they all were, bepissed with terror in the undercroft. They had stolen from the Abbot, and stealing is a terrible sin. But worse, they had taken his favourite wines! What more evil crime could a man commit? There they lay, moaning and groaning, waiting for the earth to open and swallow them, or for the ceiling to fall and crush them. That would be preferable to their pain… or living with the shame of their sins!’