The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (25 page)

‘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.

Sampson waited while they all stood talking. Talking, talking, talking! And here was poor Sampson, his tummy rumbling, hungry as a hound, and the alms dish out by the gate where he couldn’t get to it without walking past the great men on their horses.

Ah! At last! They’re going. As the grim little party turned away and rode towards the inn, Sampson sighed with relief. His tum needed filling. That was what. He’d get there, to the dish, now. That’d be good. Find some meat, some bread.

It was good the new lord gave away food. The Church ordered one tenth. Sampson was grateful for anything. He hurried to the bowl, took up the nearest hunk of brown bread soaked in thick, greasy, cold gravy, and rammed it into his mouth, turning and sinking to the ground, his back resting against the wall.

Then the crust was kicked from his hand, and Sampson squeaked in fear, raising his hands to protect his face as he recognised Esmon.

‘So, boy, you thought you’d take food?’

Sampson cringed in fear, and Esmon curled his lip in disdain. This poor cretin was little more than a dog. No brain at all – and yet he might be useful.

The sight of a Keeper of the King’s Peace at his gate had seriously alarmed him. At first, he had thought that he was to be accused of the robbery; luckily Sir Ralph hadn’t been dumb enough to let the Keeper into the castle, because he might have heard one of the carters complaining of the robbery if he had; however, Sir Baldwin would certainly be told of the body. Esmon was suddenly convinced that it would be foolish to let him find Wylkyn’s corpse. A man couldn’t be accused of murder when there was no body. If only he’d removed it as soon as he’d killed Wylkyn, but the red mist of rage had smothered him, and being rational and sensible was impossible. At least no one had seen Wylkyn die. It was only now that he realised how stupid he had been. Not that he regretted his actions. No. Wylkyn had to be killed. It was his potions that killed Sir Richard, and a murderer deserved his punishment.

Sampson was wailing now, reaching for the bowl as though expecting to see it kicked away and all its contents spilled into the dirt. ‘’Tis for me! ’Tis why it’s put out!’

‘It’s not for lazy and stupid people. I think I’d better stop it getting put out. You don’t need our food, you need work, that’s all.’

‘Can’t! No one hires me. No money!’

‘Everyone needs work, boy. I tell you what – I’ll give you a job. Then you can earn your food, can’t you?’ Esmon said.

It didn’t take long to explain. Esmon soon finished, and then the unhappy Sampson went scurrying off like a cur with his tail between his legs after a good whipping. The sight brought a smile to Esmon’s face, and he resisted the temptation of hurling a stone after the fool.

With a little luck, Sampson would take away the evidence, and then Esmon would feel more secure. And if Sampson failed – why, he would be bound to leave marks that would lead to his own arrest! Esmon wandered off grinning with self-satisfaction at the thought.

They had missed their road, and Simon was still swearing as they headed westwards out of the Stannary town of Chagford; they had gone at least two leagues out of their way.

‘Don’t see why we need to go to Gidleigh anyway,’ said his servant Hugh.

Simon bit back the curse that sprang to his lips. ‘Because I am Stannary Bailiff, and I am responsible if a miner’s robbed or attacked, Hugh. It’s that easy.’

Hugh was annoyed at being called away from the house at Lydford. He had been hoping to take a weekend off to go and visit his wife, but Simon had demanded that he should come to Gidleigh too, and he was determined that his master should know how dissatisfied he was.

Simon had been like a wolf with a sore tooth ever since he’d been promoted to the job in Dartmouth, but that wasn’t Hugh’s fault. All Hugh craved was a stable life, no more wandering about the place, like he’d had to do when he was a shepherd. It was a source of pride to him that he’d managed to catch Simon’s eye and get work with him, early on as a general servant but gradually becoming a close friend as well. He knew Simon laughed about him, but he also knew that Simon looked on him as an ally and associate. It was that which tore at him: his divided loyalty.

Hugh had a wife now, Constance, who lived north, towards Iddesleigh. Constance was calm, quiet, and a little reserved because her child, whom she had named Hugh, was not Hugh’s son, but that didn’t affect Hugh’s love for the boy and his adoration of Constance. To him, she was the ideal woman. As gentle and kind as Holy Mother Mary herself, but bright and bubbling with laughter. She had a reputation for midwifery in the vill already because she had been trained as a nurse, and all in the area had grown to love and respect her. Hugh travelled to see her when he got the chance, whenever Simon gave him an afternoon of freedom, and to his credit, Simon sent him as often as he might up to Hatherleigh. Their master, the Abbot Robert, owned the fair there, so there were always opportunities to make use of a messenger.

It wouldn’t be so easy to invent reasons to travel there once Simon was moved to Dartmouth, though, Hugh thought. That was far from anywhere, that was. Miserable journey every time he wanted to see Constance, and it’d be longer between each trip. He’d be lucky to see young Hugh at all.

Thoughts like these kept circulating in his mind, causing depression. And Hugh was not alone. He was all too aware that his friend and ally in Simon’s household, young Edith, was as set against the move as he was himself. It was her opinion that Simon should give up the post, that he should become something else – maybe a farmer. There were worse jobs, she had said to Hugh.

Worse maybe, but few that offered such opportunities for suffering the most bitter extremes of weather, to Hugh’s way of thinking. He’d lived that life, he’d been out in all weathers, he’d led the plough teams of oxen up and down the fields, covering miles each day, he’d got soaked and frozen, he’d got cut and stabbed by bushes while hedging, and he’d seen friends die: one man kicked in the head while wrestling a young calf to the ground, another squeezed against a wall by a dull-witted ox until his entire chest cracked with a rippling noise like tearing cloth. It wasn’t the sort of life Hugh was keen to return to, not while there was a warm indoor room with a roaring fire, and plenty of ale and wine to be drunk. But it would be hard, very hard, to go so far away. At least being a merchant was safer, he thought, but he wasn’t convinced that Simon would be able to ‘merchant’ for a living.

‘It’s not as though you have to worry about the job much longer,’ Hugh grunted.

‘While it’s my job, I’ll do it as best I can,’ the Bailiff said sternly.

Osbert rode a short distance behind them. ‘It’s not far now, Sir Bailiff.’

‘It would have been a damned sight quicker if you’d not got us lost!’ Simon snapped.

Osbert ducked his head as though Simon had aimed a physical missile at him. He had tried to warn the Bailiff against using that route, but Simon had insisted upon it. The path had become a quagmire, and there was the risk that a new mire had opened up there. If that was so, they could have ridden to their deaths. As it was, they were forced to turn back and take the longer way east to Chagford because they had already passed so far from the other track that would have taken them to Scorhill and thence to Gidleigh. However, Osbert wasn’t going to mention that at this particular moment.

The Bailiff had looked grim all the way, riding stiffly as though he was expecting a barbed comment at any moment from his servant, who in turn had looked like he’d just bitten into a crab-apple. Osbert had taken the safest approach, leaving them to their bickering, like a long-wedded husband and wife, but it was difficult and made for a tense journey. At least the rain had held off, he thought wearily.

‘What do you know of the dead man?’ Simon suddenly shot out.

Osbert gulped. ‘Wylkyn? He was steward to Sir Richard. Looked after his master with potions and powders to cure his aches and pains. He left when Sir Richard died. Went to live with his brother the miner.’

‘What’s his brother’s name?’

‘John of Chagford.’

‘I know him,’ said Simon, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of miners on the moors. ‘Why would Wylkyn have gone up there after a relaxing life in a warm castle?’

‘Like I said, he went as soon as Sir Richard died,’ Osbert said evasively.

‘Not when Sir Ralph took over?’ Simon asked.

‘It was the same thing. Sir Ralph was here with his son when Sir Richard died.’

They were at the bottom of the hill, close by Chagford Bridge, when he saw the old hermit, and Osbert groaned, hurriedly making the sign of the cross.

‘Masters, Godspeed!’ Surval called.

Osbert kept his eyes averted, but Surval seemed to take an especial pleasure in speaking directly to him. ‘Come, Os, why the long face? Surely you’re not fearful that men such as this great Bailiff might accuse you of anything?’

Although he tried to ignore Surval, Osbert felt his face colouring, and it was a relief to hear the Bailiff speak and take Surval’s attention from him.