Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Esmon was confused. He took a step back, out of reach of the axe, and he was tempted to draw his sword, but he prudently left it while he tried to learn what Osbert meant. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No? Maybe not. But Sir Richard’s man is dead, isn’t he? And who was seen doing that? You! ’

Esmon chuckled. ‘That’s interesting. So I’ll have to enlist the help of my Lord Despenser to avoid the rope, you mean? Or perhaps you mean that I’ll have to ask for the support of his friend, the King, to have my sentence quashed and my crime pardoned? You cretin! You have no idea how feeble your threats are to someone as powerful as me! My power is based upon my friends, fool. You grip your axe with care for now, churl, thinking that you are in danger while I’m here, but you’re wrong. You need to fear me when I am not in view. That’s when I will be most danger to you. When I am talking to my friends – or maybe planning your death!’

‘You can’t scare me.’

‘Anyway – where’s Wylkyn’s body? I don’t see it. No body: no murder. No one will convict me !’

‘No? Not even for the murder of Sir Richard Prouse?’ Osbert saw Esmon’s face freeze. ‘Oh, yes, Master. We all know about Wylkyn, how he brewed things for his Lord. Good, some of them were, others could kill. He was interested in them all, Wylkyn was.’

‘Yes, that was why–’

‘Why you killed him. Because you stole the poison from his room to kill Sir Richard, and as soon as Wylkyn saw someone had used his potions to murder his master, he ran away. You had to have that castle, though, didn’t you? You were in such a hurry, and Sir Richard just wouldn’t die. He was prepared to fight, and you couldn’t hang around to fight a court case, so you murdered him instead. We all know it, Esmon, and we’ll make sure the Coroner does, too.’

Flora was surprised by her mother’s apparent lack of concern at Huward’s disappearance. She had tried to raise the subject of his not arriving home the night before, but Gilda had ignored her. At the time, Flora had thought that Gilda already knew where he was, that he had gone to an ale-house like the widow’s in Murchington, to drink and forget his misery, but then she heard her mother weeping herself to sleep in the bed next to her. Her misery had stilled even Ben’s sarcastic whining.

‘Do you know where he is?’ Flora asked again as they ate their meagre breakfast.

‘He’ll come back soon enough,’ Gilda said. ‘He must!’

She looked terrible. Since Mary’s death, her face had lost its roundness, and now her features looked haggard, slightly yellow. Her eyes were red-rimmed and there were blue bruises under them from lack of sleep, while her mouth had lost all colour. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to prepare dough for bread, but she persevered at the task as though it was a means of distracting herself from the end of her world.

Flora left her. Outside, in the sunshine, she felt the sharp, metallic taste of tears welling, but swallowed hard and forced them away. She had to stay strong, both for her mother, and for herself. Her father, her poor, poor father, had broken into pieces like an earthenware jar dropped on stones. Now Mary was dead, he seemed to have collapsed in upon himself.

Turning her face skywards, Flora enjoyed the sun upon her cheeks. It felt as though God Himself was giving her the full impact of His love, a love that could warm the most sorry of humans, and for a while she stood there, basking in it, but the comfort it gave her couldn’t last. The loss of her sister, and now the disappearance of her father too, induced a chill in her bones.

She craved the love of her father. He had been at the court yesterday, Flora knew, but he hadn’t come back. Flora was worried. She prayed that he hadn’t got drunk and fallen into a river or over a cliff. There were so many dangers here, especially for a man who had drunk too much.

The sun was momentarily covered by a cloud, and as it returned again, she opened her eyes. Perhaps Osbert knew where her father had gone? He must have been there at the court, surely; he was one of the court’s jury. She could go and ask him. And if there was the slightest sign of sympathy from him, she would throw herself into his arms, and damn the world.

As though the thought was answered by God Himself, she suddenly heard a laugh, and then the regular sound of chopping at wood. That was where Osbert was, in the woods up near the road to Gidleigh’s castle.

Inside the house she heard more dry, racking sobs as her mother gave herself up to her misery once more, and that decided her. She had to find her father not only to make sure that he was all right, but also to save her poor mother from this overwhelming despair.

With a determined frown on her face, armed with the logical pretext that she was in fact embarking on a mission for her mother’s ease of mind, she set off to follow the sound of axe hewing wood.

In the mill, Ben put his hand on Gilda’s. ‘It’s all right, Mother.’

She snatched hers away. ‘All right? When your father has disappeared?’

‘But he’s not our father, is he?’ Ben said slyly. ‘I heard you talking to Surval yesterday. All of it.’

‘You heard us?’ she repeated with a kind of dull sadness.

‘So I know Huward isn’t our father. I think we could earn more money from our real father, don’t you? Leave it to me, Mother. I’ll see to it that we’re better off now than we have ever been.’

‘No! You stay here, don’t dare go to him, he’d–’

‘What, deny he’s my father? I doubt that.’

Coroner Roger led Baldwin and Simon away from the hermit’s house. When Simon peered back over his shoulder, he saw that the old man was staring after them still, but as Simon watched, he shook his head and re-entered his house with a slow, despondent gait. The sight gave Simon a pang of remorse. He wished he could like the hermit, but he couldn’t. There was something about the man that made him feel wary. Deep in his soul, he loathed murderers and Surval had committed the worst of crimes.

The girl Mary came into his mind. A man like Surval – lonely, miserable, sleeping in a cold hovel, with few comforts of any sort: would it be any surprise if he succumbed to desire for a woman? Especially a young woman, a girl who was fresh, warm, attractive? Surval had done so before, on his own admission – could he have done so again?

He was about to ask Baldwin about the girl’s body, when the Coroner spoke.

‘These carters here have lost their tongues since I overheard them talking in the tavern.’

He waved a cheerful hand at Alan and Saul, both of whom sat hunched over their reins like men who wanted to ignore those who rode along behind them. Like children, they appeared to think that if they ignored the Coroner, he might disappear.

The Coroner wasn’t alone. With him were two servants and a cleric called Arthur, who was there to record the details of his inquests. Simon could not help but notice how well the Coroner got on with his cleric. It was very different from Baldwin and Roger Scut.

‘What were they saying?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘That it was better to leave a murderer and let him go free, rather than capture him. They said this wasn’t their vill, after all, and it was nothing to do with them.’

‘Do you think they realise that aiding a murderer’s escape is a serious offence?’ Baldwin asked, and Simon had to look away to hide his smile. He recognised Baldwin’s mock-stern voice.

‘I doubt it. I don’t think they have one good brain between them,’ the Coroner said dismissively.

‘We couldn’t do much to stop him, could we? He caught us,’ Alan said sulkily.