The Mad Monk of Gidleigh by Michael Jecks Page B

and agreeing of documents with one of Bishop Walter’s clerks. There was to be a court of Gaol Delivery in Exeter in a matter of days, and Baldwin must go through all his cases in which a man had been sent to Exeter Gaol from his court to make sure that none had been forgotten and that the relevant material was all there. Then, when each case came before the men nominated to try it, at least Baldwin himself should escape a fine. He would hope so, for he was to be one of the Gaol Delivery Justices, and setting a fine upon himself would be embarrassing.
    Never Baldwin’s favourite task, today he looked forward to reading through the records with less than his usual good-humoured tolerance. All because of Roger Scut, who was in the hall as Baldwin entered.
    The odious little man! Chubby and ingratiating, almost half a head shorter than Baldwin, Scut’s hands fluttered as he spoke, as though emphasising his every point. What Baldwin found most annoying was Scut’s habit, or perhaps it was a deliberate affectation, of tilting back his head and squinting along the length of his nose, as though it gave gravitas to his pronouncements. Not that his nose itself was particularly deserving of such attention, to Baldwin’s mind. It was a short, bloated appendage with red and purple blood vessels spread liberally over it. A cider drinker’s nose if Baldwin had ever seen one, which probably explained why the clerk’s voice was so nasal as well. But his habits and his nose were not his only unattractive features. He possessed many others. His eyes, for example.
    His eyes were like a ferret’s, always looking about for something, as though he believed that there was a secret to be teased out of the woodwork if he could only but find it. That was another thing that Baldwin disliked about Scut. The way he would not meet Baldwin’s eyes when they spoke. The knight had no doubt that the clerk was honest enough. Yet a man who would not or could not speak to you and meet your eyes was all too commonly concealing something. Baldwin did not trust Roger Scut, the oleaginous little shit.
    Not for the first time, Baldwin reminded himself that a ‘scut’ was a common word for an arse on a rabbit or a woman. An old woman, he reckoned, glancing at Scut without amusement.
    ‘Good Sir Knight! Godspeed, my dear Sir Baldwin. It is a pleasure to see you again. Do I find you well?’
    ‘Well enough,’ Baldwin said shortly.
    Roger Scut was already sitting at the great table in the hall, a pile of papers rolled neatly at his side on the floor, most held in strong, waxed leather tubes. Sheets of parchment were spread before him, held at each corner by large stones wrapped in leather to prevent marking the records. Most people Baldwin knew would not bother with such fripperies. Provided that the stones were clean and not too rough, they would do no damage – but this was just another of Scut’s little affectations. He hated dirt.
    Roger Scut picked up a reed and studied the end. Taking up a small knife, he sharpened it and cut the end freshly. There were a number of reeds on the table, and an inkhorn was carefully propped against Roger’s purse.
    Baldwin shouted for a pie and a jug of wine, before sitting with a grunt and glancing at the papers before him. Records of crimes committed, money amerced, property confiscated, and then lists of witnesses who would have to be told to travel to Exeter. Baldwin found it hard to suppress a groan. The thought of spending hours alone with this clerk was deeply unpleasant.
    ‘Please, Sir Knight, look at these first,’ Scut said, pointing to the gaol delivery records.
    Baldwin glanced at the figures and tried to fit an expression of interest on his face.

Chapter Six
     
    While Sir Baldwin de Furnshill suffered the tortures of adding and subtracting the Latin figures, trying to reach agreement on the totals with Roger Scut, his friend Simon Puttock was returning to his own home after a lengthy meeting with his