‘What did you learn from him?’ Simon asked.
‘He was at the prison, looking at where the monk was kept.’
‘Looking at it?’ Baldwin said.
‘He had a candle, but he dropped it when he heard us.’
Simon turned back, but Roger Scut had already disappeared. ‘And? I assume there’s something you’re bursting to tell us.’
Hugh made a play of drinking his cup of wine, belched softly, and yawned. ‘Only one thing…’
‘The monk was set loose on purpose,’ Thomas said, his eyes on Baldwin.
‘Show us.’
Hugh and Thomas led the way to the trap door, and stood watching while Simon and Baldwin crouched, peering.
‘Certainly it doesn’t look as though it’s been forced,’ Simon admitted.
‘No. This bolt fits neatly into the staple in the floor,’ Baldwin said, drawing the bolt back and forth a few times. ‘And it moves silently, too. No one would hear it opening. Only the prisoner.’
‘In which case, who released him? Could it have been Scut?’
Baldwin rocked back on his heels. ‘Possibly, but why? What motive could he have, other than, perhaps, to save the life of another cleric? Yet why should he do that? He did more than anyone else to see Mark installed here in the first place.’
‘I don’t think so, Sir Baldwin!’
The pained tone made Baldwin almost topple over with surprise, but when he righted himself, he found that he was peering up into the nostrils of Roger Scut.
Simon stood. ‘It was perfectly obvious you wanted him out of the way. You gave him no support in the court, did you? You could have demanded that Sir Ralph release Mark into your custody on behalf of Bishop Walter, but you let Sir Ralph shove him down into this noisome pit instead. Hardly the action of a man supporting his friend.’
‘That may be how you perceived it, Sir Bailiff, but really! Can you think so ill of a priest like me that you’d believe me capable of such an act? Of course I didn’t intend to see my friend Mark suffer.’
‘Incarceration here would lead to suffering enough,’ Baldwin observed.
Roger Scut held out his hands and smiled gently. ‘I felt that it could do no harm for Mark to be safely out of the way of others.’
‘Like who?’ Simon demanded curtly.
Roger Scut withdrew his hands and folded his arms. He had been trying to decide what to say to these two since he had come back, and now he took a deep breath. It was sad to think of that little chapel. All his hopes had been built upon that since his first arrival here and his meeting with Esmon, but there was nothing more to be done. He must extricate himself from this mess as soon as possible.
At first it had all seemed so perfect. Esmon had approached him during that first visit to the chapel, and they had spoken afterwards, with Sir Ralph, of the problems of land ownership and managing the peasants, explaining – as if Roger needed to be told! – how troublesome peasants could be. Better, they said, if they could have an ally in the chapel who could keep them informed. More than that, as Esmon indicated, they might be able to use their friends at court to assist clerics who were useful to them. A cleric at the chapel who helped keep the villeins subservient might soon be offered a more prestigious post in London or Winchester, for example.
Not that Roger was foolish enough to jump at the offer. No, he smiled at first and shrugged, gave noncommittal grunts and yawns as though this was the sort of offer he received each day, and not the kind of thing he had prayed for over long years of obscurity and relative poverty.
It was the final demand he was waiting for, and it took little time to arrive. They wanted him to spy on Sir Baldwin and Simon Puttock. That was easy enough. In fact, he simply told them at every opportunity that Sir Baldwin was a rather uncouth and ignorant buffoon. He disliked Sir Baldwin because Sir Baldwin disliked him, and making the Keeper out to be a fool suited his own prejudice, while the Bailiff he knew was quite astute. That was why he told Esmon, when the fellow asked about Puttock, that the Bailiff was deeply insulted by the harm done to one of his miners. Bailiff Puttock would not rest easy, he said, until he had the murderer hanging from the nearest oak.
Roger Scut had reinforced that message only the day before. The memory made him feel queasy now. At the time he hadn’t heard about the near-fatal accident which had happened to the Bailiff’s servant. If he had, he might have been a little more circumspect.
He might not be the most intelligent of logicians, but he was able to see a picture when it was laid before him, and it was clear to him that his comments on Bailiff Puttock had led to a murderous attack on him.
And now this! Esmon’s outrageous suggestion! That he should agree to Esmon’s proposition that his father was incapable, incompetent, and a threat to the security of the manor! Roger Scut could not possibly agree to such a flagrant fraud. What if he was found out? No matter what he said to Esmon and Sir Ralph about Sir Baldwin’s intelligence, no matter what he said to himself in the dark hours about how stupid the knight was, how much more perspicacious Roger himself was, how much better ordered he would have the Keeper’s court if he had a free rein compared with the slapdash fool, there was no denying that Sir Baldwin had a certain animal cunning. He was quite politically astute, and plain lucky. Going against him was not an attractive proposition.
No. Even before this had been suggested, when Roger had realised what Esmon had tried to do to Simon Puttock, he had decided that his intention to ally himself with the family was wrong and dangerous. He had come to the conclusion that he should change horses, support Baldwin, ensure the safe release of Mark, and guard and guide him to the safety of the Bishop’s court. Except his decision had not been blessed with success.
All was going wrong. All his plans were unravelled, and he could see only disaster awaiting him as he surveyed the knight in the stable.
‘Sir Baldwin, I am pleased to confess that I have been guilty of a dreadful error. I… well, I came to think that Mark could perhaps have been guilty of the crime of which he was accused. It’s hard to get that sort of idea out of one’s head: that a monk could indeed have slaughtered his woman with their illegitimate child in her womb. Awful, terrible, a truly grievous sin, a…’
‘Stuff the pretence, priest. It doesn’t impress us,’ Simon growled.
‘It’s no pretence! Bailiff, I mean this.’
‘Good. Get on with your story.’
Roger Scut turned from him and gazed down his nose at Baldwin. ‘So, Sir Knight, in the court I was truly shocked. Nay, devastated. To think that a brother monk could be responsible for so heinous a crime tore at my very soul and rendered me speechless. That was why I was incapable of supporting my poor friend. However, I now realise my error and wish to see my young friend saved. Apart from anything else, I do not believe in his guilt. It is incomprehensible. A priest in Holy Orders murdering a woman – and child? No! Assuredly, no man like Mark could do such a thing.’
‘What were you doing here, priest? You were found here by my man. Why?’
‘I wanted to see how he could have escaped from this hideous place. I thought that he might have been released.’
‘Rather than merely sprouting wings and flying away?’ Simon scoffed. ‘Of course he was released.’
‘But by whom?’ Baldwin murmured. ‘That’s the question to which we must seek an answer.’
‘I do not know.’
Simon was gazing down into the cell as Baldwin spoke. ‘There’s a candle in there. Did they leave that for Mark to read by?’
‘No, the priest dropped it. He was looking down into the cell when we found him,’ Hugh said. He slurped a little more wine, aware that his head was growing lighter, but he didn’t care right now. He was feeling a great deal better, and that was all that mattered.