‘I don’t know, but my man there saved my life by throwing me from the path of Esmon’s mount. If he hadn’t, I’d be lying there instead of Hugh.’
She looked back at Hugh, then wished Simon a good night before leaving him, her mind whirling, and not only from the slight dizziness of a mild hangover.
Attacking the Bailiff was a ridiculous thing to do, Annicia thought distractedly. She would have hoped that Esmon would have shown more sense. His father was cleverer than to simply try to ride down a Stannary Bailiff. Sometimes subtlety was needed. Why couldn’t her son behave more circumspectly, the fool! His father had always been more sensible, more pragmatic, she reflected. The memories brought a smile to her face.
Then her smile faded. Her husband was as much of a fool as her son now, she thought. Ever since he had acquired this castle by devious means, befriending the King’s favourite and making himself politically useful, he seemed to have lost his integrity. She deplored his behaviour.
Sir Ralph had told her that morning of his affair with Huward’s wife. Gilda had been his concubine since before his marriage to Annicia, whom he had wed for the reason that he craved her father’s lands: in marrying her, he gained them as well. The union was rational and steady, if unfulfilling, but it was humiliating to think that he had gone to Gilda, a rough, untutored peasant with the coarse hands and skin of a villein, rather than to her own fragrant bed.
Annicia set her jaw. Yes. It was deeply shaming to think that her husband could have committed adultery with a woman like Gilda when Annicia herself was willing to submit to him. That was why she had spoken to Huward and told him about their spouses, told him the truth about his children. It was pure spite. Perhaps, she thought, Huward would go home and beat Gilda. She deserved it!
Her brow furrowed, she sat back, listening to the sounds of the castle closing for the night. Thinking of Sir Ralph’s errant behaviour made her head ache, as well as the shouts, footsteps pattering across the yard, men roaring for ale and food, and laughter. There were few enough women in the place. Women were always thought of as a distraction, Annicia considered, just like Mary. She had definitely been a distraction!
Standing, Annicia went to the window that gave out on the court. The windows here had no glazing. Sir Richard had had no money to install glass, and in the time since they had taken possession of the castle, Sir Ralph had not had the opportunity to address such matters with all his other responsibilities. Not that it mattered in most of the rooms. They had strong shutters that either pulled inwards and lay flat against the wall, or dropped vertically in runners, held up overnight by a strong thong which hooked over a peg in the wall above.
Annicia had grown up with shutters. It was no hardship to live with them. It was better that a door should block the harshest breezes, and that shutters should exclude snow and rain. There was no need of glass.
Suddenly her eyes were drawn to the old castle keep on her right. The upper chamber was built into the hillside, and the upper door gave out onto the grassed sward beyond. No doubt in years past, there had been another wall planned which would have secured this area, making it impossible for an attacking force to reach the keep itself, but Sir Richard had never possessed the money for that either, so a thin palisade stood there to protect the whole of the court area. It was sufficient to keep the odd draw-latch or cut-throat away, but that was about it.
She thought about her son. Trying to kill the Bailiff in broad daylight was stupid. Executing Wylkyn was different, of course. That evil man had to die for what he had done.
She had felt nervous in Wylkyn’s old room when Sir Baldwin started asking about Sir Richard’s death and looked at the henbane. Although she was reasonably sure that she had concealed her alarm at his questions, she was convinced that he had guessed. He must have some leach-craft. Well, never mind. If he had, he would see the same as Annicia – that Wylkyn had killed his own master. He deserved to die for that. How any man could wish to kill a poor soul like Sir Richard was beyond her, but she had no doubt. That was why she had spoken to her husband and son, why she had told them what Wylkyn had done, and persuaded them that someone who could commit petty treason like that had to be slaughtered like a rabid dog, without compunction, before others got the same idea.
It had been her aim to have Wylkyn brought back to the castle, to be held there and killed before her eyes, but perhaps it was better this way. If Esmon was arrested, she would be able to state that they had wanted to arrest Sir Richard’s murderer, but he refused to surrender. And then, with the Keeper in the vicinity, they grew alarmed.
There was some truth in it, after all. Esmon had had the body hidden rather than leaving it at the roadside. Hiding it satisfied Annicia – it meant that her son was safe from accusations of murder, for no man could be convicted when there was no body, and she knew Sir Richard’s murderer had died unshriven and now lay concealed on unhallowed ground. A suitable end to him, so she felt.
‘Damn him!’ she hissed suddenly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mark couldn’t help himself. As soon as they hurled him bodily down the ladder into the cavern, his chained hands catching on a rung and all but dislocating his shoulder, utter despair overtook him. The ladder was hauled out, the hatch slammed shut, sprinkling a thin smattering of filth over him and blocking out much of the sun. Only a couple of cracks in the boards of the trap door showed that it was not yet night-time.
This situation was impossible. He must die here. His belly rumbled its complaints at remaining empty for another night, but the despair he felt was nothing to do with mere hunger, it was the ruination of himself.
As the light overhead faded and disappeared, he remained squatting on the floor, his back to the wall, weeping uncontrollably. He felt much as a child who had suddenly discovered that there were hideous depths to human nature. He had come here seeking his father, and instead he had discovered love – and loss. Now, blamed for the death of his lover, his own father was determined to destroy him. There could be no more desolate person in the entire world.
The bolt moving above him made him give a small bleat of fear. They must be going to beat him again. Dully he watched as the ladder slowly descended, and then suddenly fell with a faint splash into the ordure of the floor, spattering him again. This time he was past caring. There was nothing that could make him smell or look worse, and he was not of a mind to worry even if there had been.
There was an odd silence. He had expected the same noise, the same torchlight as last night, but there was nothing. Only the ladder and blackness above.
It was a terrifying hole. Beyond it, he was sure, was a group of men who wanted to prove their courage by beating him. Men who only last week would have obeyed his commands because they came from God Himself through Mark.
He cringed back, an arm up to shield his head, peeping up through his fingers. Not a sound, not a flash of light, nothing broke the monotony of the silence. He could almost imagine that God had immolated all the persons in the castle, leaving only Mark to survive. But why should God do that?
Up above him he could hear the normal noises of a stable. The soft splat of fresh dung as a pony lifted its tail, the murmur of a horse, a hoof moving against cobbles. All sounded so peaceful, so comforting, that Mark was tempted to climb the ladder, but knew he’d be battered if he tried.
When the voice came, it was a relief purely because it put an end to the waiting. Now, he thought, he knew his fate. The men of the vill were determined that he was guilty and they were going to make him pay for killing Mary. If Huward was there, he’d want to see Mark screaming for forgiveness. He’d want to see Mark in intolerable pain.
He tried to hide himself in the corner of the cell, not that there was any point. If they lit a candle or a lamp, they’d see him soon enough. Any moment now, he thought, they’d launch themselves down the ladder. This silence was their way of increasing his tension, making his anxiety mount so that by the time they actually came for him, he’d be incapable of self-defe
nce. Perhaps if he was more courageous, he could surprise them, scramble up the ladder and attack them. He might escape – but no. There was little hope of that. Still, he could make sure he was killed quickly, without torture. But he wasn’t brave like that. The thought of throwing himself at men like Esmon and his father filled him with dread.
There was still no noise. Just the steady drip of water and the occasional clop of a hoof as a horse shifted. That was strange. If there were many men up there, the horses would have been upset, and he’d have expected a dog to bark and complain at being woken. Yet there was nothing. It was as though his gaolers had left after throwing open the door to his cell.
If this was intended to increase his fear and alarm, it was working! He felt as though he was about to void his empty bowels.
And then the irritable voice called down to him: ‘If you want to hang, stay there. I’m for my bed. But if you want to escape, go to the side of the keep. There’s a ladder there to the top of the wall, and you can escape easily. The key to your shackles is here.’
Mark listened to the footsteps receding, his mouth gaping. This must be a cynical ploy, another way to increase his terror – give him an apparent escape route and then capture him at the top of the ladder to this cell, or at the foot of the other – if there was one.
Yet the idea of escaping was so sweet, he could have wept.
A drip landed on his head, and he could smell the strong taint of horse’s piss as more followed it, flowing down his back. This decided him. He strode to the ladder and climbed, feeling as though he was ascending to the waiting rope. As promised, the key to his chains lay on the cobbles.
As he turned the key in the locks and the chains fell away, he felt lighter, refreshed, like a man newly born.
‘Simon, wake up, quickly! The damned priest’s escaped!’
Simon slowly came to as a harsh braying sounded from outside. ‘Sweet mother of God, what is that?’ he grunted.
Baldwin gave an exasperated exclamation. Simon was always bad after an evening’s drinking, and last night he had excelled himself. Baldwin had been more cautious, thinking that Sir Ralph might seek to remove the two thorns in his flesh at a stroke, but nothing happened. The food was plentiful if bland, which suited Baldwin’s palate, and the ale and wine was of good quality. After the meal, Baldwin had watched as Roger Scut stood and pronounced Grace. He had worn a satisfied smile on his face, and Baldwin wondered what he had been discussing with his neighbour, Esmon. Something that would be of advantage to Roger Scut, and no help to Mark, Baldwin was sure. Lady Annicia had not been present. Perhaps she was nursing a headache after her drunkenness earlier in the day.
It had taken all his diplomatic skills to keep Simon from offering violence to Esmon. He had sat glowering all through the meal, but even in this mood he wasn’t stupid enough to actually draw a knife against the son of a magnate in that magnate’s own hall, in front of the whole of his household. Instead he had taken as much ale as he could and fell asleep snoring loudly on Baldwin’s shoulder.
‘In God’s name, Simon, wake up, will you? That’s the horn of the Reeve: the local Hue and Cry are trying to find Mark, and we must get to him first.’
‘Let them. If he’s bolted, that’s as good as a confession.’
‘If the locals get to him, they will tear him limb from limb. We have to find him, and bring him back here as quickly as we may, so that he can be safely installed in his cell.’
‘They won’t dare harm him,’ Simon yawned. ‘He still claims to be a blasted priest. Sir Ralph won’t want to upset Bishop Walter.’
Baldwin threw Simon his tunic, and his usual calm was gone as he grated, ‘Your mind is still sleeping, Bailiff. The chapel in which Mark lived has been razed to the ground. If Mark had any letters confirming his position, they were surely in the church or his home, and they are both no more.’
‘That doesn’t matter, does it?’ Simon yawned again, closing his eyes and shoving the tunic from his blanket. ‘The Bishop can always send a new letter.’
‘Yes, he can, once he learns of Mark’s position, but that could take weeks, and in the meantime the boy is likely to die of malnourishment, mistreatment or fever. There is nothing here to confirm his position in the Church. He has lost everything!’
At last his words sank into Simon’s fuddled brain. He reopened his eyes and gazed about him blearily, then reluctantly sat up, scratching the bites at his armpits where fleas had attacked him. ‘So he has nothing to verify his post?’ Simon said, pulling his tunic over his head.
‘No, Mark has nothing to prove his clerical status,’ Baldwin said, watching as Simon pulled up his hose. ‘And although that should not matter, we both know it will! The men of this vill are already so enraged about the murder that they’ll seek to kill him as a confessed felon. His escape is all the proof they want, although Bishop Walter may choose to extort a high price for their behaviour later.’
‘Even my Lord Bishop will be reluctant to impose too stiff a penalty on Sir Ralph. We have heard him say that this damned priest should be protected. He said so before witnesses.’
‘True enough, not that it means a thing,’ Baldwin observed. ‘He made sure that he said the correct things in court, while still inciting his villeins to fury. But enough of him! We have to try to find this miserable priest before someone else does.’
‘He must be mad,’ Simon muttered as he tied his sword belt and shrugged on his coat. ‘Running away in this weather.’
‘What has happened to him here at Gidleigh would be enough to turn any monk mad,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘But how much more mad would he have been to remain in that cell, knowing that all he was waiting for was death?’
‘Perhaps,’ Simon agreed, ‘but running away simply means he’ll find death that bit sooner. How did he get out, anyway? I thought the cell was locked, and I’d have expected him to be shackled.’
‘We can find that out when we have caught him.’
‘All right, all right. I can take a hint.’
He followed Baldwin out to the court, where Sir Ralph had already gathered a large posse. Near the door to the hall Simon saw Hugh glowering evilly at the throng, a heavy strip of grey cloth bound about his head. Hugh was sitting on a bench, a large staff nearby, and although he winced occasionally as the sun came out from behind clouds, or when a horse whinnied too loudly near him, he looked on the road to recovery. In fact, Simon thought he looked like a man who was waiting for the first funny comment before letting his fists fly, which was pleasing. It was good to see his servant returned to his usual state of truculence, even if he was still very drawn-looking; he appeared slightly yellow about the face, and had dark bruises beneath both eyes. At his side was Thomas, whose grim expression seemed the perfect companion to Hugh’s own.
Piers sat on a little pony, clutching at his reins like a man who feared falling, and Simon could see Hugh watching him with that mixture of sympathy and contempt that he always reserved for people, like himself, who were uncomfortable on horseback. In Hugh’s opinion, he concealed his own fear admirably; in Simon’s opinion, it was a touching piece of self-deception.
‘Sir Baldwin, will you join our posse?’ Sir Ralph shouted across the court.
The men in the area were silenced by his bellow. Simon felt as though all the eyes in that yard were suddenly upon him and Baldwin, and he was irritated that Sir Ralph should roar at them in this unseemly manner, in front of so many scruffy villagers.
Baldwin’s response was mild. ‘I fear we have other business to conduct. It would be wrong of us to join your host – we should only be in your way, not knowing the roads and byways about here where a man like the priest might run.’
‘There’s surely a duty on all men to join the Hue and Cry,’ came Roger Scut’s reedy voice.
Simon saw Baldwin’s back stiffen. The monk stood with a smile on his face, head tilted back and a little to one side as though he was contemplating some new form of beetle before crushing it.
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br /> ‘You are quite right, of course,’ Baldwin said suavely, and Simon could hear his anger in the precise, clipped tones. ‘It is the duty of all those in the Hundred to join the Hue and Cry. I do not come from this Hundred. Further, I have the duty as Keeper of the King’s Peace to perform my inquest and review all the facts of a matter. I shall do so. In the meantime, clerk, perhaps you should return to your own duties.’
‘Of course you must do what you think is needed,’ Sir Ralph said, and was about to ride off, when Simon called to him.
‘Is your son with you, Sir Ralph?’
Sir Ralph glanced at him. ‘Do you see him? Neither do I.’
‘Yet it is the duty of all in the Hundred to pursue an escaped…’ Simon swallowed the word ‘felon’, quickly substituting, ‘… man like the priest.’
‘If he is a priest.’
‘That,’ Baldwin shot out, ‘is for the Bishop to confirm, is it not? You will not attempt to slaughter this man as though he were a common outlaw.’
‘We shall see. Even a cleric who draws a weapon on the Hue and Cry to evade capture may be forced to submit.’
‘He has no weapon,’ Baldwin said more loudly. ‘So I shall myself appeal any man who uses a weapon or excessive force to capture him. Any man.’
‘Perhaps he has acquired a knife, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Ralph said angrily.
‘Where is your son, Sir Ralph?’ Simon asked doggedly.
‘I don’t know,’ Sir Ralph admitted after a moment. ‘He left the castle last night and has not returned yet.’
With that, he turned from them both, shouted a command, and the men pelted out through the open gates.
Esmon belched and rested his hand on the girl’s flank. She squirmed a little at his touch, but then twisted under the blanket and offered her mouth to him. With a grunt, he rolled between her thighs and smiled down at her.
She was a saucy little strumpet, this Margery. Slim and attractive, she had the great advantage over other girls in the vill that her father was a carter and often away from his home. With him gone, Esmon could often hope for a warm welcome in this hovel with her.
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 29