Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

There were rumours about Sir Baldwin. Sir Ralph had heard of him before. Tales of his intelligence abounded, most of them implying that Sir Baldwin was a cross between a saint and an alchemist who possessed the power to divine a man’s soul. It was enough to make Sir Ralph nervous. He had no wish to lose his son.

Esmon was a fool! Why get that cretin Sampson involved? His son had been absorbed on their ride here, tied up with his thoughts. It took some prodding for Sir Ralph to get him to admit what he had done, as though he had no respect for his father, and when Sir Ralph had heard his story, that he had told Sampson to move the body, the knight had almost knocked him from his horse for his stupidity. What good moving Wylkyn would do was beyond Sir Ralph: the body might as well have lain there. Moving it now would only attract still more interest. At least Wylkyn was dead now, that was the main thing; he had been punished for his crime.

Sir Ralph felt heavy and tired, as though he had run a long race only to lose. Esmon had done the right thing in killing Wylkyn. They had agreed on that an age ago. But this action was different. It would have been better to use one of his own men. Esmon explained that this way, if someone was suspected, the finger would likely point to Sampson. He would be certain to make a mistake, and then people would assume he was the killer, not Esmon. At least Esmon was certain that no one had seen him kill Wylkyn, and without a body, he should remain safe.

It was worrying, though, that his son only admitted what he had done when pressed. Sir Ralph was suddenly struck with the thought that Esmon didn’t trust him any more. It was no surprise; since Mary’s death, he felt as though he was walking in a continuing dream. Still, he must impose his will on Esmon, he thought. If only he could simply leave and go to his bed, he thought distractedly. He was so tired.

The innkeeper was back. Sir Ralph stopped the man before he could pour wine into a cup, peered into it himself, winced, and then shrugged. It was hardly worth worrying about a little dirt in the cup, when he was exposing himself to the filth in this tavern. It was well known that bad air could kill a man, and this place must have some of the worst in the vill.

Concentrate! He sipped at his wine, watching Sir Baldwin coolly, feeling a little like a dog preparing to enter the ring to fight another. There was some shrewdness there in Sir Baldwin’s eyes, and he certainly held himself like a knight who practised with his weapons. His belly was quite flat, he bore no second chin, and his hands moved with that calm precision that only efficient martial artists displayed. Yes, Sir Baldwin would be an efficient killer, Sir Ralph reckoned. A worthy foe. Esmon could sense it too; Sir Ralph could feel his tension where he stood behind Sir Ralph watching and listening.

The others were nothing. There was the grim-faced man whom Baldwin introduced as the Bailiff of Lydford, a Stannary official, and next to him a servant, while there were two scruffy peasants with weapons as well; watchmen, no doubt, sent to watch over the priest. Mark would hardly need more to guard him. The feebleminded cretin was practically in his grave already. Before long he would be, if Sir Ralph had his way.

Sir Baldwin had not commented, and now Sir Ralph spoke again.

‘I desired to apologise to you for my hurry when you arrived at my door, Sir Baldwin. I should have come here with you to make sure that you found the place. I hope you do not mind that I could not drop everything at the moment you turned up?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I trust you found your way here without mishap?’

‘Yes, I thank you. It is an easy road, and Simon and I have travelled this way often enough before.’

‘Good. Then I hope you will be able to find your way home again before long.’

‘Not very soon, though,’ Simon interrupted. His face was partly shadowed, giving him an evil, demonic look. ‘We have these deaths to hear about first.’

‘Deaths?’ Sir Ralph enquired impassively.

It was the other knight who answered. ‘You have had the Coroner here about the girl, I understand?’

‘He held his inquest and had his records written down, but there was little need. Mark had bolted, so he was obviously the culprit. We had raised the Hue and Cry, so that was really that.’

‘The day that the girl died – who was the First Finder?’

‘An older peasant called Elias.’

‘But she had been dead some time when he found her?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Was there anyone else up that road on that day?’ Simon asked.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Sir Ralph said stiffly. ‘You should ask Elias and see what he thinks.’

‘We will,’ Simon promised him.

‘You have not heard that anyone else travelled that road who saw her – either when she was alive, or when she had died?’ Baldwin pressed.

‘If someone had, wouldn’t they have reported the find as First Finder?’

Baldwin smiled without speaking, but Simon leaned on an elbow and picked at a tooth. ‘Did someone else?’

‘Sampson came up later and reported that she was dead, but he probably couldn’t understand that someone had already found her. He’s the local fool, I’m afraid. His brains were missing from birth, and he’s a figure of ridicule now. He lives out near the moors, if you want to speak to him. Many folks here will be able to show you where, if you wish.’

‘But you don’t think we’d achieve much by talking to him,’ Simon stated.

‘If there was anything to be learned, I am sure that the Coroner would have learned it.’

‘Where were you on the day that the girl died?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Me? I was out hunting, and later, at home again, I heard about this girl’s murder. I instantly called up a small posse and rode off after that damned priest.’

‘Where did you go hunting?’

‘Around the vill. I didn’t go over the Chase of Dartmoor, if that’s what you mean,’ Sir Ralph added drily. ‘I wouldn’t trespass on the King’s lands like that. His venison is safe here.’

‘You believe so? Where was your son on the day this girl died?’

Sir Ralph stiffened a fraction. This was the question he had feared. ‘Esmon was with me. I rode back with him from the hunt. He didn’t rush away to commit murder, I assure you!’

Simon glanced at Esmon. ‘You confirm that?’

‘We were together, yes.’

‘What about the day that the miner got himself killed? Where were you then?’

Sir Ralph interrupted. ‘Is this an inquest? I only ask, because I find your questions are growing impertinent, Bailiff.’

Baldwin shot a look at Simon, then continued for him, ‘But you will understand, Sir Ralph, that we have a duty to look into this man’s death. Do you know anything about it?’

Sir Ralph looked from Simon to Baldwin. ‘No.’

Simon looked at Esmon, who shrugged.

‘Well? A man died, did he? What of it? I saw many men die during the wars.’

‘Were you on the moors when he died?’

‘It is true enough that my son spoke with some merchants who were disrespectful and refused to pay his legitimate tolls. That is all, though. I am sure no man was killed,’ Sir Ralph said.

‘The body of a man called Wylkyn lies up on the moors,’ Simon grated. ‘That is why I was called here.’

‘Does it affect us?’ Sir Ralph asked, feigning disinterest.

‘I don’t know,’ Simon said suavely. ‘Perhaps if you let your son answer, I’ll find out!’

‘Wylkyn used to be steward to the castle, to Sir Richard Prouse,’ Baldwin said.

‘He wasn’t when I took over the castle.’

‘No, he left as soon as Sir Richard died, I was told,’ Simon said.