The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Nine

Baldwin was already up before the landlord, and with the early dawn, he was in the inn’s hall with his sword and dagger, practising thrusts and parries, blocking imaginary blows at his head, at his belly, at his thighs and flanks, each time manoeuvring to keep his feet glued flat on the ground as he blocked, maintaining his position as he swung away. That was strength in a battle: remember, feet firm to give a base from which to strike. The man who moves his feet while striking is the man who will suffer defeat, because he is unbalanced.

When he could feel the sweat running freely, he began his exercises, swinging his weapons from side to side, holding them out at arm’s length and moving them in small circles, or up and down, until the pain in the junction of his shoulder and neck grew too extreme for him to continue. Only then did he set his weapons aside and take a deep breath, gradually relaxing all the tension. He drew himself a bowl of wine from the inn’s bar and, adding water from the pot beside the fire, he sipped the warm drink.

‘Most impressive, Sir Baldwin.’

The knight groaned inwardly. He had hoped to avoid the clerk today. ‘Brother Roger. How pleasing it is to see you.’

Roger Scut was sitting at a bench near the door. ‘I hadn’t expected to find you with your sword drawn at this time of day, Sir Baldwin,’ he said teasingly. ‘I needs must be careful not to upset so warlike a knight.’

Baldwin used his tunic to wipe away the sweat. ‘You should always seek to avoid upsetting a knight. Some do not possess such remarkable calmness of spirit as me.’

‘Haha! I am sure you are quite right in that, Sir Baldwin!’ Roger Scut laughed. He was aiming along his nose again, and that, together with his irritating voice, was already getting to Baldwin.

‘You look damp,’ he remarked through gritted teeth.

‘The weather is inclement,’ Roger replied. ‘The rain is sheeting down, and the wind tries to blow it through you.’

‘Typical!’ Baldwin said, thinking of his long journey homewards. He grimaced, then continued towelling himself dry.

‘I assume you, um, failed to find the man yesterday?’

‘We did not capture him, no. But I have men sweeping all around the town today,’ Baldwin said shortly.

‘The Dean has asked that you present the priest to him when you do catch him.’

‘You may tell the good Dean that I shall consider his request.’

‘It was not a request, I fear.’

Baldwin heard the slight intonation. He met Roger Scut’s bland expression with a keen look. ‘I fear it was exactly that, Roger. Dean Peter asked if I would present him with his murderous priest. I shall consider his request when I catch the fellow. First, of course, I have to catch the felon. Once I have done so, I shall think about whether I should release him to Peter or take him back to Gidleigh.’

‘He is a priest, you know.’

‘No, I do not. He is rumoured to have been living there as a priest, it is true – but that means naught. What if this was a felon who waylaid your priest on the way to his church? He might have slaughtered your cleric and buried the body, then thought to himself what fun he could have with a small congregation like Gidleigh’s.’

‘My God! You don’t mean that?’ Roger Scut said, blanching. He nervously felt for his rosary. ‘But how could a man hope to get away with such an imposture?’

‘Easily. I have known some outrageously bold felons in my time. Why,’ Baldwin said with a sudden sharpness, ‘how do I know that you are who you say you are? You could be another false man.’

‘I?’ Roger Scut spluttered, his face suddenly reddening like an apprentice caught with his buttocks bared with his master’s daughter. ‘But I have been here for years, I am known to–’

‘It was merely an example. I shall decide when I see the boy,’ Baldwin lied mildly; his mind was already made up. The lad’s crime was awful, and to Baldwin’s mind it was neither fair nor just that he should be allowed to escape to the Bishop’s court without having to face those whom he had wronged.

Gradually Roger Scut’s complexion returned to normal. ‘I am glad to hear it. So tell me,’ he said, his head tilting back again until he was drawing a sight on Baldwin once more, ‘why do you practise with your sword this morning? It is hardly the time of year to expect a war, is it?’

‘There is no time of year when one should not expect a war. Especially now, with the King’s army shattered again.’

‘Oh, that!’ Roger’s face fell. ‘We live in terrible times, Sir Baldwin. I sometimes wonder when we shall know peace again.’

‘So do I,’ Baldwin said with feeling. The Scottish had drawn the King northwards during the previous year at the completion of the latest truce, by swarming over the border and ravaging the lands of the north-west. King Edward II had gone with a massive, well-provisioned body of men. Yet the stories which were filtering back to the south were all of subterfuges and disasters.

The Scots had withdrawn before the might of the English host, refusing them battle, but also destroying all the food stores and animals in their path, with the result that the English were soon decimated by starvation and disease. The King had to pull back, but his orderly retreat was harried by Scottish forces, and one made its way even so far as the middle of Yorkshire. It was only with difficulty that King Edward II himself escaped capture in a skirmish near to Byland and Rievaulx. The whole of Yorkshire was struck with terror as their King fled and the upstart rebels from Scotland devastated their lands.

It was a disaster for everyone in the realm, with repercussions even down here in Devon. Simon, Baldwin’s friend, had helped a King’s Arrayer the previous year, organising men to be used in the King’s host, and some of these fellows had limped back, but all too few. The rest, they said, had been captured and slaughtered by the mad Scots, or they had died of pestilence or starvation. Many died because, after suffering the worst pangs of hunger, when they came across food, they gorged themselves and their poor bodies couldn’t cope. They died in terrible pain as their stomachs burst within them.

The cost was vast, too. Huge stocks of grain, meat and fish, all salted, had been taken to feed the men fighting for the King, but this was the food that the towns had expected for their own winter supplies, and without them, many households had gone hungry over the winter. Crediton itself was better stocked than many other towns, but Baldwin had several cases of families who must beg for food from Church stores.

‘We can only hope and pray that the Scottish rebels will accept their fate,’ Roger Scut said piously.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed, although privately he wondered whether they ever would. It was all very well having the Pope’s approval for the King’s claim to the Scottish crown, but if all the people continued to refuse, point blank, and wouldn’t offer battle either, but instead ran away into the bleak, miserable far north of their lands, it was hard to see what the King could do about it.

He was considering this miserable fact and wondering what miracle of strategy could be used to defeat the Scottish, when there was a sudden shouting and laughter from the road. Baldwin paid it little heed at first, thinking it was only some folk playing the fool, but then the noise drew nearer and he realised that the source of the row was already in the cross passage. He stood, putting a hand near his sword, but did not draw it. In a few minutes a group of cheerful men entered.

Godwen was first to walk in. ‘Sir Baldwin, I think we have your man!’

‘That is him?’ Baldwin asked with ill-concealed disbelief.

Sir Ralph eyed the sky as he climbed up the three steps of moorstone and mounted his horse. It had been blowing like a horn since before dawn, and the rain had come across like a grey mist, obscuring everything behind it. Now at least there was a brief period of calm and dryness, but the grey clouds above left him feeling dubious as to how long it would last. The wind had not abated.

He shivered. It felt as if there was an ague in his guts. Since the death of Mary, he’d been feeling like this. It was hard to swallow food or drink, and he must force himself. It was no comfort to observe that the energy which had at last failed him would appear to have been transferred entirely to his son.

While a groom led him a short distance away, Esmon leaped lightly into his own saddle and nonchalantly pulled on his gloves.

Esmon was quite a chip off the old block, Sir Ralph had to admit, but he wasn’t sure that it was pleasing. Certainly he had the fair-haired good looks and the appearance of hardness, but his mouth was all too often a thin line, displaying his petulance. Although his eyes were a clear, bright green like emeralds, they did not reflect mere jealousy but comprehensive and consuming avarice. He didn’t care what his neighbour possessed: what he wanted, he would take. In many ways, he would be the ideal knight, Sir Ralph thought. He was not prepared to allow any rudeness or cheek to his honour, he wouldn’t take any foolishness that might reflect upon him, and he had just enough sense to know when to hold his tongue when the odds were heavily laden against him.

That was the trouble with fellows today. Sir Ralph knew so many of them, men of strength and apparent intelligence, who would yet charge a thick line of Genoese crossbows and spears alone just because of an imagined slight. That was madness, in Sir Ralph’s opinion. To join in a charge was a glorious experience, but as a military force he felt that it was overrated. He wasn’t alone, either. Others too had witnessed the disaster of Bannockburn, when the mounted chivalry of the realm was shattered on the pikes and spears of the Scots like waves on the seashore. There was nothing that a knight could do to break into a solid, packed phalanx of men with good, long polearms. That was the job of footsoldiers.

It wasn’t only Bannockburn, either. He had heard of the field of Courtrai, where the mad peasants had destroyed the French cavalry, and Morgarten, where the mountain men had wrought destruction on more noblemen. Both were examples of that most appalling of things, a slaughter of the knightly class by the lowest forms of life: serfs. In the Christian world, there were only three orders: the holy men, whose task it was to protect the souls of the living and the dead; the warriors, whose job it was to keep society in check; and then far down the list, the peasants and freemen. The knights’ job was to control them and keep them in check. If serfs could fight knights and defeat them, the whole order of the world was topsy-turvy. It didn’t bear considering.

However, the means by which they could win a battle was instructive. Clearly it wasn’t because God was on their side – He would hardly support the peasant! – so it was the methods which they used. Even King Edward II was moving towards a mobile host of men-at-arms, who could ride to the point where they were needed, but who would then dismount and fight on foot, in among the archers and others. Dismounted knights, standing among the peasants! It was a horrible thought and yet it worked. The Scots had proved that. Rebels they might be, but they could fight – and win.

They were moving off eastwards, and Sir Ralph realised that they were soon to pass in front of Mary’s home. His back stiffened at the thought. He could still remember his first sight of her body lying at the side of the path, under the wall. It was hideous. With the recollection he felt he must gag.

Almost as he had the thought, the little mill came into view. Os was just lifting a sack onto his back and carrying it to the door when he heard their hooves. Instantly upon seeing them, he dropped the sack and bent almost double in reverence. Huward was in the building, and hurried out. Seeing Sir Ralph, he ducked his head, without breaking contact with his eyes.

Sir Ralph saw his distrustful expression, but acknowledged him. ‘Master Miller. A fine morning.’

‘I hadn’t noticed. Not with my daughter dead.’

‘I offer you my sympathy,’ Sir Ralph said.

Perhaps Huward heard the broken tone, the sincerity in his voice, because his reply lacked gruffness. ‘I thank you. Godspeed, Sir Ralph.’

‘Godspeed, Miller.’

Esmon sniffed loudly as they passed by Huward and muttered something under his breath.

‘What?’ his father demanded, more harshly than he had intended.

‘Nothing.’

‘You said something. What was it?’

‘I just don’t understand why you are so kindly disposed towards that family. They’re peasants, and should be treated accordingly.’

‘When you are older, Esmon, you will learn that things are never so simple, nor straightforward.’

‘He’s only a miller. What’s so complicated? If he gives us trouble, we can throw him out of the vill and offer the mill to another. There are plenty of millers about the place. We should easily be able to find another – especially at the rent you demand!’

‘It is my choice,’ Sir Ralph said coldly. ‘You may make your own decisions when you are Master of the Manor.’

‘Don’t worry, Father, I shall,’ his son said.

His voice sounded carefree, but there was an undertone of contempt which was pitched at the perfect level to rankle. With his own little force of men under Brian of Doncaster, Esmon had grown more independent of late. He often sought to tease and annoy, but Sir Ralph was in no mood to rise to the bait today, not with memories of Mary so fresh in his mind.

They passed along the roadway, dropping down the hill to the bottom, then turning left towards Wonson.

‘What have you heard?’ Sir Ralph asked after a few minutes.

‘The party is coming on Friday as usual. All merchants, no men-at-arms.’

Sir Ralph nodded. Each Saturday Chagford held a market, at which the miners from the moors would come to gain provisions, as would farmers and villeins from miles about. Many goods were always on sale, but the most keenly eyed items were the spices and mercery which had to come all the way, usually, from Exeter.

There were good profits to be made from meeting merchants on their way to Chagford for the market. A man could demand a toll for using a road, if he was bold enough. Or, if he had courage, he could take a portion of the goods for himself. And now that Sir Ralph had Gidleigh, he could state his price. He controlled the roads that led to Chagford Bridge, over which the merchants from the north would probably pass.

‘Who is that?’ Esmon called.

Sir Ralph scowled, annoyed that his thought processes had been interrupted. Then he saw at whom Esmon was pointing.

‘Ha!’ Esmon yelled, slashing at his horse’s rump with a switch.

It was a woman. Sir Ralph shrugged. It was only natural that his son should seek to chase her. He was young, and many a buck saw fit to run down his doe. Already, hearing his exclamation, or perhaps his hooves, she had turned and caught sight of the two men. Seeing Esmon in pursuit, she dropped her basket and bolted. Only then did Sir Ralph see it was Flora, Mary’s sister.

‘Esmon! No!’ Sir Ralph bellowed, but his son was already too far away to hear – or didn’t care. With a sudden rush in his blood, Sir Ralph felt the choler taking over his humours.

‘Come, Bayard!’ He raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks, crouching low as he felt his beast’s muscles bunch and thrust, bunch and thrust. The mane was flicking across his face now, the mud spattering at either side, and he was pelting along at a full gallop; although the rage was there in his belly, he was aware of the thrill, the excitement. The thundering of hooves, the pull of the wind in his hair, the tug of his cloak, the slap, slap, slap of the heavy sword at his hip, all lent a curious exhilaration to the chase.

He could see his son almost upon the girl now. She was running, terrified, her face drawn into a mask of horror when she threw a look over her shoulder. Then Esmon was alongside her, and he lifted his arm with the switch to strike at her. Sir Ralph saw the short ash stick lift, and then he was pushing his mount between them. The switch came down, but it hit Sir Ralph’s cheek. Enraged, he grabbed his son’s arm and pulled. He hadn’t forgotten any of the training he had been given by his Master of Defence, and he made use of it now. Esmon’s wrist was in his hand, and he hauled it down and back, pulling on the reins at the same time. His horse stopped almost instantly, while Esmon’s carried on, and Sir Ralph felt his son lift from the saddle. Esmon gave a short cry of shock, and then he fell into the mud and filth of the lane while his father gave a quiet smile.

‘You may think you’re better than me, boy, but you don’t touch that girl. Her sister is dead and you will show her respect.’

Esmon spat mud from his mouth and slowly stood, whirling his arm about his shoulder, feeling the muscles with his other hand as he did so. He gave a nod, satisfied that nothing was broken or torn, and then looked up at his father.

‘If you do that again, I shall kill you.’

‘You may try, boy. In the meantime, you’ll show that girl respect.’

‘I shall do as I wish, Father,’ Esmon said quietly. ‘And if I desire to ravish her, I shall.’

Sir Ralph stared at him coldly. ‘If you do so against my wishes, you’ll have to answer to me.’

‘Yes,’ Esmon said with a sweet smile. ‘I will, won’t I?’