Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Release him to my custody,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘I shall take him back with me and have him carried to Exeter.’

‘I fear I can only release him to an ecclesiastical officer,’ Sir Ralph said coolly. ‘And only after proof of the lad’s clerical status.’

‘If you wait that long,’ Baldwin said reasonably, ‘he might die. Look at him now! He’s been left to starve, hasn’t he? Have you fed him?’

‘His feeding isn’t my responsibility,’ Sir Ralph said with sudden sharpness. There was an edge to his voice that to Baldwin sounded more than a little like madness. ‘I’m only holding him.’

‘Neither food, nor water, I expect. He could die of the cold in this weather, too. Bishop Walter would be displeased if he heard that you had seen to it that one of his clerks was dead.’

‘He’ll be well looked after,’ Sir Ralph shouted, and his arm snapped out, pointing northwards. ‘Better than he looked after that child out there!’

‘Come! Father, there’s no need to upset yourself,’ Esmon said silkily.

‘No… No, of course not,’ Sir Ralph said, and wiped a hand over his brow. ‘Now, we must see that he is ordained by letters from the Bishop. Where are the letters?’

‘In my chest at the church,’ Mark gasped.

‘That is good. Then I shall send men to fetch them. If they are in order, you may be released into the hands of any official whom the Bishop may send.’

Baldwin happened to glance at Piers at that moment, and saw him lift a hand as though to object, but then his brows pulled together and he stood studying Esmon with an expression of disbelief.

‘I claim him,’ Roger Scut said.

Baldwin shot him a look and saw him tilt his head back and peer along his nose at Mark, who remained on his knees, weeping silently. ‘There, Mark. You are safe. You shall come back to Exeter with me and await the court there.’

‘How do we know he’s a priest?’

It was Esmon. Baldwin gazed at him, wondering what new peril threatened Mark, for peril there clearly was. Piers was chewing his lip now. He looked up and caught Baldwin’s eye; Baldwin thought he was ashamed.

‘He could have murdered a cleric and come here after stealing his letters.’

‘My son, please be silent,’ Sir Ralph said.

‘What if he’s no priest anyway?’

‘I said, be silent ! If he is a priest or not, we have to hold him safely. If he is determined to claim Benefit of Clergy, he can go to the Bishop’s court, and there, if he’s no priest, he will be punished for imitating a cleric. Our duty is to hold him and send him to the Bishop in one piece.’

Esmon shrugged with apparent good humour and returned to lean against the wall.

‘That is better. Now, boy, we should test you, I suppose. What can we ask? I know: recite the Placebo .’

‘The Placebo ? But clerks usually recite the Pater Noster ,’ Mark said, his voice quavering.

‘I don’t care. Begin.’

Mark searched his memory for the words, but under the hard stares of the men all around, he found it playing him false. The form of the service was there, right at the forefront of his mind, but the words themselves would not come. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, as though by the mere mechanical exercise he might be able to tempt the words from the dimness at the back of his mind, but they remained hidden.

‘I… I can’t remember it! I’ve never had to recite it here. There’s been no corpses to bury – how would I know that off by heart? I can give you the Pater …’

‘Clerk, you told me to ask for the Placebo , but as you see, he can’t recite it. What do you say?’ Sir Ralph asked, turning to Roger Scut.

Mark gazed at him thankfully. Roger had saved him once, Roger would save him again. They were both clerks. But Sir Ralph said that Roger had told him to ask for the… Suddenly Mark felt a fresh thrill of horror washing over him.

Roger Scut gave him a stare down the length of his nose, and declared, ‘Any real clerk would know the Placebo .’

Mark cried, ‘No! Roger, please! Father! Help me – save me!’ but his words were drowned out by the roar of anger.

The room erupted. Suddenly the peasants were roused, thinking this was proof that Mark was not even a clerk, that he had been misleading them all the months when he had been at the altar.

‘That bastard!’

‘He’s a liar!’

‘Are our souls damned?’ one man asked, looking fearful.

The fellow at his side had a more mundane interest. ‘Where did all our gifts to the chapel go, then?’

As the men started to move towards Mark, Baldwin grabbed the arms of his Constables and shoved them forward so that they stood at Mark’s side, Thomas with bared teeth like an enraged mastiff, Godwen languid, but none the less intimidating for that, like a snake lying bathing in the sun. Baldwin whipped his sword from its scabbard and roared for silence. One man pressed forward as though to reach Mark, but Baldwin’s point pricked his arm, and he changed his mind, withdrawing with a scowl and a curse. Simon, he could feel, was beside him, Hugh too, with his long-bladed knife in his hand, and it would be a hard fight for any man who wanted to reach Mark. Yet unless Baldwin took control, it was possible that the men might try just that. They were furious, believing that they had legal sanction to attack this man who had professed to being a clerk.

He did not know, nor did he care, what motive Roger Scut had for implying that Mark was no cleric. All he knew was that unless he acted swiftly, Mark would be hanged out of hand like any other felon whose guilt had been established.

‘ Silence! I am Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I will see justice done here!’ he roared at the top of his voice, glaring balefully at Brian, who had his hand resting on his sword’s hilt. Baldwin pointed at him. ‘You! Help to keep order in your lord’s court. You want to see a murder done in his own hall? All of you: LISTEN!’ he bellowed, feeling his face redden with sudden anger. ‘If this man is harmed I shall order the whole vill to be amerced to the fullest extent for petty treason against your lord, for mutiny and murder! You are all in Frankpledge – any man who tries to attack me or this man here will suffer the consequences in my court as Keeper of the King’s Peace.’

There was a less enthusiastic shuffling now. Baldwin caught sight of a man who looked as though he might try to push his way forward, but saw another grab his hand. The threat against their Frankpledge was working.

It had all happened so swiftly, it seemed that most of the men were stunned, many of them shocked by the urge to commit sudden violence. Five men, Baldwin saw, were left with different emotions.

Sir Ralph and Roger Scut had not moved. Sir Ralph sat as before, but his face showed his rage. He had wanted Mark to be killed, Baldwin guessed. Roger Scut, who had appeared excited and hopeful as the crowd jumped to pull Mark outside, now looked merely bored, although Baldwin caught a glimpse of something when their eyes met – perhaps frustration that the near execution, caused by his own deliberate lack of enthusiasm in Mark’s defence, had not succeeded. It was a consideration that made Baldwin want still more to have a chance to talk to him.

Esmon, still at the wall, had made no move to protect his parents, nor to go to the defence of Mark. He still leaned against the wall, a couple of men-at-arms at his side, conversing with one, and staring, Baldwin noticed, fixedly at him.

Piers was the only man from the vill who had sprung to Mark’s aid, and he stood at Simon and Hugh’s side, a sturdy club in his hand, glaring about him like a crazed warrior waiting for the first blow to be struck – eager, so it seemed, to retaliate.