Read The Devil's Acolyte (2002) for Free Online

himself again. She had no consideration for others. Two days ago, when he was due to set off for Tavistock, she had disappeared without
telling him or Meg, his wife, where she was going. When he realised that she had been gone most of the morning, he nearly went out of his mind. It was all very well for Meg to point out that she
herself had gone for walks with men when she was fourteen and fifteen, as Meg had probably been more mature in nature and outlook even when she was Edith’s age; and in any case, boys today
weren’t the same as when Simon was younger. They were less respectful, less well-behaved, more likely to ravish a beautiful young girl like his Edith. The little sods.
    As usual when she came back, there had been an almighty row. She couldn’t understand, Edith sulked, why her parents should be so over-protective. She wasn’t a child any more.
    That was when Simon saw red. He bellowed at her and was near to thrashing her for her insubordination and lack of regard for his and her mother’s feelings; if he hadn’t been due to
travel here to Tavistock, he would have done just that. He knew his neighbours all believed that women needed a beating now and again, and Simon was a source of amusement for his tolerance, but
that day his daughter had gone too far.
    Just when he had wanted to set off early, the arguments and wailing and weeping had held him up, and he gathered up everything in a rush, stuffing it any old how into the bags on his packhorse.
His servant helped moodily – for Hugh was always grumpy when there were voices raised against his favourite, little Edith. Simon then gave his wife one last hurried kiss before throwing his
leg over his mount and setting off at speed. Hugh desperately hopped along at the side of his own pony, trying to hold it still long enough to clamber atop. After so many years of riding alongside
his master, he was less like a sack of sodden oats in the saddle these days, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the experience, and he still eyed horses as nasty, vicious creatures whose only
pleasure was to unseat him as soon as possible.
    Simon had been forced to wait while his servant caught up, as Hugh refused to urge his horse on to what he considered a dangerous speed. If they had set off when Simon had intended, they would
have had plenty of time, even allowing for Hugh’s slower pace, but as it was, with Edith’s little performance delaying their departure, he hadn’t bothered to check the things he
had packed.
    Yes, Simon considered. It was all his daughter’s fault.
    He could remember his mood as he arrived at Tavistock, as black as the clouds in the sky, brooding on the ingratitude of daughters in general and his own in particular, with Hugh scowling
bitterly on his own little mount and answering only with a grunt whenever Simon spoke. A tedious, wet and miserable ride it had been.
    However, it was as nothing compared with the grim realisation which struck him that evening before meeting his master, Warden of the Stannaries, Abbot Robert Champeaux. Simon had gone through
his belongings once with a general lack of concern, still affected by the scene that morning, but then he had paused and gone through his things more urgently, searching each bag with care for the
little felt sack which contained the coinage hammer. It wasn’t there. Racking his brains, Simon vaguely remembered seeing it on top of his bags on his chest in his solar. It must have tumbled
off as he snatched everything up.
    If
that
realisation was terrible, having to go and see the Abbot himself was worse. The latter was a cheery fellow, red-faced, with a thin grey circle of hair fringing his bald pate;
there was no need for the good Abbot to have his tonsure shaved by the barber every so often. His fair complexion held a tracery of little burst veins, and his nose was mauve, but his voice was as
loud and enthusiastic as ever as he welcomed Simon with a heartiness that was entirely