The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Read Free

lately the master of Gidleigh in the Hundred of South Tawton, once a powerful, handsome knight, tall, muscular and with a mind as keen as his sword; now a mere shell. A bad fall at a tournament in 1316 had devastated his body, leaving him lame and crooked, needing a stick to walk even a small distance, unable to mount a horse or wield a weapon. He had been only twenty-four when he was wounded; he was thirty the day he died.
    However, a man didn’t need the strength and power of a Hector to stand in another man’s way. Sir Richard Prouse had successfully managed to thwart Sir Ralph’s every ambition. Now he was gone – and it was Sir Ralph’s time. He could do all he desired.
    That was the thought that filled him as he left that foul little room in the castle’s gatehouse. He felt his contemplative mood falling away even as he stepped under the lintel and found himself out in the open air again. He glanced about him at the castle’s fine walls, at the good-sized stables and huge hall, and smiled to himself. Gidleigh Castle was a prize worth winning. It was all he could do not to shout his delight aloud.
    He pulled up his belt and wriggled: his heavy tunic of bright green wool was a little too tightly cut about his shoulders. Any other day, this would have put him in a bad mood, but not today. His boots leaked, his shoulders were pinched, and he had noticed a stain on his hose, but he didn’t care
because the castle was his at last
.
    A horse whinnied, but he took no notice. Nothing mattered, today of all days. He was freed, he was come into his new wealth. This fine Tuesday in the early summer of 1322 was the first day of Sir Ralph’s new life.
    The horse neighed again, more loudly this time, and Sir Ralph looked at the gateway in time to see a glistening black stallion pelt in, skidding to a halt on the cobbles as the laughing rider hauled on the reins, only to stand panting and blowing, shaking his great head. Froth marked his flanks, and sweat, but the rider looked as fresh as when he had set off an hour earlier. Now he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and sprang down, a young man wearing a grey tunic and parti-coloured hose of red and blue. Simply dressed, he nonetheless gave the impression of money.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘He’s dead, Esmon,’ Sir Ralph said with quiet satisfaction.
    His son gave a harsh laugh. ‘About time! I feared the clod was going to drag it out another week!’
    A haggard-faced servant was walking past the court, and Sir Ralph called to him. ‘You! Fetch us wine and bring it to the hall.’
    ‘Sir.’
    ‘And hurry!’
    Sir Ralph, a tall, trim figure, with a strong, square face and dimpled chin, turned and marched to his new home. Although his fair hair had faded a little, he was in the prime of his life; he had been tested in many combats, and had never been the loser. That knowledge gave him the confident swagger, but it was his position in the world that gave his grey eyes their steadiness. He was Lord of Gidleigh now, the owner of this land, the ruler of his villeins and all their families, the unopposed master of all the farms and moors about here, from Throwleigh all the way to Chagford.
    ‘You’re sure there’s nothing can take it from us?’ his son asked.
    A momentary irritation crossed Sir Ralph’s features. ‘What could happen?’
    Esmon’s face was longer than his father’s, but he had the same light hair. Barely seventeen years old, his occasional lack of confidence was displayed by either belligerence or a propensity to redden when he was unsure or embarrassed. Now he made an effort to shrug as though unconcerned. ‘The law… a clerk might find a reason.’
    ‘Not with us, not with our Lord Hugh Despenser returned to the country and in power. They say that no one can be presented to the King without his approval – nor without paying him! You think anyone would dare to say a word against us? Nay, boy. We have our wealth now. We’ve increased our demesne to double