Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Baldwin nodded, concealing his true feelings. His belly was in a turmoil, and it was more because his hands would otherwise tremble like a drunkard’s that he kept one thumb hooked into his belt, the other fist resting upon his sword’s hilt. ‘I have never before been asked to assault a noble knight in his own castle.’

‘I doubt you have ever before heard of such a series of felonies committed by one man,’ Coroner Roger grated.

Baldwin nodded. He looked across at Simon, for perhaps the first time since his appointment as Keeper, doubting his own judgement. No coward, still Baldwin would prefer to avoid being forced to arrest a man so powerful as Sir Ralph or his son, but the accusations made by Alan were uncompromising. The decision was fearsome, yet he knew what he should do, no matter that it might mean his own destruction.

That was all that was uppermost in his mind, he suddenly realised in disgust. Here he was, one of a small number of men who had survived the atrocious destruction of the Knights Templar, who now trembled on the brink of a decision that could save future travellers simply because it meant that he could endanger his own position! If more people had refused to consider their own safety, he knew, his companions from the Templar Order would yet live. Fewer perhaps would have been crippled by the brutal tortures meted out to them in order to force them to confess to ludicrous accusations.

If he arrested Sir Ralph and his son, they must accuse him of crimes against them, crimes which might well be upheld by their powerful friends the Despensers, the King’s own friends. If Baldwin set his face against Sir Ralph and Esmon, his future must be endangered, and not only his own: his wife’s happiness depended upon him, his daughter’s safety too. He had to gamble with their lives.

He knew what he must do before all these thoughts had passed through his mind.

‘I shall not assault his castle until I have spoken myself to Sir Ralph and heard his response to these accusations.’ He cut off the Coroner’s interruption before Roger could draw breath. ‘In the meantime, you will sit here, Coroner, with your clerk, and write down all the accusations, the reason why we believe Sir Ralph is guilty, and his son, and when you have done so, you shall send messengers to South Tawton and to Chagford to ask for their help.’

‘I will come with you,’ Simon said.

‘I would prefer you to wait here for my return,’ Baldwin said with a pale smile.

‘Perhaps, but I’ll not leave Hugh in that nest of vipers if I can get him out.’

When Esmon returned, he dropped from his horse and saw to it that Saul and the other two men were installed in the room off the gatehouse where the carters had been incarcerated the previous week. Once they were safely locked away, he sent a man to fetch him a jug of strong wine while he seated himself near the stable.

His father was going to be livid when he heard about this. He was angry enough when Esmon had killed Wylkyn, but that had almost been a relief after his earlier enervation. It was all since the death of the wench from the mill. Mary’s murder had torn the soul from his father, as though Sir Ralph himself felt guilt…

Esmon slowly came upright. Of course! That was it! That was why he had been so pathetic and feeble ever since; that was why he had tried to prevent Esmon from catching young Flora afterwards! Sir Ralph was consumed by guilt, having made his use of the young stale and then killed her in a fit of fury. It was little wonder that he was so upset. No wonder he was keen to see the priest convicted, too! That would protect him.

Well, if he wanted to have people forget his crime, that was one thing. For Esmon, his father’s crimes were of no concern. Perhaps his own behaviour might reflect badly, but that was nothing for him to worry about. While they had their friends the Despensers, they were safe from all but a random arrow!

It was infuriating that he’d missed Osbert, though. The bastard should have been back at his home, but when Esmon had reached the place there was no sign of the poxed badger’s cub. It was all in stillness, without even a faint spark in the hearth to show that anyone had ever lived there. Osbert had escaped him for now, but he couldn’t run away for ever. Esmon would catch him, and when he did, he’d make that whoreson regret his little outburst.

Esmon could move the fingers of his hand, and he was reasonably confident that the bones weren’t broken as he’d originally feared, but the bruising would be appalling, of that he was sure.

It was curious. Esmon still had that feeling of lust for the girl, but it was subsumed now by his hatred of Osbert. If he could but ravish Flora, it would give him the additional satisfaction of ruining Osbert’s life. He was sure that was the meaning behind the odd look in Osbert’s eyes as he protected Flora. Osbert loved her and wanted her for himself.

He sipped at his wine. It was fortunate, perhaps, that his father wasn’t here. Apparently he had ridden off some little while before, heading towards Chagford. No one seemed to know why he had gone there, except one of the servants had overheard a messenger saying that Surval wanted to see him. Curious, Esmon thought to himself, sipping at more wine. Was his old man going off his head?

If he was, that would be no bad thing. Esmon could have him locked up in the castle, somewhere nice and quiet, away from others, and Esmon could come into his inheritance.

That was how the idea was planted: a random feeling of contempt for his father’s apparent collapse after the death of his wench. That very collapse was a sign of mental feebleness, proof that Sir Ralph was no longer capable of running the vill and the castle.

Esmon was capable. More than that, he had the men to succeed. With Brian and the others, he could hold both castle and vill, and if it appeared that there were richer pickings elsewhere, why, Esmon and his men could move on. This place held no real significance for him. His father had jealously desired it for years, but that was nothing to Esmon. He wanted a bigger, better place than a small rural castle.

It was a foolish dream, though, he told himself. Simple plans always looked simple until put into action, and his father wasn’t truly mad. Just a bit enfeebled for some reason.

‘So?’ asked a small, quiet voice at the back of his mind. ‘If he recovers, you could release him then, couldn’t you?’

All he would need was a strong-minded clerk or lawyer to declare that his father was mad, and he could take over the place. Get his mother out, install himself in the great chair before the hearth, and enjoy the life of the free.

His father would be insane with anger. Perhaps it would stir him from his lethargic mood. Since Mary’s death he’d been in a stupor.

Scut , said that quiet voice. There was a man whose integrity was negotiable.

No! It was mad even to think of such a thing. Quite out of the question. But he could, he supposed, sound out Brian. See what the leader of his men reckoned. And then maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Scut. See what the clerk had to say about such an idea. He could ask Scut to look at his hand, then spring the question.

He drained his cup, flexed his hand a few times to test his fingers, and then nodded, satisfied, and walked out to find Roger Scut.

When the door suddenly opened, Surval didn’t bother to turn from his contemplation of the cross before him.

‘So you came at last.’

‘What do you want, old man? Your messenger asked me to come – why?’

Surval crossed himself as he rose to his feet. ‘Yes, I am old. And so are you, my Lord. Look at us both: there are almost a hundred years between us. But I declare that there are also differences between us. I have learned by my mistakes; you have not.’