Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Oh, I see.’

And he did. He could see how to win the chapel. All he had to do was make sure that Sir Ralph never learned of his son’s parentage. Simple.

It was late in the morning when Flora reached the lane that led to her home. She was still shivering, but it wasn’t the rain and getting soaked, it was the shock of being chased. The vision of that great horse bearing down on her, Esmon screaming with glee, knowing that she couldn’t outrun his beast, kept returning to her. She couldn’t get the picture out of her mind, nor that of Esmon reaching up with his switch held high, ready to swipe it down at her. The very thought made her shudder again; it was awful, terrifying. At that moment she had been convinced she was about to die, raped like her sister, forced to couple with the filthy, sweating Esmon.

The similarity between this and her sister’s death made her feel as though her very marrow had turned to ice. She had told herself to run, and keep running until her heart gave out and her soul was freed, but she couldn’t. Like a young rabbit caught by an adder’s gaze, all she could do was stare in terror.

Then, with a suddenness that had made her feel faint with relief, Esmon’s father appeared and forced himself between them, saving her. He glanced down at her, and she saw compassion in his eyes, she was sure. That made her feel a slight easing of her fear, but then she caught sight of Esmon’s expression, and she knew that she was not safe. She could never be safe while he lived.

Now that she was almost home again, she glanced about her with her heart thundering in her breast. It was so close to the castle. At any moment Esmon might leap from the trees and assault her. She had never seen another man who looked so uncaring, so greedy. That was all she was to him, she was sure – a slab of useful meat he could devour. And he could do so at any moment. She had no defence.

The wearisome vigil of the night before was wearing her down. Her knees ached, oh so badly, after praying all night for her sister’s soul, and she felt dried out and scratchy. Her throat was rough with thirst, and her eyes felt as though someone had thrown fine dust in them. And all the while, she felt guilt at that feeling, that faint little feeling of relief at her sister’s death.

She’d left her mother with Mary. Gilda couldn’t do much more than sit on her haunches and rock, moaning gently as she surveyed the winding-sheeted body of her daughter. Even Sir Ralph had gone there and tried to speak to her earlier that day, before Flora left her, but Gilda had only stared at him with her broken eyes, then turned back to the corpse, crossing herself like a mad penitent. It had hurt Sir Ralph, Flora could see that, but for anyone to come close to madness was terrifying. Lunatics were usually ostracised, and best avoided by all sane and wholesome folk. Except when it was your own mother, of course.

The rain of the late morning had stopped, and although the sun was hidden behind clouds, the landscape glowed as though someone had washed every blade of grass, every leaf. Occasionally the sun would try to shove its way through and the rivers and streams glittered like silver, the trees shining as though their branches were scattered with fine diamonds, but then the cloud squeezed the sun away again and the land seemed almost to die without its warming light.

She wrapped her arms about her body in a bid to keep warm, but it was little help. More than the weather, she knew that it was the thought of that great horse bearing down on her that really chilled her to the core.

Esmon was a foul man. She was sure of it. In the vill there was talk that he’d grabbed young Avice Fletcher last month and raped her. Men said she was a flirt, that she’d lifted her skirts to show him her legs and she’d got what she deserved, but Avice had told Flora the truth of the matter. She’d been minding the flock out near Throwleigh when she heard a horse approaching at speed. It was coming along the lane at a gallop, from the sounds of it, and she’d climbed up into the hedge to see who it was. Esmon saw her at the same time.

He had often made eyes at the girls in the vill. With his handsome looks and aura of danger, many of the local beauties had been happy to flirt with him, hoping he’d take them. Some of the girls dreamed of being married to a man like him, being taken up to the great castle and allowed to live in luxury: fresh rushes on the floor each month, two, maybe even three dresses, a thick cloak for winter – and enough food and strong wine to fill even the hungriest belly. That was what most craved now, a surfeit of food, after these last seven lean and hungry years.

Esmon fancied several of the girls. Flora knew that he regularly tupped Margery, and he’d had Johanna as well. There were others, she was sure, but that was no surprise. He put his faith in his strength, and that was all the girls had to care about. If their menfolk dared to stand before Esmon and denounce him, he could beat them for insolence, and his father might well arrest them and hold them until his court next met, at which time Sir Ralph could order them to be hanged for petty treason, or merely order that their rent should be increased to a level where their lives were at risk. He owned the land, and he owned them .

But if those girls were willing enough companions, Avice wasn’t. She was already sworn to marry Pike the shepherd’s son, and wanted nothing of Esmon’s rough handling, so she ducked down and pelted away across the field, trying to find sanctuary.

Esmon had hallooed like a hunter seeing a stag. He’d leaped the hedge, his mount digging great divots in the grass where his forefeet fell, and set off after her at a canter. She had almost reached the safety of a small copse, when she felt him grab her under her arm, his hand curling about her breast, scooping her up while she kicked and struggled. He laughed, lifted one leg over his horse’s head, and dropped with her to the ground. There he pushed her backwards, forcing her onto her back, and all but ripped her clothing from her before covering her. She screamed and wept, but for all the compassion her cries aroused in him, she might as well have remained silent. He knew full well that there was no one who could hear her so far from the vill.

Flora had been walking from the mill towards Avice’s home when she saw the girl. Avice was clasping the remains of her clothing to her breast, limping painfully, an eye blackened and swelling, and dried blood marking her thighs. She couldn’t talk, only sobbed piteously, her hair bedraggled and scattered with twigs and leaves. Her lips were red and sore-looking from being crushed by his teeth as he tried to force her to kiss him, and her face was ravaged with shame and pain.

The memory of that sight would live with Flora for ever. Esmon and his father could take any woman who attracted them, and if a father or brother objected, and Esmon’s blood was up, he might set about them with his sword. He was perfectly capable of it. It was strange that his father today had protected her. Flora had heard that other girls had been taken by him in just so rough a manner. Perhaps – she shuddered with revulsion – perhaps Sir Ralph wanted to save her for himself.

The idea that her father might realise what had happened and try to defend her honour by attacking the vile son of their lord was appalling, because it could only end in Huward being slaughtered.

‘Oh God, thank you for saving me,’ she whispered, the tears beginning to fall again.

‘Come, maid! Try to dry your eyes. Your sister’s gone to a good place where she’ll live like a queen.’

She jumped almost out of her skin, but then she saw Piers smiling at her with that twisted grin of his, and she felt her heart recover a little – only a little, though. After being chased by Esmon that morning, she was wary of any man. Even one so friendly and decent as Piers.