Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘That cretinous son of a mutinous Breton pirate, Esmon, rode past and all but ran us down!’ Simon hissed. ‘If Hugh hadn’t knocked me aside, I’d be here instead of him, but as it was, a hoof caught his head.’

‘Where?’

Simon pointed out the shallow slash in Hugh’s scalp where the horseshoe had sheared though his flesh and exposed the pink bones beneath. ‘I want a quiet room with no draughts and a good fire,’ he said curtly to a servant.

The servant, a fat but curiously cheerless-looking fellow, shrugged and glanced across the courtyard at Brian, who lounged against a wall. Simon grated, ‘Fetch your master! I don’t want to stand out here all bloody night.’

He saw the fat man peer again at the man-at-arms, saw that worthy curl his lip and give a short shake of his head, and then turn away as though uninterested. The servant pulled a face, and then drew away.

It was enough to fan the fire that was already glowing in Simon’s breast. Hugh had been his only servant for many years. When he married Meg, it was Hugh who had helped organise the nuptials; when they moved to Sandford to their new farm, it was Hugh who made sure that their belongings arrived safely; when they travelled to Lydford, it was Hugh who made the castle as welcoming as he could. Hugh was an integral part of Simon’s life, and Simon’s family. Surly, he was, yes, grim-featured at the best of times, monosyllabic and dour, but he was Simon’s friend, and he had saved Simon from attack before now, he had saved Simon’s wife, and he had won this wound by saving Simon from death once again.

He reached out and grasped the fat servant’s shoulder. At the same time he drew his sword. It all happened as though he was watching it through an all-enveloping red fog, a swirling mistiness that shimmered about him. ‘ Get your fucking master now, or I’ll cut out your liver and feed it to the hogs, you beshitted worm ,’ he ground out.

The servant gaped, his chins wobbling. As Simon loomed over him, he gave a squeak, turned, and bolted like a rabbit which has seen the hound. There was a shout from the castle walls and a rattle of metal, and he looked up to see that a guard was desperately trying to haul the string back on a crossbow. Brian had drawn his own sword and was approaching them, while behind him more men were coming from the hall’s door, all wearing weapons. One held a short dagger by the point and was throwing it in the air and catching it meditatively while watching Simon.

Baldwin saw that the two watchmen were eyeing the guards with trepidation, but not fear, and he was pleased that they were not intimidated. ‘Hold!’ he shouted, his hand in the air. He too had seen the man trying to string his crossbow, but pulling back on the string with main force was all but impossible. He needed a crank or belt hook, and he seemed to have neither. Baldwin turned his attention back to the men-at-arms on the ground nearby.

They were a mixed bunch, probably aged from twenty to forty or fifty, and all looked like men who had profited from war while accepting the buffets that combat brought. There were many scarred faces and several missing fingers among them – and no cowards. All walked forward steadily until the little group was surrounded. Piers and Elias looked very unhappy at this turn of events, but Baldwin kept his eyes on the leading man.

‘Where is Sir Ralph?’ he called mildly.

‘He’s busy,’ said Brian.

‘So busy he wants to see two King’s officials attacked in his own castle?’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘I think you will find that if either the good Stannary Bailiff or I myself are harmed, the men responsible will pay very dearly.’

The leader of the men snapped his fingers under Baldwin’s nose. ‘If we want, we can lose your bodies! There are places on the moors where a man can be lost for ever.’

Baldwin smiled broadly at the man. ‘Is that what you did with the body of the miner?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I wonder who did move him, then.’

‘Nothing to do with us,’ the man said confidently.

There came a roar from the other side of the yard. ‘What is this? Brian, what are you doing there?’

Baldwin held Brian’s eye as he responded, and was sure that there was a certain annoyance in his face as he spoke.

‘It’s the Keeper, Sir Ralph. I knew you’d be busy, so I wouldn’t let him interrupt you.’

‘You didn’t think you’d interrupt me?’ Sir Ralph said with a calmness that heralded a storm. ‘That was very kind of you, Brian.’

‘You were with your priest.’

Baldwin pricked up his ears at that. Sir Ralph’s ‘priest’ must be Roger Scut. What the man was doing here was a mystery to Baldwin, but whatever it was, it must be directly to Scut’s benefit.

‘All you men, withdraw. Now!’ Sir Ralph bellowed.

The men drew away, for the most part reluctantly; the knife-thrower tossed his blade up one last time, and then suddenly caught it and sent it whirling into the door at the hall’s entrance. It struck there, quivering, a few inches from the fat servant’s head, and the man gazed at the knife with terror in his eyes.

The good Sir Ralph had best evict these warriors before they tried to take over the castle, Baldwin thought. There were plenty of others who had attempted to capture the castles which they were supposed to protect.

‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock, I offer my sincere apologies,’ Sir Ralph said as the men dispersed. He walked to them from the door to the hall. ‘I had no idea you were being molested until I heard the shouting.’

Over his shoulder, Baldwin saw Roger Scut peering through a doorway, but he turned his attention back to the knight as Simon explained angrily about the rider who had almost knocked him down.

‘My son is very careless, I fear,’ Sir Ralph said. His face was pale, and he kept drawing up the side of his mouth, like a man who had a hole in a tooth and was probing it with his tongue. Baldwin thought he must be more worked up about these men of his son’s than he wanted to admit.

‘What of my man here?’ Simon ranted. ‘Who is the best physician in this vill? I demand that he be called immediately. Do you hear me? If this man is harmed, I shall see you and all your household fined. Is that clear?’

His angry voice set a vein throbbing in Sir Ralph’s temple. He peered at the furious Bailiff. ‘Don’t give orders me, Puttock! You may have power in your little castle of Lydford, but here, it is my word which counts. Yet I shall send my wife to help you. She is good with wounds. Take this fellow into the hall and she’ll see him in there.’

Piers and Elias lifted Hugh gently, and he groaned, a sound that made Simon throw him a fretful look, and then they followed Sir Ralph into the hall. The knight roughly ordered some remaining men-at-arms from the room, and before long they had the place to themselves.

‘Did he try to ride you down?’ Baldwin asked Simon quietly.

‘I don’t know. He came on me from behind, so I couldn’t see him or what he intended, but know this, Baldwin: if a rider approaches a man on foot from behind, if there is a collision, it is not the fault of the man who could not see or do anything to avoid him. It’s always the rider’s fault.’

‘Yes. That bastard has some questions to answer,’ Baldwin said. Not only about this latest incident, either. According to Huward, Esmon was the leader of the men who had robbed the carters on their way to Chagford, and according to Surval, he was motivated by the need to punish a murderer. Not that Baldwin could count on either making their accusations in court. Any denunciation against their own lord must result in their being punished severely, and without it, there was little likelihood that Baldwin could secure Sir Ralph’s or Esmon’s arrest for the murder of Wylkyn. Baldwin must find a means of ensuring that someone might appeal them, but also he must persuade a jury that they would not be in danger if they decided to uphold the conviction. He would have to call juries from the nearest four vills to secure a conviction here, he reckoned.