Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

There was some truth in it, after all. Esmon had had the body hidden rather than leaving it at the roadside. Hiding it satisfied Annicia – it meant that her son was safe from accusations of murder, for no man could be convicted when there was no body, and she knew Sir Richard’s murderer had died unshriven and now lay concealed on unhallowed ground. A suitable end to him, so she felt.

‘Damn him!’ she hissed suddenly.

Mark couldn’t help himself. As soon as they hurled him bodily down the ladder into the cavern, his chained hands catching on a rung and all but dislocating his shoulder, utter despair overtook him. The ladder was hauled out, the hatch slammed shut, sprinkling a thin smattering of filth over him and blocking out much of the sun. Only a couple of cracks in the boards of the trap door showed that it was not yet night-time.

This situation was impossible. He must die here. His belly rumbled its complaints at remaining empty for another night, but the despair he felt was nothing to do with mere hunger, it was the ruination of himself.

As the light overhead faded and disappeared, he remained squatting on the floor, his back to the wall, weeping uncontrollably. He felt much as a child who had suddenly discovered that there were hideous depths to human nature. He had come here seeking his father, and instead he had discovered love – and loss. Now, blamed for the death of his lover, his own father was determined to destroy him. There could be no more desolate person in the entire world.

The bolt moving above him made him give a small bleat of fear. They must be going to beat him again. Dully he watched as the ladder slowly descended, and then suddenly fell with a faint splash into the ordure of the floor, spattering him again. This time he was past caring. There was nothing that could make him smell or look worse, and he was not of a mind to worry even if there had been.

There was an odd silence. He had expected the same noise, the same torchlight as last night, but there was nothing. Only the ladder and blackness above.

It was a terrifying hole. Beyond it, he was sure, was a group of men who wanted to prove their courage by beating him. Men who only last week would have obeyed his commands because they came from God Himself through Mark.

He cringed back, an arm up to shield his head, peeping up through his fingers. Not a sound, not a flash of light, nothing broke the monotony of the silence. He could almost imagine that God had immolated all the persons in the castle, leaving only Mark to survive. But why should God do that?

Up above him he could hear the normal noises of a stable. The soft splat of fresh dung as a pony lifted its tail, the murmur of a horse, a hoof moving against cobbles. All sounded so peaceful, so comforting, that Mark was tempted to climb the ladder, but knew he’d be battered if he tried.

When the voice came, it was a relief purely because it put an end to the waiting. Now, he thought, he knew his fate. The men of the vill were determined that he was guilty and they were going to make him pay for killing Mary. If Huward was there, he’d want to see Mark screaming for forgiveness. He’d want to see Mark in intolerable pain.

He tried to hide himself in the corner of the cell, not that there was any point. If they lit a candle or a lamp, they’d see him soon enough. Any moment now, he thought, they’d launch themselves down the ladder. This silence was their way of increasing his tension, making his anxiety mount so that by the time they actually came for him, he’d be incapable of self-defence. Perhaps if he was more courageous, he could surprise them, scramble up the ladder and attack them. He might escape – but no. There was little hope of that. Still, he could make sure he was killed quickly, without torture. But he wasn’t brave like that. The thought of throwing himself at men like Esmon and his father filled him with dread.

There was still no noise. Just the steady drip of water and the occasional clop of a hoof as a horse shifted. That was strange. If there were many men up there, the horses would have been upset, and he’d have expected a dog to bark and complain at being woken. Yet there was nothing. It was as though his gaolers had left after throwing open the door to his cell.

If this was intended to increase his fear and alarm, it was working! He felt as though he was about to void his empty bowels.

And then the irritable voice called down to him: ‘If you want to hang, stay there. I’m for my bed. But if you want to escape, go to the side of the keep. There’s a ladder there to the top of the wall, and you can escape easily. The key to your shackles is here.’

Mark listened to the footsteps receding, his mouth gaping. This must be a cynical ploy, another way to increase his terror – give him an apparent escape route and then capture him at the top of the ladder to this cell, or at the foot of the other – if there was one.

Yet the idea of escaping was so sweet, he could have wept.

A drip landed on his head, and he could smell the strong taint of horse’s piss as more followed it, flowing down his back. This decided him. He strode to the ladder and climbed, feeling as though he was ascending to the waiting rope. As promised, the key to his chains lay on the cobbles.

As he turned the key in the locks and the chains fell away, he felt lighter, refreshed, like a man newly born.

‘Simon, wake up, quickly! The damned priest’s escaped!’

Simon slowly came to as a harsh braying sounded from outside. ‘Sweet mother of God, what is that?’ he grunted.

Baldwin gave an exasperated exclamation. Simon was always bad after an evening’s drinking, and last night he had excelled himself. Baldwin had been more cautious, thinking that Sir Ralph might seek to remove the two thorns in his flesh at a stroke, but nothing happened. The food was plentiful if bland, which suited Baldwin’s palate, and the ale and wine was of good quality. After the meal, Baldwin had watched as Roger Scut stood and pronounced Grace. He had worn a satisfied smile on his face, and Baldwin wondered what he had been discussing with his neighbour, Esmon. Something that would be of advantage to Roger Scut, and no help to Mark, Baldwin was sure. Lady Annicia had not been present. Perhaps she was nursing a headache after her drunkenness earlier in the day.

It had taken all his diplomatic skills to keep Simon from offering violence to Esmon. He had sat glowering all through the meal, but even in this mood he wasn’t stupid enough to actually draw a knife against the son of a magnate in that magnate’s own hall, in front of the whole of his household. Instead he had taken as much ale as he could and fell asleep snoring loudly on Baldwin’s shoulder.

‘In God’s name, Simon, wake up, will you? That’s the horn of the Reeve: the local Hue and Cry are trying to find Mark, and we must get to him first.’

‘Let them. If he’s bolted, that’s as good as a confession.’

‘If the locals get to him, they will tear him limb from limb. We have to find him, and bring him back here as quickly as we may, so that he can be safely installed in his cell.’

‘They won’t dare harm him,’ Simon yawned. ‘He still claims to be a blasted priest. Sir Ralph won’t want to upset Bishop Walter.’

Baldwin threw Simon his tunic, and his usual calm was gone as he grated, ‘Your mind is still sleeping, Bailiff. The chapel in which Mark lived has been razed to the ground. If Mark had any letters confirming his position, they were surely in the church or his home, and they are both no more.’

‘That doesn’t matter, does it?’ Simon yawned again, closing his eyes and shoving the tunic from his blanket. ‘The Bishop can always send a new letter.’