Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

The door slammed open, knocking Os from his feet, and in rushed the force, led by the Reeve of Chagford and Hugh. The two men fighting with Simon were despatched, and then Osbert could go to Flora. She sat in her chair, and he picked her up, unheeding of the pain in his hand, and carried her outside.

Baldwin had gone straight to Brian. He must reach the felon before he could kill the women. Brian had the crossbow in his hand, but it was useless now, so much sinew and wood. He had no time to reload and fire. Instead he swung it upwards, blocking Baldwin’s first blow. Baldwin slipped down and stabbed, but the blade went wide, knocked aside by the crossbow. It was only when Baldwin pushed forward and tried to get inside Brian’s reach, that he nicked Brian. He felt the blade grate on bone as he darted forward, and although Brian said nothing, Baldwin could see how his mouth became set. Baldwin had hurt him.

The bow was hurled at his head, and he must duck, and in the same moment Brian dragged out his sword and a dagger. Now he crouched, the knife forward, the sword held back for a swift riposte. Baldwin had no second weapon, and he paced forward slowly, warily watching Brian’s eyes, aware of the entire man, not only one hand or weapon, but the complete fighter. He saw a certain tension in Brian’s calves, and took a quick breath. Then Brian launched his attack.

He was good. His sword whirled high, and his dagger was almost an invisible blur underneath, the blow shielded and hidden by the greater threat of the sword, and Baldwin must retreat, blocking both with speed, only to see that both were only the first part of an attack. Now the dagger slid sideways as if to eviscerate Baldwin, and as he countered that, he realised that the sword was slicing towards his throat. He parried, then tried to regain the initiative by turning his blade and thrusting forward, but before he could complete the movement, he saw the dagger moving in once more. He sucked in his breath, curved his body away from the glistening, grey metal, and felt it slash at his belly, the pain nonexistent, the only sensation that of a faint dragging of skin with a dullness afterwards.

He would need another new tunic, he thought to himself inconsequentially, and then had to duck as Brian’s sword whirled past his skull. The dagger was there again, under his eyes, and he must move back again.

And then he saw it. Brian was confident of his victory. Baldwin must seem so old, so slow, Brian knew he could kill him. The blades flashed again and Baldwin gave way again, giving the impression of feebleness, watching carefully. Yes, there it was again: the shift of balance and quick change of foot. It was very quick, very assured, but it was a weakness.

The sword darted at his belly, the dagger behind and above, so that it could stab behind the false threat of the sword, but then he moved his feet just before lunging, and Baldwin had him. He grabbed Brian’s sword hand with his left, pushed, crouched, and kicked as hard as he could on Brian’s knee. There was a satisfying crunch, a high scream of pain, and Brian fell.

Baldwin stood over him, kicked him in the belly as he tried to stand, and then stabbed down once with his sword.

‘That is for Coroner Roger!’

The next morning was bright and clean, as though nothing foul or unpleasant could exist beneath the clear blue sky. When Simon rose, he could see not a single cloud to mar the perfection. The view was delightful, all the more so because he felt, if a little stiff, at least unmarked.

Hugh was at the trough in the courtyard when Simon left the inn, morosely washing a linen shirt. ‘Look at this! Torn, and the blood is all over it. I’ll never get it clean.’

‘Is that yours, Hugh? I didn’t think you were hurt,’ Simon said with some alarm. He had shown his man no sympathy after the fighting. His attention had been concentrated on Baldwin, who was bleeding slowly from a long scratch in his belly.

‘No, it’s not the shirt I was wearing yesterday,’ Hugh said glumly. ‘It’s much better than that, it’s the one the gatekeeper was wearing. He won’t need it again.’

‘No,’ Simon said distastefully. There was an old tradition of taking a dead man’s clothes. It was perfectly in order, but Simon would have hated to feel the shirt of a dead man against his own flesh. ‘Have you seen anyone else yet?’

‘No. Think they’re all still drunk,’ Hugh said censoriously. ‘Not good to drink so much after something like that.’

It was true. The men had all sunk to the ground in exhaustion after the battle. None of Brian’s men were left alive to trouble the area, and the attacking force was utterly spent from danger, from terror and from exertion. It was a long while before Baldwin could command them to begin to haul all the bodies into the yard. One pile was formed of Brian and his men, the other of the men who had helped destroy them, and when all was done, Simon himself had gone to the church next door, and asked the priest to come and attend to the dying as well as the dead. He had been reluctant, apparently convinced that a band of marauding outlaws had descended upon his vill and intended making off with all his silver.

In the end, Simon gave up and sent for Roger Scut. In minutes the rotund figure appeared. He had been locked in the room in the gatehouse, and now he gazed along the length of his nose like a prelate who was trying to elevate his nostrils above the stench of the common folk, but then he saw the dead bodies and crossed himself. He then earned Simon’s undying respect by demanding to know where the wounded were, and before anything else he went to them, attempting, as best he could in his clumsy manner, to ease their pain.

They hadn’t been able to bury anyone. That would be the responsibility of the vill’s folk later, but Baldwin had been very insistent that Coroner Roger’s body should be taken away from the place. It was brought to the inn, and lay in a cool storeroom even now. Baldwin had taken on the role of Coroner, and recorded the details of the action with the help of Roger’s own clerk. There had been much else to clear and mend, and it had taken some time to track down the vill’s peasants and organise them into labour squads, removing the bodies from the yard when Roger Scut told them that they could.

Simon stretched. His left shoulder was painful where someone had clubbed him and his foot was intensely painful where he had strained the tendons, but bearing in mind how close he had come to being stabbed or shot, he felt he had escaped lightly.

‘Hugh…’

‘Sir?’

‘When we get home, remind me to give you five marks.’

‘Five?’ Hugh stared with his face quite blank for a moment. Then he sniffed, glanced up at the sun, and returned to his scrubbing. ‘That’s good. I can buy my wife a shirt.’

More than just a damned shirt, Simon thought. Five marks was probably more money than he had ever before possessed. ‘And Hugh, if you don’t want to come to Dartmouth, I’ll understand. You can stay at Lydford and look after things there.’

‘You mean that?’

‘I wouldn’t have said so otherwise,’ Simon said heavily. It would be a hard parting. Hugh had saved Simon from harm on several occasions, and although he was undoubtedly the surliest bugger of a servant whom Simon had ever met, he was still a companion of many years, and losing him would be a wrench.

He turned on his heel to walk away, but stopped when he heard the quiet reply.

‘Sir? Thank you, sir. My wife, she’ll be pleased.’

Later in the morning, Baldwin made his way back to the castle. From the very beginning he had thought it a tinderbox of petit treason and mutiny, but the knowledge that he had been proved correct gave him no satisfaction.