Free Devil's Acre by Stephen Wheeler

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 th at 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 from 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