The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mark couldn’t help himself. As soon as they hurled him bodily down the ladder into the cavern, his chained hands catching on a rung and all but dislocating his shoulder, utter despair overtook him. The ladder was hauled out, the hatch slammed shut, sprinkling a thin smattering of filth over him and blocking out much of the sun. Only a couple of cracks in the boards of the trap door showed that it was not yet night-time.

This situation was impossible. He must die here. His belly rumbled its complaints at remaining empty for another night, but the despair he felt was nothing to do with mere hunger, it was the ruination of himself.

As the light overhead faded and disappeared, he remained squatting on the floor, his back to the wall, weeping uncontrollably. He felt much as a child who had suddenly discovered that there were hideous depths to human nature. He had come here seeking his father, and instead he had discovered love – and loss. Now, blamed for the death of his lover, his own father was determined to destroy him. There could be no more desolate person in the entire world.

The bolt moving above him made him give a small bleat of fear. They must be going to beat him again. Dully he watched as the ladder slowly descended, and then suddenly fell with a faint splash into the ordure of the floor, spattering him again. This time he was past caring. There was nothing that could make him smell or look worse, and he was not of a mind to worry even if there had been.

There was an odd silence. He had expected the same noise, the same torchlight as last night, but there was nothing. Only the ladder and blackness above.

It was a terrifying hole. Beyond it, he was sure, was a group of men who wanted to prove their courage by beating him. Men who only last week would have obeyed his commands because they came from God Himself through Mark.

He cringed back, an arm up to shield his head, peeping up through his fingers. Not a sound, not a flash of light, nothing broke the monotony of the silence. He could almost imagine that God had immolated all the persons in the castle, leaving only Mark to survive. But why should God do that?

Up above him he could hear the normal noises of a stable. The soft splat of fresh dung as a pony lifted its tail, the murmur of a horse, a hoof moving against cobbles. All sounded so peaceful, so comforting, that Mark was tempted to climb the ladder, but knew he’d be battered if he tried.

When the voice came, it was a relief purely because it put an end to the waiting. Now, he thought, he knew his fate. The men of the vill were determined that he was guilty and they were going to make him pay for killing Mary. If Huward was there, he’d want to see Mark screaming for forgiveness. He’d want to see Mark in intolerable pain.

He tried to hide himself in the corner of the cell, not that there was any point. If they lit a candle or a lamp, they’d see him soon enough. Any moment now, he thought, they’d launch themselves down the ladder. This silence was their way of increasing his tension, making his anxiety mount so that by the time they actually came for him, he’d be incapable of self-defence. Perhaps if he was more courageous, he could surprise them, scramble up the ladder and attack them. He might escape – but no. There was little hope of that. Still, he could make sure he was killed quickly, without torture. But he wasn’t brave like that. The thought of throwing himself at men like Esmon and his father filled him with dread.

There was still no noise. Just the steady drip of water and the occasional clop of a hoof as a horse shifted. That was strange. If there were many men up there, the horses would have been upset, and he’d have expected a dog to bark and complain at being woken. Yet there was nothing. It was as though his gaolers had left after throwing open the door to his cell.

If this was intended to increase his fear and alarm, it was working! He felt as though he was about to void his empty bowels.

And then the irritable voice called down to him: ‘If you want to hang, stay there. I’m for my bed. But if you want to escape, go to the side of the keep. There’s a ladder there to the top of the wall, and you can escape easily. The key to your shackles is here.’

Mark listened to the footsteps receding, his mouth gaping. This must be a cynical ploy, another way to increase his terror – give him an apparent escape route and then capture him at the top of the ladder to this cell, or at the foot of the other – if there was one.

Yet the idea of escaping was so sweet, he could have wept.

A drip landed on his head, and he could smell the strong taint of horse’s piss as more followed it, flowing down his back. This decided him. He strode to the ladder and climbed, feeling as though he was ascending to the waiting rope. As promised, the key to his chains lay on the cobbles.

As he turned the key in the locks and the chains fell away, he felt lighter, refreshed, like a man newly born.

‘Simon, wake up, quickly! The damned priest’s escaped!’

Simon slowly came to as a harsh braying sounded from outside. ‘Sweet mother of God, what is that?’ he grunted.

Baldwin gave an exasperated exclamation. Simon was always bad after an evening’s drinking, and last night he had excelled himself. Baldwin had been more cautious, thinking that Sir Ralph might seek to remove the two thorns in his flesh at a stroke, but nothing happened. The food was plentiful if bland, which suited Baldwin’s palate, and the ale and wine was of good quality. After the meal, Baldwin had watched as Roger Scut stood and pronounced Grace. He had worn a satisfied smile on his face, and Baldwin wondered what he had been discussing with his neighbour, Esmon. Something that would be of advantage to Roger Scut, and no help to Mark, Baldwin was sure. Lady Annicia had not been present. Perhaps she was nursing a headache after her drunkenness earlier in the day.

It had taken all his diplomatic skills to keep Simon from offering violence to Esmon. He had sat glowering all through the meal, but even in this mood he wasn’t stupid enough to actually draw a knife against the son of a magnate in that magnate’s own hall, in front of the whole of his household. Instead he had taken as much ale as he could and fell asleep snoring loudly on Baldwin’s shoulder.

‘In God’s name, Simon, wake up, will you? That’s the horn of the Reeve: the local Hue and Cry are trying to find Mark, and we must get to him first.’

‘Let them. If he’s bolted, that’s as good as a confession.’

‘If the locals get to him, they will tear him limb from limb. We have to find him, and bring him back here as quickly as we may, so that he can be safely installed in his cell.’

‘They won’t dare harm him,’ Simon yawned. ‘He still claims to be a blasted priest. Sir Ralph won’t want to upset Bishop Walter.’

Baldwin threw Simon his tunic, and his usual calm was gone as he grated, ‘Your mind is still sleeping, Bailiff. The chapel in which Mark lived has been razed to the ground. If Mark had any letters confirming his position, they were surely in the church or his home, and they are both no more.’

‘That doesn’t matter, does it?’ Simon yawned again, closing his eyes and shoving the tunic from his blanket. ‘The Bishop can always send a new letter.’

‘Yes, he can, once he learns of Mark’s position, but that could take weeks, and in the meantime the boy is likely to die of malnourishment, mistreatment or fever. There is nothing here to confirm his position in the Church. He has lost everything!’

At last his words sank into Simon’s fuddled brain. He reopened his eyes and gazed about him blearily, then reluctantly sat up, scratching the bites at his armpits where fleas had attacked him. ‘So he has nothing to verify his post?’ Simon said, pulling his tunic over his head.

‘No, Mark has nothing to prove his clerical status,’ Baldwin said, watching as Simon pulled up his hose. ‘And although that should not matter, we both know it will! The men of this vill are already so enraged about the murder that they’ll seek to kill him as a confessed felon. His escape is all the proof they want, although Bishop Walter may choose to extort a high price for their behaviour later.’

‘Even my Lord Bishop will be reluctant to impose too stiff a penalty on Sir Ralph. We have heard him say that this damned priest should be protected. He said so before witnesses.’

‘True enough, not that it means a thing,’ Baldwin observed. ‘He made sure that he said the correct things in court, while still inciting his villeins to fury. But enough of him! We have to try to find this miserable priest before someone else does.’

‘He must be mad,’ Simon muttered as he tied his sword belt and shrugged on his coat. ‘Running away in this weather.’

‘What has happened to him here at Gidleigh would be enough to turn any monk mad,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘But how much more mad would he have been to remain in that cell, knowing that all he was waiting for was death?’

‘Perhaps,’ Simon agreed, ‘but running away simply means he’ll find death that bit sooner. How did he get out, anyway? I thought the cell was locked, and I’d have expected him to be shackled.’

‘We can find that out when we have caught him.’

‘All right, all right. I can take a hint.’

He followed Baldwin out to the court, where Sir Ralph had already gathered a large posse. Near the door to the hall Simon saw Hugh glowering evilly at the throng, a heavy strip of grey cloth bound about his head. Hugh was sitting on a bench, a large staff nearby, and although he winced occasionally as the sun came out from behind clouds, or when a horse whinnied too loudly near him, he looked on the road to recovery. In fact, Simon thought he looked like a man who was waiting for the first funny comment before letting his fists fly, which was pleasing. It was good to see his servant returned to his usual state of truculence, even if he was still very drawn-looking; he appeared slightly yellow about the face, and had dark bruises beneath both eyes. At his side was Thomas, whose grim expression seemed the perfect companion to Hugh’s own.

Piers sat on a little pony, clutching at his reins like a man who feared falling, and Simon could see Hugh watching him with that mixture of sympathy and contempt that he always reserved for people, like himself, who were uncomfortable on horseback. In Hugh’s opinion, he concealed his own fear admirably; in Simon’s opinion, it was a touching piece of self-deception.

‘Sir Baldwin, will you join our posse?’ Sir Ralph shouted across the court.

The men in the area were silenced by his bellow. Simon felt as though all the eyes in that yard were suddenly upon him and Baldwin, and he was irritated that Sir Ralph should roar at them in this unseemly manner, in front of so many scruffy villagers.

Baldwin’s response was mild. ‘I fear we have other business to conduct. It would be wrong of us to join your host – we should only be in your way, not knowing the roads and byways about here where a man like the priest might run.’

‘There’s surely a duty on all men to join the Hue and Cry,’ came Roger Scut’s reedy voice.

Simon saw Baldwin’s back stiffen. The monk stood with a smile on his face, head tilted back and a little to one side as though he was contemplating some new form of beetle before crushing it.

‘You are quite right, of course,’ Baldwin said suavely, and Simon could hear his anger in the precise, clipped tones. ‘It is the duty of all those in the Hundred to join the Hue and Cry. I do not come from this Hundred. Further, I have the duty as Keeper of the King’s Peace to perform my inquest and review all the facts of a matter. I shall do so. In the meantime, clerk, perhaps you should return to your own duties.’

‘Of course you must do what you think is needed,’ Sir Ralph said, and was about to ride off, when Simon called to him.

‘Is your son with you, Sir Ralph?’

Sir Ralph glanced at him. ‘Do you see him? Neither do I.’

‘Yet it is the duty of all in the Hundred to pursue an escaped…’ Simon swallowed the word ‘felon’, quickly substituting, ‘… man like the priest.’

‘If he is a priest.’

‘That,’ Baldwin shot out, ‘is for the Bishop to confirm, is it not? You will not attempt to slaughter this man as though he were a common outlaw.’

‘We shall see. Even a cleric who draws a weapon on the Hue and Cry to evade capture may be forced to submit.’

‘He has no weapon,’ Baldwin said more loudly. ‘So I shall myself appeal any man who uses a weapon or excessive force to capture him. Any man.’

‘Perhaps he has acquired a knife, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Ralph said angrily.

‘Where is your son, Sir Ralph?’ Simon asked doggedly.

‘I don’t know,’ Sir Ralph admitted after a moment. ‘He left the castle last night and has not returned yet.’

With that, he turned from them both, shouted a command, and the men pelted out through the open gates.

Esmon belched and rested his hand on the girl’s flank. She squirmed a little at his touch, but then twisted under the blanket and offered her mouth to him. With a grunt, he rolled between her thighs and smiled down at her.

She was a saucy little strumpet, this Margery. Slim and attractive, she had the great advantage over other girls in the vill that her father was a carter and often away from his home. With him gone, Esmon could often hope for a warm welcome in this hovel with her.

He left her a few minutes later, standing in the doorway while he pulled on his shirt, then his padded leather jack and a cloak against the cold. While Margery mumbled her farewells, no doubt cradling the little gift of coins which he had left at the side of her bed, he stared out into the roadway over the small yard.

From here he could look all along the lane towards Gidleigh. It wasn’t very far from here, but in this rolling country it was well concealed. Esmon took a deep breath of the air and sighed contentedly. This was good land, this. He loved it passionately. As he loved his freedom. The idea that he could be cooped up for some appearance in court was unappealing. That was why he’d let his annoyance take him over yesterday, trying to ride down the Bailiff. If he’d managed to kill him, he could have explained it as an accident, and disposed of the Stannary officer, the man most likely to want to avenge the death of a miner. A miner! Wylkyn was no more a miner than Esmon’s mother; he’d just run off to the moors to hide from justice after he murdered his own master and Esmon had visited justice on him.

He knew the legal logic of his case, but that was no comfort. The law was unreasonable and foolish. Too often the wrong people were released while good men were convicted. It was all mad. Far better to remove an irritating officer and put it down to an accident. Shame the attempt failed.

That Bailiff and his friend the Keeper seemed convinced that the priest should be let go, and Esmon in all fairness saw little reason not to let him. Esmon had no interest in Mark. It was his father who wanted Mark to suffer for his crime, if he did indeed kill the wench. Probably he did. There was no other reason for him to have run away like that unless he was guilty.

Satisfied with his logic, Esmon wondered why his father should be so keen to punish the priest. Perhaps it was merely the instinct of a man who has lost his property to a thief. His father always valued his belongings, and Mary was one such: an item on his inventory.

His father had always coveted Gidleigh, largely because it had that castle, but Esmon was less interested. Times were changing. The whole realm was like a ripe plum, ready to be consumed by any man who was bold enough. That was proved by the Despensers. They had come from nowhere, and now they were the most powerful men in the country after the King himself. Perhaps not after him; maybe they were more powerful now. Everyone Esmon had heard talking about the King’s court seemed to think that Edward II had abrogated responsibility for the realm and handed all authority to the Despensers, especially Hugh the Younger, Sir Ralph’s friend.

This was a time for younger men, Esmon thought. No need for the life of subservience to his father; better that he should ride with his own company and make his fortune. There were opportunities for a man like him. The country was in the power of a strong family, so Esmon should himself join with them and make sure that as their power waxed, so did his own influence.

It was not far from here that he had been born, a quarter mile eastwards, down that hill on the right. That was the old manor in which he had been raised until Sir Richard Prouse had died and they had moved to take over the castle. It was while he lived in the manor that he had taken a shine to young Margery’s body, and she had made herself available to him. A handsome wench, he reckoned, although not so attractive as that other daughter of Huward’s. Flora was a very fine-looking filly.

On a whim, Esmon decided he would go and see her. It would warm his heart just to look at the girl. He shouted to Margery’s brother to fetch his horse, and ambled around to wait.