Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘That’s why we leave early. He’s no idiot. He might have heard we’re approaching, and then he’ll demand money for passing his lands.’

‘Demanding money doesn’t mean we’ll be at risk.’

Saul eyed him bleakly. Alan was a pleasant enough lad, usually cheerful and helpful, but there was no getting away from the fact that he was sometimes argumentative; he would take a stance and speak smilingly about it, apparently listening to other views but ignoring whatever was said. It was infuriating. Saul himself preferred to have a simple stand-up row about something.

Still, today Alan seemed less disputatious for the sake of it. He looked more like a boy who had been told to go and sit all day in the rain watching chickens on the off-chance that a fox might happen along. Sulky, that was the word.

‘That’s why we go early – so that even if he chooses to extort cash from us, we’ll have gone already. What is it, lad?’ Saul asked, leaning on the wheel of his cart and studying Alan carefully.

‘It’s just daft, going tomorrow,’ Alan burst out. ‘Why not go without me? You don’t need me riding along.’

‘Who’ll drive the other cart, boy?’

‘You could lead it,’ Alan said.

‘What is this? Are you ’prentice to me or not?’

‘Anyway, he only takes money, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, it’s only money!’ Saul spat. ‘I suppose you have so much you’d be happy to give it all to him? Come on! What’s all this about?’

‘I don’t like it, that’s all.’

‘Why? You don’t mind going farther afield. We’ve been up to Hatherleigh, down to Tavistock – what’s the matter with going to Chagford?’

‘I went there once before.’

‘Ah!’ Saul thought he could understand. ‘You never told me this. And he caught you?’

‘No. I saw the ambush, and I bolted.’

‘So what’s your problem?’

‘If they recognise me, they might demand the money I owed them from that last journey!’

Saul sighed. ‘Al, if you escaped, they won’t remember. They only pinch what they can from a few folks, that’s all. I doubt whether they’ll remember you, all right?’

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘Well, get used to it, lad.’

‘Master Carter. Are you going to Chagford?’

Saul groaned to himself and turning, found himself looking up into a familiar face. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Wylkyn the miner.’

‘No need to be like that.’

‘You enjoying life up on the moors?’

Wylkyn smiled thinly. He wore good clothes, a heavy cloak of fine wool, a tunic of hardwearing fustian over a fine linen shirt, but all were worn and faded now. Once grand, now all was growing shabby. ‘It’s good enough.’

‘Not as comfortable as your old life though, up at the castle, boiling herbs for Sir Richard, eh?’

‘Perhaps. Is it true you’re going to Chagford?’

‘Yes. We’ll be leaving early tomorrow.’

‘I want to join you.’

‘You? Why?’

‘I have things to sell and provisions to buy. Where else should I go but the Stannary town to get them?’

Saul shrugged. ‘You can come with us, if you have a mind. Why not? The more men the better.’

‘Good, old friend. I’ll be here tomorrow, then, with my ponies.’

‘Aye.’ Saul watched him walk away with an unsettled feeling in his gut. ‘Why does he want to come with us?’

Alan shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘Are you as thick as a hog? Why do you think? We’re all travelling together to be safe from the men at Gidleigh, but he should be safe enough. He was one of them, wasn’t he?’

Roger Scut marched to the inn with Peter Clifford, the Dean of the Canonical Church, walking solemnly at his side. This early in the morning there were not yet many hawkers thronging the streets, but they must walk cautiously, avoiding the pots of night-soil being flung from upper windows and the excrement which lay in the kennel. While stepping around one, Roger felt his foot squelch and he smelled the odour of dog’s mess almost simultaneously. It made him feel queasy – and still more irritable. It was not helped by the onset of rain. They were only fine drops tapping at his face right now, but yes, Roger was sure they would soon become thicker. The wind was getting up again, too. He was bound to get soaked on the way back after this meeting.

‘I still think we should have brought some of our servants, Dean.’

‘There is no need for force with a man like Sir Baldwin.’

‘He is irrational, argumentative, and all too keen to resort to steel to impose his will.’

‘Your words are intemperate,’ Peter Clifford said, pausing and fixing Roger with a cold eye. ‘What proof do you have that Sir Baldwin has ever drawn a sword to push through an unjust action?’

Roger Scut reddened. ‘It is well known that knights are always prone to arrogance and haughty behaviour! You cannot think that this man is better than the others.’

‘I state it firmly, Brother, and I suggest you moderate your own opinions of him. Sir Baldwin is fair, intelligent and just. It is a shame more knights are not struck from the same mould.’

‘If you are wrong…’

‘I said no,’ Dean Peter said affably. A tall, grey-haired and wan-featured man in his later fifties, his back was bowed from sitting and reading by candlelight, and his thin, ascetic face gave him something of the look of an invalid, but his mind was perfectly clear and he was no man to be bent to another’s will without reason. ‘I know Sir Baldwin well. There is no need to try to scare him to a just solution. If there is merit in your proposition, he will see it, with or without guards.’

Roger Scut pursed his lips as they continued on their way. If anything were to go wrong, he would see to it that this refusal became widely known. The only way to deal with an arrogant bastard like this miscreant knight was with the threat of violence. Everyone knew that law officers were routinely corrupt, it was merely a matter of degree. Every so often Sheriffs would be cast out from their lucrative positions, Coroners would be told to go and Keepers would be changed. It was easy enough to see why. Each of them could influence decisions on a man’s guilt or innocence. It was a matter of supreme importance to a noble that he should see any of his men released from custody with their innocence determined. All his retinue must be protected. Otherwise the actions of a small number of hotheads might reflect badly upon their masters. Better that they should be released and their crimes denied.

Not that it was only a case of saving face. Sometimes professional assassins must be reprieved from a court so that their lords might point them in the direction of another enemy whose passing would be little missed by the world.

‘Men like this Keeper should be reminded occasionally that they do not control us in the Bishop’s See,’ he said, tilting his head back and staring down his nose at merchants and traders.

‘Men like this Keeper need no reminding,’ Dean Peter said with a chilliness in his manner.

‘I am glad you believe so,’ Roger Scut said equivocally.

They had reached the inn, and Roger Scut dived inside like a man gathering a last breath before jumping into a pool to grasp a shining bauble before it could be snapped up by a fish. Dean Peter sighed, tutted to himself, and then shrugged good-naturedly and followed. He was in time to see Roger Scut interpose himself between Sir Baldwin and the kneeling Mark, his arms held out dramatically as though he were pinned to a cross.

‘Sir Baldwin, I insist that you release this prisoner into the custody of Dean Peter and myself.’

Baldwin gazed at Roger Scut with ill-concealed distaste. ‘I fear I can do no such thing.’