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Authors: Michael Jecks
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had crawled there to lie with her back to the wall. Her skirts were up, Sir Ralph, and there was blood all about her thighs.’
‘She’d been raped?’ the knight rasped. He strode over to Piers and stood with his head lowered, staring at the man. His voice dropped menacingly. ‘Is that what you’re saying? She was raped by some bastard while that cretin wandered about with his oxen for company, dreaming about cider?’
Esmon was gazing at Piers shrewdly. ‘You say that the old peasant heard voices shouting and so on. Who was the man?’
Piers glanced at his father, but Sir Ralph was clenching and unclenching his fists like a man with an anguished soul. ‘I spoke to Sampson,’ Piers said. ‘He saw the priest from the chapel going up there.’
Sir Ralph felt a momentary relief. At least it wasn’t Surval! But then his anger took over. He remembered seeing Mary at the priest’s door two years ago, and he recalled pulling the little monk to him and threatening him, should Mark ever go near Mary again. He hadn’t listened, though, had he? The little turd had gone ahead, and now he’d raped and killed her.
Esmon murmured, ‘Christ’s cods! A damned clerk raped and killed her!’
Piers found himself meeting Esmon’s gaze. The lad looked amused! It was awful, and Piers had to bite back a comment. He met Sir Ralph’s gaze, and his voice was hard when he replied, ‘No, Sir Ralph. Least, if she was raped, it wasn’t the first time. That young maid was with child.’
Chapter Four
Mark would have been grateful for any company, even if it meant his arrest and later death, he was so worn out from flight and mental torment after seeing her lying dead.
It was almost an instinctive thing at first, heading for the water, but as soon as he was in it, he knew he had to go where pursuit wouldn’t think of looking. That meant following the stream to its source, he reckoned, heading northwards. Surely the Hue and Cry would think he was going to head straight for the coast, maybe following the river south to the Teign and thence to the sea. No. He’d not make his capture easy.
He was soaked. Shortly after slipping into the sluggish brown water of the brook, he tripped and fell headlong, slamming down onto the flat surface with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. His head struck a rock, and instantly he was overwhelmed. It was as though his senses were destroyed in an instant. His eyes could discern nothing, his ears were full of a rushing noise, and his mouth was filled with water. There was no up or down, no north or south, only this perpetual immersion: nothing had happened before, and there was no future, only an all-enveloping
now
of noise. Although a part of his mind knew he must surely die if he remained here, that this would be his grave, it was comforting, somehow. He was tired, bone tired, and just the chance of closing his eyes and shutting out the horror of the world was so attractive, that he allowed himself to be dragged along for a short while.
But then the world impinged upon him once more. He was rolled over, and air struck his face, bright sunlight burst upon his closed eyes. Coughing and choking, he realised that the air was so much warmer than the water, it was like a waft of dragon’s breath.
The water pushed him gently into a shallow, and he felt his head bump another rock, but softly, as though the river itself was trying to stir him without alarming him, conscious of his suffering.
His suffering! What could water – yea, or earth or fire! – know of suffering? Mark felt as though he had been born to suffer, that his existence was marked by the endurance of pain and fear, overwhelming sorrow and misery.
Mark lifted himself from the river, shivering uncontrollably, and stumbled up to the bank, but he couldn’t carry on. He threw himself to his hands and knees, retching, and while there, all he could see in his mind’s eye was her: Mary.
It was the sight of her body that had
‘She’d been raped?’ the knight rasped. He strode over to Piers and stood with his head lowered, staring at the man. His voice dropped menacingly. ‘Is that what you’re saying? She was raped by some bastard while that cretin wandered about with his oxen for company, dreaming about cider?’
Esmon was gazing at Piers shrewdly. ‘You say that the old peasant heard voices shouting and so on. Who was the man?’
Piers glanced at his father, but Sir Ralph was clenching and unclenching his fists like a man with an anguished soul. ‘I spoke to Sampson,’ Piers said. ‘He saw the priest from the chapel going up there.’
Sir Ralph felt a momentary relief. At least it wasn’t Surval! But then his anger took over. He remembered seeing Mary at the priest’s door two years ago, and he recalled pulling the little monk to him and threatening him, should Mark ever go near Mary again. He hadn’t listened, though, had he? The little turd had gone ahead, and now he’d raped and killed her.
Esmon murmured, ‘Christ’s cods! A damned clerk raped and killed her!’
Piers found himself meeting Esmon’s gaze. The lad looked amused! It was awful, and Piers had to bite back a comment. He met Sir Ralph’s gaze, and his voice was hard when he replied, ‘No, Sir Ralph. Least, if she was raped, it wasn’t the first time. That young maid was with child.’
Chapter Four
Mark would have been grateful for any company, even if it meant his arrest and later death, he was so worn out from flight and mental torment after seeing her lying dead.
It was almost an instinctive thing at first, heading for the water, but as soon as he was in it, he knew he had to go where pursuit wouldn’t think of looking. That meant following the stream to its source, he reckoned, heading northwards. Surely the Hue and Cry would think he was going to head straight for the coast, maybe following the river south to the Teign and thence to the sea. No. He’d not make his capture easy.
He was soaked. Shortly after slipping into the sluggish brown water of the brook, he tripped and fell headlong, slamming down onto the flat surface with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. His head struck a rock, and instantly he was overwhelmed. It was as though his senses were destroyed in an instant. His eyes could discern nothing, his ears were full of a rushing noise, and his mouth was filled with water. There was no up or down, no north or south, only this perpetual immersion: nothing had happened before, and there was no future, only an all-enveloping
now
of noise. Although a part of his mind knew he must surely die if he remained here, that this would be his grave, it was comforting, somehow. He was tired, bone tired, and just the chance of closing his eyes and shutting out the horror of the world was so attractive, that he allowed himself to be dragged along for a short while.
But then the world impinged upon him once more. He was rolled over, and air struck his face, bright sunlight burst upon his closed eyes. Coughing and choking, he realised that the air was so much warmer than the water, it was like a waft of dragon’s breath.
The water pushed him gently into a shallow, and he felt his head bump another rock, but softly, as though the river itself was trying to stir him without alarming him, conscious of his suffering.
His suffering! What could water – yea, or earth or fire! – know of suffering? Mark felt as though he had been born to suffer, that his existence was marked by the endurance of pain and fear, overwhelming sorrow and misery.
Mark lifted himself from the river, shivering uncontrollably, and stumbled up to the bank, but he couldn’t carry on. He threw himself to his hands and knees, retching, and while there, all he could see in his mind’s eye was her: Mary.
It was the sight of her body that had
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