The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (51 page)

‘Thank you, no. I have to make my way to the Bishop’s palace. There’s nothing for me here,’ Mark said sadly. ‘I shouldn’t have waited around so long. I should have gone this morning.’

Surval nodded twice with deliberate emphasis. ‘If you’re sure, fine. But leave vengeance to God. He’s better placed to determine guilt than we are.’

‘I want to go and pray at my chapel first, though.’

‘There’s nothing there, lad. It was burned by the vill,’ Surval said sympathetically.

So even that had been taken from him. Everything had gone. His soul was tormented by his crime against God’s law of incest, his woman was dead and his living was gone; his chapel, which should have been a holy refuge, was destroyed, and now Huward’s family was dead, all killed because of Sir Ralph’s adultery. Mark knew his thoughts were not rational, knew that he was being less than sensible, but could do nothing about it.

He bade Surval farewell and walked from that grim, desolate place. He knew what he must do: he would go to his burned chapel and pray at the ruined altar, pleading for all those poor souls – Mary, Huward, Gilda, Flora, Ben and Wylkyn. That would take him until the night was at its deepest and darkest, and then he could go to the castle. Nobody would expect him there. He could enter by the fence, the same way he had got out of the place last night.

He had to get back in if he was to kill Sir Ralph.

Baldwin tried hard to refuse Sir Ralph’s hospitality, but he did feel as weak as a newborn lamb after his exertions in the fire, and Simon was worse. They had little choice but to accept the man’s offer.

As soon as they all arrived the men began bawling for wine and food, and Baldwin was happy enough to sit at a table and gulp at the pot of wine set in front of him while others cared for the wounded. In a change of role that he would have found amusing, were the circumstances less serious, he saw that the still pale-faced Hugh had returned to his duties and was now serving his paler-faced master.

Simon was not looking well, and occasionally gave a dry, hacking cough, but Baldwin was comfortably sure that he would recover. He was younger than Baldwin, and had not been exposed to the fire or smoke for long. The knight watched Hugh fussing over his master with a fond smile. Their companionship, which always appeared to be based upon mutual antipathy, sullen disagreement and regular arguments, was as strong as that which any master could enjoy with a servant.

That was the way of a man’s life, though. Service was the basic fact of life, no matter who the man was, and from service grew respect and even, sometimes, love. It took love for a man to risk his own life in saving his master’s, as Hugh had when he thrust Simon from the path of that fool Esmon.

Esmon. He had not arrived at the fire, and now, as Baldwin glanced about the room, he could see no sign of the lad. Surely he should be here with his men, but for some reason he was not. The noise in here was deafening, and on a whim, Baldwin got up and walked out to the court.

It was a clear night. The great burning torches that were set near the stables and the gatehouse failed to dim the light from the stars overhead. Baldwin looked up and marvelled once more at their beauty. There was a strange sweep to them, as though God had painted them in a great arc just to demonstrate that He had no need of symmetry in His Heaven. Occasional wisps of cloud floated past slowly, like blue and grey ships of silk, each apparently lighted from within by a flame of white purity.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured to himself.

A man-at-arms nearby glanced up. ‘It’s only clouds.’

‘The banal only ever see the banal,’ Baldwin said.

‘Eh?’

Baldwin was already walking across the yard. The door to the makeshift prison by the gate was wide open, showing the empty room beyond. Sensing a man nearby, he spun on his heel, a hand going to his sword, but it was only Roger Scut.

‘They’ve all gone,’ Roger Scut said. ‘She released them as soon as you’d left the place.’

‘That’s good.’

‘You don’t like me, do you?’

Baldwin surveyed him frankly. Scut was peering at him along his nose once more. It made Baldwin want to break it for him. ‘I think you are an arrogant fool, without compassion, and so keen to satisfy your own greed that you’d hurt any other man without counting the cost.’

Roger Scut blinked. He had not expected such abuse. ‘Do you always speak to priests with so little respect, or do you reserve your bile for me alone?’

‘Have you seen Esmon?’ Baldwin rapped out, ignoring the question.

‘Why do you ask me?’

‘I am not talking to you for the joy of it, Scut. Have you seen him or not?’

‘Not recently,’ Roger Scut said truthfully. He had not seen Esmon since Baldwin had questioned him at the trap door to the cell.

‘Fine,’ Baldwin said and was about to leave him when a thought struck him. ‘Your leather-covered weight that Simon found at the cell. You said that the cell was already empty when you got to it, and that there was no guard? Of course not. He would have raised the alarm. So who could have released the monk before you reached there?’

‘Anyone, so far as I know. I was in the hall and went out when all seemed quiet.’

‘So most of Sir Ralph’s men were asleep in the hall, I assume?’

‘Oh, yes. Only a few guards were not there, the men on the walls.’

‘But Sir Ralph and his wife sleep in the solar?’

‘Yes.’

‘What of Esmon?’

‘He remains in the hall at night. He was there and spoke to his father. Sir Ralph couldn’t sleep and left to get some air. Apparently he hasn’t slept well since the girl died.’

‘You saw him leave?’

‘Yes. He was soon back. Why?’

Baldwin nodded. That, he felt sure, answered the question about who had released Mark from captivity, if it did not explain why. And then the inspiration struck him.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘
That
is what it was: he had to make sure Mark got out so that he could be hunted down. Sir Ralph thought he wouldn’t be able to get away, so he made Mark get out, threatening to kill him if he did not, purely so that the dogs could be set upon him again and he could be killed.’

‘You are talking nonsense!’ Roger argued. ‘Why – Sir Ralph had him put in the gaol! What on earth would he want to set him loose for?’

‘Go to the hall, priest,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘You are as foul as him. You planned to see this poor devil run down. Yes, and you hoped he might be captured and executed. Then you could take responsibility for his little church and demand to retain it. Why would you want to live in a miserable place like this, though? It is rural, far from any town. Surely you would hate it?’

‘And so I would. I never intended living here for long,’ Roger Scut said, but he felt stung enough to add, ‘Look, Sir Knight, I admit I was wrong. I was offered the inducement of the living of the place as well as being introduced to the Despensers. You know what that means? It means the support of the King, in effect. Me! I could have gone wherever I wanted, with their support.’

‘But? I assume that there is a “but”?’

‘I realised that I was being foolish. I saw that it would be better by far for me to take Mark back to Exeter with me. I went to his cell, and found it unguarded, the hatch open, and the prisoner released. I looked about the castle for a while, but in the dark I feared that I should only alert other guards to his disappearance so I returned to my bed, and that was that. Yes, I did desire his chapel, but no, I am not evil enough to have seen it through. Especially when I realised that Sir Ralph actively sought Mark’s death. That would have been quite wrong.’

Baldwin eyed him with contempt. ‘I think Esmon said enough to make you realise that he was more unbalanced than you had realised. You told us how he suggested you should support his bid to depose his father. That scared you, didn’t it? Until then you were prepared to sacrifice Mark just for your own greed!’

Baldwin stopped. He had to take a deep breath to control the shaking rage that was overtaking him. This man was the same as the clerks in France who were prepared to see the destruction of the Knights Templar, to see religious men tortured and consumed in the flames, just because it suited the purpose of their masters at the time.

‘Scut, if I can, I shall ruin you. I shall not permit you to clerk for me again. You are evil and repellent.’

Mark shivered with fear as he looked at the fence. It was a scant fifteen yards from him, and he could see a place where the stakes were rough and notched. Even he should be able to climb up and over the top.

It was a terrifying prospect. He knew that as he crossed the wide strip of bare grass to the wall, he would be in full view of anyone on top of the wall or the keep, especially in this bright moon- and starlight. It might not be a full moon, but the light it gave was nonetheless clear for that and Mark fancied he would be able to see a mouse scurrying across the expanse.

‘Please God, give me strength,’ he prayed. The place was still. Occasional bursts of laughter came from the hall, but that was all. The guards appeared to be elsewhere again, just as they had been last night when he escaped the place.

Only one day ago. And now he was desperate to get back in, to avenge Huward and his family, to avenge so many deaths. He would wait here until much later, when even the guards would be nodding at their posts, and then he would slip inside, and if he could, he would strike one blow at Sir Ralph that would forever end his raping and murdering.

After all, Sir Ralph had destroyed Mark’s own life. He had made a filthy criminal of him. Mark was polluted, and all because of his damned father.

Baldwin walked away from his conversation with the cleric with a deep sense of disgust. It was hideous to think of a man of God willingly lying to put a comrade into danger, just to satisfy his own lust for wealth and property. There were many clerks and monks who would be pleased to emulate Roger Scut, Baldwin knew. Since the Pope had moved to Avignon to escape the risk of living with the outraged Roman populace, the Church was filled with men who were actively seeking to enrich themselves.

He walked about the yard and spoke to the gatekeeper, asking whether he had seen Esmon.

‘He’s in the buttery, I think. Haven’t you bothered to look there?’

Baldwin bit back the response that was on the tip of his tongue. As a knight, he was unused to being answered in so rude a manner. It was enough to make him grab a sword and teach a lesson in manners but he thought better of it.

He walked to the buttery in a contemplative mood. This castle felt as though it was about to burst into flames like Huward’s mill. Men of all stations were sullen, responded badly to commands, and were slow to obey. It had all the atmosphere of a place that was expecting the figurehead to disappear at any time soon. Baldwin had seen it in other places over the years. When a warrior-group was about to change their leader, there was a period of anticipation and fear beforehand. Pretenders to the power would jostle and bicker for position in the affections of the rank and file men, and as the leader became gradually divorced from them, the men would imperceptibly change their allegiances until the new leader felt his time was ripe.

That was the impression Baldwin got, even in his exhausted state. This castle was shortly to change hands again. Sir Ralph was to be replaced, and by whom else than his own son? There was nothing so potent as the disloyalty of a son who craved power.

The buttery was a smallish room for so large a hall. A broad plank had been set upon two barrels, and Ralph’s son Esmon stood at it, sipping meditatively from a pot of wine. As his eyes lit upon Baldwin, his face lost all mobility. Baldwin had found a frozen man once, up on a high mountain pass while he was travelling on behalf of his Order. The body had a curious potency about it, as though at any time when he warmed, he might leap into life. Baldwin knew that the same was true for Esmon.

‘May I join you?’ he asked.

‘You want wine? You should have asked a servant to draw some for you,’ Esmon replied insolently.

‘You should remember your manners, young sir. The castle is not yet yours.’

‘What does that mean?’

Baldwin was too tired to bother to explain. ‘You killed the miner Wylkyn. Where were you when the girl Mary was murdered?’

‘I was out. Why, do you seek to accuse me of another murder?’

‘I seek only to learn who killed the girl – and to discover where the body of the miner has been hidden.’

‘I have no idea where his corpse is buried.’

‘Buried?’

‘How else could it have been hidden?’

‘A good question,’ Baldwin said. He saw no reason to let Esmon know that he was sure he already knew where the body lay. ‘You haven’t answered my question: where were you when the girl died?’

‘I was hunting with Father. We told you.’

‘And then you came back here together, you said.’

‘Aha. Yes, well, that wasn’t quite true. He left before me. I waited a while before setting off. I was helping some friends empty a wineskin.’

‘Where did he go?’

Esmon smiled. ‘Out on the road where that poor girl was found.’

Baldwin felt physically sick. This boy was deliberately pushing his father forward as the primary suspect. ‘You mean he might have passed that road?’

Esmon seemed to lose interest in the matter. He sipped more wine and stared at the wall. ‘Don’t take my word for it. Ask Elias, the ploughman. He must have seen my father. And the serf Osbert.’

‘I have – and yes, they did see him. They also saw
you
, at the bottom of the lane.’

‘I didn’t ride along that lane,’ Esmon said immediately. ‘I came up from the tavern. I was there with some of the men, emptying the skin. If you’ve been told I was on Deave Lane, then whoever said that was lying. And one other thing: you don’t like me. I don’t care – but I shall own this castle one day, and when I do, I shall be a powerful man in my own right. Don’t try to thwart me, Sir Baldwin. I could be a bad enemy.’