Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Thank you, my Lady,’ Flora stammered as they went into the little downstairs chamber.

‘You have had to cope with enough already,’ Lady Annicia said coldly. ‘Your house, your father, and now this.’

‘Why should he want to kill Sir Ralph?’

‘Come, dear. Call him by the correct title: “Father”.’

Flora closed her eyes and hung her head. She had hoped that there would be no need to talk about that. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault, child. It’s my husband and your mother we must blame, if anyone.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Of course. At least he kept it quiet,’ Lady Annicia said, pouring wine.

They had said nothing after that. Both had plenty to occupy their minds. While Flora wept silently, in memory of Huward and her mother, both dead, Annicia was musing on the shame that her husband’s affairs had heaped upon her. It was not pleasant. There were all too many catty wives in the shire who would be delighted to bruit news abroad of Sir Ralph’s womanising. They would say that it was no surprise he sought younger flesh when the alternative was an ugly old bitch like his wife. She knew how women of her class would turn on any other who had shown a chink in her armour. Draining her cup, she poured more wine.

When the shouting started outside, she did little more than glance up, but when the man entered her solar, she stood with quivering outrage. ‘What do you think you are doing in here?’

To her astonishment, he drew his knife and pointed it at her. ‘Keeping you quiet, Lady. Make a squeak and I’ll use this to mark your face for ever. Be still and sit silent. All right?’

Astonished, she flopped into her chair and gazed at Flora as though this too was her fault. It felt as though everything was going wrong. Flora was her husband’s, not hers; the justifiable vengeance on that miner had brought her son, apparently, into danger – and now there was this man…

‘I know you. You’re one of Brian’s men.’

‘Quiet.’

She knew him. That could only mean one thing: treachery. Lady Annicia shot a look at Flora, but she obviously didn’t understand what was happening. Lady Annicia sipped reflectively at her wine, and then poured more.

‘You want some?’ she asked him, motioning towards her drink and taking hold of the heavy pewter jug.

‘You can’t get me drunk!’ he said sneeringly.

Without pausing to think, she continued the movement. It sent the wine from her cup dashing into the guard’s eyes. He raised his hands to protect his face, and as he did so, the Lady leaped at him, knocking his knife-hand away with her cup, then swinging the jug with all her weight and malice. The almost full jug connected with a dull, echoing crack, and then she was lifting it again and bringing it down with both hands. It hit the man between his ear and temple, and he fell like a pole-axed ox, suddenly collapsing vertically.

She stood, panting slightly, watching for any movement. His knife was on the floor, and she put her foot on it. At the same time she noticed the blood welling from a gash on the side of his skull, and the twitching in his hands and feet. He looked as though he would never rise again. To be safe, she brought it down once more, with full force, and then crouched and took his knife. Because she was practical, she thrust it into his breast to make sure of him. There was surprisingly little blood, she thought.

‘Come!’ she said to Flora, and went to the door.

The lock opened quietly enough, and she peered through the tapestries, which had been pulled aside. In the room beyond she could see Ben and Esmon sitting side by side, a guard holding a crossbow standing with his back to her. Esmon, her Esmon, looked merely enraged, but Ben was listless, as though he expected or even welcomed death. Beyond the two were many of the castle’s servants, held in a corner of the room by two men armed with swords. She gauged the distance. It was at least six yards between her and the bowman, and the high table was in the way. She wasn’t sure if she could get to him.

She threw open the door with a scream, and hurried out, the jug still in her hand. ‘Rape! Rape! He’s tried to rape me!’

The guard turned, his mouth wide open. For an instant his task was forgotten, and she saw that Ben too was gaping at her, but her son, her lovely Esmon, was not so stupid, and he was already at the guard. There was a confused grapple, and then Annicia saw that the whole of the man’s head appeared to explode. Shards of something flew from the crown of his skull, warm stuff spattered her face and hair, and the crossbow’s bolt struck the timbers of the ceiling, penetrating and staying in the wood while the guard, already dead, toppled slowly and then fell.

In the corner, the other guards tried to hold the servants back, but they were forced to cover their prisoners while keeping an eye on Esmon, who had now taken the bowman’s sword. Facing the threat from Esmon as well as all the servants, the two guards exchanged a glance, and then bolted for the door.

‘Mother, you stay in here!’ Esmon called, and ran after them. Ben watched him, but was incapable of movement. He sat like one already slain. His fear petrified him and made him remain in his seat. Even as Esmon snatched up his own sword from the doorway where the guard had made him set it, as he struggled and hauled the bowstring back until it caught on the nut, Ben could not move. When Esmon had the bow cocked, he went back to the guard’s body and found the small pouch filled with steel-tipped bolts. He took a handful, placed one in the groove of the crossbow and went to the door. Outside, he saw the men guarding his father.

With a shout, he ran down the steps to the yard, bow in one hand, sword in the other. A guard by his father’s side realised something was wrong and turned. Esmon gave an incoherent roar and pointed the crossbow at him. He fired, still running, and saw the bolt fly, true to his aim, through the man’s throat. A red mist burst from the man, and he grabbed at his neck, gurgling as he started to drown in his own blood. Then Esmon was on the next guard.

He saw Baldwin move as soon as the first guard fell, thrashing as he tried to breathe. Another guard had turned to face Esmon, and Baldwin took his arm, spun him around, and hurled him into a third. He dropped to the dying guard and took his knife, whirling as a guard tried to stab at his back; he leaped back, and the sword whistled near his breast, and then he closed swiftly. The man tried to reverse the action of his sword, but he was too slow and Baldwin was already slashing upwards with his knife, inside the man’s ribcage, a ferocious glare on his face as the blade sheared through the man’s viscera, his blood drenching Baldwin’s hand.

There was a crack behind him, and when he turned, he saw a guard on the ground, his face bloody where Hugh’s staff had cracked full-force into his nose, but then he saw that more men were pouring from the gatehouse towards them. Brian was up on the wall, watching in a fury as he saw his men falling. In his hand was a crossbow, and he raised it. Baldwin took a deep breath, convinced that the bolt would strike him, but the machine wasn’t pointing at him. The string thrummed, and Baldwin saw the blur as the steel-tipped death flew through the air.

It hit Esmon on his left shoulder as he was lifting his sword to parry a heavy blow. Its massy weight smashed through his bones, locking his arm and shoulder in place, and with the impact, shards of bone exploded onwards, splinters tearing through his lungs and slicing through veins. He knew he was dying as soon as he felt the terrible shock of the impact, and when he looked down and saw the bolt’s wooden shaft protruding from his shoulder, he gave a bellow of fury and rage, like a bear tired of the baiting, and hurled himself onwards, determined to kill as many of his enemies as he could before he died.