Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Some hot-head from the vill. If I find out who it was, he’ll regret his actions!’ Esmon said with a quietness that was more menacing than a bellow.

‘Perhaps it can be salvaged?’

‘Look at the place!’

Roger felt his shoulders droop. ‘I was hoping… Ah, well. God’s wonders can be curious on first sight.’

‘You were wanting this place for yourself?’ Esmon shot out suddenly. ‘I see. And now you have nothing.’

‘Nonsense! I came here to prevent that lad from being murdered illegally,’ Roger said, but as he spoke, his eyes went again to the ruin of the church’s interior.

‘Perhaps we could see a new chapel built. A place suitable for a man of your calibre, Priest.’

Roger Scut faced him. There was a light in Esmon’s eye that Roger wasn’t sure he liked. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You have travelled far, Priest. Come with me to the castle and share a quart of wine. Perhaps we have some interests in common!’

Smiling, Esmon returned to his mount. This, he reflected, was indeed good fortune. The priest was with the Keeper’s party. Provided Esmon could remain on friendly terms with him, Roger Scut could become a most useful informant.

Looking at him, seeing the despair on his face, Esmon was sure that Scut had wanted to acquire this chapel for himself.

‘And then we can discuss rebuilding the chapel,’ he said as he swung his leg over the saddle.

‘How was I to know?’ Simon grumbled. ‘I try to walk into an alehouse, and some scrawny churl tells me to go and service my mother: what would you expect me to do? I only tapped him, anyway.’

Baldwin had finished with Huward and sent him on his way with Piers, and now he and Simon sat at a bench near the buttery. Godwen and Thomas sat at opposite ends of another bench, Godwen glaring at Simon, Thomas smiling openly for the first time in Baldwin’s memory, a fact which did not ease Baldwin’s mood.

‘I’ve apologised already,’ Simon added pointedly.

‘God’s cods – just look at them! They hate each other, and there is nothing I can do about it. Undercurrents, Simon. There are undercurrents in Crediton, but nothing to compare with this place: the knight and his son; the girl’s father…’ He shook his head, unsettled.

Simon was eyeing Godwen. ‘What’s their problem?’

‘A family argument which goes back deep into the mists of antiquity. Perhaps Godwen’s grandfather’s father once took an apple from Thomas’s grandfather’s father’s orchard. Who can tell what motivates such disputes?’

‘Come, then, tell me what you know of this murder.’

‘The girl had her neck broken and…’

‘No, the Coroner’s already seen to her . I want to know about the miner.’

Baldwin blinked. ‘I know nothing of this. I am here to protect the priest. Did you not receive my message?’

‘Yes, but I couldn’t drop everything for that. It was only when I heard that a miner had been attacked that I realised I must come.’

‘What miner?’

‘A fellow called Wylkyn,’ Simon said and told Baldwin what he had heard from Osbert. He glanced at the unshuttered window and pulled a face. ‘I should go now and see the body, but I’ve been on horseback all day, and I won’t be climbing back into the saddle again unless I have no choice.’

‘I do not suggest that you do,’ Baldwin chuckled.

‘So you are here to learn what you can about this girl? Why?’ Simon asked. ‘The Coroner must have seen to her already.’

‘He has, but I am reluctant to see justice imposed without thought on the priest. He is an unlikely murderer.’

‘Many are,’ Simon objected.

‘Very true! And yet I find it hard to imagine this man in particular murdering a girl. It is not his nature, I believe.’

‘So you will be tied up with that, rather than aiding me with my dead miner?’

‘It is curious that there should be two such deaths so close together,’ Baldwin mused. ‘Perhaps they are connected in some manner?’

‘Perhaps. And perhaps they aren’t.’ Simon laughed. ‘Hugh! What do you reckon?’

‘Me? There’s not much I wouldn’t put past a priest.’

‘There you are, Baldwin. The man gets married, and that’s now his opinion on priests!’ His expression became quizzical. ‘Are you serious? You really think that the lad might be innocent of the murder?’

‘I have no idea,’ Baldwin admitted, ‘but I do not like the look of Sir Ralph or his son.’

There was no denying it. About the castle there had hung a foul atmosphere. The man-at-arms had carried it about him like a banner, and then the way that Baldwin and the others were treated was alarming in its own right. Being sent to find an inn without even the offer of a cup of wine like a beggar…

‘Ach! That is for tomorrow. Come! Tell me about Meg and the children.’

It was just as dark was settling over the land that horses arrived at the inn’s yard. Soon there was shouting, then a scurrying of feet, and marching boots approached through the screens.

‘I’m glad to find you awake still. I had thought you might be abed,’ Sir Ralph said, glancing about him with the distaste plain on his face as he entered with Esmon. Brian and another man lounged by the door, watching the people in the room with attentive insolence. The landlord was clearing away dishes and platters. ‘You have eaten?’

‘Oh, but yes, I thank you,’ Baldwin said with effusive sarcasm. ‘The host here is most welcoming and attentive.’

Esmon glanced about the room. His eyes settled on Roger Scut sitting in a corner, a short way from this knight. Good. Roger had eaten with him at the castle, and afterwards Esmon and he had both agreed that it was probably better that their discussion should not become common knowledge until they were ready for it.

Sir Ralph waved at the innkeeper, who scuttled over anxiously to take his order for wine, then hurried away like a harvest mouse on an urgent mission for a farm cat, desperate to give no possible reason for complaint.

‘I hadn’t realised my own board was so meagre,’ Sir Ralph said, pointedly staring at the plates before Roger Scut. ‘You appeared to eat your fill in my hall.’

‘I merely desired a light meal to settle my stomach,’ Scut protested. ‘Your food was excellent, my Lord.’

‘You have already eaten?’ Baldwin exclaimed. To his mind, gluttony was one of the worst of the sins.

‘Perhaps my food was not to his taste. I believe it could be thought too rich,’ Sir Ralph said. Looking up, he saw that Baldwin was considering him as he sat a short distance from the table. Sir Baldwin, he saw, glanced at the gap between Sir Ralph’s lap and the table. Distance was important. Any knight who was in a situation in which there could be danger always left a short space between himself and the table, if only to make sure of room to draw a sword.

Sir Baldwin was obviously a fighter. He knew the signs that showed another man was on his mettle; and was also proud. Sir Ralph was sure of that. His words that afternoon had confirmed that fact. No mere rural man-at-arms with a long lineage and limited funds, Sir Baldwin saw himself as an important magnate. It was good that he knew Sir Ralph was allied with the Despensers. It didn’t mean Sir Ralph was entirely above the law, but it showed that in this vill he could rule with impunity. He chose to do so with an iron will, and the innkeeper’s speed was proof of that. Seeing the man respond like this to his Lord would demonstrate to Baldwin the sort of power Sir Ralph possessed here.

He could have sighed. None of it mattered now. Not since Mary’s death. Mary! Even the thought of her was enough to bring a sob to his breast. No, he mustn’t submit to his misery. He must set aside all thoughts of grief and get on with his job here, talking to this dunderhead knight who had such a high opinion of himself.