Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Someone had to prove it was Esmon who did this, yet Elias wouldn’t even admit to seeing Sir Ralph at the road when Mary was murdered, let alone allege that Esmon might have been here. No one would risk death in the hope of inflicting justice on Esmon.

Piers stood, averting his eyes. The dead man had been butchered as though in a rage, with slashes and cuts all over his body. His hand lay nearby. ‘We can’t let this carry on.’

‘I suppose you think we can stop it?’

‘Someone has to.’

Elias sneered, then turned away. ‘Good – well, you be a hero, Piers. Tell you what, if I find you afterwards, I’ll report it to the Hundred Bailiff personally.’

‘Wait a bit, Elias,’ Piers called, and there was enough irritation in his voice to make Elias reluctantly stop and walk back, staring down at the hacked body.

‘Poor bastard.’

‘Yes,’ Piers snapped. ‘I know. That’s why I want to see to it that he’s the last. Is this how you found him?’

‘Yeah. Think so.’

‘Did you find him yourself?’

Elias didn’t speak, merely nodded his head once. Piers was sure he was lying, but when Elias wanted to be stubborn, he could give lessons to a mule.

‘Have you sent for the Coroner?’

Piers shrugged. ‘For what good it will do. I sent Osbert to tell the Hundred Bailiff, then to go to Lydford. The Stannary will be interested if this man genuinely is a miner.’

‘He is. Don’t you remember him? His name’s Wylkyn. He was servant to Sir Richard before he died.’

Piers stared. ‘Wylkyn?’

The name was familiar, and so too was this man’s face now he had a name. Piers had always been Sir Ralph’s serf, and hadn’t mixed with the men of Sir Richard Prouse’s demesne, but Piers had seen Sir Richard’s steward on occasion at markets and fairs, buying exotic spices and herbs for his master’s potions.

‘I recall his face,’ Piers said slowly.

‘Wylkyn was a good enough man. As soon as Sir Ralph took over the castle, he ran for the moors and joined his brother. Called himself a miner. He’s been quite lucky, so I’ve heard.’

‘His luck hasn’t held for him today. What was he doing up here?’

‘What do you mean?’

Piers threw him a look. ‘Don’t be stupid! Why would he come by this route, rather than cutting across the moors? It’s far out of his way.’

‘I expect he had his reasons.’

Piers glanced about them, at the tracks of many carts. ‘He wasn’t alone, either.’

‘The castle’s full, I expect.’

‘Did you see them?’

There was no need to say who. Both knew that he meant Sir Ralph and his son. Elias slowly shook his head. ‘No, but who else would rob and kill like this?’

‘Someone has to stop them.’

Elias curled his lip. ‘Aye, well, you keep saying that, Master Reeve. Fine, when you’ve got an idea how to, let me know. I’ll be interested. But don’t forget, these men are friends of the Despensers. If you want to go against the King’s friends, you try it, but don’t expect anyone here to help you, because they won’t.’

When he reached the castle, Baldwin thought how pleasing it looked, representing security, warmth and food, and he urged his small party on, calling to the gatekeeper as he approached the outer stockade. Surprisingly, he found that the gate was closed and barred. This was a quiet enough part of the realm, and he would have expected the gates to remain open all through the day, only being closed at night, like the gates of a larger castle or even a town. Everyone tended to welcome travellers, for they brought news, and in a small castle like this, one without a huge amount of money and miles from busier roads, there was little likelihood that the place could be threatened by a gang of outlaws.

After he had bellowed and demanded to speak to the lord, there was a rattling and squeaking as a bar was slid back from the gate, and then Baldwin was confronted by three men, two of whom were clearly guards and who gripped long polearms in their callused hands, while the other held his arms crossed.

‘Who are you?’

‘Are you steward to Sir Ralph?’ Baldwin asked.

‘You could call me that. I am Brian – Brian of Doncaster. I serve Esmon, Sir Ralph’s son, with my men.’

Baldwin heard the note of pride in his voice. This man was no servant, bound to his master by ties of loyalty and honour, but a paid employee with his own small host of men. Baldwin was immediately struck by the thought that the master of this castle might be well advised to protect himself from this Brian and his gang. It was not a pleasant thought, that a man should be forced to guard himself against his own hired men. It was, in its way, still more dreadful than the idea of assassins and the Old Man of the Mountain.

Brian had been eyeing Baldwin with interest, but now one of his men nudged him and pointed at Mark, and suddenly Brian’s face lit up like a torch thrust in a fire. ‘God’s flaming cods!’ he burst out, and then sent the guard in through the gates.

While he waited, trying to control his annoyance at being kept out here, Baldwin glanced through the gate at the castle’s tower. It was only a small keep with a ground floor and one upper chamber which lay enclosed within a stockade, which was strengthened in two places by some more solid moorstone walling. Baldwin was reminded of the little enclosure at Lydford. That too had stabling on the left of the entrance to the stockade, a series of outbuildings ringing an oval space in which men could practise with their weapons, groom horses or watch dogs fighting for their recreation.

This place looked prosperous enough. There were a number of carts, he saw, some loaded with goods, and the stables were filled to overflowing with packhorses. They had passed some pastures on the way here, in which still more ponies and sumpter horses had idled, and Baldwin reckoned that the place had more than its fair share of horseflesh for a castle of this size.

‘Godspeed, my Lord. How may we help you?’

The man who spoke was older, perhaps not far short of Baldwin’s own age, and had the carriage and indefinable authority of someone who knew his own value. Baldwin was sure that he had seen him before, and there was a faint frown of recognition in the other’s face, too, as though he could almost recall Baldwin’s name, but not quite. On Baldwin’s part, he would not have remembered Sir Ralph’s name had he not heard Mark mention the name.

At his side was a younger man, plainly his son, from the similar colouring and looks, and especially the dimple in the chin. Esmon, Baldwin said to himself. The boy looked much more dangerous, standing with a certain haughtiness that bordered on rudeness. His manner was very different from that of his father, who looked as though he carried the world’s troubles on his shoulders.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I am bringing a man here for justice,’ he said formally. ‘I had thought that this castle was the property of Sir Richard Prouse?’

Hearing his first words, the younger man had gasped with delight. ‘You have him? We can–’

‘Quiet, Esmon! I am Sir Ralph de Wonson, Sir Baldwin. You are very welcome. I remember you from the last shire court. You were trying some matters there, I recall.’

‘I was there as a Justice of Gaol Delivery,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Tell me, where is Sir Richard? Did not Sir Richard Prouse own this manor?’

‘Alas! He died. He lost his wealth to a banker, and when the banker died, his debt was taken over by my Lord Despenser. When Sir Richard died, Lord Despenser gave this land to me.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said suavely. He had no intention of disputing the man’s right to the castle if the Despensers were minded to give it to him. The most powerful family in the realm could do such things and no man could prevent them. ‘This man, the alleged priest Mark – I believe you wanted him captured?’