The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Flora was about to call to Osbert when she saw the figure ahead. With a small gasp of relief, for she had been pushing through these woods for a while without seeing any sign of him, she stepped forward into a clearing.

Instantly she saw her mistake. It wasn’t Os, it was Esmon, and as soon as she stepped out into the open, he turned and saw her.

‘Ah – you’ve saved me a journey!’ he said. ‘I was just coming to see you.’

‘What did you want with me?’

Esmon grinned crookedly, and she felt a stab at her heart as he said, ‘I was hoping to talk to you for a time. How are you since your sister’s death?’

Flora cast a look behind her. There were too many brambles for her to escape quickly, for her long skirts would snag and tangle in the thorns. There was no sign of Os, either. Suddenly Flora felt very lonely – and threatened – a feeling which grew as Esmon took another step or two towards her.

‘Flora, I was very sorry that your sister died.’

She looked at him, but now there was a faint narrowing of her eyes. There had been an odd tone to his voice. ‘We all were,’ she said quietly, her head averted.

‘Yes, but she was so…’

Flora was anxious and took a step away from Esmon.

‘Don’t be scared, maid,’ he said soothingly.

‘I have to go.’

‘Where?’ He saw her confusion. ‘Come, maid, let me calm you. Why don’t we sit down here?’

‘After you tried to rape me?’

‘I?’

‘On your horse. Thank God your father protected me!’

‘Oh, that!’ he grinned. ‘That wasn’t meant to scare you, it was only a little fun! Did I scare you? Come here, let me calm you. I wouldn’t want to hurt you, maid.’

Flora retreated slowly as he advanced, but now she felt a tree at her back.

‘Please, Flora, give me your hand that I might kiss it.’

‘Leave me! Please, just leave me!’ she burst out. All her fears and sorrow seemed to rip from her breast, and she felt sick and dizzy, as though she was about to faint. There was a real sense of nausea, but then it went. He reached out to her, and she saw his hand hovering as though to grab at her breast, and that was enough. There was an explosion of fury in her mind, and she ran at him, screaming, beating at his face and chest with her clenched fists in futile rage.

He caught her wrists, raised her arms easily, and gazed down the length of her body. ‘Christ Jesus, but you’re lovely, aren’t you?’

That was when she shrieked, a high, thin, keening noise like a rabbit in a trap. She jabbed with a knee, but he dodged, and she caught only his thigh. She felt Esmon forcing her to her knees, she was being pulled over his leg, she couldn’t stay upright, she was held only by his hands on her wrists and he was setting her down. Then she grew aware of a man in among the trees. As Esmon gave a low chuckle, she saw a face: it was Os, and as she cast him a look, she saw Os step forward, an axe in his hands.

‘Os, Os – help me!’ she screamed.

‘What do you want now, peasant?’ Esmon demanded, angry at being discovered, and jerking Flora to her feet again. ‘I was here first.’

‘I’m here last,’ Os said firmly. He set his feet a shoulder’s width apart and hefted his axe. ‘She doesn’t want you here. Leave her.’

‘I’ll stand or go by my own will, not by your leave!’

‘I’ll say no more. Go.’

Flora was reluctant to speak. It was against her natural instinct to try to talk to Esmon. He was son to a knight, one of the most powerful men in the country, and as such he was fearsome enough, but with his propensity for violence and rape, Flora found it hard to say anything in his presence. ‘Please…’ she began, but the two men ignored her.

‘Leave her,’ Os said again, gripping his axe more firmly.

‘Go from here, peasant, before I teach you not to be insubordinate in front of your master,’ Esmon responded, but he was hampered by his grip on Flora. He let one of her arms go, trying to grab at his sword, but he was unbalanced and Flora tried to dart away, almost pulling him over. ‘Keep still, bitch!’

Suddenly Os lifted the axe and sprang forward. It was so quick that Flora scarcely had time to open her mouth to take a swift intake of breath, and then she saw that he had moved to Esmon’s side, and as the knight’s son reached for his sword, the flat of the axe-head slapped his hand aside, giving a harsh, cracking noise in the stillness of the woods. Instantly Esmon gave a muffled cry, falling back and releasing Flora. She stumbled and fell on her arse.

Esmon could scarcely believe the pain. ‘You bastard! You’ll pay for this!’

Os said nothing, but slid his hand along the axe-haft, raising it ready to strike. There was no compunction in his eyes, only determination.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Esmon sobbed, cradling his hand at his breast. The breath was rasping in his throat. ‘This will cost you your life, churl! I’ll not see you live after this! You think you can attack me? I’ll soon be back, and I’ll bring men!’

Osbert eyed him without speaking. It was as though all his contempt for Esmon and Esmon’s family was concentrated in that one brief glance; as though a lifetime’s loathing and hatred were comingled and, under his glance, Esmon felt devastated. Never in his life had he experienced such withering disgust. He felt like a worm or a slug being surveyed by a gardener.

‘Bring as many as you want.’

Flora watched in horror and despair as Esmon turned and made his way from the clearing, nursing his hand tenderly as though every step cost him a sharp agony.

‘Os, you have to get away, as far away as you can!’

‘Where would I go?’

‘I don’t know, but as soon as he gets back to the castle, he’ll tell his father, and they’ll come to kill you. You don’t want that, do you?’

‘I’ll go nowhere.’

‘What of his father?’

‘I don’t fear him.’

‘He’ll have you killed!’

Osbert didn’t answer. He still held his axe, but now he glanced at it as though scarcely recognising what it was, and then he let it fall to the ground. He stood with his fists clenching and unclenching, his jaw set, his eyes flitting everywhere. When she lifted her hand to touch his face, he gave a loud groan and reached for it, taking it and raising it to his mouth. His other arm encircled her waist, and he kissed her warmly, and she responded with all of her heart.

There had been nothing to learn in the greasy turf by the wall where the two carters confirmed that the miner had lain after the attack, although as Simon and Baldwin had already observed, the blood more than adequately confirmed that. Neither carter was comfortable about accusing the killer, but that was unnecessary now. Baldwin was interested more in where the body had been taken than in interrogating the two.

‘Leave them for now, Coroner. If we can find this corpse and learn why someone should conceal it, perhaps that will prove who killed him.’

‘You speak for yourself, Sir Baldwin,’ Coroner Roger stated with gruff amusement. I need the evidence of these two idiots.’

‘If you ask them to give their evidence in court, all that you shall have is two men standing before a strong lord and making an accusation. If we can find the body, we shall have a more compelling reason for his arrest.’

‘And I can take him to Lydford,’ Simon nodded, ‘to the gaol where he belongs. At least we can make sure that he pays compensation for his crime, if we can show he was guilty of this murder.’

Coroner Roger shrugged. ‘Very well. What of these two?’

Baldwin eyed them. They were an unprepossessing pair, the older man with a perpetually running nose, the younger with the scrawny appearance of a starved cockerel. ‘You two can go to the inn we passed on the way here. If you aren’t there when we get back, I shall order your arrest and shall have you fined. Is that clear?’

‘Oh, aye, Master Knight,’ Saul sniffed, adding with heavy irony, ‘if we do anything, like trying to save ourselves from being murdered, then you’ll see us thrown into the good Bailiff’s gaol, where we’ll most likely die from starvation. Oh, I thank you, Master. It’s good to know we’ll be treated so well.’

‘Be off with you, and don’t decide to run away!’ Baldwin said sternly. ‘Go!’

‘And bear in mind,’ the Coroner said with a grim smile, ‘that my two servants are with you. They won’t let you out of their sight.’

Simon grinned as the two carters grumbled to themselves, eyeing the Coroner’s guards without enthusiasm, snapping their reins and lumbering away. Baldwin was smiling too, and Simon could tell his friend was tickled by them. Often Baldwin would have a curious, or so it seemed to most others, affection for the peasants with whom he came into contact, and Simon could see that these two had delighted him, the younger because of his apparent fear, starting at every noise, while the older man was so stolid and unimpressed with the rank and importance of the men who held him here. His sole apparent concern was his cold and how much longer it would last.

As the sound of the horses rattling on their way gradually faded into the distance, Simon stared after them. He was struck with a sudden sense of foreboding; a black mood swept over him, as though the devil had sent a grim presentiment of doom through his soul, but then he blinked, and in a moment it was gone.

‘Come along, Simon!’ Baldwin called, and he followed his friend to the wall. Even as he did so, he couldn’t help but cast a glance over his shoulder, and as he caught sight of the two carts, the sense of foreboding returned.

Esmon seethed with anger, even as his fist throbbed with pain. How dare a mere churl like Osbert attack him – him! – the son of a knight, a man of status and fortune. It was incomprehensible. That sort of behaviour led to insurrection and mutiny. He wouldn’t stand for it… he couldn’t stand for it.

Leaning against a tree, he saw one of his men at the entrance to the mill’s lane. The man grinned and called out: ‘Master, the monk escaped last night.’

‘How on–’

‘Your father’s gone to the moor to seek him with many men, but there’s been a draw-latch at work in a farm north of here. Food taken.’

Esmon chewed his lip. He first of all wanted to make Os pay for his attack. His hand still hurt and his soul smarted at the insult to his dignity, but he knew he must also try to capture the priest if he could. ‘How could he have escaped? This is pathetic! It will bring ridicule upon our heads if it gets out that a cretin of a priest can escape from our gaol! God in Heaven! I suppose we must try to find him.’ But if Mark was robbing farms northwards, Esmon could ride out east first and teach Os to attack him. He was itching for revenge.

‘Find Brian! Fetch men and horses and have the men arm themselves!’ he bellowed.

His man gave a short nod and went to obey his commands. Meanwhile Esmon stood looking up at the castle’s keep. He should warn his father what he intended, but since the girl’s death his old man had indeed grown old. No longer the courageous man of war, he was now apparently shrunken in mind and in spirit. Look at the way he’d stopped Esmon from taking Flora before. Sir Ralph had no right to prevent him from raping her – other than the customary right of ownership, of course. She was one of his serfs. It was probably merely the possessive streak in him. Well, Esmon had had enough of his caprices. Esmon wanted her, and he’d have her, just as soon as he’d dealt with Osbert. That son of an adder deserved death for standing in his way, and what he’d worked so hard to earn, Esmon would be pleased to deliver.

The man-at-arms was soon back with five more, and Esmon, wincing, clambered atop his mount. ‘Follow me!’ he roared, thrusting his hand beneath his armpit to protect it, snatching at his reins, and cantering off along the lane to where he had met Osbert. However, when he reached the clearing, there was no sign of Osbert, but for the axe which still lay on the ground. Gesturing to it, Esmon ordered one of the men to collect it, and then led the way back along the lane to another track. He went into it, scarcely aware of the men behind him. This way led more directly to Osbert’s house, he knew, and he was keen to get to him. The mad toad’s spawn would surely be walking up this lane, or perhaps he was already at his home. He could have gone straight there after the altercation at the clearing, filled with terror and remorse at his action. Perhaps that was why he’d dropped his axe, because he was so petrified with horror at his actions?

Somehow that didn’t ring true. Esmon had seen terror before in his life. He had killed enough men, had seen the wakening shock in their eyes as they saw their fate in Esmon’s face, had seen the intelligence fade from their faces as his sword took their lives, the way that their bodies either slumped quickly, or began their jigging dance as the nerves fought for life, had heard enough death rattles, could recognise fear when he saw it. There was nothing remotely like fear in Osbert’s face when he had confronted Esmon. Only hard, uncompromising hatred.

It was that memory which made him slow in his onward rush. There should have been some misgivings about attacking the son of a knight. It was appalling that a mere churl could think of lifting a weapon against a man like Esmon, and yet this fellow had done just that.

If it had been another man, one of the wandering tinkers who occasionally passed through here, he wouldn’t have been so shocked, because you expected stupid, antisocial behaviour from foreigners, but to see Osbert turn on him was like seeing a favourite mastiff snap at him. It was so incongruous, it was shocking. Osbert was usually so subservient, he could be embarrassing for it was shameful to see such an ox of a man so easily cowed. Something seemed to have made him forget his usual fear of Esmon and his father.

The girl!

Esmon’s twisted into a grimace. Of course, that was the reason! Osbert wanted to get into Flora’s skirts as much as Esmon himself did – no, more, since he was prepared to risk his life by threatening Esmon and attacking him. Esmon wouldn’t endanger his life or his livelihood in order to enjoy a tumble even with so sweet a wench as Flora. No, she was not worth risking a life over.

There was a faint thickening in the air ahead and Esmon felt his belly tighten. He recognised that sight: dust raised by men on the track in front of him. He raised his good hand and peered ahead. Here, he and his men were beneath some great trees, oaks and elms, and he felt secure enough. Those ahead would be unlikely to see his own company’s dust for the tree trunks, whereas he was looking northwards away from the sun, and the mist showed as an opacity against the woods further in the distance. Above the jangling of steel and puffing of the mounts, he was sure that he could discern the slow rumble and squeak of carts coming closer.

He had no need to speak to his men. They all knew how to operate effectively; they’d been on too many chevauchées together not to realise that this was potential spoil. As he made a hand signal, he knew it was redundant. None of them was watching him, they were all slipping to the sides of the path and waiting.

As the first horse appeared, with the bent figure of Saul jogging on the cart, Esmon’s men leaped forward, but they had not reckoned on the panic of the horse pulling Saul. Startled, it reared and jumped up in the traces, slipped sideways and blocked the way. Esmon’s men were ready to thunder off along the lane and capture any other folk behind Saul, but the kicking, bucking pony effectively prevented them, and Esmon could only watch as Alan took one look at him, then sprang from his seat and pelted away up the lane.

‘What is this?’ demanded one of Coroner Roger’s men. ‘Who are you?’

‘Shut up and keep still or you’ll have a quarrel in your guts,’ Brian shouted. True to his word, he had his crossbow ready in his hand. The two men obeyed, sitting without speaking, but showing their contempt for Esmon and his men by refusing to look them in the eyes.

Esmon had to wait, swearing volubly, while Saul tried to calm his beast and stood at last at its head patting it ungently while one of Esmon’s men galloped off after Alan.

‘So, master merchant. I hope you have enjoyed a successful fair at Chagford. I’d be upset if all I won today for this trouble was a few coins and your wineskin.’

‘I don’t have any wine,’ Saul said gloomily, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

‘Perhaps your friends do?’ Esmon said, looking at the two men on horseback who had been with Saul and Alan.

‘These aren’t friends of mine. They’re the Coroner’s men,’ Saul said, and there was an unmistakable leer in his face as he looked up at Esmon. ‘Doubt he’ll be best pleased when he hears you’ve caught two of his men.’

Esmon swallowed his immediate reply. It was tempting to simply draw his sword and sweep off Saul’s head, but that wouldn’t help matters now. He glanced at the two guards. They looked furious, but entirely unworried about their fate. They knew that the servants of a Coroner were safe from the most unruly and wayward of the King’s subjects. Even an outlaw must respect the power of the King’s Coroner, and only the suicidal would harm them.

‘Let’s hope that my man catches your companion then, eh, carter?’ Esmon hissed at Saul. ‘If he does, it would be sad to think of the accidents that could befall a little group like yours, out on the open roads, wouldn’t it?’

Saul looked up at him, suddenly worried. It was clear that Esmon was in a killing mood, and Saul suddenly realised that he and Alan were the only men nearby who could identify Esmon as being responsible for the murder of Wylkyn.

Alan was a friend, and he had escaped from Esmon’s men before now, if he was to be believed. He should be able to make his way to safety. Saul’s only concern was whether Alan would bother to find help to come and rescue him.

‘Well?’ Esmon demanded as the one-man posse returned.

‘He went in among the woods up ahead. I lost him. He got away.’

‘You fool, you toad’s ass! He might get off and find help!’ Esmon spat.

‘Help? Where from?’

Esmon stared at the man and would have spoken, but Saul sniffed once and then responded slowly, ‘From the Coroner, the Stannary Bailiff and the King’s Keeper. They’re all a short ride up from here.’