Devil's Acre Read online

  ‘Is he mad?’ asked Samson.

  ‘To walk from the south of France to Yorkshire in the depth of winter?’ I grinned. ‘Yes, I should say he is.’

  Eventually the creature came close enough for us to make out some details. He was indeed a man, tall and thin and dressed in what must once have been an expensive cloak. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat and over his shoulder he had slung an old leather satchel. As for his peculiar behaviour, it struck me that it was quite a clever tactic. He was alone and therefore vulnerable to robbers as Samson had suggested. But the noise he was making would draw attention far along the road in both directions - as indeed it had ours. And if that didn’t put off a potential robber his condition might. He was filthy and didn’t look as though he had anything worth stealing. He didn’t even have boots but old rags wrapped round his feet. No self-respecting thief would waste their time on such a doubtful prospect. Perhaps this Tomelinus was not quite the fool he first appeared.

  At last he caught us up and with a great flurry bowed extravagantly low sweeping the snow with his hat.

  ‘Your gracious majesties.’

  ‘Now now,’ said Samson, ‘none of your impertinence. We are important persons and you would be well advised to leave us be and continue on your way.’

  ‘Pirrrrrrip-pip-pip!’ said the man and flicked Samson’s shoulder with a finger.

  Samson jumped back in alarm. ‘God in heaven man, whatever do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘So sorry, your pip-pip-pipesty,’ he said brushing Samson’s shoulder again.

  ‘Stop that I say!’ said Samson putting out a hand. ‘Stop it at once! Have you lost your mind? Who the devil are you?’

  The man bowed low again. ‘My name is Tomelinus and I am walking to -’

  ‘Yes yes, we heard all that,’ interrupted Samson flapping his hand at him. ‘What do you want?’

  He smiled revealing a graveyard of blackened teeth. ‘Nowt but to greet a fellow Christian with a Christian smile and a Christian welcome.’

  ‘Northerners,’ said Samson rolling his eyes at me. ‘Do you have permission to be out here? Who is your lord?’

  The man did a little skip and held out his hand. ‘You perchance.’

  ‘More insolence! For your information I am his grace the Abbot of Edmundsbury.’

  ‘Begging your holyship’s pip-pip pardon.’

  Samson turned to me again. ‘By God, he’s doing it on purpose!’

  I had to bite my lip to stop myself from giggling.

  ‘He’s a pilgrim.’ I pointed to a clutch of metal clasps pinned to the folds of his cloak. ‘Look at his badges.’

  ‘Aye, a pilgrim that’s me, your holy-lowly-nessesses - pip-pip tirrip-didly-di.’

  ‘Let me see them,’ said Samson roughly grabbing the man’s lapel. He tapped a tin brooch with his fingernail. ‘I know this one. It has Saint Edmund’s arrows. He’s been to Bury - by God!’

  ‘Ah, a beautiful shrine it is too. So hooooly.’

  ‘And other shrines,’ I said scrutinizing his badges. ‘Here’s the scallop of Saint James of Compostela - this is Becket’s tonsure - and Saint Denis, the French saint. You’ve travelled far, my friend. I wonder how you support yourself? Have you a trade?’

  ‘Trickery is his trade,’ snorted Samson. ‘By Christ’s limbs if you’ve been cheating the good folk of Bury -’

  ‘And now you are off to Walsingham,’ I interrupted hastily. ‘Have I guessed right? Walsingham next?’

  The man bowed graciously, ‘Your brotherliness is wisdom personified, pirrip-tirrip,’ and he did a little skip and a dance.

  I could see the man’s antics were irritating Samson - a fact that pleased me no end. I don’t think he knew quite how to handle him.

  ‘What is all this pip-pip nonsense?’ Samson frowned at him. ‘Can’t you speak without pip-pipping? Don’t try any of your tricks here, my man, for we are wise to them.’

  ‘No tricks, your holier-than-thou-ness. The brotherliness here is quite right. Trade is my purpose.’

  ‘Trade?’ Samson snorted. ‘What trade? You’ve nothing but an old satchel.’

  ‘Pirrip - I have dinner - pirrip-pip.’

  Samson’s lip curled. ‘Oh I get it. Well I’m sorry my man, you’ll have to beg your dinner from somewhere else today. We’ve barely enough for the three of us.’

  Tomelinus looked round, pointed a grimy finger first at Samson, then at me. ‘In that case I’ll have his share,’ he said pointing at Ralf’s corpse. ‘He doesn’t look as though he needs it.’

  ‘I meant another,’ corrected Samson hastily, and right on cue Jane reappeared from the trees.

  ‘Ah!’ grinned the man. ‘A lady.’ He skipped over to Jane and gave her an even deeper bow. ‘Madamoiselle, à votre service.’

  ‘Paw!’ said Jane pinching her nose. ‘He do stink!’

  ‘Washed in God’s holy wells, your grandiloquence.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Puddles, dear lady.’

  ‘That’s enough of your blaspheming,’ frowned Samson. ‘Be off with you now!’

  Tomelinus shrugged and turned to go.

  ‘No wait,’ I said. ‘Trade you said? Dinner you said?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed into something approaching a smile. ‘I have something better than dinner, brotherliness. I have Peter’s spice.’

  ‘And what is that, pray?’ snorted Samson. ‘Some miserable Yorkish concoction, no doubt.’

  ‘A heavenly one to be sure, for it is the food of angels. I have the secret of it here.’ He patted his chest.

  ‘Secret!’ Samson snorted. ‘What secret?’

  ‘Ah well, if I told you, your holinessness, it wouldn’t be a secret now would it - pip-pip-tirrip-pip?’

  And with a dramatic flourish of his hand he reached deep inside his grimy shirt and took out an equally grimy linen rag. With a further flourish he unwrapped its corners one by one. Inside was a stone about the size of a hen’s egg, shiny and black. He held it out reverently in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Let me see that,’ said Samson snatching the thing from him. He rubbed it with his thumb. ‘Pah! It’s nought but a lump of coal.’

  ‘Well that just shows thy ignorance,’ said Tomelinus. ‘This is jet-stone and not just any jet-stone but a very special jet-stone, one blessed by the saint whose name it bears, pip-pip-tirrip. Saint Peter’s stone.’

  ‘Oh yes? Why then have I never heard of it?’

  ‘Because it is a rare and precious secret,’ said the man lowering his voice and looking around him. ‘So rare in fact that what you are holding is probably the very last of it in all Christendom, pip-pip.’

  ‘What rubbish!’ growled Samson and tossed the stone to me.

  I turned it over in my hand. It felt warm and smooth to the touch. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘Pip-pip - by rendering the tasteless flavoursome, the unpalatable toothsome, the bitter sweet, brotherliness.’

  I handed the thing back to him. ‘Show us.’

  ‘Oh I daren’t do that, brotherliness. Its very potency is its undoing. By itself it can overwhelm.’

  ‘You mean it needs the balance of something bland to even out the taste?’

  ‘Pip pip - that’s it exactly,’ the man grinned. ‘You are indeed a man of wisdom and elucidation, brotherliness.’

  ‘Am I indeed?’ I chuckled. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that,’ I nodded towards Samson.

  Tomelinus shrugged reluctantly. ‘Then permettez-moi to demonstratio.’

  With a flourish he brought the stone up to his nose and sniffed it. His eyes rolled and he went into rapture as if it were the most exquisite potpourri. Then with his eyes firmly closed he licked the stone’s shiny black shiny surface. As soon as his tongue touched it he began to moan as if in an ecstasy of sensual delights, his eyes rolling and his lips smacking noisily. I must say it did look mouth-watering the way he did it and I began to feel very hungry indeed.

  Once he’d r
ecovered himself Tomelinus stuck out his scaly tongue for us to inspect. ‘Look. Clean - pip-pip?

  ‘Here,’ said Samson holding out his hand again for the stone. ‘Let me try.’

  But before he could take it Tomelinus snatched it away again. ‘Ha! And learn my secret without cost to thee? Dost thou take me for a fool?’

  I could see Samson eyeing our bubbling gruel speculatively. ‘If I were to agree,’ he said tentatively, ‘how would it be done?’

  ‘Add my spice to yon dingy gruel and thou will think thee are feasting with kings!’ He held the thing suspended temptingly above the pot in finger and thumb.

  Jane, who so far had been watching Tomelinus’s performance without comment, now snorted. ‘I en’t sharing my dinner with this witchman.’

  ‘No witchman, mademoiselle, I assure you.’

  Samson looked once more at our unappetizing mess of pottage. He licked his lips and swallowed. ‘Oh go on then,’ and before he could change his mind Tomelinus deftly plopped his stone into the pot.

  ‘Hoooow!’ protested Jane and glared hard at the man.

  Tomelinus then picked up our spoon and began to stir and chant:

  ‘Peter’s spice, Peter’s spice,

  Stir it round to make it nice.

  Stir it once and stir it twice,

  And once again to make it thrice. There,’ he tapped the spoon on the side of the pot and handed it back to Samson. ‘You’ll not regret this, holiness - pip-pip-pip.’

  ‘I’m regretting it already,’ frowned Samson.

  I have to admit the pottage did taste better than it looked with Tomelinus’s stone in it - but then we didn’t know what it would have tasted like without it. But we all had our fill, Jane included, and there was bread and cheese afterwards.

  Over the meal Tomelinus regaled us with more stories about his travels and a very entertaining chap he turned out to be. We learned all about the Dogmen of the Black Forest; the changeling children of Swabia; the men with one big foot which they sit under to protect themselves from the midday sun.

  All the while I was looking at his makeshift boots. ‘How far have you walked with these?’ I asked him.

  ‘Ah, well I lost my boots in the salt mines of southern France.’

  ‘Now I know you’re lying,’ said Samson.

  Tomelinus looked incredulously at him. ‘Surely you know the Alps are made of salt? Why else d’ye think they’re white, pirrip?’

  ‘They’re white because of the snow,’ informed Samson. ‘Be careful now. I’ve been to Rome and I can tell you there aren’t any salt mines in the Alps.’

  ‘Pirrip - of course there are salt mines!’ objected Tomelinus indignantly. ‘Where dost thou think salt in the Middle Sea comes from? From the rivers that wash the salt down the mountains, of course!’

  He shook his head sadly as though Samson were the greatest fool alive. I didn’t think there were any salt mines in the Alps either or that that was where the salt in the Mediterranean came from, but Tomelinus was so convincing that I began to doubt myself. I think if he had told me the air was made of syrup I would have been tempted to lick it.

  ‘And,’ he added for good measure, ‘it is in those self-same salt mines that I found my jet-stone.’

  ‘I thought you said it belonged to Saint Peter?’ said Samson.

  ‘That’s where he found it when the good lord Jesus Christ was directing him to Rome.’

  ‘I can’t listen to this nonsense any longer,’ said Samson rising to his feet and walking off to fiddle with Clytemnestra’s saddle.

  ‘Time I went too,’ said Tomelinus getting to his feet.

  ‘Pity,’ I said getting up also. ‘I was enjoying that.’

  I walked him over to where he was packing up his satchel.

  ‘By the way,’ he said nodding towards Ralf. ‘Who is thee silent guest?’

  ‘A reluctant corpse.’

  ‘I never yet met an eager one, pip-pip. And yon harridan?’ he said indicating Jane.

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘Then I can see how he might prefer hell. Well, whatever he did it must be bad to be towed about t’countryside on the back of an ass - pirrip pop-pop?’

  ‘He did nothing except die at the wrong time.’

  ‘Is there ever a right time?’ He heaved his satchel over his shoulder.

  ‘Before you go,’ I said, ‘what’s that you have hanging round your neck?’

  He looked at me slyly. ‘Round my neck, brother?’

  ‘Tomelinus, I’m not blind. I saw it when you took out your bundle.’

  ‘Oh you mean this.’ He reached inside his shirt and pulling out a small grey object the size of a thumb and in the shape of a tear. ‘This is my surety.’

  ‘A magic amulet?’

  ‘Some have called it such. One sip from this and you won’t just think you are in heaven, you will be there - tick-tiddle.’ He chuckled at my sceptical face. ‘You wish to try it?’ he said pulling it over his head and holding it out to me. ‘Here.’

  I was tempted to do so just to prove him a charlatan. It was a lead bottle, very heavy for its size with a leather bung stopping it at the top. It looked like the sort of container I used for potions. It had some strange writing engraved into its side the like of which I had never seen before. I unstopped it and trickled a tiny amount of the liquid onto my finger. It had an oily feel to it and smelt faintly of almonds.

  ‘Taste it, my friend if you’re brave enough.’

  ‘No,’ I said replacing the bung and handing back the bottle. ‘I’ll pass this time.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he grinned and rehung the thing round his neck.

  ‘Did you ever have cause to use it?’ I said wiping my finger on my robe.

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘I am still here.’ He pulled his hat back onto his head. ‘Well,’ he said tapping his head, ‘fare thee well, brotherliness. I have enjoyed out little chat,’ and with a final flourish he went on his way yodelling and skipping as before.

  ‘Did you believe him?’ I said to Samson watching him go.

  ‘Not one quarter of it. He’s clearly an inveterate liar. Except that business about the soup, of course. That was true enough.’ He looked at my sceptical face. ‘Well it improved the flavour didn’t it?’

  ‘But Saint Peter’s soup, father?’ I said to him.

  ‘What of it? A noble name for a noble dish.’

  I shook my head in despair. ‘What is “Saint Peter” in French?’

  ‘Saint Pierre,’ said Samson pronouncing the name in his best Norman French.

  ‘And “pierre” in English?’

  Suddenly Jane came to life: ‘Stone! He gave us stone soup!’ and she rolled off her log laughing.

  Chapter 9

  IN TOTTINGTON VILLAGE

  ‘Dom Walter, could I ask you to please keep the noise down a little?’

  ‘Noise? I wasn’t making any noise, unless you mean the scratch of quill on parchment - ha!’

  ‘You were giggling.’

  ‘Nonsense. I never giggle.’

  ‘It disturbs the others.’

  ‘Well, there shouldn’t be any “others”. Gilbert this is my private laboratorium. Kindly ask the “others” to leave.’

  ‘Of course master, but in the meantime if you could just try to write a little less…vigorously?’

  ‘Oh, very well. I will try to write a little less vigorously.’

  ‘Thank you. And by the way it’s Gerard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name is Gerard not Gilbert. As I told you already.’

  ‘Gerard, yes.’

  ‘If you could just try to remember.’

  ‘I will try to remember.’

  ‘Thank you master.’

  ‘Thank you Gilbert.’

  Others indeed! Are we so many that we must share now? It’s becoming like the bad old days before Abbot Richard’s reforms. Men need their privacy. I could certainly do with some away fro
m all these sniffling old men. I don’t know why I have to be surrounded by them. Anybody would think I was one of them.

  Now then, what was I saying? Ah yes, Tomelinus. Teeheehee-heehee-heeheehee! I’d almost forgotten about him. It was conjuring the image of our little roadside picnic that reminded me. He was a character and no mistake. He certainly kept us entertained with his tales of fantastical creatures and travels in strange lands. Well worth the quarter share of pottage he cost us. Samson thought him a charlatan but I suspect it was his queerness that forced him to live the way he did. Who would employ someone who yelped and jerked at every moment? As for his claim to be touring the shrines of Europe - such a quest is admirable but doubtful. One that is normally undertaken by those with the wherewithal to pay their way. Tomelinus had no money and had to earn his daily crust with guile and cunning. I couldn’t blame him for that. After he left us we kept seeing him up ahead for a while appearing and disappearing with each rise and fall of the road. Eventually after emerging round a long bend we found he had vanished altogether and I was sorry to see him go.

  In any event our journey, or this part of it, was also nearing its end. Up ahead, Samson had stopped and was beckoning Jane and me to join him. The land from here dropped gently into a broad shallow valley which opened out before us. Already the sky was growing dark again as the short day drew on but I could just make out in the gloom a dozen or so houses huddled around a low thatched church and next to it a village green covered in snow.

  ‘Tottington,’ smiled Samson with satisfaction.

  What can I say about the village of Tottington? It’s tiny, barely a dozen houses, and much poorer than I’d ever imagined which made it all the more surprising that it should be the birthplace of one of England’s foremost clerics. Samson’s tale about how he came to leave this place is clearly apocryphal but it seems to be a fact that from an early age he set his sights on becoming a monk and never wavered. It appears also that he never returned to his home village after taking the cowl or ever visited it very much. Nothing to read into that. We monks are encouraged to leave our earthly families behind when we enter the cloister and to devote ourselves instead exclusively to Christ. But today he was clearly expected for the church bell began to toll as soon as we started down the path which surprised me for as far as I was aware Tottington had not been on our original itinerary. Indeed, the only reason we were here at all was because of Ralf’s death, and that no-one could have anticipated - could they?