Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘This is a curious matter, Simon,’ he murmured. ‘Consider: the death of the girl, then the murder of the miner, and robbery of his companions, and now we have this careless attack on you. Why should someone want to harm you? Especially that fool Esmon. Most people seem to think that Mark is responsible for the girl’s death; but some think it might have been Sir Ralph or Esmon, and many believe that Esmon could have killed the miner; now he tries to ride you down.’

‘He won’t do that again,’ Simon swore softly. ‘When I meet him next, I’ll teach him to try to hurt a Bailiff of the Stannaries.’

‘You must be cautious, Simon. He has many men-at-arms here,’ Baldwin warned. ‘If he feels strong enough to rob carters, he will feel strong enough to destroy you as well. Perhaps he fears you.’

‘Fears me? Why should he?’ Simon scoffed.

‘You represent the Stannary. If he could say that you were killed in an accident, it is possible that the death of Wylkyn might go uninvestigated.’

Simon merely grunted, but Baldwin knew he was not foolish enough to risk escalating problems while they were all in Sir Ralph’s castle.

‘I never had time to send to Chagford!’ Simon realised.

Lady Annicia’s soft, slightly slurred words silenced both. ‘Come. Let me see this man’s wound. What has happened to him?’

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look. There was nothing to be done immediately. They went to speak with the Lady of the castle.

Alan, Saul’s apprentice, tipped the bowl back and felt the cool draught wash down his throat, taking away the dust from the journey as it passed down his gullet. That was the trouble with riding in a line with other carters when the roads were drying. Wherever there was dust, everyone swallowed it. Refilling the bowl, he could sense the warmth spreading from his belly through his body. It was just as though someone had lighted a fire in his stomach.

‘Careful, boy. You’ll get drunk again!’

Alan gave a pale grin. His calmness had almost returned now that they were in the small town of Chagford. They had at least managed to sell most of their goods at the market, and Saul himself was delighted with the prices he had won for his cheeses: the men here paid good sums for produce because Chagford was so far from civilisation and the roads leading here were appalling. Most of the buyers were miners who had little money, but they were happy to pay for Alan’s stock of iron blades for shovels, for his spikes, adzes and hammers.

‘After the last couple of days, I wouldn’t mind getting drunk.’

There were so many people in this inn it had taken an age to reach the large plank of wood which was the bar. All about them, men sipped their ales or ciders while keeping an eye on all these foreigners. Men who lived in market towns like Chagford might need the money that carters and buyers brought, but that didn’t mean they had to like the folk that brought it, and several of the older men in this tavern looked as though they would be happier if all the market people would clear off. Traders were welcome in the market, but not here in the taverns, where all they did was block access to the bar.

It wasn’t only the older locals who eyed Alan and his friends askance, either. There was a wealthy-looking fellow in one corner who appeared as unhappy about the noise and commotion as any. He sat on a low stool, his legs thrust out before him. Although he was clad in an expensive-looking tunic of some velvet of crimson, it had faded. His hosen were of a soft green material, but were heavily bespattered with mud of red, brown and black, and his boots were scuffed and stained. A thick grey riding cloak with a leather hood sat rolled into a bundle on the floor beside him, and his upper body was encased in a leathern jacket, cut long to fall to the knee.

His dark eyes looked unpleasant and cold; his was the sort of face which Alan thought would suit one of the men who had swept down the hill at him on the day that the raid had taken place. He had the same blank look of a man who was used to dealing in death. Alan shivered.

Saul drained his pot and belched, wiping a hand over his beard. ‘There will always be footpads about, boy, and it’s not worth worrying about them. Leave that to the Sheriff. You concentrate on what you’re good at: helping me buy and sell for a profit.’

‘So they can rob us again?’

‘If you have a brain you won’t come that way again,’ Saul said thickly. The cold which had assailed him on the way here had developed, during their incarceration at Gidleigh Castle, into a real snorter, and he ran his nose over his sleeve again, leaving a glistening trail. His eyes lowered to the table and his voice dropped at the same time. ‘I don’t think you should go talking about it too much, though. They’re powerful men, them who robbed us.’

‘I see. Let the buggers get away with it, you mean?’

‘Get involved in something like that, and you’ll never get away from the town, boy. You’ll have the Keeper of the Peace demanding you turn up in his court, the Sheriff too, and then you’ll have to come back when the Justices return. Do you want all that?’

The idea of accusing men the like of Sir Ralph made Alan feel queasy.

‘That’s right, boy! Just leave things as they are.’

Alan nodded into his bowl. Sir Ralph was a knight, and knights could do much as they wanted, because the law hardly affected them. Esmon had been seen by many witnesses leading the attack on the carters, but that wouldn’t have much impact. He was the son of a knight – what, would anyone expect a knight’s lad to be held in gaol ready for the Justices? Of course not. Esmon would be out of court in minutes, his father’s friends putting up money to meet the cost of his bond, and then he would make sure that the Justices would have no one to accuse him in their courts: he’d personally murder Alan, or maybe he’d simply pay one of his men to do it. Either way, he’d be safe and Alan would be dead, which was not a prospect that appealed much to Alan.

The tavern was raucous, and they had to raise their voices more than once as they talked over the robbery. It was a small place, built of solid moorstone, and stood a short distance from Chagford’s marketplace, which was why at present it was filled with shouting, laughing and swearing miners. Two wenches were negotiating their services at one corner, Alan could tell, because the crush of drunken men was thickest there, and outside at the back there was a cock-fighting pit, with a regular turn-around of protagonists, so the noise swelled and broke from the cheering and cursing spectators there, making conversation still more difficult.

‘This isn’t our Frankpledge , after all,’ Saul added persuasively. He had to shout to make himself heard.

‘But it means letting a man’s murderer go unpunished.’

‘Oh, sod that! I never saw a man die. Maybe he escaped! If it makes us more secure, leave it alone, that’s what I say.’

It was as he spoke those fateful words that Alan happened to glance across the room. The well-dressed man was staring at them both with a frown, as if displeased at something he had heard. Slowly, to Alan’s concern, the man pulled his legs back and stood. He picked up his bundled cloak and walked over to Alan and Saul.

‘I heard you talking about letting a murderer go. I don’t think you should do that.’

‘None of your business.’

‘Isn’t it?’ The man pulled his jerkin back to show his sword and long-bladed knife as he took a stool and sat on it. ‘I would have thought that a murder would always prove interesting to the King’s Coroner. Now, suppose you two tell me about this murder of yours.’