Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Find Brian! Fetch men and horses and have the men arm themselves!’ he bellowed.

His man gave a short nod and went to obey his commands. Meanwhile Esmon stood looking up at the castle’s keep. He should warn his father what he intended, but since the girl’s death his old man had indeed grown old. No longer the courageous man of war, he was now apparently shrunken in mind and in spirit. Look at the way he’d stopped Esmon from taking Flora before. Sir Ralph had no right to prevent him from raping her – other than the customary right of ownership, of course. She was one of his serfs. It was probably merely the possessive streak in him. Well, Esmon had had enough of his caprices. Esmon wanted her, and he’d have her, just as soon as he’d dealt with Osbert. That son of an adder deserved death for standing in his way, and what he’d worked so hard to earn, Esmon would be pleased to deliver.

The man-at-arms was soon back with five more, and Esmon, wincing, clambered atop his mount. ‘Follow me!’ he roared, thrusting his hand beneath his armpit to protect it, snatching at his reins, and cantering off along the lane to where he had met Osbert. However, when he reached the clearing, there was no sign of Osbert, but for the axe which still lay on the ground. Gesturing to it, Esmon ordered one of the men to collect it, and then led the way back along the lane to another track. He went into it, scarcely aware of the men behind him. This way led more directly to Osbert’s house, he knew, and he was keen to get to him. The mad toad’s spawn would surely be walking up this lane, or perhaps he was already at his home. He could have gone straight there after the altercation at the clearing, filled with terror and remorse at his action. Perhaps that was why he’d dropped his axe, because he was so petrified with horror at his actions?

Somehow that didn’t ring true. Esmon had seen terror before in his life. He had killed enough men, had seen the wakening shock in their eyes as they saw their fate in Esmon’s face, had seen the intelligence fade from their faces as his sword took their lives, the way that their bodies either slumped quickly, or began their jigging dance as the nerves fought for life, had heard enough death rattles, could recognise fear when he saw it. There was nothing remotely like fear in Osbert’s face when he had confronted Esmon. Only hard, uncompromising hatred.

It was that memory which made him slow in his onward rush. There should have been some misgivings about attacking the son of a knight. It was appalling that a mere churl could think of lifting a weapon against a man like Esmon, and yet this fellow had done just that.

If it had been another man, one of the wandering tinkers who occasionally passed through here, he wouldn’t have been so shocked, because you expected stupid, antisocial behaviour from foreigners, but to see Osbert turn on him was like seeing a favourite mastiff snap at him. It was so incongruous, it was shocking. Osbert was usually so subservient, he could be embarrassing for it was shameful to see such an ox of a man so easily cowed. Something seemed to have made him forget his usual fear of Esmon and his father.

The girl!

Esmon’s twisted into a grimace. Of course, that was the reason! Osbert wanted to get into Flora’s skirts as much as Esmon himself did – no, more, since he was prepared to risk his life by threatening Esmon and attacking him. Esmon wouldn’t endanger his life or his livelihood in order to enjoy a tumble even with so sweet a wench as Flora. No, she was not worth risking a life over.

There was a faint thickening in the air ahead and Esmon felt his belly tighten. He recognised that sight: dust raised by men on the track in front of him. He raised his good hand and peered ahead. Here, he and his men were beneath some great trees, oaks and elms, and he felt secure enough. Those ahead would be unlikely to see his own company’s dust for the tree trunks, whereas he was looking northwards away from the sun, and the mist showed as an opacity against the woods further in the distance. Above the jangling of steel and puffing of the mounts, he was sure that he could discern the slow rumble and squeak of carts coming closer.

He had no need to speak to his men. They all knew how to operate effectively; they’d been on too many chevauchées together not to realise that this was potential spoil. As he made a hand signal, he knew it was redundant. None of them was watching him, they were all slipping to the sides of the path and waiting.

As the first horse appeared, with the bent figure of Saul jogging on the cart, Esmon’s men leaped forward, but they had not reckoned on the panic of the horse pulling Saul. Startled, it reared and jumped up in the traces, slipped sideways and blocked the way. Esmon’s men were ready to thunder off along the lane and capture any other folk behind Saul, but the kicking, bucking pony effectively prevented them, and Esmon could only watch as Alan took one look at him, then sprang from his seat and pelted away up the lane.

‘What is this?’ demanded one of Coroner Roger’s men. ‘Who are you?’

‘Shut up and keep still or you’ll have a quarrel in your guts,’ Brian shouted. True to his word, he had his crossbow ready in his hand. The two men obeyed, sitting without speaking, but showing their contempt for Esmon and his men by refusing to look them in the eyes.

Esmon had to wait, swearing volubly, while Saul tried to calm his beast and stood at last at its head patting it ungently while one of Esmon’s men galloped off after Alan.

‘So, master merchant. I hope you have enjoyed a successful fair at Chagford. I’d be upset if all I won today for this trouble was a few coins and your wineskin.’

‘I don’t have any wine,’ Saul said gloomily, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

‘Perhaps your friends do?’ Esmon said, looking at the two men on horseback who had been with Saul and Alan.

‘These aren’t friends of mine. They’re the Coroner’s men,’ Saul said, and there was an unmistakable leer in his face as he looked up at Esmon. ‘Doubt he’ll be best pleased when he hears you’ve caught two of his men.’

Esmon swallowed his immediate reply. It was tempting to simply draw his sword and sweep off Saul’s head, but that wouldn’t help matters now. He glanced at the two guards. They looked furious, but entirely unworried about their fate. They knew that the servants of a Coroner were safe from the most unruly and wayward of the King’s subjects. Even an outlaw must respect the power of the King’s Coroner, and only the suicidal would harm them.

‘Let’s hope that my man catches your companion then, eh, carter?’ Esmon hissed at Saul. ‘If he does, it would be sad to think of the accidents that could befall a little group like yours, out on the open roads, wouldn’t it?’

Saul looked up at him, suddenly worried. It was clear that Esmon was in a killing mood, and Saul suddenly realised that he and Alan were the only men nearby who could identify Esmon as being responsible for the murder of Wylkyn.

Alan was a friend, and he had escaped from Esmon’s men before now, if he was to be believed. He should be able to make his way to safety. Saul’s only concern was whether Alan would bother to find help to come and rescue him.

‘Well?’ Esmon demanded as the one-man posse returned.

‘He went in among the woods up ahead. I lost him. He got away.’

‘You fool, you toad’s ass! He might get off and find help!’ Esmon spat.

‘Help? Where from?’

Esmon stared at the man and would have spoken, but Saul sniffed once and then responded slowly, ‘From the Coroner, the Stannary Bailiff and the King’s Keeper. They’re all a short ride up from here.’