Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

This was a part of the routine of the place, he knew. The boy would go to the little bell out at the doorway and strike it to call all the servants in to eat or serve. There were always shifts of servants at halls like this one. One group would eat while the other served them, and then there would be a change so that the servers could themselves eat. All perfectly normal, and Simon paid little attention as the bell was sounded and all the men from the castle came in. They went to their places as though all the seats were already allotted, a fact borne out by the way three men stood muttering darkly on seeing Baldwin, Simon and Hugh sitting.

There was one other man whom Simon could not help but hear. He was an older man, thin and unwell in appearance, as though he had suffered from a fever recently, and he was glowering at his neighbours.

‘It was my old dad’s, that knife. One of you thieving bastards has it, and you can just give it me back. Think it’s a sodding joke, don’t you?’

‘Come on, it’s just fallen from your belt somewhere. You’ll find it soon enough.’

‘It was on my belt last night when I went to sleep. Think I’ve lost my mind because of a bit of a cold? I can remember where I put it: same as always, right by my hand in case any of those mad buggers over there decide to try something,’ he said, throwing a ferocious scowl towards the men-at-arms.

‘Well, it’s not there now.’

‘Maybe one of them took it off you?’ another man laughed, but Simon paid them little attention as he smelled the scent of fresh baked bread and heard the welcoming sound of ale pouring into jugs. His mouth filled with saliva and he gazed hopefully at the door to the screens.

Baldwin was more interested in the door to the solar. Now that all his men were in the room, he was sure that the knight would soon arrive, and sure enough, when all the benches and stools were filled, the steward returned to the door, moving the tapestry once more, and tapped on it. Shortly afterwards, Ben and Flora entered, Flora as pale as a sheet of vellum where her face was not burned. The left side of her face was a weeping, raw wound, and she moved slowly as though in great sadness and pain. At her side was Ben, but the lad had lost his strutting mien. His hair was all but burned away, and there was a great sore on the point of his skull, while his cheeks were cracked and bleeding. He moved as though terrified that he would attract attention to himself, as if he could trust no one. Perhaps, Baldwin thought, someone who had seen his own father try to murder him, would be marked forever afterwards with that kind of fear.

The steward led them to the side of the main table and seated them with great care, setting a jug of wine before Flora and selecting an apple from a pile for her. Ben sat shivering, hardly even glancing at the food set out before him.

A moment or two later, the room fell silent as Sir Ralph appeared with his wife at his side. They walked in regally, Sir Ralph nodding to his steward, and allowing a momentary annoyance to pass over his face as a man-at-arms gave a shout of delight on seeing how the dice had fallen. Others in the room shushed the man, but he growled, staring down any of the servants who met his gaze. When he was satisfied that he had cowed all, he deliberately sat with his back to Sir Ralph.

The Lord threw a bitter glance at his son, but Esmon affected not to notice. Baldwin, looking at the stiffness in Sir Ralph’s back, was convinced that he would make his son pay for the man’s rudeness later.

There was a breeze in the room. The tapestries behind Sir Ralph rippled occasionally, while Baldwin was aware that sometimes a candle or two would smoke and gutter at the same time, although he gave little thought to the matter. He was too busy keeping his eyes on the men-at-arms.

They had no respect for Sir Ralph, that was quite evident. Their noise was unmannerly, as though they no longer cared about how the master of the castle might view their rudeness.

Sir Ralph was chewing his food stolidly but by the fact that he spoke not at all and never once so much as glanced towards the disruptive men, Baldwin was convinced that he was more angry than anyone would have guessed.

It was all too common now, because of the number of men who must be hired for money rather than for their loyalty, for mutinies to take place. Mercenaries were everywhere. It was the greed for personal wealth that led to it, Baldwin thought. In his day, men knew their rank, but now ploughmen were demanding more money than they had received the last year, and so were masons, shepherds and others, as though they had a right to more. It was sheer lunacy.

Baldwin remained true to the old ways. His men were all loyal and deserving of his trust because they had been with his family for many years. Some castles he knew had been built specifically to take note of the unruly mob who were supposed to be the armed guards of the castle’s Lord. Instead of sharing a building with their leader, he was segregated in order that he could protect himself and his family in a separate chamber, just in case his men proved disloyal. Such was the case here, Baldwin told himself, glancing back at the strong door to the solar block. Sir Ralph and his wife retired into that separate area where they could at least bolt the door to protect themselves from unruly men-at-arms. It was a dreadful comment on the way that things had changed since the turn of the century.

He frowned a moment. And then his eyes focused. The men here were uncaring for the honour and position of their own master. Unless they were intending to leave immediately, perhaps they had some idea of deposing Sir Ralph: that was what Roger Scut had implied, wasn’t it? That Esmon was planning to overthrow his father and install himself in Sir Ralph’s place?

What better way to achieve that aim than by murdering Sir Ralph, Baldwin thought, using an assassin, like the Hashishim. Someone like that would wait for a signal. He glanced carefully at the men all about, wondering whether any might be about to shout or whistle for an accomplice to attack. Or perhaps not. Men would be most relaxed after a meal, he reasoned. Perhaps the signal was merely the end of eating.

But there was a ritual that signalled the end of the meal, he realised, remembering the meals he had eaten here before.

With that thought, he stood. Aware that he was being watched by all eyes, he edged his way behind the men seated at his table, until he reached the dais. There he bowed slightly to Sir Ralph, who kept a wary eye on him as though expecting Sir Baldwin to leap upon him. The steward appeared to hold the same doubts, and made as though to block Baldwin’s path, but then events suddenly moved so swiftly that Baldwin could only recall what happened when he later spoke to Simon.

First, Sir Ralph held up his hand to his steward, but then he stood. He set his own hand on his sword, ready to pull it out. Roger Scut, sitting nearby, immediately stood and began to speak the Grace. Instantly the tapestries exploded: two, which had been joined to seal a gap, billowing out and exposing the grim, white features of Mark. He held a long dagger in his hand, and with fearful but determined eyes, he launched himself at Sir Ralph.

The knight was concentrating on Baldwin, but some instinct made him turn his head just as Baldwin grabbed his own sword. It came out in a sweep of flashing blue, the peacock-coloured blade hissing as it slithered from the scabbard, and then Baldwin beat at Mark’s dagger hand, severing it cleanly at the elbow. It fell to the floor still holding the blade.

Only then did he see that Mark’s other hand gripped a small eating knife, and this was aimed at Sir Ralph’s throat. Unheeding of his lost fist, Mark pressed on, and Baldwin turned his sword. With scarcely any effort, his blade sank into Mark’s breast, the priest’s onward rush forcing himself onto it like a wild hog spitted upon a lance.