Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

When he arrived at the church’s buildings, he made for the timber-framed hall in which he held his court. It was owned by the church, and there were stables behind where visitors could leave their mounts. Baldwin swung himself from his saddle and bellowed for the groom. The lad should look after horses for a few copper coins, but he was routinely late to observe a new client.

‘Jack? Jack! Get out here now, you lazy son of a–’

The youth appeared in the alley that led behind the town’s hall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Oh, Sir Baldwin, I didn’t hear you. I was… er, filling the…’

‘Do not lie to me, Jack. I can recognise a lie two miles distant.’

‘I wouldn’t think of lying to you, Sir Baldwin,’ Jack said in a hurt tone.

‘You should leave cheap wine alone, boy. Save your money until you can afford a decent drink. Maybe then you would not fall asleep.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I haven’t been drinking. Not much, anyway.’

‘I can smell it from seven paces, Jack,’ Baldwin said grumpily and passed him the reins.

‘You are my favourite customer, sir. Out of all them who come here, it’s you I serve first and keenest.’

‘That says little for your treatment of other clients, since you are always asleep whenever I arrive! Now give my horse a good rubdown and rest. He has come far enough to warrant at least as much rest as you seem to think you deserve yourself.’

‘Sir Knight, that’s not fair.’

‘I often think I should take my custom to the inn’s ostlers. At least the men there seem interested to have my business,’ Baldwin grumbled.

‘Don’t do that, please, Sir Baldwin!’ Jack’s face had paled, and he hung his head, looking up at Baldwin with sorrowful eyes. ‘You know my wife and–’

‘And three children would suffer,’ Baldwin said testily. ‘Yes, I know. You tell me every time I come here. But I will go to them if you do not stay awake and listen for my arrival.’

‘Yes, Sir Baldwin.’

‘So – see to my mount!’

The youth nodded, ducked his head submissively, and led the horse away towards his stable.

Baldwin watched him go with a glower fixed to his face. The trouble was, he knew that the lad was desperate for the money. If Baldwin stopped bringing his horse here, Jack probably wouldn’t have enough income to keep his wife and children. That wasn’t something Baldwin wanted on his conscience. He had seen enough suffering in the last few years.

It wasn’t the fault of the groom that he was so sharp-tempered today. No, it was all to do with Roger Scut.

This morning’s work was not difficult, but it involved much reading and agreeing of documents with one of Bishop Walter’s clerks. There was to be a court of Gaol Delivery in Exeter in a matter of days, and Baldwin must go through all his cases in which a man had been sent to Exeter Gaol from his court to make sure that none had been forgotten and that the relevant material was all there. Then, when each case came before the men nominated to try it, at least Baldwin himself should escape a fine. He would hope so, for he was to be one of the Gaol Delivery Justices, and setting a fine upon himself would be embarrassing.

Never Baldwin’s favourite task, today he looked forward to reading through the records with less than his usual good-humoured tolerance. All because of Roger Scut, who was in the hall as Baldwin entered.

The odious little man! Chubby and ingratiating, almost half a head shorter than Baldwin, Scut’s hands fluttered as he spoke, as though emphasising his every point. What Baldwin found most annoying was Scut’s habit, or perhaps it was a deliberate affectation, of tilting back his head and squinting along the length of his nose, as though it gave gravitas to his pronouncements. Not that his nose itself was particularly deserving of such attention, to Baldwin’s mind. It was a short, bloated appendage with red and purple blood vessels spread liberally over it. A cider drinker’s nose if Baldwin had ever seen one, which probably explained why the clerk’s voice was so nasal as well. But his habits and his nose were not his only unattractive features. He possessed many others. His eyes, for example.

His eyes were like a ferret’s, always looking about for something, as though he believed that there was a secret to be teased out of the woodwork if he could only but find it. That was another thing that Baldwin disliked about Scut. The way he would not meet Baldwin’s eyes when they spoke. The knight had no doubt that the clerk was honest enough. Yet a man who would not or could not speak to you and meet your eyes was all too commonly concealing something. Baldwin did not trust Roger Scut, the oleaginous little shit.

Not for the first time, Baldwin reminded himself that a ‘scut’ was a common word for an arse on a rabbit or a woman. An old woman, he reckoned, glancing at Scut without amusement.

‘Good Sir Knight! Godspeed, my dear Sir Baldwin. It is a pleasure to see you again. Do I find you well?’

‘Well enough,’ Baldwin said shortly.

Roger Scut was already sitting at the great table in the hall, a pile of papers rolled neatly at his side on the floor, most held in strong, waxed leather tubes. Sheets of parchment were spread before him, held at each corner by large stones wrapped in leather to prevent marking the records. Most people Baldwin knew would not bother with such fripperies. Provided that the stones were clean and not too rough, they would do no damage – but this was just another of Scut’s little affectations. He hated dirt.

Roger Scut picked up a reed and studied the end. Taking up a small knife, he sharpened it and cut the end freshly. There were a number of reeds on the table, and an inkhorn was carefully propped against Roger’s purse.

Baldwin shouted for a pie and a jug of wine, before sitting with a grunt and glancing at the papers before him. Records of crimes committed, money amerced, property confiscated, and then lists of witnesses who would have to be told to travel to Exeter. Baldwin found it hard to suppress a groan. The thought of spending hours alone with this clerk was deeply unpleasant.

‘Please, Sir Knight, look at these first,’ Scut said, pointing to the gaol delivery records.

Baldwin glanced at the figures and tried to fit an expression of interest on his face.

While Sir Baldwin de Furnshill suffered the tortures of adding and subtracting the Latin figures, trying to reach agreement on the totals with Roger Scut, his friend Simon Puttock was returning to his own home after a lengthy meeting with his master, the Abbot of Tavistock.

Simon was a tall man, his dark hair sprinkled with silver now that he was nearing his middle thirties, but although his belly had grown in the last year, and he was the possessor of a second chin, he still rode across the moors often enough on Stannary business to keep his weight from exploding. His face was ruddy-complexioned from his hours abroad in all weathers, and the lines that marked his brow gave character to his features.

He looked relaxed enough today as he rode back from Tavistock to his home at Lydford, but that was only on the surface. As Bailiff, he was an official of Stannary Law, and all too often his expression must reflect the severity of the rough justice given at the Stannary Court. Outside the Court, he was contented enough, and judged by many to be a good companion, but when he was at his rest, his smile was often tempered with sadness in memory of his firstborn son, Peterkin, who had died some few years ago of a fever. The pain of losing him would never leave Simon, or so he felt. Death had marked both him and his wife; their grief was only moderated when their second son was born, named, like the first, Peterkin.