‘It is a fine afternoon, Sir Knight.’
‘Yes.’
‘You sound like a man who has unasked questions. Carry on! Ask me what you want.’
‘I’ve heard you used to be a priest.’
‘That I was. Ah, but you want to know more, don’t you? Very well. I was a priest in London. I always had what I thought was a vocation, and I was delighted to be so honoured. But then I learned to love. It is a terrible thing, to love. I adored a woman. She was young, fresh, beautiful, and determined to see me succeed in my profession.’
‘So you were another Burnell?’ Baldwin asked unkindly. Robert Burnell, the Bishop of Bath and Wells and sometime Chancellor of England until his death in 1292, had been notorious for promoting and helping his many ‘nephews’. Archbishop Peckham hinted that he had fathered five boys from one woman alone.
‘I was not so prolific,’ Surval smiled sadly. ‘I had one child by her already, and then I committed the worst of sins. My woman was arguing about money she needed when she was pregnant with our second and I – well, I was drunk. I beat her up, and that was the end of her and the child.’
‘What happened to the other child?’
‘He is here. But no – I shall not say who he is. That would only leave him open to still worse opprobrium.’
Baldwin felt the man’s pain, but he could give no comfort. This man was hideous by his own confession. ‘I suppose you claimed Benefit of Clergy?’
‘I am alive, aren’t I?’ Surval asked. ‘Tell me, do you think that priest killed Mary?’
Baldwin sniffed. He didn’t want to remain in this hermit’s company longer than he must. ‘Perhaps. I am not sure.’
‘I am: he couldn’t. When you hit a pregnant girl, you realise what a terrible sin you have committed. You might remain at her side to ease her agony or, if you’re a coward, you might run away – but you wouldn’t run away and then return to finish her off by breaking her neck.’
‘How do you know that’s what he did?’
‘The vill’s idiot, Sampson. He was in the next field and heard the argument, then Mark run away. A short time later, he also heard Sir Ralph on his horse, but remained hidden because he was so fearful of the man. Later, Mark returned, and that was when he saw her.’
‘Sampson did not tell me that. You are saying Sir Ralph killed her?’
‘My God, no!’ Surval said with obvious shock. ‘Sir Ralph would not have harmed a hair on her head.’
‘Then who did?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anything myself.’
‘What about the death of Wylkyn? Do you know what happened to him?’
Surval gave him a look from under thick, bushy eyebrows. ‘You know he was keen on potions and herbs? And Sir Richard died quite suddenly after a short illness. He had been prone to all kinds of illnesses, the poor man, but that was the consequence of his willingly ignoring the Pope’s words and taking up weapons to entertain people in the joust.’
‘You do not approve of such things?’
‘I told you about my sin. I could never think to hurt someone again, and since my woman’s death, I have taken the Pope’s instructions very seriously. I could never commit such a crime again. No. And others should obey the Pope, too. Sir Richard suffered greatly. If he was fortunate, it will mean that he will have swiftly risen to Heaven. Like a leper, his pain will allow him more quickly to reach God’s side, while those who remained hale and hearty all through their lives, enjoying wealth and power, will suffer the torments of devils!’
Baldwin sought to distract him from a long-winded sermon. ‘What sort of illnesses did he have?’
Surval scowled as though struggling with the attraction of a lecture he had practised, but then shrugged. ‘He had inflamed joints, fevers, gout… many afflictions.’
‘Inflamed joints and gout wouldn’t kill a man.’
‘No, but a fever can, and he endured many. It was a fever finally killed him.’
There was a certain tone in his voice that made Baldwin pause. He said, ‘You think Wylkyn poisoned him?’
‘Stranger things have happened. And that would explain why an honourable man like Sir Ralph might want to punish him, mightn’t it?’
‘By murdering him?’ Baldwin growled.
‘No, by executing a murderer like any other felon.’
Walking along the road, Huward suddenly came upon the castle, and instantly he stopped, staring at it, wide-eyed, his mind, at first, quite blank. Gradually, as he recalled that mad bitch’s hate-filled words that she spat at him like venom, his mind began to work again.
He couldn’t stand the sight of the castle; he had to move away, go somewhere else, but his heart was pounding with a sickly rhythm. There was nowhere for him to go: his home was his no more, it was lost to him. He knew of nowhere he might go and find peace. Stumbling slightly, he crossed the road, away from the castle, and took the track up towards the moors. The way was dark, deeply wooded with great beech and oak trees rising on both sides, and with the sun moving behind the hills ahead, the whole area was grim and gloomy. Soon Huward felt a little calmer. Away from other people, he could see things more clearly. Perhaps there was a way through this mess. Unbidden, a picture of Flora appeared in his mind, and he choked as he recalled her beauty, her smiling face and calmness. He felt sweet affection for her – and revulsion.
Suddenly he was through. The trees fell away on either side, and he was climbing a shallow hill with a thin scattering of rocks about a rushing stream. As he continued, the wind played at his hair, whipping at his tunic and gusting occasionally hard enough to make him lean into it. A fine spray of mizzle was in the air, and he could feel it flick against his cheeks like fine needles.
Over the brow of the hill were the dark shapes of the ring of stones. All the men of the vill knew these stones, the Scorhill circle, and he walked to it, sitting with his back to one of them, staring eastwards towards the vill where he had been born, where he had grown, where he had married, and where he had been so utterly betrayed.
He had never guessed: how could he have been so stupid! A week ago, perhaps he would have disbelieved her, maybe even dared to scoff at her, if he had been in a more optimistic frame of mind, but in his present mood he knew that she was telling him the truth. There was no point in her lying to him. She could have no motive to lie – but plenty to tell him the facts. Christ Jesus! The poison in her voice!
The recollection of Lady Annicia’s little speech tore at him. It had felt as though his very soul was shredding under the torrent of words, as though her cold anger and loathing for him and his entire family were penetrating him even now, so far from the castle. Wrapping his arms about himself, he dully registered that he was not dressed for a night on the moors. He should return to the security at least of the trees, if not the safety of his mill, but he daren’t do that. He didn’t know what he might do if he went back there. No, better to sit here, maybe to die here. There was nothing for him to live for, not now. All he valued had been taken.
He heard the sound of splashing water, and then, as he squinted up the hill, he saw a figure, a man, dressed in filthy grey clothing, with a thick, bushy beard and dark, grim eyes: Surval.
The hermit slowly made his way to the miller and stood leaning on his staff, gazing down. ‘I thought you’d be here.’
‘You knew. All this time, you knew.’
‘No. I only learned today; before, I only suspected.’
‘I suppose I am too stupid to have realised.’
‘You were always too kind for your own good. Others are more cynical.’
‘And now little Mary is dead. Is that my fault too?’
‘None of it is your fault, friend, you were just unfortunate.’
‘It’s a bit bloody easy for you to say that, isn’t it!’ Huward snapped. ‘For me it seems very straightforward, now I can see the facts for myself.’
‘Perhaps you are wrong to fear? They could all be your children.’
; ‘Instead of his!’ Huward spat bitterly. ‘Yes, but my wife still cleaved to him, even when she was married to me. My whole marriage is a lie.’
‘I had wondered. I had seen him with her many long years ago,’ Surval said sadly.
‘Why did she marry me, then?’
‘Perhaps because she knew she could never marry him.’
‘So instead of her being miserable alone, she has ruined all our lives. I shall have to leave. I don’t know if either or neither of them are mine.’
‘Or both.’
‘You expect me to remain on the off-chance?’ Huward sneered.
The hermit grunted, then slowly eased himself down to sit at Huward’s side. ‘It’s always easier to see things after the event.’
‘Oh, good! I suppose you mean I should be glad to have seen it at last. It’s no comfort, hermit. No comfort at all.’
‘No. God doesn’t offer comfort, miller. Only hard effort and the will to resist temptation.’ The very thought made him shiver.
Huward noticed. ‘It’s cold, but where else can I go, Surval – eh? Where can I call home? My family is no more, my life is ended. How can I find peace?’
Surval didn’t look at the miller, but stared out over the trees towards the castle. ‘A good question. I wish I knew the answer, old friend. All I can say is, that tonight you may come to my home and stay there with me. I have a duty to help poor travellers.’
‘Yes. That’s all I am now, isn’t it? A poor traveller. An outlaw,’ Huward said. ‘And through no fault of mine! I have done nothing wrong.’
‘Then you, my friend, are truly fortunate,’ Surval said quietly.
Baldwin found Simon at the castle gate. Piers and Elias were helping to carry Hugh, and the knight stared down at the man’s bloody face with astonishment and concern. He had only left them a few moments ago. ‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘Has Hugh been attacked?’
‘That cretinous son of a mutinous Breton pirate, Esmon, rode past and all but ran us down!’ Simon hissed. ‘If Hugh hadn’t knocked me aside, I’d be here instead of him, but as it was, a hoof caught his head.’
‘Where?’
Simon pointed out the shallow slash in Hugh’s scalp where the horseshoe had sheared though his flesh and exposed the pink bones beneath. ‘I want a quiet room with no draughts and a good fire,’ he said curtly to a servant.
The servant, a fat but curiously cheerless-looking fellow, shrugged and glanced across the courtyard at Brian, who lounged against a wall. Simon grated, ‘Fetch your master! I don’t want to stand out here all bloody night.’
He saw the fat man peer again at the man-at-arms, saw that worthy curl his lip and give a short shake of his head, and then turn away as though uninterested. The servant pulled a face, and then drew away.
It was enough to fan the fire that was already glowing in Simon’s breast. Hugh had been his only servant for many years. When he married Meg, it was Hugh who had helped organise the nuptials; when they moved to Sandford to their new farm, it was Hugh who made sure that their belongings arrived safely; when they travelled to Lydford, it was Hugh who made the castle as welcoming as he could. Hugh was an integral part of Simon’s life, and Simon’s family. Surly, he was, yes, grim-featured at the best of times, monosyllabic and dour, but he was Simon’s friend, and he had saved Simon from attack before now, he had saved Simon’s wife, and he had won this wound by saving Simon from death once again.
He reached out and grasped the fat servant’s shoulder. At the same time he drew his sword. It all happened as though he was watching it through an all-enveloping red fog, a swirling mistiness that shimmered about him. ‘Get your fucking master now, or I’ll cut out your liver and feed it to the hogs, you beshitted worm,’ he ground out.
The servant gaped, his chins wobbling. As Simon loomed over him, he gave a squeak, turned, and bolted like a rabbit which has seen the hound. There was a shout from the castle walls and a rattle of metal, and he looked up to see that a guard was desperately trying to haul the string back on a crossbow. Brian had drawn his own sword and was approaching them, while behind him more men were coming from the hall’s door, all wearing weapons. One held a short dagger by the point and was throwing it in the air and catching it meditatively while watching Simon.
Baldwin saw that the two watchmen were eyeing the guards with trepidation, but not fear, and he was pleased that they were not intimidated. ‘Hold!’ he shouted, his hand in the air. He too had seen the man trying to string his crossbow, but pulling back on the string with main force was all but impossible. He needed a crank or belt hook, and he seemed to have neither. Baldwin turned his attention back to the men-at-arms on the ground nearby.
They were a mixed bunch, probably aged from twenty to forty or fifty, and all looked like men who had profited from war while accepting the buffets that combat brought. There were many scarred faces and several missing fingers among them – and no cowards. All walked forward steadily until the little group was surrounded. Piers and Elias looked very unhappy at this turn of events, but Baldwin kept his eyes on the leading man.
‘Where is Sir Ralph?’ he called mildly.
‘He’s busy,’ said Brian.
‘So busy he wants to see two King’s officials attacked in his own castle?’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘I think you will find that if either the good Stannary Bailiff or I myself are harmed, the men responsible will pay very dearly.’
The leader of the men snapped his fingers under Baldwin’s nose. ‘If we want, we can lose your bodies! There are places on the moors where a man can be lost for ever.’
Baldwin smiled broadly at the man. ‘Is that what you did with the body of the miner?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I wonder who did move him, then.’
‘Nothing to do with us,’ the man said confidently.
There came a roar from the other side of the yard. ‘What is this? Brian, what are you doing there?’
Baldwin held Brian’s eye as he responded, and was sure that there was a certain annoyance in his face as he spoke.
‘It’s the Keeper, Sir Ralph. I knew you’d be busy, so I wouldn’t let him interrupt you.’
‘You didn’t think you’d interrupt me?’ Sir Ralph said with a calmness that heralded a storm. ‘That was very kind of you, Brian.’
‘You were with your priest.’
Baldwin pricked up his ears at that. Sir Ralph’s ‘priest’ must be Roger Scut. What the man was doing here was a mystery to Baldwin, but whatever it was, it must be directly to Scut’s benefit.
‘All you men, withdraw. Now!’ Sir Ralph bellowed.
The men drew away, for the most part reluctantly; the knife-thrower tossed his blade up one last time, and then suddenly caught it and sent it whirling into the door at the hall’s entrance. It struck there, quivering, a few inches from the fat servant’s head, and the man gazed at the knife with terror in his eyes.
The good Sir Ralph had best evict these warriors before they tried to take over the castle, Baldwin thought. There were plenty of others who had attempted to capture the castles which they were supposed to protect.
‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock, I offer my sincere apologies,’ Sir Ralph said as the men dispersed. He walked to them from the door to the hall. ‘I had no idea you were being molested until I heard the shouting.’
Over his shoulder, Baldwin saw Roger Scut peering through a doorway, but he turned his attention back to the knight as Simon explained angrily about the rider who had almost knocked him down.
‘My son is very careless, I fear,’ Sir Ralph said. His face was pale, and he kept drawing up the side of his mouth, like a man who had a hole in a tooth and was probing it with his tongue. Baldwin thought he must be more worked up about these men of his son’s than he wanted to admit.
‘What of my man here?’ Simon ranted. ‘Who is the best physician in this vill? I demand that he be called immediately. Do you hear me? If this man is harmed, I shall see you a
nd all your household fined. Is that clear?’
His angry voice set a vein throbbing in Sir Ralph’s temple. He peered at the furious Bailiff. ‘Don’t give orders me, Puttock! You may have power in your little castle of Lydford, but here, it is my word which counts. Yet I shall send my wife to help you. She is good with wounds. Take this fellow into the hall and she’ll see him in there.’
Piers and Elias lifted Hugh gently, and he groaned, a sound that made Simon throw him a fretful look, and then they followed Sir Ralph into the hall. The knight roughly ordered some remaining men-at-arms from the room, and before long they had the place to themselves.
‘Did he try to ride you down?’ Baldwin asked Simon quietly.
‘I don’t know. He came on me from behind, so I couldn’t see him or what he intended, but know this, Baldwin: if a rider approaches a man on foot from behind, if there is a collision, it is not the fault of the man who could not see or do anything to avoid him. It’s always the rider’s fault.’
‘Yes. That bastard has some questions to answer,’ Baldwin said. Not only about this latest incident, either. According to Huward, Esmon was the leader of the men who had robbed the carters on their way to Chagford, and according to Surval, he was motivated by the need to punish a murderer. Not that Baldwin could count on either making their accusations in court. Any denunciation against their own lord must result in their being punished severely, and without it, there was little likelihood that Baldwin could secure Sir Ralph’s or Esmon’s arrest for the murder of Wylkyn. Baldwin must find a means of ensuring that someone might appeal them, but also he must persuade a jury that they would not be in danger if they decided to uphold the conviction. He would have to call juries from the nearest four vills to secure a conviction here, he reckoned.
‘This is a curious matter, Simon,’ he murmured. ‘Consider: the death of the girl, then the murder of the miner, and robbery of his companions, and now we have this careless attack on you. Why should someone want to harm you? Especially that fool Esmon. Most people seem to think that Mark is responsible for the girl’s death; but some think it might have been Sir Ralph or Esmon, and many believe that Esmon could have killed the miner; now he tries to ride you down.’
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 27
