The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  He looked up at Esmon with cold contempt. ‘You fucking coward!’

  That was enough. The bloodlust washed over him. ‘Die, you prickle!’ Esmon shrieked and urged his horse forward. He swung again, and his blade sank deeply into Wylkyn’s shoulder. He grunted, a deep, pained noise that snorted in his nose like a final snore, and Esmon had to kick at his horse and use the leverage of his mount’s movement to free his blade.

  Later, when he was riding back to the castle at the head of the travellers, he felt a crust on his upper lip. Scraping at it with a tooth, he realised it was Wylkyn’s blood, and he smiled. It felt good to have killed again – and now, once he had dumped this lot at the castle, he could go and find the owner of those buttocks. He could do with a tumble on a woman now.

  It was the next day, late in the forenoon, that Simon received his second messenger. He had suffered an interminably lengthy explanation of a dispute between two angry miners, neither of whom had bothered to mark their claims with the customary turves piled at the edges. They had simply started digging, and soon thereafter fighting. He fined them both when he grew bored with their whining and arguing.

  As he reached his home, desperate for a bowl of thick stew to warm him after the draughts and cold of the castle, Simon saw his wife appear in the doorway. Tall, slim and elegant, with her long blonde hair coiled under her wimple, he adored her even after many years of marriage. When she smiled, he was unaware of the passage of time; it was as though he was seeing her, once more, as she had been when he first met her. As she drew nearer him, all he was aware of was the calmness which she radiated, and his first impression was that he could rest here.

  She said, ‘A boy has just arrived. There’s a problem over at Gidleigh.’

  Simon scowled and swore. ‘God’s belly! What do they want of me? I’ve already said that I won’t go there. Where’s the messenger?’

  ‘In the buttery. I sent him there to refresh himself. I wasn’t sure if you wanted him to take back a message.’

  ‘The only message I’m likely to send is one that tells them to stop wasting my time,’ Simon said bitterly. ‘I’ll speak to him later.’

  ‘Good, Husband.’

  There was a jarring tone in her voice that rankled, but Simon swallowed his irritation and tried to sound conciliatory. ‘I am sorry to have spoken so grimly, my love, but I have had a sorely trying morning.’

  ‘I understand. Your work is important.’

  ‘Meg, please! It’s not as important to me as you are.’

  She turned to face him. ‘It hardly feels like it, Husband.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Simon, our daughter is very unhappy to be going away.’

  ‘I know, but what would you have me do – leave her here on her own? You know we can’t do that.’

  ‘I could stay here with her… Simon, don’t pull away like that! Please, we have to talk about this. I know you have no choice about the work…’

  ‘Do you? It sounds as though you blame me for accepting what was never mine to choose,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘No man is free of a master,’ she agreed sadly. ‘But we should still take account of Edith’s position. She is in love, she thinks.’

  ‘Thinks!’ Simon expostulated. ‘And how often have we heard that in the last few years?’

  ‘No matter. She is firm in her belief and…’

  Simon gazed at her. There was a hesitancy about her that made him listen intently. ‘And?’

  ‘And she says she has given her word to marry him.’

  ‘Christ’s blood!’ Simon roared. ‘I’ll teach her to–’

  ‘Simon, please!’ Margaret said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Be still for once and listen.’

  ‘I always listen,’ he glowered. ‘I am more patient than many.’

  ‘Then listen now, and stop shouting. She hasn’t given her pledge in terms of present intent.’

  He felt his heart’s pounding slow a little at that. If she had given her words in present terms, she was legally married, and there was nothing Simon or even the Church could do about it. Well, not if she’d done it in front of witnesses, anyway. But if she’d sworn to marry in the future, that was different. It was a far less binding covenant. ‘Then what?’

  ‘She won’t marry, she says, without your approval.’

  ‘Who is this wastrel cutpurse who would filch my daughter, then?’ Simon asked uncharitably. He was already unhappy about his move to Dartmouth, and the effect it was having on his wife and his daughter. The thought that young Edith could have gone ahead and offered herself in marriage without speaking to him first rankled.

  ‘He is a good boy, Simon. A freeman.’

  ‘What sort of a freeman?’ Simon asked suspiciously.

  ‘Apprentice to a merchant,’ she said, but quietly, as though slightly reluctant to admit it.

  ‘Merchant?’ he repeated blankly. ‘But there’s only one merchant here. I… Oh, Christ’s cods, not him!’

  ‘Now don’t be like that, Husband,’ she entreated. ‘He is a perfectly well-meaning lad, and I don’t think he–’

  ‘He’s as gormless as a newborn mastiff,’ he said bluntly. ‘Dim and vapid. All he ever thinks about is the tightness of his hose! Spends as much time staring at his own ankles as at hers, I expect. Damned pansy! All these modern trends for fashion and high-living, furs and silks and other fripperies! Christ’s blood, what can she see in him?’

  Margaret took a deep breath. ‘Simon, if you speak to Edith like that, she will run away with him tonight. She loves him and wants to be with him, but she won’t dishonour you by disobeying you unless you force her to.’

  ‘Me? I wouldn’t force her to disobey me!’

  ‘If you rant at her like that, you’ll make her run away with him,’ she said with calm, knowing serenity. She had moved to a turf bench, and was sitting on the grass with her hands crossed in her lap.

  ‘What do you recommend?’

  She patted the grass at her side and remained silent until he accepted her invitation and sat. ‘Try to imagine how she feels. She thinks she is in love – in the same way that I was with you when we met.’

  ‘That’s completely different,’ he said hotly.

  ‘Perhaps. And perhaps she doesn’t feel so.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Then you can suggest that she may continue to see her swain, but that you would wish her to join us when we go to Dartmouth,’ she said emotionlessly.

  He put his hand on her thigh. ‘I know you don’t want to go, but I have to.’

  ‘I know that. We have to serve. I just don’t want to lose our daughter when we go.’

  ‘Would she be satisfied with being able to see him?’

  ‘If you tell her that you will allow him to visit us in our new home so that they can woo in comfort, she might.’

  ‘I shall consider it,’ he promised.

  It was difficult, he told himself as he entered his hall. No sooner had a child been born than she was ready to leave home and begin to raise her own children. ‘She’s too damned young!’ he murmured.

  ‘Sir?’

  Looking up, Simon noticed at last that there was a tired-looking young man standing near the fire. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sir, I’m Osbert. I’ve been sent from Gidleigh by Reeve Piers to speak to the Bailiff.’

  ‘Osbert, eh?’ Simon said musingly. ‘And you are here to tell me about this dead girl, are you? I’ve already told Sir Baldwin and the Dean of Crediton that I can’t come right now. Tell your Reeve that he’s already had the Coroner and that there’s nothing I can do to help now. I don’t understand why he wants me there anyway. It’s not my place to deal with a murder when it’s nothing to do with the Stannary.’

  ‘It’s not Mary, sir. It’s the murdered tinner.’

  Simon blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘A man has been found dead, sir, and someone has suggested that he might be a tin miner. He was o
n his way to the market at Chagford, but never arrived. We thought you should know.’

  ‘Bugger!’ Simon spat, then roared, ‘Hugh!’ making the messenger quail. ‘Pack clothes and tell the grooms to saddle our horses. We’re going to Gidleigh.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was just typical, so far as Piers was concerned. He crouched down at the body’s side again, trying to ignore the stench, but it was impossible. It was pervasive, this odour of blood and decay. Cloying, it stuck in his nostrils and made him want to gag.

  ‘Who could have done this?’ he choked.

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Elias, what do you want me to say? I didn’t expect this.’

  ‘Huh! I don’t know anything, and I’m not going to know anything. Don’t want to. What, start talking and end up like that?’

  Piers winced as he glanced again at the corpse. Somehow the fear and bitterness of Flora came back to him. At the time he had said he would see what could be done about Esmon, but his words had been intended to calm her rather than indicating that he had a means of punishing their master’s son. Short of committing murder, he couldn’t see how to effect that.

  ‘There must be something,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Unless Esmon was found guilty of committing a crime which could be taken to a higher court, there was nothing anyone could do to bring justice to him. He would continue doing whatever he wanted. In theory, killing a miner, one of the King’s own villeins, would be enough to guarantee that he would be punished, but Piers knew that was a forlorn hope. The King’s officers could demand that Esmon be called to court, but they were all his peers. Who ever heard of a knight’s son being convicted and executed?

  Someone had to prove it was Esmon who did this, yet Elias wouldn’t even admit to seeing Sir Ralph at the road when Mary was murdered, let alone allege that Esmon might have been here. No one would risk death in the hope of inflicting justice on Esmon.

  Piers stood, averting his eyes. The dead man had been butchered as though in a rage, with slashes and cuts all over his body. His hand lay nearby. ‘We can’t let this carry on.’

  ‘I suppose you think we can stop it?’

  ‘Someone has to.’

  Elias sneered, then turned away. ‘Good – well, you be a hero, Piers. Tell you what, if I find you afterwards, I’ll report it to the Hundred Bailiff personally.’

  ‘Wait a bit, Elias,’ Piers called, and there was enough irritation in his voice to make Elias reluctantly stop and walk back, staring down at the hacked body.

  ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘Yes,’ Piers snapped. ‘I know. That’s why I want to see to it that he’s the last. Is this how you found him?’

  ‘Yeah. Think so.’

  ‘Did you find him yourself?’

  Elias didn’t speak, merely nodded his head once. Piers was sure he was lying, but when Elias wanted to be stubborn, he could give lessons to a mule.

  ‘Have you sent for the Coroner?’

  Piers shrugged. ‘For what good it will do. I sent Osbert to tell the Hundred Bailiff, then to go to Lydford. The Stannary will be interested if this man genuinely is a miner.’

  ‘He is. Don’t you remember him? His name’s Wylkyn. He was servant to Sir Richard before he died.’

  Piers stared. ‘Wylkyn?’

  The name was familiar, and so too was this man’s face now he had a name. Piers had always been Sir Ralph’s serf, and hadn’t mixed with the men of Sir Richard Prouse’s demesne, but Piers had seen Sir Richard’s steward on occasion at markets and fairs, buying exotic spices and herbs for his master’s potions.

  ‘I recall his face,’ Piers said slowly.

  ‘Wylkyn was a good enough man. As soon as Sir Ralph took over the castle, he ran for the moors and joined his brother. Called himself a miner. He’s been quite lucky, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘His luck hasn’t held for him today. What was he doing up here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Piers threw him a look. ‘Don’t be stupid! Why would he come by this route, rather than cutting across the moors? It’s far out of his way.’

  ‘I expect he had his reasons.’

  Piers glanced about them, at the tracks of many carts. ‘He wasn’t alone, either.’

  ‘The castle’s full, I expect.’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  There was no need to say who. Both knew that he meant Sir Ralph and his son. Elias slowly shook his head. ‘No, but who else would rob and kill like this?’

  ‘Someone has to stop them.’

  Elias curled his lip. ‘Aye, well, you keep saying that, Master Reeve. Fine, when you’ve got an idea how to, let me know. I’ll be interested. But don’t forget, these men are friends of the Despensers. If you want to go against the King’s friends, you try it, but don’t expect anyone here to help you, because they won’t.’

  When he reached the castle, Baldwin thought how pleasing it looked, representing security, warmth and food, and he urged his small party on, calling to the gatekeeper as he approached the outer stockade. Surprisingly, he found that the gate was closed and barred. This was a quiet enough part of the realm, and he would have expected the gates to remain open all through the day, only being closed at night, like the gates of a larger castle or even a town. Everyone tended to welcome travellers, for they brought news, and in a small castle like this, one without a huge amount of money and miles from busier roads, there was little likelihood that the place could be threatened by a gang of outlaws.

  After he had bellowed and demanded to speak to the lord, there was a rattling and squeaking as a bar was slid back from the gate, and then Baldwin was confronted by three men, two of whom were clearly guards and who gripped long polearms in their callused hands, while the other held his arms crossed.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Are you steward to Sir Ralph?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘You could call me that. I am Brian – Brian of Doncaster. I serve Esmon, Sir Ralph’s son, with my men.’

  Baldwin heard the note of pride in his voice. This man was no servant, bound to his master by ties of loyalty and honour, but a paid employee with his own small host of men. Baldwin was immediately struck by the thought that the master of this castle might be well advised to protect himself from this Brian and his gang. It was not a pleasant thought, that a man should be forced to guard himself against his own hired men. It was, in its way, still more dreadful than the idea of assassins and the Old Man of the Mountain.

  Brian had been eyeing Baldwin with interest, but now one of his men nudged him and pointed at Mark, and suddenly Brian’s face lit up like a torch thrust in a fire. ‘God’s flaming cods!’ he burst out, and then sent the guard in through the gates.

  While he waited, trying to control his annoyance at being kept out here, Baldwin glanced through the gate at the castle’s tower. It was only a small keep with a ground floor and one upper chamber which lay enclosed within a stockade, which was strengthened in two places by some more solid moorstone walling. Baldwin was reminded of the little enclosure at Lydford. That too had stabling on the left of the entrance to the stockade, a series of outbuildings ringing an oval space in which men could practise with their weapons, groom horses or watch dogs fighting for their recreation.

  This place looked prosperous enough. There were a number of carts, he saw, some loaded with goods, and the stables were filled to overflowing with packhorses. They had passed some pastures on the way here, in which still more ponies and sumpter horses had idled, and Baldwin reckoned that the place had more than its fair share of horseflesh for a castle of this size.

  ‘Godspeed, my Lord. How may we help you?’

  The man who spoke was older, perhaps not far short of Baldwin’s own age, and had the carriage and indefinable authority of someone who knew his own value. Baldwin was sure that he had seen him before, and there was a faint frown of recognition in the other’s face,
too, as though he could almost recall Baldwin’s name, but not quite. On Baldwin’s part, he would not have remembered Sir Ralph’s name had he not heard Mark mention the name.

  At his side was a younger man, plainly his son, from the similar colouring and looks, and especially the dimple in the chin. Esmon, Baldwin said to himself. The boy looked much more dangerous, standing with a certain haughtiness that bordered on rudeness. His manner was very different from that of his father, who looked as though he carried the world’s troubles on his shoulders.

  ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I am bringing a man here for justice,’ he said formally. ‘I had thought that this castle was the property of Sir Richard Prouse?’

  Hearing his first words, the younger man had gasped with delight. ‘You have him? We can–’

  ‘Quiet, Esmon! I am Sir Ralph de Wonson, Sir Baldwin. You are very welcome. I remember you from the last shire court. You were trying some matters there, I recall.’

  ‘I was there as a Justice of Gaol Delivery,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Tell me, where is Sir Richard? Did not Sir Richard Prouse own this manor?’

  ‘Alas! He died. He lost his wealth to a banker, and when the banker died, his debt was taken over by my Lord Despenser. When Sir Richard died, Lord Despenser gave this land to me.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin said suavely. He had no intention of disputing the man’s right to the castle if the Despensers were minded to give it to him. The most powerful family in the realm could do such things and no man could prevent them. ‘This man, the alleged priest Mark – I believe you wanted him captured?’

  ‘We are very grateful to you,’ Sir Ralph said. He motioned to the two guards, who set their weapons aside and strode over to where Mark sat quivering on his horse. Seeing them approach, he tried to withdraw, but Thomas, who held the reins, snarled at him to keep still.