Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

It wasn’t only Bannockburn, either. He had heard of the field of Courtrai, where the mad peasants had destroyed the French cavalry, and Morgarten, where the mountain men had wrought destruction on more noblemen. Both were examples of that most appalling of things, a slaughter of the knightly class by the lowest forms of life: serfs. In the Christian world, there were only three orders: the holy men, whose task it was to protect the souls of the living and the dead; the warriors, whose job it was to keep society in check; and then far down the list, the peasants and freemen. The knights’ job was to control them and keep them in check. If serfs could fight knights and defeat them, the whole order of the world was topsy-turvy. It didn’t bear considering.

However, the means by which they could win a battle was instructive. Clearly it wasn’t because God was on their side – He would hardly support the peasant! – so it was the methods which they used. Even King Edward II was moving towards a mobile host of men-at-arms, who could ride to the point where they were needed, but who would then dismount and fight on foot, in among the archers and others. Dismounted knights, standing among the peasants! It was a horrible thought and yet it worked. The Scots had proved that. Rebels they might be, but they could fight – and win.

They were moving off eastwards, and Sir Ralph realised that they were soon to pass in front of Mary’s home. His back stiffened at the thought. He could still remember his first sight of her body lying at the side of the path, under the wall. It was hideous. With the recollection he felt he must gag.

Almost as he had the thought, the little mill came into view. Os was just lifting a sack onto his back and carrying it to the door when he heard their hooves. Instantly upon seeing them, he dropped the sack and bent almost double in reverence. Huward was in the building, and hurried out. Seeing Sir Ralph, he ducked his head, without breaking contact with his eyes.

Sir Ralph saw his distrustful expression, but acknowledged him. ‘Master Miller. A fine morning.’

‘I hadn’t noticed. Not with my daughter dead.’

‘I offer you my sympathy,’ Sir Ralph said.

Perhaps Huward heard the broken tone, the sincerity in his voice, because his reply lacked gruffness. ‘I thank you. Godspeed, Sir Ralph.’

‘Godspeed, Miller.’

Esmon sniffed loudly as they passed by Huward and muttered something under his breath.

‘What?’ his father demanded, more harshly than he had intended.

‘Nothing.’

‘You said something. What was it?’

‘I just don’t understand why you are so kindly disposed towards that family. They’re peasants, and should be treated accordingly.’

‘When you are older, Esmon, you will learn that things are never so simple, nor straightforward.’

‘He’s only a miller. What’s so complicated? If he gives us trouble, we can throw him out of the vill and offer the mill to another. There are plenty of millers about the place. We should easily be able to find another – especially at the rent you demand!’

‘It is my choice,’ Sir Ralph said coldly. ‘You may make your own decisions when you are Master of the Manor.’

‘Don’t worry, Father, I shall,’ his son said.

His voice sounded carefree, but there was an undertone of contempt which was pitched at the perfect level to rankle. With his own little force of men under Brian of Doncaster, Esmon had grown more independent of late. He often sought to tease and annoy, but Sir Ralph was in no mood to rise to the bait today, not with memories of Mary so fresh in his mind.

They passed along the roadway, dropping down the hill to the bottom, then turning left towards Wonson.

‘What have you heard?’ Sir Ralph asked after a few minutes.

‘The party is coming on Friday as usual. All merchants, no men-at-arms.’

Sir Ralph nodded. Each Saturday Chagford held a market, at which the miners from the moors would come to gain provisions, as would farmers and villeins from miles about. Many goods were always on sale, but the most keenly eyed items were the spices and mercery which had to come all the way, usually, from Exeter.

There were good profits to be made from meeting merchants on their way to Chagford for the market. A man could demand a toll for using a road, if he was bold enough. Or, if he had courage, he could take a portion of the goods for himself. And now that Sir Ralph had Gidleigh, he could state his price. He controlled the roads that led to Chagford Bridge, over which the merchants from the north would probably pass.

‘Who is that?’ Esmon called.

Sir Ralph scowled, annoyed that his thought processes had been interrupted. Then he saw at whom Esmon was pointing.

‘Ha!’ Esmon yelled, slashing at his horse’s rump with a switch.

It was a woman. Sir Ralph shrugged. It was only natural that his son should seek to chase her. He was young, and many a buck saw fit to run down his doe. Already, hearing his exclamation, or perhaps his hooves, she had turned and caught sight of the two men. Seeing Esmon in pursuit, she dropped her basket and bolted. Only then did Sir Ralph see it was Flora, Mary’s sister.

‘Esmon! No!’ Sir Ralph bellowed, but his son was already too far away to hear – or didn’t care. With a sudden rush in his blood, Sir Ralph felt the choler taking over his humours.

‘Come, Bayard!’ He raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks, crouching low as he felt his beast’s muscles bunch and thrust, bunch and thrust. The mane was flicking across his face now, the mud spattering at either side, and he was pelting along at a full gallop; although the rage was there in his belly, he was aware of the thrill, the excitement. The thundering of hooves, the pull of the wind in his hair, the tug of his cloak, the slap, slap, slap of the heavy sword at his hip, all lent a curious exhilaration to the chase.

He could see his son almost upon the girl now. She was running, terrified, her face drawn into a mask of horror when she threw a look over her shoulder. Then Esmon was alongside her, and he lifted his arm with the switch to strike at her. Sir Ralph saw the short ash stick lift, and then he was pushing his mount between them. The switch came down, but it hit Sir Ralph’s cheek. Enraged, he grabbed his son’s arm and pulled. He hadn’t forgotten any of the training he had been given by his Master of Defence, and he made use of it now. Esmon’s wrist was in his hand, and he hauled it down and back, pulling on the reins at the same time. His horse stopped almost instantly, while Esmon’s carried on, and Sir Ralph felt his son lift from the saddle. Esmon gave a short cry of shock, and then he fell into the mud and filth of the lane while his father gave a quiet smile.

‘You may think you’re better than me, boy, but you don’t touch that girl. Her sister is dead and you will show her respect.’

Esmon spat mud from his mouth and slowly stood, whirling his arm about his shoulder, feeling the muscles with his other hand as he did so. He gave a nod, satisfied that nothing was broken or torn, and then looked up at his father.

‘If you do that again, I shall kill you.’

‘You may try, boy. In the meantime, you’ll show that girl respect.’

‘I shall do as I wish, Father,’ Esmon said quietly. ‘And if I desire to ravish her, I shall.’

Sir Ralph stared at him coldly. ‘If you do so against my wishes, you’ll have to answer to me.’

‘Yes,’ Esmon said with a sweet smile. ‘I will, won’t I?’

It took little time for them to pack and prepare for the journey back to Gidleigh, especially since, to Baldwin’s profound gratitude, Roger Scut disappeared shortly after Godwen and the others had brought in Mark. The clerk took one last appalled look at the priest and then scuttled away like a small beetle disturbed beneath a stone.