Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Sir Ralph was retreating to give himself fighting room, his own sword out now, but seeing that Mark was beyond further attack, he spun round as though expecting another from the men in the corner. None of them had moved, however, as though the action was as much of a surprise to them as to all the others in the room. Sir Ralph stood and waited, daring them to make a move. For a short while all was quiet but for the choking and bubbling that came from Mark, and then gradually the men at the table shrugged and turned away.

‘Let me get to him!’ Roger Scut demanded, his face white with shock. Baldwin’s sword had come within a few inches of his own head and the sharp sound of that blade slicing through the air and then thwacking through Mark’s arm had almost made him empty his bowels. It was with relief that he realised his habit was not bespattered with faeces.

Roger Scut was full of mixed emotions. He had automatically risen to come and help this man before he died, for Roger took his duties seriously when they directly affected a soul, especially when that man was a cleric. Now, he felt his heart twist as he looked on the ruin of the man he had wanted to die so that he could take his chapel. Now it was that Roger felt the full shame and dishonour of his actions.

Mark turned and met Roger’s stare unflinchingly, and Roger felt as though Jesus Himself had stabbed him with a look; but where he would have expected hatred or scorn, all he saw was gratitude.

‘Please… my confession…’

Roger knelt quickly at his side. He gripped Mark’s remaining hand and bent his head in prayer. Behind him he heard Sir Ralph hawk and spit. Then he spoke, and Mark had to work to keep his eyes shut as he prayed, trying to ignore the venom in the knight’s voice.

‘Yes, you look after him!’ Sir Ralph sneered. ‘You damned monks always stick together, don’t you! You stopped him from being executed for one murder, and because of your stupid actions, he was able to come here today and nearly kill me. Murderous traitor! Evil degenerate! Well, he’s done now! Let the bastard die slowly, so he can feel the weight of his treachery!’

Having spoken, Sir Ralph stormed from the room up to his solar, his wife joining him. Baldwin remained where he was, his sword still ready, flashing blue and red in the light.

There was no need to fear more violence. He could see that the men at the tables were surprised at the suddenness of the attack and the speed of Mark’s defeat. Taking up a fallen towel, Baldwin carefully cleaned the blood from his blade, then wiped it on his tunic to dry it off. Satisfied, he thrust it home into his scabbard, and he would have left to rejoin Simon and Hugh, except something in the dying man’s eyes made him remain.

‘Must tell you… It was him… made Huward kill his family…’

‘What do you mean?’

‘His wife… Gilda was Sir Ralph’s… whore. All children, Sir Ralph’s. None Huward’s.’ He coughed up a ball of bloody phlegm. ‘Huward dead. Hanged himself in a tree.’

‘Where?’

‘Hill behind mill… not far…’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Mary. Did you kill her?’

‘Hit her. Not hard. Loved her.’

‘Did you break her neck?’ Simon asked.

‘Punched. Just once.’

‘You swear you did not break her neck?’ Baldwin pressed.

‘Yes. Told you… I loved her. Went back later… wanted to make up. She was dead. All that blood. Knew I’d be accused. Ran away.’

‘So she did not collapse and lose her child while you were there?’

‘She was well when I left… My poor Mary.’

‘Did you see anyone else who could have killed her? Anyone at all, from after you left her to when you found her dead?’ Baldwin had to know.

Mark winced, both eyes snapping shut with a sudden pain. He raised an arm to wipe his face, but it was his stump. His face seemed to tear with loss, with the realisation that he was dying. He sobbed silently a moment, then breathed, ‘Sir Ralph.’

‘Is that why you wanted to kill him? You thought he was the murderer?’

The man was fading fast now. A quivering as though he was terribly frozen was causing his limbs to shudder and one heel was knocking a staccato rhythm on the dais’s floor. His face was a deathly pale, his eyes wide with knowledge of his impending doom. Roger Scut murmured that he should conserve his breath to confess his sins, but he continued weakly.

‘No more… All done. Sir Ralph was father of Mary… father of me too… Incest… Ruined… me…’

‘By God’s love,’ Roger Scut muttered under his breath, and then swiftly began the process of the Seven Interrogations, his guilt making him careful and precise. Mark choked and answered as he could, but Baldwin could only feel relief that he was able to respond to the last and relax on hearing the viaticum . It would have been a terrible weight for Baldwin to bear, had Mark not received the promise of God’s forgiveness.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Baldwin stood, his head bowed, staring at the boy as his lifeblood drained, forming a puddle which surrounded his head like a red halo. ‘He wanted to murder Sir Ralph because Sir Ralph was his father.’

‘That’s hardly the best excuse for murder!’

‘This is no laughing matter, Simon!’ Baldwin burst out. ‘That boy discovered that the girl he loved was his sister; he had got his own sister with child without knowing it! An incest! Is it any wonder his mind was turned?’

‘You mean Mary was Sir Ralph’s child as well?’

‘Exactly – and I killed him,’ Baldwin said. He suddenly felt the appalling weight of his action. ‘That boy was forced into crimes because of Sir Ralph’s offences, Simon – not because of his own sins. Oh God! What have I done? I killed him for that ? I should have killed Sir Ralph!’

‘You prevented a murder,’ Simon said steadily.

‘By committing an injustice! And that’s worse than a mere crime!’ Baldwin hissed.

Coroner Roger was at the tavern when the men started to arrive. Those from Chagford were first, led by a Reeve, John. All were grim-faced at the thought of the work they must do today, but shouldered poles with their billhooks rammed hard onto the ends. Some self-consciously carried swords which their forefathers had passed down over long years, but the Coroner was happier to see that many of them bore bows and quivers full of arrows. If this day was to end in a battle, the more archers the better, and since King Edward I’s day, every vill had men trained with long bows.

Next were the men from South Tawton with a trained Squire, Master Hector, who had seen battles, and whom Coroner Roger felt he could trust. That was a relief, for so often there were knaves and fools sent when a posse was commanded to ride.

Aye, it was all too common that you’d end up with the dullest slugs in the county when you had to catch someone, when what you needed were the strongest men both in the arm and in the head, the Coroner told himself, running an eye over the men gathered in the roadway in front of the inn. At least this lot seemed intelligent enough, and most were experienced in fighting. If they hadn’t been in tussles in the wars with or against the King, and God knew, few enough men in the realm had avoided any fighting in the last few years, then they had been involved in scrapes with the bands of cudgel-men, the trail bastons who were still such a pest.

He didn’t like to admit the fact even to himself, but Coroner Roger was anxious. Sir Baldwin and Master Puttock were both capable fighters; Roger had seen Sir Baldwin last year fighting a powerful opponent and slaying him, and he knew Simon was a doughty ally. If they had been set upon, they would have given a good account of themselves – of that he was quite certain.