Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

The opening was a rough affair with a long strip of leather supporting a wooden door. Splinters attacked his hand as he touched it, but he pushed it nonetheless. If he was asked, he would beg food, declaring himself a mendicant and relying on the peasants’ respect for the tonsure, but when he opened the door, his breath caught in his throat at the smell of fresh bread. There was no time to consider. He snatched the loaf where it lay cooling, turned, and was gone, ripping shreds from the loaf as he went and stuffing them into his mouth.

Sir Ralph soon had his horse saddled and ready. Piers had arrived at the castle on his own sturdy little pony, but had left as soon as Sir Ralph bellowed for his mount. They were to meet with the posse out at the bottom of Deave Lane, where the girl’s body still lay under the protection of the first man Piers had found.

The knight spurred his mount furiously and clattered out through the gateway, turning north up the road towards Throwleigh. His route led him under the great trees, whose boughs gleamed under fluffy, emerald mantles of moss. At several places, the muddy track was so full of puddles that the knight’s horse threw up immense sheets of water on either side, but he didn’t notice. He was thinking only of the dead girl.

That she should be dead was unthinkable! He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe that he’d never again see her smiling face, hear her cheerful voice, thrill to the sound of her laughter. The light was verdant beneath the trees, the sun slanting through thin, new leaves, but he saw nothing of it. If he had, he would have thought it obscene that such freshness, such explosive fruitfulness, should be here still, when that beautiful, perfect child was destroyed.

The journey passed by in a whirl. He cantered up the hill towards Deave Lane and reined in at the sight of the men milling. There were a few on horseback, but most were afoot, all the villeins from the fields and houses nearby, from twelve years up to forty-odd, strong, hearty men, all wearing their horns and staffs, a couple with their billhooks in their belts, but most only armed with their knives. All about them were the hounds, great monsters with drooling jowls and powerful shoulders.

Stopping, Sir Ralph stared about him with his mouth agape. ‘So few men? Piers! Piers! Jesus Christ above! Where in God’s name have you got to?’

The Reeve had been talking to a pair of hunting men, but hearing the hoarse bellow, he immediately made his way to his Lord. There was no telling with Sir Ralph. Sometimes he could be sensible, but more often than not he was overbearing, taking no account of how others felt. Not that it was surprising. Sir Ralph’s family was an old one. It was said that many years ago a clerk for the King had demanded to know by what right he held his lordship and the rights to his own court, and Sir Ralph had smiled, then fetched down a rusting sword from his wall. He threw it at the now anxious clerk.

‘ There’s my right. That’s the sword my father wore; it’s the sword he used to kill the man who owned this land before him.’

‘You’re threatening me!’

‘No. It was a fair fight in the tournament,’ Sir Ralph had said softly, taking back the sword, but then he had suddenly swung it. It whistled as it sliced through the air, narrowly missing the clerk’s head. ‘But I won’t give away my inheritance just because a pissy priest who took to the Law decides he must see papers. Tell the King I claim the right by ancient privilege.’

Ancient privilege, Piers thought to himself. That was all this family ever thought of. They certainly had little enough feeling for their servants. Looking about him here, at the men standing so quietly, he could see too many whose faces were gaunt. Scurvy again. The poor harvest last year, the depredations of the King’s Purveyors, grabbing everything they could for his armies as they marched to Scotland, all the good food gone when the peasants here were already hungry.

‘My Lord?’ he said respectfully.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been calling for you.’

‘My Lord, I had sent those men to see if the priest was in his chapel.’

‘Well?’ Sir Ralph demanded, leaning forward. ‘Did they find the foul scroyl?’

‘No – there’s no sign of him.’

‘He’s fled!’

‘All the other men of the vill are accounted for, but he is gone, and I know some have said that he was sleeping with her. You know how rumours always start, but now… well, it looks very possible that it could have been Mark who killed her.’

‘Right, then, organise the men to chase the mad bastard down! I want him – alive or dead makes no difference to me!’ Sir Ralph bellowed at the top of his voice.

‘If we can, Sir Knight,’ Piers said, glancing about him with a feeling of helplessness.

‘Is this all the men you could find? We need at least twenty men on horseback for the posse, and you have found only seven!’

‘There aren’t the men, my Lord. Who has horses in the manor? Too few. And not many can ride. We have all the men over twelve years here, but these seven are the only men with horses. Even my own son is here,’ he added pointedly. Esmon, Sir Ralph’s son, had not turned out for the posse, Piers saw, nor the castle’s men-at-arms. The lad was no doubt sitting in his great hall, dreaming of owning it when his father died.

Sir Ralph gave the Reeve a long, cold stare. ‘God’s blessed will! If we don’t catch this murderer, Piers, I’ll have you flogged until I have the hide off your back, d’you hear me? Now get on your pony and let’s be off!’

The dogs were ready, and as soon as they had sorted out who was to go where, the hounds were released and the small party set off.

Piers had already instructed the men in what they were to do. He and Sir Ralph would hasten along Deave Lane and use the hounds to see whether they could catch the priest. Meanwhile, the bulk of the men would follow, separating at the different paths. Messengers had been sent to neighbouring vills and Hundreds already, so that the population would rise and attack Mark if he appeared. Finally, a small group was to make its way to the priest’s home and chapel and wait there, in case he returned to collect belongings while the posse was abroad.

Their way led them up along the old Deave Lane to where the poor girl’s body had been found. Sir Ralph slowed as they reached her. She lay with her legs parted, a red mess between them. One eye was closed as though she was winking, but there was too much blood for her to live. Sir Ralph felt a dreadful hatred stir in his breast. He wanted to find her killer and skin him alive, cut out his beating heart, make him suffer all the agonies a man could, for this defilement.

It was not only he who felt this rage against the murderer. He could feel it among the men about him. There was a stillness, a silence, that spoke of their horror at the sight of that pretty young girl, her body violated – desecrated – by this foul attack.

‘You! Put a shirt or something over her face!’ Sir Ralph said.

At Mary’s side stood a guard gripping a pole with a bill hammered onto the end as a makeshift weapon. This man nodded emphatically, then glanced about him. There was nothing near with which to obey, and at last he sighed to himself, set his polearm leaning against the hedge, and pulled off his own thin jack. He draped it over the girl’s face, but as he turned away, picking up his weapon, the butt caught the material and snagged. His jack came away, and suddenly Mary’s head lay oddly.

‘Her neck’s been broken, Sir Ralph,’ Piers said, peering at her.

‘The shit broke her neck,’ Sir Ralph whispered. ‘It takes effort to do that. He must have meant to kill her – this was no accident!’