Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Not that it was anything to concern Brian. He had pressing matters of his own to consider, like how to keep his men loyal. After all, a mercenary leader without men is only a mercenary. If Esmon was taking Brian’s men from him, the least Brian could do was try to turn the situation to his profit. The question was, how to make cash from the position he was in.

As he had the thought, his attention was caught by the sight of a skulking figure at the gate. It was the dim one from the vill: Sampson, scavenging again in the alms dishes, taking anything edible for himself.

Pathetic! The cur was no better than a rat, sidling along walls as he went about collecting whatever he could. That was a sign of the feeble control of this place, the fact that he had been allowed to live. In most castles Brian had known, men like him would have drowned or fallen off a cliff by now. Not here. None of the peasants had the guts to kill someone. Only he and his men could do that sort of business. And Esmon.

It would, he mused, be very easy to take this place over. After all, there was no one to stop him. And the Lady Annicia, as he reminded himself, was still a marvellously attractive woman. She herself would be quite a prize.

Flora was nearly home, but she stopped when Piers left her, standing at the top of the track that gave onto her home. She was feeling odd, unsettled. It was Mary’s death, she told herself – that and Esmon’s attack. Nothing else. But she knew she was lying to herself. There could be few more revolting things than people who deceived themselves to make themselves feel better, she told herself sternly. She knew perfectly well what was behind it.

Yes, of course she felt deep sadness about Mary, but she was also glad, she couldn’t deny that, because with the loss of her sister, she now had no competition. Mary’s death had removed the most effective barrier to her own happiness.

Osbert had always had eyes only for Mary, and Flora had been made to feel like a silly younger sister. He humoured her, but he adored Mary. Maybe if Mary had even bothered to notice him, Flora could have got over her feelings of jealousy, but Mary had been embarrassed about Os’s slavish devotion to her, and she’d scarcely bothered to hide it. That only made poor Os more devoted, but it also left Flora feeling bitterly furious. Like a vixen who sought to protect her cubs, she wanted to cradle Os and preserve him against her sister’s uncaring disregard.

Down at the mill, she could hear chopping, and she knew Os would be there, swinging his axe at the logs ready for stacking. Some time perhaps, she would stand like this, listening to him logging, and he would be her husband, she his wife, and they would have children about them, all boys. It was a wonderful picture and Flora stood drinking in the scene as she saw it in her mind, feeling the wash of love cresting through her breast and belly. She adored Os; and she wanted him.

Mary was dead, but her death had given Flora new life. All she need do was look after Os and make him realise that his true, perfect lover was here still.

When the summons came late that afternoon, Simon Puttock was glad of the distraction.

‘What is it?’ he snapped when the messenger arrived at his door, directed there from the castle. Simon had been involved all morning in a dispute between two miners who were contesting a plot of land which both claimed to own. Simon could make no sense of the case: one had registered it, but then he rented out a part of it to a neighbour. Now the neighbour claimed that he had found tin on it, but the owner said that he had been digging in a plot that wasn’t rented, so he himself owned the tin. It was not the sort of case which Simon cared to wrestle with now. He had dealt with it as fairly as he knew how, recorded the matter for the Stannary Court to deal with when it next met, and left them to find himself a little peace over a pot or two of wine.

Not that he was likely to find much with a wife who walked about the house like a pale and melancholic shadow and a daughter who had taken to accusing her father of trying to ruin her happiness because he was taking her away from the only man she would ever love and expecting her to live in a miserable hovel far from any marriageable men and how could he be so cruel to his own daughter and hadn’t he married the woman he wanted when he had found her and…

If she hadn’t fallen in love, to Simon’s certain knowledge, three times in the previous ten months, he might have been more sympathetic. As it was, the thought of her endless complaints brought on a dull aching behind his eyes. All peace in his household had dissipated when he had been given his new job. It was all the more galling because until then it had been a contented, normally very happy home.

The messenger was a young lad of thirteen or so, with lank black hair and pale skin. Blue eyes gleamed as he glanced about him, but the rest of him looked simply soaked. Even as he stood before Simon in his hall, he was dripping onto the rushes. His cloak gave off a half dog, half woollen odour, and Simon could see that his hose and tunic were drenched. Fortunately he had kept warm with the ride, and appeared uncaring about it. He was much more interested in Simon’s house than Simon himself, not that it was any surprise. His home was well appointed and well decorated. Margaret had only recently had the interior repainted, with pictures of St Rumon and St Boniface on opposite walls.

‘Well?’ Simon growled.

‘A request from the Dean of Crediton Church, Bailiff.’

‘Come on, then! Spit it out!’

The messenger took a pot from Hugh with a grateful grin. ‘It’s a thirsty ride in this weather,’ he acknowledged as he lifted it to his lips.

‘What was the message?’ Simon ground out. ‘Or should I find you a bed and leave you a week to recover before you pass it on?’

‘A young woman has been murdered, her child too. The Dean ordered me here to pass on the message that Sir Baldwin of Furnshill is on his way there with an accused man, a priest called Mark. Sir Baldwin fears the priest’s life is in danger and begged that you might join him to ensure justice is seen to be done. The Dean felt sure the Stannary Bailiff would be interested.’

Simon gazed up the roadway. ‘Where is this place?’

‘Gidleigh.’

‘Ah, I know of this case,’ Simon said.

It was tempting to go. He had been told of the dead girl, for Gidleigh fell under his jurisdiction since there were miners trying to find tin near there, but this girl was a villein, nothing to do with the Stannary. If her killer was shown to be a miner, it would be a matter for Simon, but if the murderer was shown to be a priest, he would be tried in the Bishop’s own court. Nothing to do with Simon.

There was another factor that weighed with him. If Baldwin asked for his help, it must surely be an interesting case. He never called for help unnecessarily.

However, Simon would need better reasons to leave his home just now. The Coroner had already been to view the corpse and record all the details about her wounds; she was probably already buried now, so there was little enough for Simon to do. Baldwin was capable of protecting himself, Simon could add little to his investigations, and so there was no point in making the journey. Especially when Simon had so many other problems to deal with at home. Disputes between miners and landowners were increasing, and he wanted to clear up as many as possible before he left to go to live in Dartmouth.

That was another thing, he thought. Would his wife want to go with him? She seemed so upset recently that it wouldn’t surprise him if she decided to leave him to his own devices, perhaps stay here in Lydford with their children, and let Simon carry on. He couldn’t live without her. The thought of taking on his responsibilities without Meg at his side was worse than daunting, it was fearful.