The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (41 page)

Surval looked up at him, and through his anger, he felt a grudging respect. This was the sort of man whom others would instinctively trust, he felt. The sort whom others would follow willingly. ‘Not always without men being reminded,’ he acknowledged. Then he raised his staff with a quizzical smile. ‘But there are ways of reminding them.’

‘And you receive plenty of pennies and halfpennies?’

‘Aye, and often the odd old farthing, too. But rarely minted coins,’ Surval said. ‘They think that a simple hermit doesn’t know what’s been going on in the world outside his sphere and seek to offload their quarters and halves on me.’

Baldwin could smile at that. ‘I am sure you quickly disabuse them of their foolishness!’

It was more than twenty years since farthings and halfpennies had been minted as coins. Before that, a trader who needed a halfpence would simply cut a penny in two, or four for farthings. There were still many such pieces about the place, but few traders wanted them any more.

The tale always made Surval feel bitter, but standing here in front of Baldwin, he could almost see the funny side of it. There was a lightness and cheerful calmness in Baldwin’s eyes which was rare to find in a knight, and something else: a determination, as though he had decided to see the matter through. He would find Mary’s murderer, no matter what.

‘So you want to find the monk Mark.’

Simon was instantly alert. ‘How did you know he was gone? We didn’t say that. Who told you?’

‘Come, Surval. What do you know of him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I was woken by him this morning. He banged on the door and called for me.’

‘Why did he come here?’ Simon wondered.

‘He wanted advice from someone who could help him. Poor devil! He had admitted his offences to that priest you brought with you, such as they were, but he realised he couldn’t trust the man.’

‘Why?’ Simon said.

‘Mark, the priest, is the son of Sir Ralph. He told me so this morning, and I believe him. Sir Ralph has many children! His mother was a widow of Axminster and Sir Ralph wooed her many years ago, before he met his Lady Annicia.’

‘That cannot be true!’ Baldwin exclaimed. ‘I find it hard to believe that he would pursue his own son.’

‘He would if he didn’t know anything about it,’ Surval said. ‘Mark took your priest’s advice and told Sir Ralph nothing. The man has no idea Mark is his son. The monk never screwed up enough courage to tell him in all the time he lived here.’

‘Where did he go?’ Simon demanded, glancing about them as though expecting to see Mark’s face peering at them from around a tree trunk.

‘What with the murder of Wylkyn as well, I think he’s run away as fast as he can.’

‘That is another matter: Wylkyn. What can you tell us about the miner’s murder?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Miner? Well, he wasn’t that for long, was he? He was a servant to Sir Richard Prouse, the man who used to own the castle before Sir Ralph took it. I think Sir Ralph and his appalling son thought Wylkyn did something to kill Sir Richard. They sought to punish him.’

‘I wondered about that,’ Baldwin said. ‘Wylkyn certainly had plenty of poisonous plants and powders in his room.’

‘What,’ Simon mused, ‘if it was Esmon or Sir Ralph who murdered Sir Richard, and Wylkyn saw? That would explain why he bolted to the moors, and why he had to die.’

Baldwin said, ‘True. Surval, did the Coroner view Sir Richard’s body and hold an inquest?’

‘Why should he? A sick man who was a mass of twisted muscles and bones died in his bed. There was nothing surprising about the end of his life, so no reason to call the Coroner.’

‘True enough,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘So: Wylkyn. Do you have any idea where the body may lie? If you do, it would be better to tell us now. We could carry it back to the scene of the murder before the Coroner arrives, which would save another fine for removing it.’

Surval considered. ‘I may be able to find it.’

‘One other thing. You have met Mark and spoken to him. Yesterday you said you thought him innocent – do you still?’ Baldwin asked.

Surval led Simon and Baldwin to the bridge and stood staring reflectively down at the water.

‘I am all the more convinced Mark is innocent because of my family.’

‘
Your
family?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I am brother to Sir Ralph. Although I am older, I early decided to take up the religious life, as I told you, Sir Baldwin. I enjoyed the desires of the flesh. And then my woman fell pregnant again and one night, when I was angry and drunk, I gave her a beating. It… it killed her and our child.’

Involuntarily, Simon took a step back.

‘Yes, Bailiff. I am not a pleasant man. I did it. I killed my own woman. Not intentionally, but in drunken frustration and anger. And afterwards, I came here because it was close to my old home of Wonson.’

‘Your Bishop allowed you?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Alas, he never realised. That all happened back in 1307. Walter Stapledon was being elected to the post, but Robert Winchelsea objected, and Bishop Walter wasn’t consecrated until October 1308. In that time, I had run away. I wandered a great deal, and then came here. I’ve been here ever since. At least it has meant that I can protect the poor and infirm.’

Simon gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘Even if that’s true, so what? Why should that make you decide Mark is innocent?’

Hearing voices and the rattling of carts, Surval threw a glance over his shoulder, irritated to have his train of thought broken. He had much to think about, especially since hearing from Mark this morning.

‘Because bad blood can run in a family. I believe it does in mine.’

‘So it runs in Mark’s blood too,’ Simon observed.

‘It’s possible, but I think it more likely that my other nephew Esmon holds foul blood. I saw him riding along near that road on the day that Mary died.’ He had seen Sir Ralph too, but no one could think his brother could be guilty of murdering poor Mary. Esmon, though, yes – he was capable. Especially if he didn’t know the truth. Esmon could well have raped and killed her.

‘If Mark is your nephew,’ Baldwin said, ‘then surely he would be capable of the same offence as you. You killed your woman while you wore the cloth; his woman has now died in the same way. Why do you think him innocent?’

‘The two are not the same,’ Surval said. ‘I was drunk; he was sober. I punched my woman in the belly in rage; he merely slapped his in irritation. I sat and drank more, unable to see what I had done; he was overwhelmed with remorse and bolted from the scene, only returning later. And of course, his woman died from a broken neck. I cannot see him breaking a neck, can you?’

‘But Esmon is more powerful,’ Simon said. ‘He could have snapped her neck with ease.’

Baldwin nodded absently. He was thinking of Ben, and wondering whether he had the strength in his arms to be able to break a neck. Would his sister’s rejection of his advances give him the resolution to kill her in that way? It was possible.

Simon said, ‘Again, do you know where the miner’s body lies?’

Surval stood watching the doorway to his home. ‘It must be well hidden,’ he said.

Before Baldwin could respond, there was a gruff rumble from a man on horseback. Baldwin had not seen his approach behind two carts, and now the sound of his voice made the Keeper whirl round.

‘Aha! Well hidden, is it? No doubt it was some Godless heathen did that. I expect it was some mad Keeper of the King’s Peace, don’t you, Master Bailiff?’

‘Greetings, Coroner,’ Baldwin said evenly. ‘I had not looked to see you so soon.’

‘No, I doubt whether you had,’ Coroner Roger of Gidleigh said with loud delight. ‘Still, I am sure you’ll want to fill me in on the details of this matter, won’t you? Um, shall we see the body straight away, or…’ he glanced coldly at Surval ‘… leave it a short while to give people time to find it again?’

Sir Ralph swore and lashed with his whip at a bush to vent his frustration.

‘So where has that miserable shit of a priest gone, then?’

Piers was at his side, holding his hands out in acknowledgement of his own bafflement. ‘I don’t know. I’d have thought he’d have come straight up here, but there’s no sign of him.’

Sir Ralph cursed again, while the men about him waited. Dogs sat and scratched, one discovered a pile of something unpleasant, and rolled enthusiastically in it until Sir Ralph’s whip caught his flank. ‘He can’t just have vanished.’

‘Perhaps we were wrong and he went a different way?’

Sir Ralph pursed his lips. The bastard must have come this way. It was the only choice that made any sense, both because of the logic of the route away from the castle avoiding all those folks who could have apprehended him, and also because Mark knew that he should be safe on the moors if he only declared himself a miner. That would usually work, but today Sir Ralph had the right of Hue and Cry to catch his man, and so he would. And when he did, he would make sure that the young cur died for the murder of his Mary.

The land here should have yielded up a fugitive without difficulty. ‘If he came here, we should have seen his prints in among all this black soil.’

‘Yes. But there’s no mark at all.’

Piers was speaking the simple truth. The land here was flat, with few rocks or bushes behind which a man might conceal himself. They had passed over the winding streams with their ancient clapper bridges, and on to the broad, flat plain. Here they ascended a long ridge of hills and now they could gaze out over some miles in all directions.

All the flat plains were soaked with water. Any man trying to escape over that would have been slowed, but also his prints would have been visible to the men whom Sir Ralph had brought with him. He had already led his men up and down this ridge; all were spread out and walking their mounts perpendicular to the direction of Mark’s flight. Or the direction that his flight should have taken him, anyway.

He thrust his whip between his thigh and the saddle while he considered. This was ridiculous!

‘Do you want us to carry on to Steeperton,’ Piers asked respectfully, ‘or shall we go back and see if the dogs can find a scent nearer the castle?’

‘Don’t try to tell me how to hunt a man, Reeve! I’ve done it often enough!’ Sir Ralph saw Piers pull a face, and knew why. He’d been so certain that Mark must have come this way that he hadn’t even bothered to take the dogs to the spot where Mark had escaped over the castle wall. Instead, he had led the posse up here, past the stone circle and onto the moors themselves.

Mark must be laughing. He had got out of the castle, and now he was concealed somewhere. Perhaps he was in a tree overlooking the castle even now, giggling to think how he had evaded the trap set for him by Sir Ralph.

It was infuriating to realise now that Mark must have guessed Sir Ralph would try to set a trap for him when he was released from his cell. Sir Ralph should have known his motive would be transparent.

‘Come, we’ll return and see if we can get his scent even now!’ he shouted, and turned his horse back to the east.

At all costs, he must see that little pile of dung dead. He didn’t care how, but Mark must die – and slowly, too.

That was the reason why Sir Ralph had gone and set him loose, after all.

Esmon sent the boy to take his horse back to the castle. There was no need for it today. The weather was fine, and the sun was out again, so he decided to walk the mile or so to Flora’s house. After all, he didn’t want to catch the girl and then be discovered by the miller who might notice Esmon’s horse tethered at the place where he was enjoying Huward’s younger daughter. A man the miller’s size could inflict severe damage on a smaller man like Esmon, and he had no wish to suffer a beating at those giant hands.

Easier by far to take the girl away, scare her by threatening to have her father killed if she refused to submit, or if she told her father later what Esmon had done to her. Much easier for all concerned.

The lanes were still muddy from the rains, and the scent of warmed earth made him feel at home. It was a scent which had been with him all his life, but at the castle of Gidleigh, he missed it, because the natural odour was overwhelmed by the stench of unwashed men and the little midden behind. Here the soil’s own rich tang was predominant, and in the warmth of the sun, with the dampness in the air, it felt as though he was walking through a fine mist of peat.

It was good that Wylkyn was dead. The man had deserved it, and it was always satisfying to visit punishment on the guilty, just as he must soon punish Mark the monk. And then he would sit down with Brian and plan what they were to do next. It was clear enough, from the exultation of the men after the raid during which Wylkyn had died, that they needed more excitement. The band was growing bored with sitting about; they craved war. Only in fighting did a man reach his true potential, only when shouting defiance with a sword in his hand did he achieve that peak. There was nothing else like it. Afterwards, sex with a willing wench was good, but even that wasn’t as thrilling as the actual fight itself.

If he had been master of the castle, he might have decided to stay. It was a good place. Comfortable, spacious, and with the potential of ready money from raiding travellers, but while his father was the master, it was better that they should find somewhere else to go.

Especially now, since his attempt on the Bailiff. Esmon didn’t want to be taken as a felon. He could count on the Despensers having him freed, but that wasn’t the point. If he could have ridden Simon down, that might have given him a breathing space. Instead, by missing, he had further infuriated the Bailiff and given him a motive to find Esmon guilty. A Stannary Bailiff had many powers. If he wanted, he could feasibly arrest Esmon and have him installed in the Lydford Gaol. It didn’t bear thinking of. He wished now that he hadn’t let his impetuousness overrule his common sense.