Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Greetings, Coroner,’ Baldwin said evenly. ‘I had not looked to see you so soon.’

‘No, I doubt whether you had,’ Coroner Roger of Gidleigh said with loud delight. ‘Still, I am sure you’ll want to fill me in on the details of this matter, won’t you? Um, shall we see the body straight away, or…’ he glanced coldly at Surval ‘… leave it a short while to give people time to find it again?’

Sir Ralph swore and lashed with his whip at a bush to vent his frustration.

‘So where has that miserable shit of a priest gone, then?’

Piers was at his side, holding his hands out in acknowledgement of his own bafflement. ‘I don’t know. I’d have thought he’d have come straight up here, but there’s no sign of him.’

Sir Ralph cursed again, while the men about him waited. Dogs sat and scratched, one discovered a pile of something unpleasant, and rolled enthusiastically in it until Sir Ralph’s whip caught his flank. ‘He can’t just have vanished.’

‘Perhaps we were wrong and he went a different way?’

Sir Ralph pursed his lips. The bastard must have come this way. It was the only choice that made any sense, both because of the logic of the route away from the castle avoiding all those folks who could have apprehended him, and also because Mark knew that he should be safe on the moors if he only declared himself a miner. That would usually work, but today Sir Ralph had the right of Hue and Cry to catch his man, and so he would. And when he did, he would make sure that the young cur died for the murder of his Mary.

The land here should have yielded up a fugitive without difficulty. ‘If he came here, we should have seen his prints in among all this black soil.’

‘Yes. But there’s no mark at all.’

Piers was speaking the simple truth. The land here was flat, with few rocks or bushes behind which a man might conceal himself. They had passed over the winding streams with their ancient clapper bridges, and on to the broad, flat plain. Here they ascended a long ridge of hills and now they could gaze out over some miles in all directions.

All the flat plains were soaked with water. Any man trying to escape over that would have been slowed, but also his prints would have been visible to the men whom Sir Ralph had brought with him. He had already led his men up and down this ridge; all were spread out and walking their mounts perpendicular to the direction of Mark’s flight. Or the direction that his flight should have taken him, anyway.

He thrust his whip between his thigh and the saddle while he considered. This was ridiculous!

‘Do you want us to carry on to Steeperton,’ Piers asked respectfully, ‘or shall we go back and see if the dogs can find a scent nearer the castle?’

‘Don’t try to tell me how to hunt a man, Reeve! I’ve done it often enough!’ Sir Ralph saw Piers pull a face, and knew why. He’d been so certain that Mark must have come this way that he hadn’t even bothered to take the dogs to the spot where Mark had escaped over the castle wall. Instead, he had led the posse up here, past the stone circle and onto the moors themselves.

Mark must be laughing. He had got out of the castle, and now he was concealed somewhere. Perhaps he was in a tree overlooking the castle even now, giggling to think how he had evaded the trap set for him by Sir Ralph.

It was infuriating to realise now that Mark must have guessed Sir Ralph would try to set a trap for him when he was released from his cell. Sir Ralph should have known his motive would be transparent.

‘Come, we’ll return and see if we can get his scent even now!’ he shouted, and turned his horse back to the east.

At all costs, he must see that little pile of dung dead. He didn’t care how, but Mark must die – and slowly, too.

That was the reason why Sir Ralph had gone and set him loose, after all.

Esmon sent the boy to take his horse back to the castle. There was no need for it today. The weather was fine, and the sun was out again, so he decided to walk the mile or so to Flora’s house. After all, he didn’t want to catch the girl and then be discovered by the miller who might notice Esmon’s horse tethered at the place where he was enjoying Huward’s younger daughter. A man the miller’s size could inflict severe damage on a smaller man like Esmon, and he had no wish to suffer a beating at those giant hands.

Easier by far to take the girl away, scare her by threatening to have her father killed if she refused to submit, or if she told her father later what Esmon had done to her. Much easier for all concerned.

The lanes were still muddy from the rains, and the scent of warmed earth made him feel at home. It was a scent which had been with him all his life, but at the castle of Gidleigh, he missed it, because the natural odour was overwhelmed by the stench of unwashed men and the little midden behind. Here the soil’s own rich tang was predominant, and in the warmth of the sun, with the dampness in the air, it felt as though he was walking through a fine mist of peat.

It was good that Wylkyn was dead. The man had deserved it, and it was always satisfying to visit punishment on the guilty, just as he must soon punish Mark the monk. And then he would sit down with Brian and plan what they were to do next. It was clear enough, from the exultation of the men after the raid during which Wylkyn had died, that they needed more excitement. The band was growing bored with sitting about; they craved war. Only in fighting did a man reach his true potential, only when shouting defiance with a sword in his hand did he achieve that peak. There was nothing else like it. Afterwards, sex with a willing wench was good, but even that wasn’t as thrilling as the actual fight itself.

If he had been master of the castle, he might have decided to stay. It was a good place. Comfortable, spacious, and with the potential of ready money from raiding travellers, but while his father was the master, it was better that they should find somewhere else to go.

Especially now, since his attempt on the Bailiff. Esmon didn’t want to be taken as a felon. He could count on the Despensers having him freed, but that wasn’t the point. If he could have ridden Simon down, that might have given him a breathing space. Instead, by missing, he had further infuriated the Bailiff and given him a motive to find Esmon guilty. A Stannary Bailiff had many powers. If he wanted, he could feasibly arrest Esmon and have him installed in the Lydford Gaol. It didn’t bear thinking of. He wished now that he hadn’t let his impetuousness overrule his common sense.

At the lane that led down to the mill, he paused when he heard the sound of chopping in a small wood near the road. It could be Huward. He had no intention of risking a fight with the old bugger. He could well lose, especially if Huward was armed with an axe.

Cautiously, he entered the little wood where he had heard the sound and crept forward to see who it was. A heavy-set figure was swinging his axe with more violence than was necessary: Osbert.

‘What are you up to, churl?’ Esmon drawled. ‘This is not your land, and you have no right to be cutting trees. I shall have to see you fined for your theft.’

‘I was sent here by the miller’s wife; if you have a complaint, take it to her.’

‘Your manner is impudent. Perhaps I should teach you some manners.’

Osbert hefted his axe in his hand and stared at him. ‘Keep your hand from your sword, Master. Your father isn’t here, and nor are your men-at-arms.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘You are a fool, Esmon. You reckon you can scare me, but it’s too late for that. I’ve lost my Mary, and that was the worst thing that could have happened to me. So now, I ain’t scared of anyone, you included. You should be, though!’