The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (37 page)

‘Get to the point.’

‘It’s this. Until Scut arrived, Jack was doing well. He had bought land, animals, commuted his service by paying the Manor to get someone else in to do his work, and then increased his wealth and his animals by his efforts.’

‘That is good.’

‘Yes. Except Jack was a serf, so he couldn’t own anything without his lord’s agreement. Scut took the land back, then increased Jack’s rents and let him rent the extra lands back for still more money. He also told Jack that he couldn’t sell his produce anywhere except direct to the Canons at Crediton – and he had to agree to whatever price they offered. Now he can’t afford to resow his fields with grain, and he has to scratch a living by grooming horses, helping out at the tavern and trying to manage with his three cows.’

‘That is immoral. How can a lord take away lands that he never gave to his bondsmen in the first place?’ Baldwin asked. It was all too common, he knew, but he hated it nonetheless. It was an abuse of the power a lord held over his serfs.

‘There he is!’

Following Thomas’s pointing finger, Baldwin saw Roger Scut walking from the small chapel beyond the castle’s hall.

He looked pale, Baldwin thought, like a man who had swallowed a shellfish and realised that it did not agree with him. ‘Scut, I want to speak to you,’ he called out.

‘Yes, Sir Baldwin? Oh, and your Constable. What do you want?’ Roger Scut said, peering down his nose at them enquiringly.

‘What are you up to here?’ Baldwin asked. ‘You came here with us to protect the lad, or so you said, and then in the court you betrayed him badly.’

‘I surely said nothing that could have been construed as a betrayal? I listened hard to what he had to say, but when I commented on his abilities, that was
your
fault, Sir Baldwin.’

‘
My
fault?’ Baldwin grated.

‘At the inn at Crediton, you suggested that Mark might not even have been a cleric, that he could have been an outlaw who had filched the papers of a clerk from one of his victims. Naturally, when he was asked to speak the words of a prayer, and could not, I began to wonder whether your initial scepticism might have been justified.’

‘Do not try to blame me for your actions,’ Baldwin said, incensed that this pompous little fellow was attempting to put the onus for Mark’s position on Baldwin’s shoulders. ‘You should have merely claimed him for your lord’s court. Instead you chose to throw him to the crowd like meat to a hunting pack.’

‘I did no such thing. All I did was make a comment on his ability.’

‘Which was the same thing. Scut, what do you seek here?’

Roger Scut’s face altered subtly and Baldwin instantly knew that the man was about to lie. ‘Why, Sir Baldwin, all I wish to do here is support a fellow cleric. If he is one, of course.’

‘If he fails to convince, he will be executed here,’ Baldwin stated.

‘I sincerely hope not! Surely our Bishop will save him,’ Roger Scut said, adding meditatively, ‘But I shall have to remain here, no matter what. There are so many poor souls desperate for comfort, and I should wait here until another cleric is nominated to take his place.’

‘In that chapel?’ Baldwin said, recalling vaguely a small one-roomed building with a lean-to at the side from his last visit to the area. It did not strike him as being particularly attractive.

‘Well, when the new one is built, yes. Until then I shall have to stay in here, I suppose.’

‘What new one?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The new chapel, of course. Didn’t you know the old one was destroyed? Someone burned it to the ground.’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘A terrible act.’

‘Sacrilege, yes. The people here will have to pay dearly for their destruction,’ Roger Scut said. ‘But fortunately I have experience of making serfs work and be obedient. Perhaps this is my true vocation in life, to see to it that this place has a decent church.’

Annicia left Hugh feeling pleased that she had been able to alleviate a little of the man’s pain. She hoped he would recover. Perhaps he wouldn’t. It was always so difficult to predict whether a patient would or wouldn’t survive.

Simon had watched her closely, but he was relieved to see that she was as capable and self-assured as any physician.

‘You are well practised, Lady.’

She looked up at Simon, who had moved silently to stand beside her.

‘Yes. This castle has always been well provided with people to be practised upon!’

Simon glanced at her enquiringly.

‘Sir Richard, and since him… well, there have been others. My son’s men are often hurt in their training.’

He nodded. ‘Is there anything else we should do for Hugh?’

‘Your concern does you credit, Bailiff, but I think the main thing he needs right now is plenty of sleep and a good bleeding. I’ll send a messenger to Chagford in the morning to fetch a phlebotomist. It is lucky you were so close to the castle when he was knocked down.’

‘Perhaps if we’d been further away your son wouldn’t have tried to do this,’ Simon said ungraciously.

‘Esmon?’ she said, a hand going to her throat. ‘Why should he do this?’

‘I don’t know, but my man there saved my life by throwing me from the path of Esmon’s mount. If he hadn’t, I’d be lying there instead of Hugh.’

She looked back at Hugh, then wished Simon a good night before leaving him, her mind whirling, and not only from the slight dizziness of a mild hangover.

Attacking the Bailiff was a ridiculous thing to do, Annicia thought distractedly. She would have hoped that Esmon would have shown more sense. His father was cleverer than to simply try to ride down a Stannary Bailiff. Sometimes subtlety was needed. Why couldn’t her son behave more circumspectly, the fool! His father had always been more sensible, more pragmatic, she reflected. The memories brought a smile to her face.

Then her smile faded. Her husband was as much of a fool as her son now, she thought. Ever since he had acquired this castle by devious means, befriending the King’s favourite and making himself politically useful, he seemed to have lost his integrity. She deplored his behaviour.

Sir Ralph had told her that morning of his affair with Huward’s wife. Gilda had been his concubine since before his marriage to Annicia, whom he had wed for the reason that he craved her father’s lands: in marrying her, he gained them as well. The union was rational and steady, if unfulfilling, but it was humiliating to think that he had gone to Gilda, a rough, untutored peasant with the coarse hands and skin of a villein, rather than to her own fragrant bed.

Annicia set her jaw. Yes. It was deeply shaming to think that her husband could have committed adultery with a woman like Gilda when Annicia herself was willing to submit to him. That was why she had spoken to Huward and told him about their spouses, told him the truth about his children. It was pure spite. Perhaps, she thought, Huward would go home and beat Gilda. She deserved it!

Her brow furrowed, she sat back, listening to the sounds of the castle closing for the night. Thinking of Sir Ralph’s errant behaviour made her head ache, as well as the shouts, footsteps pattering across the yard, men roaring for ale and food, and laughter. There were few enough women in the place. Women were always thought of as a distraction, Annicia considered, just like Mary. She had
definitely
been a distraction!

Standing, Annicia went to the window that gave out on the court. The windows here had no glazing. Sir Richard had had no money to install glass, and in the time since they had taken possession of the castle, Sir Ralph had not had the opportunity to address such matters with all his other responsibilities. Not that it mattered in most of the rooms. They had strong shutters that either pulled inwards and lay flat against the wall, or dropped vertically in runners, held up overnight by a strong thong which hooked over a peg in the wall above.

Annicia had grown up with shutters. It was no hardship to live with them. It was better that a door should block the harshest breezes, and that shutters should exclude snow and rain. There was no need of glass.

Suddenly her eyes were drawn to the old castle keep on her right. The upper chamber was built into the hillside, and the upper door gave out onto the grassed sward beyond. No doubt in years past, there had been another wall planned which would have secured this area, making it impossible for an attacking force to reach the keep itself, but Sir Richard had never possessed the money for that either, so a thin palisade stood there to protect the whole of the court area. It was sufficient to keep the odd draw-latch or cut-throat away, but that was about it.

She thought about her son. Trying to kill the Bailiff in broad daylight was stupid. Executing Wylkyn was different, of course. That evil man had to die for what he had done.

She had felt nervous in Wylkyn’s old room when Sir Baldwin started asking about Sir Richard’s death and looked at the henbane. Although she was reasonably sure that she had concealed her alarm at his questions, she was convinced that he had guessed. He must have some leach-craft. Well, never mind. If he had, he would see the same as Annicia – that Wylkyn had killed his own master. He deserved to die for that. How any man could wish to kill a poor soul like Sir Richard was beyond her, but she had no doubt. That was why she had spoken to her husband and son, why she had told them what Wylkyn had done, and persuaded them that someone who could commit petty treason like that had to be slaughtered like a rabid dog, without compunction, before others got the same idea.

It had been her aim to have Wylkyn brought back to the castle, to be held there and killed before her eyes, but perhaps it was better this way. If Esmon was arrested, she would be able to state that they had wanted to arrest Sir Richard’s murderer, but he refused to surrender. And then, with the Keeper in the vicinity, they grew alarmed.

There was some truth in it, after all. Esmon had had the body hidden rather than leaving it at the roadside. Hiding it satisfied Annicia – it meant that her son was safe from accusations of murder, for no man could be convicted when there was no body, and she knew Sir Richard’s murderer had died unshriven and now lay concealed on unhallowed ground. A suitable end to him, so she felt.

‘Damn him!’ she hissed suddenly.

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.