Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘We are very grateful to you,’ Sir Ralph said. He motioned to the two guards, who set their weapons aside and strode over to where Mark sat quivering on his horse. Seeing them approach, he tried to withdraw, but Thomas, who held the reins, snarled at him to keep still.

‘Sir Baldwin, don’t just desert me here! I shall be murdered!’

Roger Scut interposed himself between Mark and the men. ‘I cannot allow this monk to be imprisoned here! He is a man of God. Let us take him to the chapel and I shall guard him there, in the sanctuary of the church.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Esmon said innocently. ‘That would be a good, safe place for him. You don’t mind the cold and the wet, do you?’

‘A man of God cares nothing for such things,’ Roger said loftily. ‘Only that his duty to God is performed rightly.’

Esmon grinned, but his father interrupted him. ‘I have a gaol here, and he will be safe enough in there. Safer than his victim was on the road.’

‘I will not have him left in the care of this knight,’ Roger said stubbornly.

Baldwin gave him a sour look but again it was Sir Ralph who spoke.

‘Master, I shall speak for his safety while he is within my walls and until he comes before the court.’

‘That is good,’ Baldwin said, ignoring the priest. ‘You may take him. Except…’

‘Sir Knight?’ Sir Ralph enquired.

‘I shall be here to help you to hear his case,’ Baldwin said.

‘There is no need. This is a matter for the vill. He was caught red-handed.’

Baldwin glanced at the lad shaking in his saddle. One of the guards drew his knife and roughly cut the thongs that bound Mark’s wrists to his saddle, and the two pulled him ungently from his pony. He stared appealingly at Baldwin, and a small worm of uncertainty began to wriggle in the knight’s belly. The young priest looked so lonely, so devastated, and there was something about the knight and his son that he didn’t like. Revenge was a natural emotion, and these two might be willing to ensure that Mark died just to satisfy their own anger.

‘Perhaps we could discuss it over a cup of wine? It is a thirsty ride from Crediton, and we have been riding for three days.’

‘Three? It should not have taken you so long,’ said Sir Ralph.

All their eyes were on the shuffling figure being taken in through the doors. Baldwin had expected that the two would move aside and let him pass in as well, but they stood their ground. It was discourteous, and Baldwin felt insulted. ‘It would not have taken so long, but the rivers were too turbulent for us to cross and we had to turn back to an inn. Will you not spare some wine for us?’

‘I fear that my home is filled, Sir Baldwin. We have no space even for a serf, let alone a great Keeper. Would it be possible for you to visit and stay at the local inn? It is only a short ride from here.’

‘Do you mean that you have not even some space in your hayloft?’ Baldwin asked politely, indicating Thomas and Godwen, Roger and himself. ‘We require very little.’

‘We could scarcely allow you to suffer in a hayloft, my Lord,’ Esmon said. ‘And I fear we have many guests just now. Finding space for one alone would be hard. But there is a man to lead you to the inn, if you want. Hi, Piers! Come here!’

There was a small group of men-at-arms in a corner near the tower, and they watched as Brian gripped Mark’s shoulder, and walked him towards the stables. Meanwhile Baldwin was sure he could hear sobbing coming from a room in the gatehouse nearby, but then it suddenly stopped. In the silence, it was almost as though there had been a death. It was a grim reflection, as he told himself, and his anxiety grew at the thought of leaving Mark here.

Baldwin turned his attention back to Sir Ralph, who was gazing after the prisoner with real hatred on his face. ‘I suppose you have too few cups to offer us wine, then.’

‘I am sure we could find you a cup,’ Sir Ralph said.

‘No. I am sure I don’t wish to be the cause of trouble.’ Baldwin pulled his horse’s head around, ready to ride to the inn. ‘Sir Ralph, I hold you personally responsible for the well-being of that priest. Please remind your gaoler that a man who is held in prison is still entitled to be treated as a human. Killing him, or being responsible for his death is a felony.’

‘You threaten me, Keeper? Perhaps you should know that I answer only to my master, and he, Sir Baldwin, is Lord Despenser.’

Baldwin turned in his saddle and offered the furious Sir Ralph a mild, apologetic smile. ‘Ah, I am sorry, friend. I knew that already. Perhaps you had not considered, though, that Mark’s master is the Bishop of Exeter, Bishop Walter? I am sure we do not wish to see a dispute between the King’s Treasurer and his favourite adviser, do we?’

Sir Ralph gave a tight nod of agreement, but Baldwin wasn’t content. He wished his friend Simon Puttock was here. There was something about the knight that worried him. Sir Ralph looked like a man who was beyond fear of the law, and that was not the sort of man into whose custody Baldwin was happy to leave even the murderer of a woman and child.

His tone hardened. ‘And in the meantime, if any harm comes to that fellow, I shall personally appeal you in court.’

Piers was not best pleased at having to lead this grim-looking band anywhere, but when his lord and master ordered him, he had little choice.

‘You are the Reeve?’ Baldwin asked him as they wandered the lanes towards the inn at Wonson.

‘Yes, sir. I have been Reeve here for almost a year. Never thought I’d have to cope with a murder, though.’

‘There are not many in this quiet area, then?’

‘Until Mary’s death, the last one was poor Elias’s own daughter. She was raped and killed not far from her home. Poor lass. That was during the famine. Terrible times.’

‘He was the man who found the body, wasn’t he? I shall want to speak to Elias,’ Baldwin said.

‘Of course. Now? He’s there, at Sir Ralph’s warren.’

Baldwin followed his gaze and saw a grim-faced peasant at a stone-built warren. Rabbits were not very successful at making their warrens here in the forbidding area of Dartmoor. Often lords would create warrens for them for their meat and fur. Elias was at one now, and as Baldwin watched, a rabbit sprang from a hole into a purse-net. It was bundled up in a ball as the net slipped tight, and Elias darted to it quickly. He carefully retrieved the rabbit and held it by the hind legs while he reset the net ready for the next, and then squatted on his haunches, stroking the little creature and calming it. Then, in a smooth movement, he pulled the head with a swift jerk, and gently set the dead body with others. Another net was filled, and he darted to that one.

‘Not now,’ Baldwin said, thinking of his sore buttocks. ‘It can wait until morning. He looks efficient.’

‘Very. He’s the best ferret-man in the vill, is Elias the ploughman.’

‘What of others?’

Piers described all the peasants and their duties while Baldwin listened carefully. Finally Piers mentioned Sampson.

‘Who is he?’

‘His name is a joke, I’m afraid. Ironic or something. He’s a half-wit. Sometimes happens that you get one even in a good, healthy vill like ours,’ Piers said defensively. ‘He lives on his own. He’s built himself a little shelter on the hill south and west of the castle.’

‘Interesting. I shall look forward to meeting him. And now, master Piers. Where were you on the day this girl was killed?’

Huward was resting his legs and back at the ale-house when the little cavalcade arrived, and he shifted back in his seat when he realised what sort of men they were. Baldwin was clearly a knight, and he strode to a table and sat at it with the calm self-assurance of those who are used to command. At his side Huward saw the cleric, and the sight of another churchman made his mood darken and his belly churn like a butter barrel.