A moment or two later, the room fell silent as Sir Ralph appeared with his wife at his side. They walked in regally, Sir Ralph nodding to his steward, and allowing a momentary annoyance to pass over his face as a man-at-arms gave a shout of delight on seeing how the dice had fallen. Others in the room shushed the man, but he growled, staring down any of the servants who met his gaze. When he was satisfied that he had cowed all, he deliberately sat with his back to Sir Ralph.
The Lord threw a bitter glance at his son, but Esmon affected not to notice. Baldwin, looking at the stiffness in Sir Ralph’s back, was convinced that he would make his son pay for the man’s rudeness later.
There was a breeze in the room. The tapestries behind Sir Ralph rippled occasionally, while Baldwin was aware that sometimes a candle or two would smoke and gutter at the same time, although he gave little thought to the matter. He was too busy keeping his eyes on the men-at-arms.
They had no respect for Sir Ralph, that was quite evident. Their noise was unmannerly, as though they no longer cared about how the master of the castle might view their rudeness.
Sir Ralph was chewing his food stolidly but by the fact that he spoke not at all and never once so much as glanced towards the disruptive men, Baldwin was convinced that he was more angry than anyone would have guessed.
It was all too common now, because of the number of men who must be hired for money rather than for their loyalty, for mutinies to take place. Mercenaries were everywhere. It was the greed for personal wealth that led to it, Baldwin thought. In his day, men knew their rank, but now ploughmen were demanding more money than they had received the last year, and so were masons, shepherds and others, as though they had a right to more. It was sheer lunacy.
Baldwin remained true to the old ways. His men were all loyal and deserving of his trust because they had been with his family for many years. Some castles he knew had been built specifically to take note of the unruly mob who were supposed to be the armed guards of the castle’s Lord. Instead of sharing a building with their leader, he was segregated in order that he could protect himself and his family in a separate chamber, just in case his men proved disloyal. Such was the case here, Baldwin told himself, glancing back at the strong door to the solar block. Sir Ralph and his wife retired into that separate area where they could at least bolt the door to protect themselves from unruly men-at-arms. It was a dreadful comment on the way that things had changed since the turn of the century.
He frowned a moment. And then his eyes focused. The men here were uncaring for the honour and position of their own master. Unless they were intending to leave immediately, perhaps they had some idea of deposing Sir Ralph: that was what Roger Scut had implied, wasn’t it? That Esmon was planning to overthrow his father and install himself in Sir Ralph’s place?
What better way to achieve that aim than by murdering Sir Ralph, Baldwin thought, using an assassin, like the Hashishim. Someone like that would wait for a signal. He glanced carefully at the men all about, wondering whether any might be about to shout or whistle for an accomplice to attack. Or perhaps not. Men would be most relaxed after a meal, he reasoned. Perhaps the signal was merely the end of eating.
But there was a ritual that signalled the end of the meal, he realised, remembering the meals he had eaten here before.
With that thought, he stood. Aware that he was being watched by all eyes, he edged his way behind the men seated at his table, until he reached the dais. There he bowed slightly to Sir Ralph, who kept a wary eye on him as though expecting Sir Baldwin to leap upon him. The steward appeared to hold the same doubts, and made as though to block Baldwin’s path, but then events suddenly moved so swiftly that Baldwin could only recall what happened when he later spoke to Simon.
First, Sir Ralph held up his hand to his steward, but then he stood. He set his own hand on his sword, ready to pull it out. Roger Scut, sitting nearby, immediately stood and began to speak the Grace. Instantly the tapestries exploded: two, which had been joined to seal a gap, billowing out and exposing the grim, white features of Mark. He held a long dagger in his hand, and with fearful but determined eyes, he launched himself at Sir Ralph.
The knight was concentrating on Baldwin, but some instinct made him turn his head just as Baldwin grabbed his own sword. It came out in a sweep of flashing blue, the peacock-coloured blade hissing as it slithered from the scabbard, and then Baldwin beat at Mark’s dagger hand, severing it cleanly at the elbow. It fell to the floor still holding the blade.
Only then did he see that Mark’s other hand gripped a small eating knife, and this was aimed at Sir Ralph’s throat. Unheeding of his lost fist, Mark pressed on, and Baldwin turned his sword. With scarcely any effort, his blade sank into Mark’s breast, the priest’s onward rush forcing himself onto it like a wild hog spitted upon a lance.
Sir Ralph was retreating to give himself fighting room, his own sword out now, but seeing that Mark was beyond further attack, he spun round as though expecting another from the men in the corner. None of them had moved, however, as though the action was as much of a surprise to them as to all the others in the room. Sir Ralph stood and waited, daring them to make a move. For a short while all was quiet but for the choking and bubbling that came from Mark, and then gradually the men at the table shrugged and turned away.
‘Let me get to him!’ Roger Scut demanded, his face white with shock. Baldwin’s sword had come within a few inches of his own head and the sharp sound of that blade slicing through the air and then thwacking through Mark’s arm had almost made him empty his bowels. It was with relief that he realised his habit was not bespattered with faeces.
Roger Scut was full of mixed emotions. He had automatically risen to come and help this man before he died, for Roger took his duties seriously when they directly affected a soul, especially when that man was a cleric. Now, he felt his heart twist as he looked on the ruin of the man he had wanted to die so that he could take his chapel. Now it was that Roger felt the full shame and dishonour of his actions.
Mark turned and met Roger’s stare unflinchingly, and Roger felt as though Jesus Himself had stabbed him with a look; but where he would have expected hatred or scorn, all he saw was gratitude.
‘Please… my confession…’
Roger knelt quickly at his side. He gripped Mark’s remaining hand and bent his head in prayer. Behind him he heard Sir Ralph hawk and spit. Then he spoke, and Mark had to work to keep his eyes shut as he prayed, trying to ignore the venom in the knight’s voice.
‘Yes, you look after him!’ Sir Ralph sneered. ‘You damned monks always stick together, don’t you! You stopped him from being executed for one murder, and because of your stupid actions, he was able to come here today and nearly kill me. Murderous traitor! Evil degenerate! Well, he’s done now! Let the bastard die slowly, so he can feel the weight of his treachery!’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Having spoken, Sir Ralph stormed from the room up to his solar, his wife joining him. Baldwin remained where he was, his sword still ready, flashing blue and red in the light.
There was no need to fear more violence. He could see that the men at the tables were surprised at the suddenness of the attack and the speed of Mark’s defeat. Taking up a fallen towel, Baldwin carefully cleaned the blood from his blade, then wiped it on his tunic to dry it off. Satisfied, he thrust it home into his scabbard, and he would have left to rejoin Simon and Hugh, except something in the dying man’s eyes made him remain.
‘Must tell you… It was him… made Huward kill his family…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘His wife… Gilda was Sir Ralph’s… whore. All children, Sir Ralph’s. None Huward’s.’ He coughed up a ball of bloody phlegm. ‘Huward dead. Hanged himself in a tree.’
‘Where?’
‘Hill behind mill… not far…’
Baldwin nodded. ‘Mary. Did you kill her?’
‘Hit her. Not hard. Loved her.’
‘Did you break her neck?’
Simon asked.
‘Punched. Just once.’
‘You swear you did not break her neck?’ Baldwin pressed.
‘Yes. Told you… I loved her. Went back later… wanted to make up. She was dead. All that blood. Knew I’d be accused. Ran away.’
‘So she did not collapse and lose her child while you were there?’
‘She was well when I left… My poor Mary.’
‘Did you see anyone else who could have killed her? Anyone at all, from after you left her to when you found her dead?’ Baldwin had to know.
Mark winced, both eyes snapping shut with a sudden pain. He raised an arm to wipe his face, but it was his stump. His face seemed to tear with loss, with the realisation that he was dying. He sobbed silently a moment, then breathed, ‘Sir Ralph.’
‘Is that why you wanted to kill him? You thought he was the murderer?’
The man was fading fast now. A quivering as though he was terribly frozen was causing his limbs to shudder and one heel was knocking a staccato rhythm on the dais’s floor. His face was a deathly pale, his eyes wide with knowledge of his impending doom. Roger Scut murmured that he should conserve his breath to confess his sins, but he continued weakly.
‘No more… All done. Sir Ralph was father of Mary… father of me too… Incest… Ruined… me…’
‘By God’s love,’ Roger Scut muttered under his breath, and then swiftly began the process of the Seven Interrogations, his guilt making him careful and precise. Mark choked and answered as he could, but Baldwin could only feel relief that he was able to respond to the last and relax on hearing the viaticum. It would have been a terrible weight for Baldwin to bear, had Mark not received the promise of God’s forgiveness.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Baldwin stood, his head bowed, staring at the boy as his lifeblood drained, forming a puddle which surrounded his head like a red halo. ‘He wanted to murder Sir Ralph because Sir Ralph was his father.’
‘That’s hardly the best excuse for murder!’
‘This is no laughing matter, Simon!’ Baldwin burst out. ‘That boy discovered that the girl he loved was his sister; he had got his own sister with child without knowing it! An incest! Is it any wonder his mind was turned?’
‘You mean Mary was Sir Ralph’s child as well?’
‘Exactly – and I killed him,’ Baldwin said. He suddenly felt the appalling weight of his action. ‘That boy was forced into crimes because of Sir Ralph’s offences, Simon – not because of his own sins. Oh God! What have I done? I killed him for that? I should have killed Sir Ralph!’
‘You prevented a murder,’ Simon said steadily.
‘By committing an injustice! And that’s worse than a mere crime!’ Baldwin hissed.
Coroner Roger was at the tavern when the men started to arrive. Those from Chagford were first, led by a Reeve, John. All were grim-faced at the thought of the work they must do today, but shouldered poles with their billhooks rammed hard onto the ends. Some self-consciously carried swords which their forefathers had passed down over long years, but the Coroner was happier to see that many of them bore bows and quivers full of arrows. If this day was to end in a battle, the more archers the better, and since King Edward I’s day, every vill had men trained with long bows.
Next were the men from South Tawton with a trained Squire, Master Hector, who had seen battles, and whom Coroner Roger felt he could trust. That was a relief, for so often there were knaves and fools sent when a posse was commanded to ride.
Aye, it was all too common that you’d end up with the dullest slugs in the county when you had to catch someone, when what you needed were the strongest men both in the arm and in the head, the Coroner told himself, running an eye over the men gathered in the roadway in front of the inn. At least this lot seemed intelligent enough, and most were experienced in fighting. If they hadn’t been in tussles in the wars with or against the King, and God knew, few enough men in the realm had avoided any fighting in the last few years, then they had been involved in scrapes with the bands of cudgel-men, the trail bastons who were still such a pest.
He didn’t like to admit the fact even to himself, but Coroner Roger was anxious. Sir Baldwin and Master Puttock were both capable fighters; Roger had seen Sir Baldwin last year fighting a powerful opponent and slaying him, and he knew Simon was a doughty ally. If they had been set upon, they would have given a good account of themselves – of that he was quite certain.
The question was, had they been given a chance to defend themselves? Coroner Roger knew that they had left this place yesterday afternoon, intending to rescue the Coroner’s two men and Saul, and the three had returned safe and well, if grumbling bitterly, and said that the Keeper and his friend were still at the castle. There had been news of a fire, too, but no sign of Baldwin or Simon. It was a known fact that Sir Ralph and his son were capable of taking hostages and ransoming them. If that was what they intended with Baldwin and Simon, Coroner Roger would soon show them the error of their ways.
Although he had never seen the need to broadcast his affection, Roger was fond of both men, and the thought that they might be held in a grotty cell without food was disquieting. Still worse was the thought that they might even now be in peril of their lives. What Sir Ralph could be holding them for, Coroner Roger had no idea, and he didn’t care. If they were being held, he would have them released. If he was to act swiftly, he could come to the castle and surprise the men guarding it. Then he could take the place quickly with a minimum of bloodshed.
The Coroner sat with the Squire and the Reeve, and debated with them the best means of gaining access to the castle. None of them knew it well, but the Squire had passed by it a few times, and the Reeve had once gone there with a message.
‘Sir Richard never had the money to properly guard it and the perimeter is largely a wooden palisade at the rear, dug into the wall.’ The Reeve was a sharp-eyed man with the dark, weather-beaten features of a farmer. Although his waist spoke of his prosperity, the green tunic he wore was faded, and his leather belt was straining as though he had not bought new clothes for many years. He had a quick mind, and spoke with decision about matters he understood.
‘How clear are the approaches?’ Coroner Roger asked. They were using sticks to mark out the land in the dirt at their feet.
‘Not very. There are trees on the hillside behind here, but there is a broad expanse leading to the walls which is still clear. If the guards are attentive, it’ll be a hard fight to break in over the wall. If they aren’t, it’d be quite easy to get in.’
‘What about the front?’ asked Squire Hubert, a heavy-shouldered man in his early twenties with a narrow, regular face and light hair. His eyes were a startling blue, and when they fixed upon the Coroner, Roger had the uncomfortable impression that he was being interrogated. Squire Hubert sat quietly for the most part, deferring to Coroner Roger, but he was clearly a trained warrior. Younger than the other two men, he yet had experience of three wars and had managed men in battle. He was no strategist, he said, but if he was told what he must do, he would achieve his objectives.
‘Clear. There’s roads coming in from the north here, from the east here, and the south too. We could ride to the gate, but then we’d be standing out in the open with arrows and all sorts being thrown at us. Not a nice prospect.’
‘But if we had a small party at the rear, while more go to the front as though to storm, and then pull back as though defeated, the guards might all go to the front, leaving the rear walls clear to be scaled. If need be, we can deal with any individual guards who remain.’
Coroner Roger nodded. ‘That makes most sense. We have to rescue my friends and end this family’s reign of fear.’
‘We’ve heard about their depredations for too long,’ the Reeve said. ‘No one wanted to accuse the new Lord of Gidleigh, though. Bastard! I can’t guess how much he and his son have extorted from people passing by.’
‘You say he killed this miner?’ Squire Hector asked. ‘Do you know of any others
he might have murdered?’
‘Not at present, but the main thing is, we have to remove the threat before any others meet the same fate,’ the Coroner said. ‘Especially my two friends.’
‘In which case, we should hurry,’ Squire Hubert said. The sun was rising in the sky. ‘We want to get there before the day is far advanced.’
Their plan was soon agreed. They had almost seventy men, which the Coroner and the Squire both felt was adequate. As they rode, Coroner Roger and the Squire discussed tactics. ‘I’ll take twenty-odd to the gate,’ Coroner Roger said. ‘You take the rest to the rear.’
‘Good!’ Squire Hubert said. His voice was warm and enthusiastic. ‘The Reeve and I shall get in while you are making some little noise, then rush the garrison.’
‘And open the gates so that we may enter,’ Coroner Roger reminded him. ‘But be careful that you don’t visit death on my friends.’
‘One dark man with a beard that covers only the point of his jaw, wearing a crimson tunic; the other a taller man, thicker in the belly, and wearing a tatty green coat and worn boots.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t tell him I said that!’ Coroner Roger said lightly, but in his heart all he could see was a castle in flames, and the bodies of his friends lying in the dirt, trampled by maddened horses and terrified men.
Baldwin left the hall and stood outside in the yard. He was there some while later when Simon walked out.
‘Baldwin, we have to try to get out of here before Coroner Roger arrives.’
‘Yes, you’re right, I know,’ Baldwin said, but Simon could see that his mind was elsewhere.
‘The boy ran at Sir Ralph. There was nothing else you could do.’
‘I could have used the flat of my blade to turn his knives. There was no need to kill him. I am an experienced fighter – and him? He was a monk, in Christ’s name!’
As he spoke, there was a gruff clearing of a throat behind them, and they turned to find Sir Ralph in the doorway to his hall. Seeing that he had their attention, he walked slowly towards them.
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 41