The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  ‘My Lords, I have to thank you for… Sir Baldwin, I owe you my life.’

  ‘You do. Undeservedly.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I shall try to meet your expectations of me,’ Sir Ralph said, a little stiffly, for he had not expected Baldwin to meet him with such discourtesy.

  ‘My expectations? I doubt that, Sir Ralph! All this mayhem – it’s all your fault, isn’t it?’

  The other knight lifted his head with a faint renewal of his past haughtiness. ‘Me? Why should it be my fault?’

  ‘Because you are the father of all the sins here, that’s why! Do you realise who that boy was, whom I have just executed for you?’

  ‘The monk? I… I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t you? Yet he was your flesh and blood, Sir Ralph. He was your son!’

  ‘No,’ Sir Ralph scoffed. ‘He can’t have been. I never saw him before he arrived here.’

  ‘Call Scut here. Let’s see what he can tell us.’

  Roger arrived a few moments later, wiping his hands free of Mark’s blood. ‘What is it?’ he demanded pettishly. ‘I have work to attend to, laying out that poor boy.’

  ‘That boy,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘Where was he from?’

  ‘Axminster. The poor fellow was born to a mother without a father. He was one of those taken into the cathedral by Bishop Walter some years ago.’

  ‘Axminster?’ Sir Ralph said.

  ‘Did you know a woman there?’ Baldwin pressed him.

  ‘Well, I did, yes, but surely she would have let me know if I had…’ Sir Ralph closed his mouth. He had met a widow there, it was true, and for a month he had stayed with her, but Mark couldn’t be his son. It was impossible. ‘No, he’s no relation of mine. His blood is not mine.’

  ‘He thought he was your son,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘It is true, Sir Ralph,’ Roger Scut said. ‘He confessed as much to me.’

  ‘And you didn’t see fit to tell me!’ Sir Ralph snarled. ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I didn’t think he could have been telling the truth. It sounded like a pleasing excuse, a way of escaping your anger, nothing more.’

  ‘And you saw a means of acquiring another chapel for no effort,’ Sir Baldwin said with poisonous sweetness. ‘You couldn’t tell Sir Ralph that this boy was his own son, could you? If Sir Ralph knew that, he would move Heaven and earth to protect his son and leave him there in his chapel, where Sir Ralph could meet him often.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ Roger said nervously.

  Suddenly Sir Ralph’s forearm was across Roger Scut’s windpipe. ‘Is it true?’ he demanded through gritted teeth. ‘Did you conceal my paternity from me to enrich your purse? If you did, as there’s a God in Heaven, I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to the pigs, Master Priest!’

  ‘I have done nothing of the sort!’ Roger Scut squeaked. He couldn’t swallow now, and the pain was increasing.

  ‘Leave him, Sir Ralph! You can’t evade your guilt and sins by attacking another.’

  ‘Get off me!’

  Simon was about to take hold of Sir Ralph’s arm to release Roger Scut – with a degree of reluctance, admittedly – when there came another interruption. At the gate, a man on the wall cried out to the gatekeeper. ‘Shut the gates, and do it quick!’

  Hearing the shout, Brian came out from the buttery where he had been enjoying his morning whet with another man-at-arms. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Men. Looks like twenty or so, marching here with a man leading them on horseback.’

  Baldwin and Simon exchanged a glance.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Sir Ralph asked distractedly. ‘Who can they be?’

  ‘It is the Coroner, I expect,’ Baldwin said soothingly. ‘He was expecting Simon and me last night, and when we didn’t turn up, I suppose he grew concerned.’

  ‘And since I am such a foul brigand, he assumed I’d have imprisoned you and tried to persuade you to give me all your fortune?’ Sir Ralph said caustically.

  ‘Sir Ralph, you can’t let these two go.’ It was Brian of Doncaster. He had strolled over to them, his hands in his belt.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can do with guests in my own castle.’

  ‘I have to. You would risk my life and the lives of my men if you opened that gate. The Coroner isn’t here for these men only, is he? He’s here because of the raiding and the murder of Wylkyn. I can’t have you opening the gates and surrendering the place. You do that, you’ll put all our necks in the noose.’

  ‘Open the gate!’ Sir Ralph roared. ‘You: Keeper! Open the gate, I said. Slide back the bars.’

  The gatekeeper smiled and nodded, but then looked at Brian, who shook his head and said, ‘It stays barred until I say it can open.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Coroner wasn’t surprised to find the gates closed to him. This was the home of a felon and brigand, and any large force must make him seek safety first, rather than risking an invasion.

  ‘Wait here,’ he commanded. Thomas and Godwen were with him as his Lieutenants, and both nodded. He rode to the gate and bellowed in his loudest voice, ‘Open this gate in the name of the King!’

  ‘Who demands it?’

  A face had appeared on the wall near the gate itself, and Coroner Roger directed his attention to the man. ‘Are you Sir Ralph?’

  ‘No, I’m his Constable. Who are you? What do you want here?’

  ‘I am the King’s Coroner, and I want to talk to your master about the murder of Wylkyn the miner, and about the arrest and imprisonment of my own servants.’

  ‘Wylkyn died trying to attack Sir Ralph’s son Esmon, and as for your servants, there had been a theft in the area. It was our duty to preserve the King’s Peace, and we arrested them in good faith. Now if you intend to hold an inquest into the death of the miner, tell us when and where and my master will attend, but we will not throw open the gates to everyone who demands it at the head of a small host.’

  ‘You will open this gate in the King’s name, or you will be kept inside to starve.’

  ‘You can sit there outside as long as you want, friend, but we have plenty of stores here. Now leave the gate unless you want an arrow to speed you on your way!’

  ‘You dare to threaten a Coroner? Fetch out your master, you brigand!’

  ‘Call me a brigand?’ Brian called sharply, and snatched up a crossbow. He aimed it at Coroner Roger. ‘You will not speak to Sir Ralph while you wait there at his gate like a thief! What, do you want to take his castle for yourself? Get away before I loose this bolt!’

  ‘I shall not go until I speak to the master of the castle!’

  ‘He orders me to hold you away. Would you have me break my master’s lawful command? Go!’

  It didn’t occur to Coroner Roger that he was speaking to a mutineer, so he was in two minds. There was no clamour of fighting from the rear of the castle as yet, and he would have expected some noise by now. If he remained, he was sure that he would soon be punctured by the man’s bolt, but if he left, it could mean that the men attempting to scale the walls might be seen and slaughtered.

  ‘Very well, I shall go. But first, ask your Lord to come here. I want to speak to him about the inquest.’

  ‘You aren’t listening, are you? I told you, he said I was to come up here and hold you away. He won’t come.’

  ‘What of his son? Is Esmon in the castle?’

  ‘Old man, I am growing bored with your questions. Go back to your tavern and wait. We’ll send for you when my master wants to speak with you.’

  ‘I shall, but first–’

  Brian heard it a moment before Coroner Roger, and he whirled around, frowning. There had been a cry of pain; only quiet, but it sounded like the call of a man who was suddenly struck down. Brian had been a warrior too long to mistake the noise.

  The Keeper and his Bailiff friend were still down there in the yard with two men guarding each, while Sir Ralph was a short way away with another three men about him. None of them had broken free, s
o far as Brian could see. No, the call came from somewhere else. In the hall, he knew, Esmon was sitting with a crossbow pointing at his breast. There was no sign that he had escaped.

  Brian turned back to the Coroner, but there was a niggling doubt in his mind. This little uprising of his had been thought out long ago, but now he had implemented it, he was nervous. It had seemed the ideal time to take over the castle, when he heard that there was a small band arriving to question Sir Ralph, because it gave Brian and his men the excuse to kill Sir Ralph and Esmon while blaming the attackers. Brian and his men would swear that they had turned to support the Coroner’s men, and had had to kill Sir Ralph and Esmon because they refused to put up their weapons. Easy. And while the Coroner investigated, Brian and his men could have it away on their feet with any of Sir Ralph’s plate and money they could lay their hands on. There was little need to fear a small local force such as the one which the Coroner had brought. In Brian’s band there were men who had killed and fought in battles up and down the kingdom.

  Yet there was something amiss. A man had cried out. Where, and who was it?

  Lady Annicia retired to her solar with Flora as soon as Mark fell. The sight of Sir Baldwin swiping the clerk’s hand off, the blood fountaining from the stump spattering the tables, made the Lady curl her lip in distaste, but she saw that Flora was close to fainting.

  ‘Come, child!’ she said, leading Flora from the room and through into the solar.

  Ben had leaped to his feet, and now he stayed at the back of the hall staring about him at the clerk, Sir Baldwin and the other men as though expecting to be run through himself at any moment. He scarcely glanced at his sister as Lady Annicia gently pulled Flora after her.

  ‘Thank you, my Lady,’ Flora stammered as they went into the little downstairs chamber.

  ‘You have had to cope with enough already,’ Lady Annicia said coldly. ‘Your house, your father, and now this.’

  ‘Why should he want to kill Sir Ralph?’

  ‘Come, dear. Call him by the correct title: “Father”.’

  Flora closed her eyes and hung her head. She had hoped that there would be no need to talk about that. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, child. It’s my husband and your mother we must blame, if anyone.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Of course. At least he kept it quiet,’ Lady Annicia said, pouring wine.

  They had said nothing after that. Both had plenty to occupy their minds. While Flora wept silently, in memory of Huward and her mother, both dead, Annicia was musing on the shame that her husband’s affairs had heaped upon her. It was not pleasant. There were all too many catty wives in the shire who would be delighted to bruit news abroad of Sir Ralph’s womanising. They would say that it was no surprise he sought younger flesh when the alternative was an ugly old bitch like his wife. She knew how women of her class would turn on any other who had shown a chink in her armour. Draining her cup, she poured more wine.

  When the shouting started outside, she did little more than glance up, but when the man entered her solar, she stood with quivering outrage. ‘What do you think you are doing in here?’

  To her astonishment, he drew his knife and pointed it at her. ‘Keeping you quiet, Lady. Make a squeak and I’ll use this to mark your face for ever. Be still and sit silent. All right?’

  Astonished, she flopped into her chair and gazed at Flora as though this too was her fault. It felt as though everything was going wrong. Flora was her husband’s, not hers; the justifiable vengeance on that miner had brought her son, apparently, into danger – and now there was this man…

  ‘I know you. You’re one of Brian’s men.’

  ‘Quiet.’

  She knew him. That could only mean one thing: treachery. Lady Annicia shot a look at Flora, but she obviously didn’t understand what was happening. Lady Annicia sipped reflectively at her wine, and then poured more.

  ‘You want some?’ she asked him, motioning towards her drink and taking hold of the heavy pewter jug.

  ‘You can’t get me drunk!’ he said sneeringly.

  Without pausing to think, she continued the movement. It sent the wine from her cup dashing into the guard’s eyes. He raised his hands to protect his face, and as he did so, the Lady leaped at him, knocking his knife-hand away with her cup, then swinging the jug with all her weight and malice. The almost full jug connected with a dull, echoing crack, and then she was lifting it again and bringing it down with both hands. It hit the man between his ear and temple, and he fell like a pole-axed ox, suddenly collapsing vertically.

  She stood, panting slightly, watching for any movement. His knife was on the floor, and she put her foot on it. At the same time she noticed the blood welling from a gash on the side of his skull, and the twitching in his hands and feet. He looked as though he would never rise again. To be safe, she brought it down once more, with full force, and then crouched and took his knife. Because she was practical, she thrust it into his breast to make sure of him. There was surprisingly little blood, she thought.

  ‘Come!’ she said to Flora, and went to the door.

  The lock opened quietly enough, and she peered through the tapestries, which had been pulled aside. In the room beyond she could see Ben and Esmon sitting side by side, a guard holding a crossbow standing with his back to her. Esmon, her Esmon, looked merely enraged, but Ben was listless, as though he expected or even welcomed death. Beyond the two were many of the castle’s servants, held in a corner of the room by two men armed with swords. She gauged the distance. It was at least six yards between her and the bowman, and the high table was in the way. She wasn’t sure if she could get to him.

  She threw open the door with a scream, and hurried out, the jug still in her hand. ‘Rape! Rape! He’s tried to rape me!’

  The guard turned, his mouth wide open. For an instant his task was forgotten, and she saw that Ben too was gaping at her, but her son, her lovely Esmon, was not so stupid, and he was already at the guard. There was a confused grapple, and then Annicia saw that the whole of the man’s head appeared to explode. Shards of something flew from the crown of his skull, warm stuff spattered her face and hair, and the crossbow’s bolt struck the timbers of the ceiling, penetrating and staying in the wood while the guard, already dead, toppled slowly and then fell.

  In the corner, the other guards tried to hold the servants back, but they were forced to cover their prisoners while keeping an eye on Esmon, who had now taken the bowman’s sword. Facing the threat from Esmon as well as all the servants, the two guards exchanged a glance, and then bolted for the door.

  ‘Mother, you stay in here!’ Esmon called, and ran after them. Ben watched him, but was incapable of movement. He sat like one already slain. His fear petrified him and made him remain in his seat. Even as Esmon snatched up his own sword from the doorway where the guard had made him set it, as he struggled and hauled the bowstring back until it caught on the nut, Ben could not move. When Esmon had the bow cocked, he went back to the guard’s body and found the small pouch filled with steel-tipped bolts. He took a handful, placed one in the groove of the crossbow and went to the door. Outside, he saw the men guarding his father.

  With a shout, he ran down the steps to the yard, bow in one hand, sword in the other. A guard by his father’s side realised something was wrong and turned. Esmon gave an incoherent roar and pointed the crossbow at him. He fired, still running, and saw the bolt fly, true to his aim, through the man’s throat. A red mist burst from the man, and he grabbed at his neck, gurgling as he started to drown in his own blood. Then Esmon was on the next guard.

  He saw Baldwin move as soon as the first guard fell, thrashing as he tried to breathe. Another guard had turned to face Esmon, and Baldwin took his arm, spun him around, and hurled him into a third. He dropped to the dying guard and took his knife, whirling as a guard tried to stab at his back; he leaped back, and the sword whistled near his breast, and then he closed swiftly. The man tried to rev
erse the action of his sword, but he was too slow and Baldwin was already slashing upwards with his knife, inside the man’s ribcage, a ferocious glare on his face as the blade sheared through the man’s viscera, his blood drenching Baldwin’s hand.

  There was a crack behind him, and when he turned, he saw a guard on the ground, his face bloody where Hugh’s staff had cracked full-force into his nose, but then he saw that more men were pouring from the gatehouse towards them. Brian was up on the wall, watching in a fury as he saw his men falling. In his hand was a crossbow, and he raised it. Baldwin took a deep breath, convinced that the bolt would strike him, but the machine wasn’t pointing at him. The string thrummed, and Baldwin saw the blur as the steel-tipped death flew through the air.

  It hit Esmon on his left shoulder as he was lifting his sword to parry a heavy blow. Its massy weight smashed through his bones, locking his arm and shoulder in place, and with the impact, shards of bone exploded onwards, splinters tearing through his lungs and slicing through veins. He knew he was dying as soon as he felt the terrible shock of the impact, and when he looked down and saw the bolt’s wooden shaft protruding from his shoulder, he gave a bellow of fury and rage, like a bear tired of the baiting, and hurled himself onwards, determined to kill as many of his enemies as he could before he died.

  ‘Sir Ralph!’ Baldwin said. ‘Come with us!’

  ‘My son!’

  ‘Leave him – he’s dead.’

  ‘No! He can’t be!’ Sir Ralph cried. ‘Esmon!’

  ‘That’s your man, Sir Ralph, he’s your enemy!’ Baldwin shouted, pointing to Brian, who was desperately trying to recock the crossbow. ‘Do you want to die here, now, or come to safety and kill your son’s murderer? Will you avenge Esmon’s death or wail and gnash your teeth until you’re killed in your turn?’

  He grabbed Sir Ralph’s shoulder and half dragged the man back towards the keep. ‘Come on!’

  Simon was fighting another man, and he heard Baldwin’s cry even as he saw Hugh manoeuvring behind his opponent. There was a loud crack, and the man disappeared. ‘Hugh!’