The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Fourteen

It was just typical, so far as Piers was concerned. He crouched down at the body’s side again, trying to ignore the stench, but it was impossible. It was pervasive, this odour of blood and decay. Cloying, it stuck in his nostrils and made him want to gag.

‘Who could have done this?’ he choked.

‘You serious?’

‘Elias, what do you want me to say? I didn’t expect this.’

‘Huh! I don’t know anything, and I’m not going to know anything. Don’t want to. What, start talking and end up like that?’

Piers winced as he glanced again at the corpse. Somehow the fear and bitterness of Flora came back to him. At the time he had said he would see what could be done about Esmon, but his words had been intended to calm her rather than indicating that he had a means of punishing their master’s son. Short of committing murder, he couldn’t see how to effect that.

‘There must be something,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

Unless Esmon was found guilty of committing a crime which could be taken to a higher court, there was nothing anyone could do to bring justice to him. He would continue doing whatever he wanted. In theory, killing a miner, one of the King’s own villeins, would be enough to guarantee that he would be punished, but Piers knew that was a forlorn hope. The King’s officers could demand that Esmon be called to court, but they were all his peers. Who ever heard of a knight’s son being convicted and executed?

Someone had to prove it was Esmon who did this, yet Elias wouldn’t even admit to seeing Sir Ralph at the road when Mary was murdered, let alone allege that Esmon might have been here. No one would risk death in the hope of inflicting justice on Esmon.

Piers stood, averting his eyes. The dead man had been butchered as though in a rage, with slashes and cuts all over his body. His hand lay nearby. ‘We can’t let this carry on.’

‘I suppose you think we can stop it?’

‘Someone has to.’

Elias sneered, then turned away. ‘Good – well, you be a hero, Piers. Tell you what, if I find you afterwards, I’ll report it to the Hundred Bailiff personally.’

‘Wait a bit, Elias,’ Piers called, and there was enough irritation in his voice to make Elias reluctantly stop and walk back, staring down at the hacked body.

‘Poor bastard.’

‘Yes,’ Piers snapped. ‘I know. That’s why I want to see to it that he’s the last. Is this how you found him?’

‘Yeah. Think so.’

‘Did you find him yourself?’

Elias didn’t speak, merely nodded his head once. Piers was sure he was lying, but when Elias wanted to be stubborn, he could give lessons to a mule.

‘Have you sent for the Coroner?’

Piers shrugged. ‘For what good it will do. I sent Osbert to tell the Hundred Bailiff, then to go to Lydford. The Stannary will be interested if this man genuinely is a miner.’

‘He is. Don’t you remember him? His name’s Wylkyn. He was servant to Sir Richard before he died.’

Piers stared. ‘Wylkyn?’

The name was familiar, and so too was this man’s face now he had a name. Piers had always been Sir Ralph’s serf, and hadn’t mixed with the men of Sir Richard Prouse’s demesne, but Piers had seen Sir Richard’s steward on occasion at markets and fairs, buying exotic spices and herbs for his master’s potions.

‘I recall his face,’ Piers said slowly.

‘Wylkyn was a good enough man. As soon as Sir Ralph took over the castle, he ran for the moors and joined his brother. Called himself a miner. He’s been quite lucky, so I’ve heard.’

‘His luck hasn’t held for him today. What was he doing up here?’

‘What do you mean?’

Piers threw him a look. ‘Don’t be stupid! Why would he come by this route, rather than cutting across the moors? It’s far out of his way.’

‘I expect he had his reasons.’

Piers glanced about them, at the tracks of many carts. ‘He wasn’t alone, either.’

‘The castle’s full, I expect.’

‘Did you see them?’

There was no need to say who. Both knew that he meant Sir Ralph and his son. Elias slowly shook his head. ‘No, but who else would rob and kill like this?’

‘Someone has to stop them.’

Elias curled his lip. ‘Aye, well, you keep saying that, Master Reeve. Fine, when you’ve got an idea how to, let me know. I’ll be interested. But don’t forget, these men are friends of the Despensers. If you want to go against the King’s friends, you try it, but don’t expect anyone here to help you, because they won’t.’

When he reached the castle, Baldwin thought how pleasing it looked, representing security, warmth and food, and he urged his small party on, calling to the gatekeeper as he approached the outer stockade. Surprisingly, he found that the gate was closed and barred. This was a quiet enough part of the realm, and he would have expected the gates to remain open all through the day, only being closed at night, like the gates of a larger castle or even a town. Everyone tended to welcome travellers, for they brought news, and in a small castle like this, one without a huge amount of money and miles from busier roads, there was little likelihood that the place could be threatened by a gang of outlaws.

After he had bellowed and demanded to speak to the lord, there was a rattling and squeaking as a bar was slid back from the gate, and then Baldwin was confronted by three men, two of whom were clearly guards and who gripped long polearms in their callused hands, while the other held his arms crossed.

‘Who are you?’

‘Are you steward to Sir Ralph?’ Baldwin asked.

‘You could call me that. I am Brian – Brian of Doncaster. I serve Esmon, Sir Ralph’s son, with my men.’

Baldwin heard the note of pride in his voice. This man was no servant, bound to his master by ties of loyalty and honour, but a paid employee with his own small host of men. Baldwin was immediately struck by the thought that the master of this castle might be well advised to protect himself from this Brian and his gang. It was not a pleasant thought, that a man should be forced to guard himself against his own hired men. It was, in its way, still more dreadful than the idea of assassins and the Old Man of the Mountain.

Brian had been eyeing Baldwin with interest, but now one of his men nudged him and pointed at Mark, and suddenly Brian’s face lit up like a torch thrust in a fire. ‘God’s flaming cods!’ he burst out, and then sent the guard in through the gates.

While he waited, trying to control his annoyance at being kept out here, Baldwin glanced through the gate at the castle’s tower. It was only a small keep with a ground floor and one upper chamber which lay enclosed within a stockade, which was strengthened in two places by some more solid moorstone walling. Baldwin was reminded of the little enclosure at Lydford. That too had stabling on the left of the entrance to the stockade, a series of outbuildings ringing an oval space in which men could practise with their weapons, groom horses or watch dogs fighting for their recreation.

This place looked prosperous enough. There were a number of carts, he saw, some loaded with goods, and the stables were filled to overflowing with packhorses. They had passed some pastures on the way here, in which still more ponies and sumpter horses had idled, and Baldwin reckoned that the place had more than its fair share of horseflesh for a castle of this size.

‘Godspeed, my Lord. How may we help you?’

The man who spoke was older, perhaps not far short of Baldwin’s own age, and had the carriage and indefinable authority of someone who knew his own value. Baldwin was sure that he had seen him before, and there was a faint frown of recognition in the other’s face, too, as though he could almost recall Baldwin’s name, but not quite. On Baldwin’s part, he would not have remembered Sir Ralph’s name had he not heard Mark mention the name.

At his side was a younger man, plainly his son, from the similar colouring and looks, and especially the dimple in the chin. Esmon, Baldwin said to himself. The boy looked much more dangerous, standing with a certain haughtiness that bordered on rudeness. His manner was very different from that of his father, who looked as though he carried the world’s troubles on his shoulders.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and I am bringing a man here for justice,’ he said formally. ‘I had thought that this castle was the property of Sir Richard Prouse?’

Hearing his first words, the younger man had gasped with delight. ‘You have him? We can–’

‘Quiet, Esmon! I am Sir Ralph de Wonson, Sir Baldwin. You are very welcome. I remember you from the last shire court. You were trying some matters there, I recall.’

‘I was there as a Justice of Gaol Delivery,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Tell me, where is Sir Richard? Did not Sir Richard Prouse own this manor?’

‘Alas! He died. He lost his wealth to a banker, and when the banker died, his debt was taken over by my Lord Despenser. When Sir Richard died, Lord Despenser gave this land to me.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said suavely. He had no intention of disputing the man’s right to the castle if the Despensers were minded to give it to him. The most powerful family in the realm could do such things and no man could prevent them. ‘This man, the alleged priest Mark – I believe you wanted him captured?’

‘We are very grateful to you,’ Sir Ralph said. He motioned to the two guards, who set their weapons aside and strode over to where Mark sat quivering on his horse. Seeing them approach, he tried to withdraw, but Thomas, who held the reins, snarled at him to keep still.

‘Sir Baldwin, don’t just desert me here! I shall be murdered!’

Roger Scut interposed himself between Mark and the men. ‘I cannot allow this monk to be imprisoned here! He is a man of God. Let us take him to the chapel and I shall guard him there, in the sanctuary of the church.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Esmon said innocently. ‘That would be a good, safe place for him. You don’t mind the cold and the wet, do you?’

‘A man of God cares nothing for such things,’ Roger said loftily. ‘Only that his duty to God is performed rightly.’

Esmon grinned, but his father interrupted him. ‘I have a gaol here, and he will be safe enough in there. Safer than his victim was on the road.’

‘I will not have him left in the care of this knight,’ Roger said stubbornly.

Baldwin gave him a sour look but again it was Sir Ralph who spoke.

‘Master, I shall speak for his safety while he is within my walls and until he comes before the court.’

‘That is good,’ Baldwin said, ignoring the priest. ‘You may take him. Except…’

‘Sir Knight?’ Sir Ralph enquired.

‘I shall be here to help you to hear his case,’ Baldwin said.

‘There is no need. This is a matter for the vill. He was caught red-handed.’

Baldwin glanced at the lad shaking in his saddle. One of the guards drew his knife and roughly cut the thongs that bound Mark’s wrists to his saddle, and the two pulled him ungently from his pony. He stared appealingly at Baldwin, and a small worm of uncertainty began to wriggle in the knight’s belly. The young priest looked so lonely, so devastated, and there was something about the knight and his son that he didn’t like. Revenge was a natural emotion, and these two might be willing to ensure that Mark died just to satisfy their own anger.

‘Perhaps we could discuss it over a cup of wine? It is a thirsty ride from Crediton, and we have been riding for three days.’

‘Three? It should not have taken you so long,’ said Sir Ralph.

All their eyes were on the shuffling figure being taken in through the doors. Baldwin had expected that the two would move aside and let him pass in as well, but they stood their ground. It was discourteous, and Baldwin felt insulted. ‘It would not have taken so long, but the rivers were too turbulent for us to cross and we had to turn back to an inn. Will you not spare some wine for us?’

‘I fear that my home is filled, Sir Baldwin. We have no space even for a serf, let alone a great Keeper. Would it be possible for you to visit and stay at the local inn? It is only a short ride from here.’

‘Do you mean that you have not even some space in your hayloft?’ Baldwin asked politely, indicating Thomas and Godwen, Roger and himself. ‘We require very little.’

‘We could scarcely allow you to suffer in a hayloft, my Lord,’ Esmon said. ‘And I fear we have many guests just now. Finding space for one alone would be hard. But there is a man to lead you to the inn, if you want. Hi, Piers! Come here!’

There was a small group of men-at-arms in a corner near the tower, and they watched as Brian gripped Mark’s shoulder, and walked him towards the stables. Meanwhile Baldwin was sure he could hear sobbing coming from a room in the gatehouse nearby, but then it suddenly stopped. In the silence, it was almost as though there had been a death. It was a grim reflection, as he told himself, and his anxiety grew at the thought of leaving Mark here.

Baldwin turned his attention back to Sir Ralph, who was gazing after the prisoner with real hatred on his face. ‘I suppose you have too few cups to offer us wine, then.’

‘I am sure we could find you a cup,’ Sir Ralph said.

‘No. I am sure I don’t wish to be the cause of trouble.’ Baldwin pulled his horse’s head around, ready to ride to the inn. ‘Sir Ralph, I hold you personally responsible for the well-being of that priest. Please remind your gaoler that a man who is held in prison is still entitled to be treated as a human. Killing him, or being responsible for his death is a felony.’

‘You threaten me, Keeper? Perhaps you should know that I answer only to my master, and he, Sir Baldwin, is Lord Despenser.’

Baldwin turned in his saddle and offered the furious Sir Ralph a mild, apologetic smile. ‘Ah, I am sorry, friend. I knew that already. Perhaps you had not considered, though, that Mark’s master is the Bishop of Exeter, Bishop Walter? I am sure we do not wish to see a dispute between the King’s Treasurer and his favourite adviser, do we?’

Sir Ralph gave a tight nod of agreement, but Baldwin wasn’t content. He wished his friend Simon Puttock was here. There was something about the knight that worried him. Sir Ralph looked like a man who was beyond fear of the law, and that was not the sort of man into whose custody Baldwin was happy to leave even the murderer of a woman and child.

His tone hardened. ‘And in the meantime, if any harm comes to that fellow, I shall personally appeal you in court.’

Piers was not best pleased at having to lead this grim-looking band anywhere, but when his lord and master ordered him, he had little choice.

‘You are the Reeve?’ Baldwin asked him as they wandered the lanes towards the inn at Wonson.

‘Yes, sir. I have been Reeve here for almost a year. Never thought I’d have to cope with a murder, though.’

‘There are not many in this quiet area, then?’

‘Until Mary’s death, the last one was poor Elias’s own daughter. She was raped and killed not far from her home. Poor lass. That was during the famine. Terrible times.’

‘He was the man who found the body, wasn’t he? I shall want to speak to Elias,’ Baldwin said.

‘Of course. Now? He’s there, at Sir Ralph’s warren.’

Baldwin followed his gaze and saw a grim-faced peasant at a stone-built warren. Rabbits were not very successful at making their warrens here in the forbidding area of Dartmoor. Often lords would create warrens for them for their meat and fur. Elias was at one now, and as Baldwin watched, a rabbit sprang from a hole into a purse-net. It was bundled up in a ball as the net slipped tight, and Elias darted to it quickly. He carefully retrieved the rabbit and held it by the hind legs while he reset the net ready for the next, and then squatted on his haunches, stroking the little creature and calming it. Then, in a smooth movement, he pulled the head with a swift jerk, and gently set the dead body with others. Another net was filled, and he darted to that one.

‘Not now,’ Baldwin said, thinking of his sore buttocks. ‘It can wait until morning. He looks efficient.’

‘Very. He’s the best ferret-man in the vill, is Elias the ploughman.’

‘What of others?’

Piers described all the peasants and their duties while Baldwin listened carefully. Finally Piers mentioned Sampson.

‘Who is he?’

‘His name is a joke, I’m afraid. Ironic or something. He’s a half-wit. Sometimes happens that you get one even in a good, healthy vill like ours,’ Piers said defensively. ‘He lives on his own. He’s built himself a little shelter on the hill south and west of the castle.’

‘Interesting. I shall look forward to meeting him. And now, master Piers. Where were you on the day this girl was killed?’

Huward was resting his legs and back at the ale-house when the little cavalcade arrived, and he shifted back in his seat when he realised what sort of men they were. Baldwin was clearly a knight, and he strode to a table and sat at it with the calm self-assurance of those who are used to command. At his side Huward saw the cleric, and the sight of another churchman made his mood darken and his belly churn like a butter barrel.

It was not only the fact of Roger Scut being there. There was something about the sight of the rich and powerful that made him want to puke. He drained his drinking horn and would have hurried from the place, but then he saw that two guards stood near the door like statues, one, to his eye, looking like a youthful rake, while the other looked as grim and forbidding as the Gather-Reeve when his piles were playing him up.

The sight of them made him walk to the buttery and demand another jug of ale. He carried it back to his table, his ears straining to catch any words he might, but all he caught was the name ‘Sir Baldwin’. The fact that the fellow was a knight was little comfort. All knew what knights were capable of. With one daughter hideously killed, he was suspicious of any strangers in his vill, any man who might take it into his mind to attack Flora. She was his only daughter now, and he would die rather than see any harm come to her. He was so proud of his daughters that it hurt, it actually hurt. Even now, just the thought of his little Flora suffering pain made him draw in his breath. There was a sharp sensation in his breast, and the hairs prickled on his scalp. It was as though a ghost had blown a breath from the grave all down his spine, and he shuddered.

It was that which kept him in the ale-house, the idea that the slim, good-looking guard at the door might think of attacking Flora. Perhaps he was being unreasonable, but he didn’t care. The man looked the sort of arrogant brute who’d not think twice about taking a girl just because he took a fancy to her, or because the ale had been flowing too well that night.

His friend looked even worse. The way the man scowled silently about the room made Huward certain that he was dangerous, a wild animal. If he decided to grab at Flora, he’d treat her no better than a dog.

Huward suddenly wondered whether there were any more of these men. They looked so dreadful, he wanted to know where his wife and daughter were. Gilda should be at the mill, and Flora should be back at home… but she might be out still; she could even be talking to another man-at-arms, not realising what sort of a desperate bastard he was! In fact, even now she might be opening her mouth in shock as he shoved her to the ground and…

In another moment he would have stood and run from the room, knocking Thomas and Godwen aside, but then he saw that Baldwin was peering at him while Piers spoke.

It was odd, but in that moment, somehow Huward felt that his life was changing. He couldn’t guess how, but the man’s face told him that no matter what else happened, he had a friend. The stranger knight stood and walked over to him, leaving Piers and Roger Scut at the other table. As Baldwin motioned to the alewife to fetch more ale for Huward, the miller saw that the priest was leaving the room, his nose in the air, and the absence made him feel a little better.

‘Friend, I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and I would be grateful if I could speak to you for a moment.’

‘Why, sir?’ Huward grunted.

The knight was a curious-looking fellow. He was well-dressed, and appeared quite wealthy, but there was a kind of shabbiness about him, as though he had been given riches, but money couldn’t change him. His face spoke of great sadness and loss, and sympathy for Huward, but Huward could only dimly appreciate that. For the moment, all he could see was Sir Baldwin’s social position – one which was so far above his own that he must shout to be heard. Yet when his eyes rose and met Baldwin’s own, he saw that there was something else, too. A strong desire for justice burned in them.

‘I want to make sure that your daughter’s killer is found and pays for this murder,’ Baldwin said.