The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  Baldwin rocked back on his heels. ‘Possibly, but why? What motive could he have, other than, perhaps, to save the life of another cleric? Yet why should he do that? He did more than anyone else to see Mark installed here in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sir Baldwin!’

  The pained tone made Baldwin almost topple over with surprise, but when he righted himself, he found that he was peering up into the nostrils of Roger Scut.

  Simon stood. ‘It was perfectly obvious you wanted him out of the way. You gave him no support in the court, did you? You could have demanded that Sir Ralph release Mark into your custody on behalf of Bishop Walter, but you let Sir Ralph shove him down into this noisome pit instead. Hardly the action of a man supporting his friend.’

  ‘That may be how you perceived it, Sir Bailiff, but really! Can you think so ill of a priest like me that you’d believe me capable of such an act? Of course I didn’t intend to see my friend Mark suffer.’

  ‘Incarceration here would lead to suffering enough,’ Baldwin observed.

  Roger Scut held out his hands and smiled gently. ‘I felt that it could do no harm for Mark to be safely out of the way of others.’

  ‘Like who?’ Simon demanded curtly.

  Roger Scut withdrew his hands and folded his arms. He had been trying to decide what to say to these two since he had come back, and now he took a deep breath. It was sad to think of that little chapel. All his hopes had been built upon that since his first arrival here and his meeting with Esmon, but there was nothing more to be done. He must extricate himself from this mess as soon as possible.

  At first it had all seemed so perfect. Esmon had approached him during that first visit to the chapel, and they had spoken afterwards, with Sir Ralph, of the problems of land ownership and managing the peasants, explaining – as if Roger needed to be told! – how troublesome peasants could be. Better, they said, if they could have an ally in the chapel who could keep them informed. More than that, as Esmon indicated, they might be able to use their friends at court to assist clerics who were useful to them. A cleric at the chapel who helped keep the villeins subservient might soon be offered a more prestigious post in London or Winchester, for example.

  Not that Roger was foolish enough to jump at the offer. No, he smiled at first and shrugged, gave noncommittal grunts and yawns as though this was the sort of offer he received each day, and not the kind of thing he had prayed for over long years of obscurity and relative poverty.

  It was the final demand he was waiting for, and it took little time to arrive. They wanted him to spy on Sir Baldwin and Simon Puttock. That was easy enough. In fact, he simply told them at every opportunity that Sir Baldwin was a rather uncouth and ignorant buffoon. He disliked Sir Baldwin because Sir Baldwin disliked him, and making the Keeper out to be a fool suited his own prejudice, while the Bailiff he knew was quite astute. That was why he told Esmon, when the fellow asked about Puttock, that the Bailiff was deeply insulted by the harm done to one of his miners. Bailiff Puttock would not rest easy, he said, until he had the murderer hanging from the nearest oak.

  Roger Scut had reinforced that message only the day before. The memory made him feel queasy now. At the time he hadn’t heard about the near-fatal accident which had happened to the Bailiff’s servant. If he had, he might have been a little more circumspect.

  He might not be the most intelligent of logicians, but he was able to see a picture when it was laid before him, and it was clear to him that his comments on Bailiff Puttock had led to a murderous attack on him.

  And now this! Esmon’s outrageous suggestion! That he should agree to Esmon’s proposition that his father was incapable, incompetent, and a threat to the security of the manor! Roger Scut could not possibly agree to such a flagrant fraud. What if he was found out? No matter what he said to Esmon and Sir Ralph about Sir Baldwin’s intelligence, no matter what he said to himself in the dark hours about how stupid the knight was, how much more perspicacious Roger himself was, how much better ordered he would have the Keeper’s court if he had a free rein compared with the slapdash fool, there was no denying that Sir Baldwin had a certain animal cunning. He was quite politically astute, and plain lucky. Going against him was not an attractive proposition.

  No. Even before this had been suggested, when Roger had realised what Esmon had tried to do to Simon Puttock, he had decided that his intention to ally himself with the family was wrong and dangerous. He had come to the conclusion that he should change horses, support Baldwin, ensure the safe release of Mark, and guard and guide him to the safety of the Bishop’s court. Except his decision had not been blessed with success.

  All was going wrong. All his plans were unravelled, and he could see only disaster awaiting him as he surveyed the knight in the stable.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I am pleased to confess that I have been guilty of a dreadful error. I… well, I came to think that Mark could perhaps have been guilty of the crime of which he was accused. It’s hard to get that sort of idea out of one’s head: that a monk could indeed have slaughtered his woman with their illegitimate child in her womb. Awful, terrible, a truly grievous sin, a…’

  ‘Stuff the pretence, priest. It doesn’t impress us,’ Simon growled.

  ‘It’s no pretence! Bailiff, I mean this.’

  ‘Good. Get on with your story.’

  Roger Scut turned from him and gazed down his nose at Baldwin. ‘So, Sir Knight, in the court I was truly shocked. Nay, devastated. To think that a brother monk could be responsible for so heinous a crime tore at my very soul and rendered me speechless. That was why I was incapable of supporting my poor friend. However, I now realise my error and wish to see my young friend saved. Apart from anything else, I do not believe in his guilt. It is incomprehensible. A priest in Holy Orders murdering a woman – and child? No! Assuredly, no man like Mark could do such a thing.’

  ‘What were you doing here, priest? You were found here by my man. Why?’

  ‘I wanted to see how he could have escaped from this hideous place. I thought that he might have been released.’

  ‘Rather than merely sprouting wings and flying away?’ Simon scoffed. ‘Of course he was released.’

  ‘But by whom?’ Baldwin murmured. ‘That’s the question to which we must seek an answer.’

  ‘I do not know.’

  Simon was gazing down into the cell as Baldwin spoke. ‘There’s a candle in there. Did they leave that for Mark to read by?’

  ‘No, the priest dropped it. He was looking down into the cell when we found him,’ Hugh said. He slurped a little more wine, aware that his head was growing lighter, but he didn’t care right now. He was feeling a great deal better, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘You were looking to see who might have released the monk, then?’ Simon said. He climbed down the ladder and retrieved the candle. ‘This is probably the foulest gaol I’ve seen. It’s even worse than my own in Lydford. At least that is a decent size, but this! It’s tiny!’

  He felt something under his boot as he was about to return to the ladder. Glancing down, he moved the stones and pebbles on the floor with his boot’s toe. Then he frowned and bent to look more closely.

  ‘What is it, Simon?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Simon said. It was a lump of stone or something, encased in leather. An odd decoration for a cell like this – in fact, Simon reckoned it an odd enough thing for anywhere. He picked it up and carried it up the ladder. ‘Look.’

  Baldwin took it and weighed it in his hand. ‘I think, Roger, that you should tell us all you know about Mark’s escape last night.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘This is one of your weights to hold down rolls, is it not? I have never seen another man with such a trinket. Why did you bring it last night – to brain the poor fool who languished in here?’

  Roger Scut took a deep sigh and walked to a barrel, resting his ample buttocks on it. ‘If you must know, it was in order to overpower any guard.�
�

  ‘You sought to get him out?’ Simon expostulated.

  ‘I don’t think he committed this grave act,’ Roger Scut said simply. ‘And I thought that if he stayed in here, he would surely die. It seemed better to me that he should be aided in his escape so that the good Bishop could test his case in the Bishop’s own court.’

  ‘What did you find here?’ Baldwin asked, touching Simon’s arm to keep him quiet.

  ‘There was no guard. I was pleased, naturally, because I hate the thought of violence, and I feared having to strike down an innocent who was merely serving his master’s will. Yes, that was a relief. I reached the door and pulled the lock and opened it wide, calling to Mark, but there was no one there. I had my candle with me, and held it in one hand while I held the trap open with the other, and peered inside, thinking that the lad must have collapsed in fear and exhaustion, but there was no sign of him, and when I leaned in to make sure, my weight fell from my hand. Trying to hold that and the candle in one fist was too much. I heard it plop into the dirt, but I was reluctant to go down the ladder and resolved to return today. As your man saw,’ he added, giving Hugh a baleful glance.

  ‘Have you any idea who could have released Mark?’

  ‘Yes. I think it was Sir Ralph’s son, Esmon. The fellow knew that his father would be enraged to hear that Mark had escaped, and would seek him with a fury unsurpassed by the hounds of Hell. Esmon sought to ensure that his father would kill Mark for escaping his cell, and to do so, Esmon made certain that Mark was released. Whether it was Esmon himself or one of his many disreputable men who let Mark out, I do not know.’

  ‘You are sure of this?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘As sure as I can be without hearing Esmon confess, yes.’ Roger Scut looked out at the doorway and dropped his voice. ‘Do you know what he has done now? He asked me a little while ago whether I would help him to depose his father. I truly believe that lad has no conception of good and evil. He asked me to write a letter confirming that Sir Ralph was too ancient and infirm to be able to continue as Lord of Gidleigh. As though I should do any such thing!’

  Baldwin glanced at Simon. He doubted the entire truth of Roger Scut’s comments, although their general thrust he thought was probably accurate enough. ‘As though,’ he repeated drily.

  Roger had the grace to look away.

  ‘Do you know what I think, Scut?’ Baldwin asked. ‘I think you came here wanting to brain a guard and release Mark.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because you thought that then he would be hunted down and killed. You knew Sir Ralph would slaughter him under any pretext. The Bishop would punish Sir Ralph, but so what? You would be here to take over the chapel and all its revenues.’

  ‘Nonsense, that had–’

  ‘You actively sought the death of Mark to fill your own pocket.’

  Roger shook his head, but his voice was quieter, as though he scarcely dared deny the charge. ‘No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Simon had listened with contempt. Now he deliberately turned his back on the monk and ignored him. ‘Hugh, this Esmon has captured more men today. He took a carter and two of Coroner Roger’s men captive. Did you see them arrive, or hear them?’

  ‘I heard someone – over in the gatehouse area.’

  ‘That is where Sir Ralph and his son tend to keep their prisoners ready for ransom,’ Roger Scut said helpfully.

  ‘Show me where this room is,’ Simon said, speaking to Hugh.

  Chapter Thirty

  Osbert sat in the shelter of Piers’s barn and wrapped his arms about himself. It was not cold, but the ideas that milled in his brain were stifling him, and he felt as though his head were about to explode with the things that evil shit Ben had told him with such amused glee in his voice. Truly, Ben was foul. He deserved to be murdered. It was said that a man’s evil could be reflected in his sons, that a man who was sexually incontinent could give birth to a leper, and if that was so, all the sins of Sir Ralph had been stored and concentrated in Ben’s voice. He enjoyed using his snake’s charm and insinuations to bedevil others.

  There were so many things Os wanted to do but he felt enfeebled. As soon as Ben had told him, he had wanted to go to Flora and apologise, to cradle her in his arms. More, he wanted to lie with her, feel her naked body next to his, make love to her like a man should – except he couldn’t, not now! Christ Jesus, not ever!

  His desires were impossible. Cursed. He must accept that. If he couldn’t, he might go mad. God would see to it. For a man like Os to touch Flora with thoughts of passion was obscene! She was his sister!

  He wanted to go to the castle and tear it apart stone by stone; he wanted to feel Sir Ralph’s flesh beneath his hands and rend his body to wolf-bait; he wanted to stamp all over Esmon’s corpse; he wanted to stab and slash at them just as Esmon had stabbed and slashed at Wylkyn. He wanted to kill, and go on killing, to destroy this terrible injustice. The first woman he had loved was dead, buried and rotting; her sister, whom he now adored in Mary’s place, whom he felt the duty to protect with his life, was now ineradicably removed from him. He could no more hope to be her husband than he might hope to marry the Queen. She was removed from him, and with her removal, it felt as though his heart had been plucked from his breast. Life held no pleasure. All that remained was hard, cruel toil, made the more painful by the constant presence of Flora.

  ‘They’ve gone. Buggered off, the lot of them.’ Piers entered, threw his stick against the wall, and crouched leaning with his back against the stone wall. ‘But Esmon’ll be back. You know that. He’ll return, and when he does, he’ll want your head.’

  ‘He can have it. What is there for me now?’

  Piers shrugged. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, other than the obvious little things, like trying to kill Sir Ralph’s son. Now, if I’d done that, I’d be guilty of petit treason and I’d get killed, but you won’t. You’re safe – you’re a freeman. All you have to worry about is getting away from here before Esmon catches you. At least right now, with a murderous monk on the road, you should be safe enough. People have more to worry about than a miserable-looking miller’s helper. Unless you meet said monk, of course,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘I love Flora.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s not a huge problem,’ Piers said, head cocked on one side. ‘What does she think about it?’

  ‘She feels the same. Promised to marry me.’

  Piers nodded his head slowly. ‘Right. So she loves you too, but you feel bad? Not good? Not glad?’

  ‘I can’t do it. I can’t ask her to marry me.’

  ‘I… You don’t have much, no, but you’d make her a good enough husband, wouldn’t you? You’re not cruel or stupid – at least, I wouldn’t have said so until just now. What’s the matter?’

  Osbert sat back, curled his arms about his legs and rested his chin on his knees. He remained there for some while, staring into the distance, and then gave Piers a disconcertingly straight stare. ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  Piers held his hands out, palms up. ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘My mother. She was never ashamed of me, of my bastardy. She always said, any man born like me shouldn’t regret his birth. The fact was, I was free, after all.’

  Piers shrugged. He knew the rule of the law: a freeman who fathered a son conferred his freedom on the child, and a bastard must be assumed to be free. ‘So?’

  ‘Ben told me. I always loved Mary, and then, when she was gone, I fell in love with Flora. At least Ben saved us.’

  ‘What?’ Piers asked, confused.

  ‘I never knew my father. Mother always said it was because he’d married some prune-faced whore.’

  ‘Yes, well. These things happen,’ Piers said.

  ‘I always wondered why Mother didn’t tell me who it was. I thought it was because she was ashamed. Didn’t want to tell my father that she’d given birth.’

  ‘It’s common enough.’

  ‘You
don’t understand, do you?’

  Piers didn’t, nor did he particularly care. He had spent the whole day riding about the countryside seeking Mark, and now he was going to help Osbert escape, a man who had hurt his master’s son. It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘Neither of us have time for this, Os. Come on.’ He was brushing the twigs and straws from his backside when he heard the steps outside. Slow, thoughtful steps, Piers considered, not the sharp, swift footfalls of a man who rushed to a barn with a sword in his hand ready to kill or capture the men inside. Rather they were the reluctant steps of a man who was setting off on a long journey without knowing his destination.

  Peering around the doorframe, Piers saw a familiar shape. ‘Oh, thank God!’

  Osbert was not of a mood to notice a newcomer. ‘After he’d shoved his pork sword into my mother and got her with child, he fell in love properly.’

  ‘He married,’ Piers said without thinking, and opened his mouth to welcome his new guest, when Osbert spoke again.

  ‘No. The bastard fell in love with Huward’s wife. All those children of the miller’s? They’re Sir Ralph’s. Mary, Flora, Ben, and me too. We’re all Sir Ralph’s children.’

  Hearing the sharp intake of breath, he looked up, just in time to see the ravaged face of Huward at the doorway.

  ‘I thought you’d soon be here.’

  Esmon stood with a pair of his men-at-arms behind him in the main gatehouse guard room. His hand was still painful, but he found that clenching and unclenching it eased the pain a little, and he was sure that it would only marginally limit his ability to fight if he was forced to draw his sword. Not that there should be any need for that, he thought as he observed Roger Scut at the back of the little band. ‘What, a wounded servant, two watchmen, a cleric, a Keeper and a Bailiff? All to come and speak to me? This is quite a party. What do you want? More wine?’

  Simon smiled calmly. ‘You have a reputation, Master Esmon. Men say that you raid and kill on the moors.’

  ‘Who accuses me? I’ll show my innocence,’ Esmon said offhandedly.