The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Twenty-Nine

When Esmon returned, he dropped from his horse and saw to it that Saul and the other two men were installed in the room off the gatehouse where the carters had been incarcerated the previous week. Once they were safely locked away, he sent a man to fetch him a jug of strong wine while he seated himself near the stable.

His father was going to be livid when he heard about this. He was angry enough when Esmon had killed Wylkyn, but that had almost been a relief after his earlier enervation. It was all since the death of the wench from the mill. Mary’s murder had torn the soul from his father, as though Sir Ralph himself felt guilt…

Esmon slowly came upright. Of course! That was it! That was why he had been so pathetic and feeble ever since; that was why he had tried to prevent Esmon from catching young Flora afterwards! Sir Ralph was consumed by guilt, having made his use of the young stale and then killed her in a fit of fury. It was little wonder that he was so upset. No wonder he was keen to see the priest convicted, too! That would protect him.

Well, if he wanted to have people forget his crime, that was one thing. For Esmon, his father’s crimes were of no concern. Perhaps his own behaviour might reflect badly, but that was nothing for him to worry about. While they had their friends the Despensers, they were safe from all but a random arrow!

It was infuriating that he’d missed Osbert, though. The bastard should have been back at his home, but when Esmon had reached the place there was no sign of the poxed badger’s cub. It was all in stillness, without even a faint spark in the hearth to show that anyone had ever lived there. Osbert had escaped him for now, but he couldn’t run away for ever. Esmon would catch him, and when he did, he’d make that whoreson regret his little outburst.

Esmon could move the fingers of his hand, and he was reasonably confident that the bones weren’t broken as he’d originally feared, but the bruising would be appalling, of that he was sure.

It was curious. Esmon still had that feeling of lust for the girl, but it was subsumed now by his hatred of Osbert. If he could but ravish Flora, it would give him the additional satisfaction of ruining Osbert’s life. He was sure that was the meaning behind the odd look in Osbert’s eyes as he protected Flora. Osbert loved her and wanted her for himself.

He sipped at his wine. It was fortunate, perhaps, that his father wasn’t here. Apparently he had ridden off some little while before, heading towards Chagford. No one seemed to know why he had gone there, except one of the servants had overheard a messenger saying that Surval wanted to see him. Curious, Esmon thought to himself, sipping at more wine. Was his old man going off his head?

If he was, that would be no bad thing. Esmon could have him locked up in the castle, somewhere nice and quiet, away from others, and Esmon could come into his inheritance.

That was how the idea was planted: a random feeling of contempt for his father’s apparent collapse after the death of his wench. That very collapse was a sign of mental feebleness, proof that Sir Ralph was no longer capable of running the vill and the castle.

Esmon was capable. More than that, he had the men to succeed. With Brian and the others, he could hold both castle and vill, and if it appeared that there were richer pickings elsewhere, why, Esmon and his men could move on. This place held no real significance for him. His father had jealously desired it for years, but that was nothing to Esmon. He wanted a bigger, better place than a small rural castle.

It was a foolish dream, though, he told himself. Simple plans always looked simple until put into action, and his father wasn’t truly mad. Just a bit enfeebled for some reason.

‘So?’ asked a small, quiet voice at the back of his mind. ‘If he recovers, you could release him then, couldn’t you?’

All he would need was a strong-minded clerk or lawyer to declare that his father was mad, and he could take over the place. Get his mother out, install himself in the great chair before the hearth, and enjoy the life of the free.

His father would be insane with anger. Perhaps it would stir him from his lethargic mood. Since Mary’s death he’d been in a stupor.

Scut, said that quiet voice. There was a man whose integrity was negotiable.

No! It was mad even to think of such a thing. Quite out of the question. But he could, he supposed, sound out Brian. See what the leader of his men reckoned. And then maybe it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Scut. See what the clerk had to say about such an idea. He could ask Scut to look at his hand, then spring the question.

He drained his cup, flexed his hand a few times to test his fingers, and then nodded, satisfied, and walked out to find Roger Scut.

When the door suddenly opened, Surval didn’t bother to turn from his contemplation of the cross before him.

‘So you came at last.’

‘What do you want, old man? Your messenger asked me to come – why?’

Surval crossed himself as he rose to his feet. ‘Yes, I am old. And so are you, my Lord. Look at us both: there are almost a hundred years between us. But I declare that there are also differences between us. I have learned by my mistakes; you have not.’

‘Ah yes?’ Sir Ralph curled his lip as he approached the fire. He didn’t sit, but stood with his back to the wall, the safest position for a man on his own in unwelcoming territory. ‘What lessons do you have to give me?’

‘You are a fornicator.’

‘Many are,’ Sir Ralph laughed. ‘You have no balls. That’s not my fault.’

‘I choose not to use them.’

‘But you have in the past, though, haven’t you?’ Sir Ralph sneered.

‘I saw the miller last night.’

‘So? What’s it to do with me? He’s just a serf. Where is he?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps on his way to Exeter to find a new life; perhaps he is going to the coast to board a ship.’

‘It’d be better if he does,’ Sir Ralph muttered, relaxing slightly.

‘All your fine clothes: velvet hose, crimson tunic, bright cloak of fur-trimmed wool, a man of power and authority – and you start at the slightest noise. You should copy me, my Lord,’ Surval jeered. ‘Join me here in my little chapel and help me serve the poor travellers you once fleeced.’

‘You mock me, hermit!’

‘Keep your hand from your sword, my Lord. I wouldn’t want you to have another death on your conscience.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘We both know, don’t we? Wylkyn had to die because he found out the truth.’

‘You pathetic little man, you know nothing!’

Surval smiled coldly. ‘Calm your ire, Sir Knight. You have much to mend, and little time to do it in.’

Sir Ralph had pulled his sword half from the scabbard, and now he thrust it back home with a muffled curse and sat down. ‘What am I to mend?’

‘You are sinful, Knight! You should be on your knees begging God’s forgiveness, not ranting at me, a mere humble spirit whose sole duty is to see God’s will done.’

‘Mere humble spirit, my arse! You were a priest who had a good position in the world, who could have been a great magnate in the Church, but no! You had a woman, didn’t you? And you killed her.’

‘Yes, and there isn’t a day I don’t sit here and plead with God to take me to Him so that I might see her again and beg for her forgiveness,’ Surval said, casting a longing look at his little altar. ‘If I could, I should depart this miserable life this moment, and thank my executioner.’

‘You ask me to murder you?’

‘No, I ask you to make good the sins you have committed. I am here, wallowing in guilt and yet trying to make amends. You, though, you sit in your fine castle and think so little of others that you see them slaughtered to save your name and conceal your guilt.’

‘I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Your guilt will result in the ruination of your family. Your children will die, Knight.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Gilda told me of your crimes against Huward. You have ruined him utterly.’

Sir Ralph felt a sudden shock of weakness attack him. For a while he sat silently, scarcely breathing, merely listening to the blood hammering in his ears, and then he faced Surval once more, but all the boldness was gone from him. In its place was a quiet alarm, like a man who can see a runaway cart heading towards him in a dark alley, but who knows there is no escape.

‘Yes,’ Surval said quietly. ‘Huward knows how you cuckolded him!’

‘How could he have learned?’

‘Your wife told him. She is, I fear, horrified at what you have done.’

‘She will learn to be silent!’ Sir Ralph said with a flare of his passion. ‘Christ! The bitch knew what she was doing.’

‘Of course. You have stolen his life, Sir Ralph.’

‘Sweet Jesus! By God’s own pains, he could…’ Sir Ralph felt fear like a fist clench about his heart, and he thought he must die, but the sensation only lasted a moment, and then his sight cleared and he found himself staring at Surval. ‘He might kill them!’

‘Brother, I do not know,’ Surval said.

‘You bastard! You keep me here talking while he’s planning their death? You delay me… I shall return, and when I do, you shall have cause to regret your part in all this, you bastard whoreson!’

Surval set his jaw. ‘You would insult our own mother, brother? Begone from here, and I pray that you save their lives, but don’t look to return here unless you can be thankful to our blessed mother, and thank me for warning you!’

Baldwin and Simon soon reached the castle.

To Simon’s eyes it was curious. For the first time since they had seen it, the place seemed quiet, as if there had been a death and a thrill of horror had affected all the men inside. For once there was no one at the gate itself, and the two passed straight through and into the main court. There they waited, Simon feeling that something was terribly wrong.

It was a relief, when he glanced over towards the hall, to see Hugh walking out with Thomas behind him. Simon and Baldwin crossed to meet them.

‘How’s the head, Hugh?’ Simon asked.

‘I’m all right,’ Hugh said gruffly. It wasn’t exactly true, because he still had a powerful headache, which he was attempting to cure with Sir Ralph’s best strong wine, but the wine itself was making him more comfortable. ‘Just a bit tired.’

‘He’s been sleeping all day,’ Thomas grumbled behind him.

‘Not all day. I spoke to that fat fool of a clerk, didn’t I?’

‘Much good it did.’

‘It did some good,’ Hugh declared firmly. He was quiet a moment, and when Simon followed his gaze, he saw Roger Scut appear in a doorway near the gate. Simon glanced back at Hugh, who was assuming once more his customary glower. ‘Don’t like him.’

‘What did you learn from him?’ Simon asked.

‘He was at the prison, looking at where the monk was kept.’

‘Looking at it?’ Baldwin said.

‘He had a candle, but he dropped it when he heard us.’

Simon turned back, but Roger Scut had already disappeared. ‘And? I assume there’s something you’re bursting to tell us.’

Hugh made a play of drinking his cup of wine, belched softly, and yawned. ‘Only one thing…’

‘The monk was set loose on purpose,’ Thomas said, his eyes on Baldwin.

‘Show us.’

Hugh and Thomas led the way to the trap door, and stood watching while Simon and Baldwin crouched, peering.

‘Certainly it doesn’t look as though it’s been forced,’ Simon admitted.

‘No. This bolt fits neatly into the staple in the floor,’ Baldwin said, drawing the bolt back and forth a few times. ‘And it moves silently, too. No one would hear it opening. Only the prisoner.’

‘In which case, who released him? Could it have been Scut?’

Baldwin rocked back on his heels. ‘Possibly, but why? What motive could he have, other than, perhaps, to save the life of another cleric? Yet why should he do that? He did more than anyone else to see Mark installed here in the first place.’

‘I don’t think so, Sir Baldwin!’

The pained tone made Baldwin almost topple over with surprise, but when he righted himself, he found that he was peering up into the nostrils of Roger Scut.

Simon stood. ‘It was perfectly obvious you wanted him out of the way. You gave him no support in the court, did you? You could have demanded that Sir Ralph release Mark into your custody on behalf of Bishop Walter, but you let Sir Ralph shove him down into this noisome pit instead. Hardly the action of a man supporting his friend.’

‘That may be how you perceived it, Sir Bailiff, but really! Can you think so ill of a priest like me that you’d believe me capable of such an act? Of course I didn’t intend to see my friend Mark suffer.’

‘Incarceration here would lead to suffering enough,’ Baldwin observed.

Roger Scut held out his hands and smiled gently. ‘I felt that it could do no harm for Mark to be safely out of the way of others.’

‘Like who?’ Simon demanded curtly.

Roger Scut withdrew his hands and folded his arms. He had been trying to decide what to say to these two since he had come back, and now he took a deep breath. It was sad to think of that little chapel. All his hopes had been built upon that since his first arrival here and his meeting with Esmon, but there was nothing more to be done. He must extricate himself from this mess as soon as possible.

At first it had all seemed so perfect. Esmon had approached him during that first visit to the chapel, and they had spoken afterwards, with Sir Ralph, of the problems of land ownership and managing the peasants, explaining – as if Roger needed to be told! – how troublesome peasants could be. Better, they said, if they could have an ally in the chapel who could keep them informed. More than that, as Esmon indicated, they might be able to use their friends at court to assist clerics who were useful to them. A cleric at the chapel who helped keep the villeins subservient might soon be offered a more prestigious post in London or Winchester, for example.

Not that Roger was foolish enough to jump at the offer. No, he smiled at first and shrugged, gave noncommittal grunts and yawns as though this was the sort of offer he received each day, and not the kind of thing he had prayed for over long years of obscurity and relative poverty.

It was the final demand he was waiting for, and it took little time to arrive. They wanted him to spy on Sir Baldwin and Simon Puttock. That was easy enough. In fact, he simply told them at every opportunity that Sir Baldwin was a rather uncouth and ignorant buffoon. He disliked Sir Baldwin because Sir Baldwin disliked him, and making the Keeper out to be a fool suited his own prejudice, while the Bailiff he knew was quite astute. That was why he told Esmon, when the fellow asked about Puttock, that the Bailiff was deeply insulted by the harm done to one of his miners. Bailiff Puttock would not rest easy, he said, until he had the murderer hanging from the nearest oak.

Roger Scut had reinforced that message only the day before. The memory made him feel queasy now. At the time he hadn’t heard about the near-fatal accident which had happened to the Bailiff’s servant. If he had, he might have been a little more circumspect.

He might not be the most intelligent of logicians, but he was able to see a picture when it was laid before him, and it was clear to him that his comments on Bailiff Puttock had led to a murderous attack on him.

And now this! Esmon’s outrageous suggestion! That he should agree to Esmon’s proposition that his father was incapable, incompetent, and a threat to the security of the manor! Roger Scut could not possibly agree to such a flagrant fraud. What if he was found out? No matter what he said to Esmon and Sir Ralph about Sir Baldwin’s intelligence, no matter what he said to himself in the dark hours about how stupid the knight was, how much more perspicacious Roger himself was, how much better ordered he would have the Keeper’s court if he had a free rein compared with the slapdash fool, there was no denying that Sir Baldwin had a certain animal cunning. He was quite politically astute, and plain lucky. Going against him was not an attractive proposition.

No. Even before this had been suggested, when Roger had realised what Esmon had tried to do to Simon Puttock, he had decided that his intention to ally himself with the family was wrong and dangerous. He had come to the conclusion that he should change horses, support Baldwin, ensure the safe release of Mark, and guard and guide him to the safety of the Bishop’s court. Except his decision had not been blessed with success.

All was going wrong. All his plans were unravelled, and he could see only disaster awaiting him as he surveyed the knight in the stable.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am pleased to confess that I have been guilty of a dreadful error. I… well, I came to think that Mark could perhaps have been guilty of the crime of which he was accused. It’s hard to get that sort of idea out of one’s head: that a monk could indeed have slaughtered his woman with their illegitimate child in her womb. Awful, terrible, a truly grievous sin, a…’

‘Stuff the pretence, priest. It doesn’t impress us,’ Simon growled.

‘It’s no pretence! Bailiff, I mean this.’

‘Good. Get on with your story.’

Roger Scut turned from him and gazed down his nose at Baldwin. ‘So, Sir Knight, in the court I was truly shocked. Nay, devastated. To think that a brother monk could be responsible for so heinous a crime tore at my very soul and rendered me speechless. That was why I was incapable of supporting my poor friend. However, I now realise my error and wish to see my young friend saved. Apart from anything else, I do not believe in his guilt. It is incomprehensible. A priest in Holy Orders murdering a woman – and child? No! Assuredly, no man like Mark could do such a thing.’

‘What were you doing here, priest? You were found here by my man. Why?’

‘I wanted to see how he could have escaped from this hideous place. I thought that he might have been released.’

‘Rather than merely sprouting wings and flying away?’ Simon scoffed. ‘Of course he was released.’

‘But by whom?’ Baldwin murmured. ‘That’s the question to which we must seek an answer.’

‘I do not know.’

Simon was gazing down into the cell as Baldwin spoke. ‘There’s a candle in there. Did they leave that for Mark to read by?’

‘No, the priest dropped it. He was looking down into the cell when we found him,’ Hugh said. He slurped a little more wine, aware that his head was growing lighter, but he didn’t care right now. He was feeling a great deal better, and that was all that mattered.

‘You were looking to see who might have released the monk, then?’ Simon said. He climbed down the ladder and retrieved the candle. ‘This is probably the foulest gaol I’ve seen. It’s even worse than my own in Lydford. At least that is a decent size, but this! It’s tiny!’

He felt something under his boot as he was about to return to the ladder. Glancing down, he moved the stones and pebbles on the floor with his boot’s toe. Then he frowned and bent to look more closely.

‘What is it, Simon?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Probably nothing,’ Simon said. It was a lump of stone or something, encased in leather. An odd decoration for a cell like this – in fact, Simon reckoned it an odd enough thing for anywhere. He picked it up and carried it up the ladder. ‘Look.’

Baldwin took it and weighed it in his hand. ‘I think, Roger, that you should tell us all you know about Mark’s escape last night.’

‘Hmm?’

‘This is one of your weights to hold down rolls, is it not? I have never seen another man with such a trinket. Why did you bring it last night – to brain the poor fool who languished in here?’

Roger Scut took a deep sigh and walked to a barrel, resting his ample buttocks on it. ‘If you must know, it was in order to overpower any guard.’

‘You sought to get him out?’ Simon expostulated.

‘I don’t think he committed this grave act,’ Roger Scut said simply. ‘And I thought that if he stayed in here, he would surely die. It seemed better to me that he should be aided in his escape so that the good Bishop could test his case in the Bishop’s own court.’

‘What did you find here?’ Baldwin asked, touching Simon’s arm to keep him quiet.

‘There was no guard. I was pleased, naturally, because I hate the thought of violence, and I feared having to strike down an innocent who was merely serving his master’s will. Yes, that was a relief. I reached the door and pulled the lock and opened it wide, calling to Mark, but there was no one there. I had my candle with me, and held it in one hand while I held the trap open with the other, and peered inside, thinking that the lad must have collapsed in fear and exhaustion, but there was no sign of him, and when I leaned in to make sure, my weight fell from my hand. Trying to hold that and the candle in one fist was too much. I heard it plop into the dirt, but I was reluctant to go down the ladder and resolved to return today. As your man saw,’ he added, giving Hugh a baleful glance.

‘Have you any idea who could have released Mark?’

‘Yes. I think it was Sir Ralph’s son, Esmon. The fellow knew that his father would be enraged to hear that Mark had escaped, and would seek him with a fury unsurpassed by the hounds of Hell. Esmon sought to ensure that his father would kill Mark for escaping his cell, and to do so, Esmon made certain that Mark was released. Whether it was Esmon himself or one of his many disreputable men who let Mark out, I do not know.’

‘You are sure of this?’ Baldwin asked.

‘As sure as I can be without hearing Esmon confess, yes.’ Roger Scut looked out at the doorway and dropped his voice. ‘Do you know what he has done now? He asked me a little while ago whether I would help him to depose his father. I truly believe that lad has no conception of good and evil. He asked me to write a letter confirming that Sir Ralph was too ancient and infirm to be able to continue as Lord of Gidleigh. As though I should do any such thing!’

Baldwin glanced at Simon. He doubted the entire truth of Roger Scut’s comments, although their general thrust he thought was probably accurate enough. ‘As though,’ he repeated drily.

Roger had the grace to look away.

‘Do you know what I think, Scut?’ Baldwin asked. ‘I think you came here wanting to brain a guard and release Mark.’

‘Yes.’

‘Because you thought that then he would be hunted down and killed. You knew Sir Ralph would slaughter him under any pretext. The Bishop would punish Sir Ralph, but so what? You would be here to take over the chapel and all its revenues.’

‘Nonsense, that had–’

‘You actively sought the death of Mark to fill your own pocket.’

Roger shook his head, but his voice was quieter, as though he scarcely dared deny the charge. ‘No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Simon had listened with contempt. Now he deliberately turned his back on the monk and ignored him. ‘Hugh, this Esmon has captured more men today. He took a carter and two of Coroner Roger’s men captive. Did you see them arrive, or hear them?’

‘I heard someone – over in the gatehouse area.’

‘That is where Sir Ralph and his son tend to keep their prisoners ready for ransom,’ Roger Scut said helpfully.

‘Show me where this room is,’ Simon said, speaking to Hugh.