Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Yes, he can, once he learns of Mark’s position, but that could take weeks, and in the meantime the boy is likely to die of malnourishment, mistreatment or fever. There is nothing here to confirm his position in the Church. He has lost everything!’

At last his words sank into Simon’s fuddled brain. He reopened his eyes and gazed about him blearily, then reluctantly sat up, scratching the bites at his armpits where fleas had attacked him. ‘So he has nothing to verify his post?’ Simon said, pulling his tunic over his head.

‘No, Mark has nothing to prove his clerical status,’ Baldwin said, watching as Simon pulled up his hose. ‘And although that should not matter, we both know it will! The men of this vill are already so enraged about the murder that they’ll seek to kill him as a confessed felon. His escape is all the proof they want, although Bishop Walter may choose to extort a high price for their behaviour later.’

‘Even my Lord Bishop will be reluctant to impose too stiff a penalty on Sir Ralph. We have heard him say that this damned priest should be protected. He said so before witnesses.’

‘True enough, not that it means a thing,’ Baldwin observed. ‘He made sure that he said the correct things in court, while still inciting his villeins to fury. But enough of him! We have to try to find this miserable priest before someone else does.’

‘He must be mad,’ Simon muttered as he tied his sword belt and shrugged on his coat. ‘Running away in this weather.’

‘What has happened to him here at Gidleigh would be enough to turn any monk mad,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘But how much more mad would he have been to remain in that cell, knowing that all he was waiting for was death?’

‘Perhaps,’ Simon agreed, ‘but running away simply means he’ll find death that bit sooner. How did he get out, anyway? I thought the cell was locked, and I’d have expected him to be shackled.’

‘We can find that out when we have caught him.’

‘All right, all right. I can take a hint.’

He followed Baldwin out to the court, where Sir Ralph had already gathered a large posse. Near the door to the hall Simon saw Hugh glowering evilly at the throng, a heavy strip of grey cloth bound about his head. Hugh was sitting on a bench, a large staff nearby, and although he winced occasionally as the sun came out from behind clouds, or when a horse whinnied too loudly near him, he looked on the road to recovery. In fact, Simon thought he looked like a man who was waiting for the first funny comment before letting his fists fly, which was pleasing. It was good to see his servant returned to his usual state of truculence, even if he was still very drawn-looking; he appeared slightly yellow about the face, and had dark bruises beneath both eyes. At his side was Thomas, whose grim expression seemed the perfect companion to Hugh’s own.

Piers sat on a little pony, clutching at his reins like a man who feared falling, and Simon could see Hugh watching him with that mixture of sympathy and contempt that he always reserved for people, like himself, who were uncomfortable on horseback. In Hugh’s opinion, he concealed his own fear admirably; in Simon’s opinion, it was a touching piece of self-deception.

‘Sir Baldwin, will you join our posse?’ Sir Ralph shouted across the court.

The men in the area were silenced by his bellow. Simon felt as though all the eyes in that yard were suddenly upon him and Baldwin, and he was irritated that Sir Ralph should roar at them in this unseemly manner, in front of so many scruffy villagers.

Baldwin’s response was mild. ‘I fear we have other business to conduct. It would be wrong of us to join your host – we should only be in your way, not knowing the roads and byways about here where a man like the priest might run.’

‘There’s surely a duty on all men to join the Hue and Cry,’ came Roger Scut’s reedy voice.

Simon saw Baldwin’s back stiffen. The monk stood with a smile on his face, head tilted back and a little to one side as though he was contemplating some new form of beetle before crushing it.

‘You are quite right, of course,’ Baldwin said suavely, and Simon could hear his anger in the precise, clipped tones. ‘It is the duty of all those in the Hundred to join the Hue and Cry. I do not come from this Hundred. Further, I have the duty as Keeper of the King’s Peace to perform my inquest and review all the facts of a matter. I shall do so. In the meantime, clerk, perhaps you should return to your own duties.’

‘Of course you must do what you think is needed,’ Sir Ralph said, and was about to ride off, when Simon called to him.

‘Is your son with you, Sir Ralph?’

Sir Ralph glanced at him. ‘Do you see him? Neither do I.’

‘Yet it is the duty of all in the Hundred to pursue an escaped…’ Simon swallowed the word ‘felon’, quickly substituting, ‘… man like the priest.’

‘If he is a priest.’

‘That,’ Baldwin shot out, ‘is for the Bishop to confirm, is it not? You will not attempt to slaughter this man as though he were a common outlaw.’

‘We shall see. Even a cleric who draws a weapon on the Hue and Cry to evade capture may be forced to submit.’

‘He has no weapon,’ Baldwin said more loudly. ‘So I shall myself appeal any man who uses a weapon or excessive force to capture him. Any man.’

‘Perhaps he has acquired a knife, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Ralph said angrily.

‘Where is your son, Sir Ralph?’ Simon asked doggedly.

‘I don’t know,’ Sir Ralph admitted after a moment. ‘He left the castle last night and has not returned yet.’

With that, he turned from them both, shouted a command, and the men pelted out through the open gates.

Esmon belched and rested his hand on the girl’s flank. She squirmed a little at his touch, but then twisted under the blanket and offered her mouth to him. With a grunt, he rolled between her thighs and smiled down at her.

She was a saucy little strumpet, this Margery. Slim and attractive, she had the great advantage over other girls in the vill that her father was a carter and often away from his home. With him gone, Esmon could often hope for a warm welcome in this hovel with her.

He left her a few minutes later, standing in the doorway while he pulled on his shirt, then his padded leather jack and a cloak against the cold. While Margery mumbled her farewells, no doubt cradling the little gift of coins which he had left at the side of her bed, he stared out into the roadway over the small yard.

From here he could look all along the lane towards Gidleigh. It wasn’t very far from here, but in this rolling country it was well concealed. Esmon took a deep breath of the air and sighed contentedly. This was good land, this. He loved it passionately. As he loved his freedom. The idea that he could be cooped up for some appearance in court was unappealing. That was why he’d let his annoyance take him over yesterday, trying to ride down the Bailiff. If he’d managed to kill him, he could have explained it as an accident, and disposed of the Stannary officer, the man most likely to want to avenge the death of a miner. A miner! Wylkyn was no more a miner than Esmon’s mother; he’d just run off to the moors to hide from justice after he murdered his own master and Esmon had visited justice on him.

He knew the legal logic of his case, but that was no comfort. The law was unreasonable and foolish. Too often the wrong people were released while good men were convicted. It was all mad. Far better to remove an irritating officer and put it down to an accident. Shame the attempt failed.

That Bailiff and his friend the Keeper seemed convinced that the priest should be let go, and Esmon in all fairness saw little reason not to let him. Esmon had no interest in Mark. It was his father who wanted Mark to suffer for his crime, if he did indeed kill the wench. Probably he did. There was no other reason for him to have run away like that unless he was guilty.