The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  ‘True enough,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘So: Wylkyn. Do you have any idea where the body may lie? If you do, it would be better to tell us now. We could carry it back to the scene of the murder before the Coroner arrives, which would save another fine for removing it.’

  Surval considered. ‘I may be able to find it.’

  ‘One other thing. You have met Mark and spoken to him. Yesterday you said you thought him innocent – do you still?’ Baldwin asked.

  Surval led Simon and Baldwin to the bridge and stood staring reflectively down at the water.

  ‘I am all the more convinced Mark is innocent because of my family.’

  ‘Your family?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I am brother to Sir Ralph. Although I am older, I early decided to take up the religious life, as I told you, Sir Baldwin. I enjoyed the desires of the flesh. And then my woman fell pregnant again and one night, when I was angry and drunk, I gave her a beating. It… it killed her and our child.’

  Involuntarily, Simon took a step back.

  ‘Yes, Bailiff. I am not a pleasant man. I did it. I killed my own woman. Not intentionally, but in drunken frustration and anger. And afterwards, I came here because it was close to my old home of Wonson.’

  ‘Your Bishop allowed you?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Alas, he never realised. That all happened back in 1307. Walter Stapledon was being elected to the post, but Robert Winchelsea objected, and Bishop Walter wasn’t consecrated until October 1308. In that time, I had run away. I wandered a great deal, and then came here. I’ve been here ever since. At least it has meant that I can protect the poor and infirm.’

  Simon gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘Even if that’s true, so what? Why should that make you decide Mark is innocent?’

  Hearing voices and the rattling of carts, Surval threw a glance over his shoulder, irritated to have his train of thought broken. He had much to think about, especially since hearing from Mark this morning.

  ‘Because bad blood can run in a family. I believe it does in mine.’

  ‘So it runs in Mark’s blood too,’ Simon observed.

  ‘It’s possible, but I think it more likely that my other nephew Esmon holds foul blood. I saw him riding along near that road on the day that Mary died.’ He had seen Sir Ralph too, but no one could think his brother could be guilty of murdering poor Mary. Esmon, though, yes – he was capable. Especially if he didn’t know the truth. Esmon could well have raped and killed her.

  ‘If Mark is your nephew,’ Baldwin said, ‘then surely he would be capable of the same offence as you. You killed your woman while you wore the cloth; his woman has now died in the same way. Why do you think him innocent?’

  ‘The two are not the same,’ Surval said. ‘I was drunk; he was sober. I punched my woman in the belly in rage; he merely slapped his in irritation. I sat and drank more, unable to see what I had done; he was overwhelmed with remorse and bolted from the scene, only returning later. And of course, his woman died from a broken neck. I cannot see him breaking a neck, can you?’

  ‘But Esmon is more powerful,’ Simon said. ‘He could have snapped her neck with ease.’

  Baldwin nodded absently. He was thinking of Ben, and wondering whether he had the strength in his arms to be able to break a neck. Would his sister’s rejection of his advances give him the resolution to kill her in that way? It was possible.

  Simon said, ‘Again, do you know where the miner’s body lies?’

  Surval stood watching the doorway to his home. ‘It must be well hidden,’ he said.

  Before Baldwin could respond, there was a gruff rumble from a man on horseback. Baldwin had not seen his approach behind two carts, and now the sound of his voice made the Keeper whirl round.

  ‘Aha! Well hidden, is it? No doubt it was some Godless heathen did that. I expect it was some mad Keeper of the King’s Peace, don’t you, Master Bailiff?’

  ‘Greetings, Coroner,’ Baldwin said evenly. ‘I had not looked to see you so soon.’

  ‘No, I doubt whether you had,’ Coroner Roger of Gidleigh said with loud delight. ‘Still, I am sure you’ll want to fill me in on the details of this matter, won’t you? Um, shall we see the body straight away, or…’ he glanced coldly at Surval ‘… leave it a short while to give people time to find it again?’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sir Ralph swore and lashed with his whip at a bush to vent his frustration.

  ‘So where has that miserable shit of a priest gone, then?’

  Piers was at his side, holding his hands out in acknowledgement of his own bafflement. ‘I don’t know. I’d have thought he’d have come straight up here, but there’s no sign of him.’

  Sir Ralph cursed again, while the men about him waited. Dogs sat and scratched, one discovered a pile of something unpleasant, and rolled enthusiastically in it until Sir Ralph’s whip caught his flank. ‘He can’t just have vanished.’

  ‘Perhaps we were wrong and he went a different way?’

  Sir Ralph pursed his lips. The bastard must have come this way. It was the only choice that made any sense, both because of the logic of the route away from the castle avoiding all those folks who could have apprehended him, and also because Mark knew that he should be safe on the moors if he only declared himself a miner. That would usually work, but today Sir Ralph had the right of Hue and Cry to catch his man, and so he would. And when he did, he would make sure that the young cur died for the murder of his Mary.

  The land here should have yielded up a fugitive without difficulty. ‘If he came here, we should have seen his prints in among all this black soil.’

  ‘Yes. But there’s no mark at all.’

  Piers was speaking the simple truth. The land here was flat, with few rocks or bushes behind which a man might conceal himself. They had passed over the winding streams with their ancient clapper bridges, and on to the broad, flat plain. Here they ascended a long ridge of hills and now they could gaze out over some miles in all directions.

  All the flat plains were soaked with water. Any man trying to escape over that would have been slowed, but also his prints would have been visible to the men whom Sir Ralph had brought with him. He had already led his men up and down this ridge; all were spread out and walking their mounts perpendicular to the direction of Mark’s flight. Or the direction that his flight should have taken him, anyway.

  He thrust his whip between his thigh and the saddle while he considered. This was ridiculous!

  ‘Do you want us to carry on to Steeperton,’ Piers asked respectfully, ‘or shall we go back and see if the dogs can find a scent nearer the castle?’

  ‘Don’t try to tell me how to hunt a man, Reeve! I’ve done it often enough!’ Sir Ralph saw Piers pull a face, and knew why. He’d been so certain that Mark must have come this way that he hadn’t even bothered to take the dogs to the spot where Mark had escaped over the castle wall. Instead, he had led the posse up here, past the stone circle and onto the moors themselves.

  Mark must be laughing. He had got out of the castle, and now he was concealed somewhere. Perhaps he was in a tree overlooking the castle even now, giggling to think how he had evaded the trap set for him by Sir Ralph.

  It was infuriating to realise now that Mark must have guessed Sir Ralph would try to set a trap for him when he was released from his cell. Sir Ralph should have known his motive would be transparent.

  ‘Come, we’ll return and see if we can get his scent even now!’ he shouted, and turned his horse back to the east.

  At all costs, he must see that little pile of dung dead. He didn’t care how, but Mark must die – and slowly, too.

  That was the reason why Sir Ralph had gone and set him loose, after all.

  Esmon sent the boy to take his horse back to the castle. There was no need for it today. The weather was fine, and the sun was out again, so he decided to walk the mile or so to Flora’s house. After all, he didn’t want to catch the girl and then be discovered by the miller who might notice Esmon’
s horse tethered at the place where he was enjoying Huward’s younger daughter. A man the miller’s size could inflict severe damage on a smaller man like Esmon, and he had no wish to suffer a beating at those giant hands.

  Easier by far to take the girl away, scare her by threatening to have her father killed if she refused to submit, or if she told her father later what Esmon had done to her. Much easier for all concerned.

  The lanes were still muddy from the rains, and the scent of warmed earth made him feel at home. It was a scent which had been with him all his life, but at the castle of Gidleigh, he missed it, because the natural odour was overwhelmed by the stench of unwashed men and the little midden behind. Here the soil’s own rich tang was predominant, and in the warmth of the sun, with the dampness in the air, it felt as though he was walking through a fine mist of peat.

  It was good that Wylkyn was dead. The man had deserved it, and it was always satisfying to visit punishment on the guilty, just as he must soon punish Mark the monk. And then he would sit down with Brian and plan what they were to do next. It was clear enough, from the exultation of the men after the raid during which Wylkyn had died, that they needed more excitement. The band was growing bored with sitting about; they craved war. Only in fighting did a man reach his true potential, only when shouting defiance with a sword in his hand did he achieve that peak. There was nothing else like it. Afterwards, sex with a willing wench was good, but even that wasn’t as thrilling as the actual fight itself.

  If he had been master of the castle, he might have decided to stay. It was a good place. Comfortable, spacious, and with the potential of ready money from raiding travellers, but while his father was the master, it was better that they should find somewhere else to go.

  Especially now, since his attempt on the Bailiff. Esmon didn’t want to be taken as a felon. He could count on the Despensers having him freed, but that wasn’t the point. If he could have ridden Simon down, that might have given him a breathing space. Instead, by missing, he had further infuriated the Bailiff and given him a motive to find Esmon guilty. A Stannary Bailiff had many powers. If he wanted, he could feasibly arrest Esmon and have him installed in the Lydford Gaol. It didn’t bear thinking of. He wished now that he hadn’t let his impetuousness overrule his common sense.

  At the lane that led down to the mill, he paused when he heard the sound of chopping in a small wood near the road. It could be Huward. He had no intention of risking a fight with the old bugger. He could well lose, especially if Huward was armed with an axe.

  Cautiously, he entered the little wood where he had heard the sound and crept forward to see who it was. A heavy-set figure was swinging his axe with more violence than was necessary: Osbert.

  ‘What are you up to, churl?’ Esmon drawled. ‘This is not your land, and you have no right to be cutting trees. I shall have to see you fined for your theft.’

  ‘I was sent here by the miller’s wife; if you have a complaint, take it to her.’

  ‘Your manner is impudent. Perhaps I should teach you some manners.’

  Osbert hefted his axe in his hand and stared at him. ‘Keep your hand from your sword, Master. Your father isn’t here, and nor are your men-at-arms.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘You are a fool, Esmon. You reckon you can scare me, but it’s too late for that. I’ve lost my Mary, and that was the worst thing that could have happened to me. So now, I ain’t scared of anyone, you included. You should be, though!’

  Esmon was confused. He took a step back, out of reach of the axe, and he was tempted to draw his sword, but he prudently left it while he tried to learn what Osbert meant. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No? Maybe not. But Sir Richard’s man is dead, isn’t he? And who was seen doing that? You!’

  Esmon chuckled. ‘That’s interesting. So I’ll have to enlist the help of my Lord Despenser to avoid the rope, you mean? Or perhaps you mean that I’ll have to ask for the support of his friend, the King, to have my sentence quashed and my crime pardoned? You cretin! You have no idea how feeble your threats are to someone as powerful as me! My power is based upon my friends, fool. You grip your axe with care for now, churl, thinking that you are in danger while I’m here, but you’re wrong. You need to fear me when I am not in view. That’s when I will be most danger to you. When I am talking to my friends – or maybe planning your death!’

  ‘You can’t scare me.’

  ‘Anyway – where’s Wylkyn’s body? I don’t see it. No body: no murder. No one will convict me!’

  ‘No? Not even for the murder of Sir Richard Prouse?’ Osbert saw Esmon’s face freeze. ‘Oh, yes, Master. We all know about Wylkyn, how he brewed things for his Lord. Good, some of them were, others could kill. He was interested in them all, Wylkyn was.’

  ‘Yes, that was why–’

  ‘Why you killed him. Because you stole the poison from his room to kill Sir Richard, and as soon as Wylkyn saw someone had used his potions to murder his master, he ran away. You had to have that castle, though, didn’t you? You were in such a hurry, and Sir Richard just wouldn’t die. He was prepared to fight, and you couldn’t hang around to fight a court case, so you murdered him instead. We all know it, Esmon, and we’ll make sure the Coroner does, too.’

  Flora was surprised by her mother’s apparent lack of concern at Huward’s disappearance. She had tried to raise the subject of his not arriving home the night before, but Gilda had ignored her. At the time, Flora had thought that Gilda already knew where he was, that he had gone to an ale-house like the widow’s in Murchington, to drink and forget his misery, but then she heard her mother weeping herself to sleep in the bed next to her. Her misery had stilled even Ben’s sarcastic whining.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ Flora asked again as they ate their meagre breakfast.

  ‘He’ll come back soon enough,’ Gilda said. ‘He must!’

  She looked terrible. Since Mary’s death, her face had lost its roundness, and now her features looked haggard, slightly yellow. Her eyes were red-rimmed and there were blue bruises under them from lack of sleep, while her mouth had lost all colour. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to prepare dough for bread, but she persevered at the task as though it was a means of distracting herself from the end of her world.

  Flora left her. Outside, in the sunshine, she felt the sharp, metallic taste of tears welling, but swallowed hard and forced them away. She had to stay strong, both for her mother, and for herself. Her father, her poor, poor father, had broken into pieces like an earthenware jar dropped on stones. Now Mary was dead, he seemed to have collapsed in upon himself.

  Turning her face skywards, Flora enjoyed the sun upon her cheeks. It felt as though God Himself was giving her the full impact of His love, a love that could warm the most sorry of humans, and for a while she stood there, basking in it, but the comfort it gave her couldn’t last. The loss of her sister, and now the disappearance of her father too, induced a chill in her bones.

  She craved the love of her father. He had been at the court yesterday, Flora knew, but he hadn’t come back. Flora was worried. She prayed that he hadn’t got drunk and fallen into a river or over a cliff. There were so many dangers here, especially for a man who had drunk too much.

  The sun was momentarily covered by a cloud, and as it returned again, she opened her eyes. Perhaps Osbert knew where her father had gone? He must have been there at the court, surely; he was one of the court’s jury. She could go and ask him. And if there was the slightest sign of sympathy from him, she would throw herself into his arms, and damn the world.

  As though the thought was answered by God Himself, she suddenly heard a laugh, and then the regular sound of chopping at wood. That was where Osbert was, in the woods up near the road to Gidleigh’s castle.

  Inside the house she heard more dry, racking sobs as her mother gave herself up to her misery once more, and that decided her. She had to find her father not only to make sure that he was a
ll right, but also to save her poor mother from this overwhelming despair.

  With a determined frown on her face, armed with the logical pretext that she was in fact embarking on a mission for her mother’s ease of mind, she set off to follow the sound of axe hewing wood.

  In the mill, Ben put his hand on Gilda’s. ‘It’s all right, Mother.’

  She snatched hers away. ‘All right? When your father has disappeared?’

  ‘But he’s not our father, is he?’ Ben said slyly. ‘I heard you talking to Surval yesterday. All of it.’

  ‘You heard us?’ she repeated with a kind of dull sadness.

  ‘So I know Huward isn’t our father. I think we could earn more money from our real father, don’t you? Leave it to me, Mother. I’ll see to it that we’re better off now than we have ever been.’

  ‘No! You stay here, don’t dare go to him, he’d–’

  ‘What, deny he’s my father? I doubt that.’

  Coroner Roger led Baldwin and Simon away from the hermit’s house. When Simon peered back over his shoulder, he saw that the old man was staring after them still, but as Simon watched, he shook his head and re-entered his house with a slow, despondent gait. The sight gave Simon a pang of remorse. He wished he could like the hermit, but he couldn’t. There was something about the man that made him feel wary. Deep in his soul, he loathed murderers and Surval had committed the worst of crimes.

  The girl Mary came into his mind. A man like Surval – lonely, miserable, sleeping in a cold hovel, with few comforts of any sort: would it be any surprise if he succumbed to desire for a woman? Especially a young woman, a girl who was fresh, warm, attractive? Surval had done so before, on his own admission – could he have done so again?

  He was about to ask Baldwin about the girl’s body, when the Coroner spoke.

  ‘These carters here have lost their tongues since I overheard them talking in the tavern.’