He looked up as Wylkyn returned to the room, grim-faced. He stood a moment, staring down at Sir Richard’s face, then bent forward and kissed his forehead gently, before walking from the room, leaving Mark alone with the body.
Mark was about to continue with his murmurings when he felt a gentle breeze sough against his cheek, as soft as a woman’s sigh. There, at the opposite side of the room was a figure, clad in tatters of some heavy grey cloth and surrounded by light from the bright sun outside. It was Surval the Hermit.
Mark felt a shiver run down his spine. The creature – he hardly deserved to be called a man – was unwholesome. Mark could smell him almost before he could see him. Last night, when the two were here praying for Sir Richard, the stench had been enough to guarantee that Mark would not fall asleep. There was an odour of filth and something else quite repellent – not at all the aura of sanctity which a religious man should have carried.
Surval appeared to be gazing about him, and Mark realised he could see scarcely anything in this gloom after the sunlight outside, not that he would have found it easy to see Mark in his corner, kneeling near the head of the bed. Something about the hermit made Mark’s tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t have continued praying if he’d wanted.
The old hermit clumped his staff on the ground and shuffled through the thin scattering of rushes, slowly approaching the palliasse on which the dead knight lay. Mark could see the hermit’s eyes glittering as he bent down to Sir Richard’s dead face and studied it. Suddenly Mark was certain that the hermit knew he was there.
‘Rest easy, Sir Richard. You were weak, but that was no surprise. Your father was weaker. Fear not but that others will protect your folk. Boy – where’s your tongue? Pray for him! All we sinners need prayer.’
Mark cleared his throat, but before he could speak, the hermit spoke again, more softly. ‘And you more than many, eh?’
Chapter One
Mark knew what Surval meant. It was late in the year 1321, before the death of Sir Richard, when Mark first met her. Before that, he had only ever seen Mary as an occasional visitor to his chapel, and it was some months before he came to know the miller’s daughter not as a priest should know his flock, but as a man knows his wife.
Not that he had any premonition of disaster at the time. Until then, the young monk had lived a life of quiet desperation here on the moors, with little or no prospects. If he had spent any time considering his future, he would have hoped for a short period of service here in the chapel at Gidleigh, followed possibly by the gift of patronage from the knight. That dream was shattered when Sir Ralph had seen Mary at Mark’s home. Afterwards, there was nothing here for him but his prayers and work, and the struggle to avoid the devil’s temptations. In this desolate place, Satan’s efforts seemed to have redoubled.
Mark’s mind flew back to the past, and the first time he met her.
She was surely the devil’s best effort.
He had to keep working. That thought was uppermost in his mind when he slowly brought himself upright, his knee-bones grinding against each other as the weight made itself felt, the leather straps that bound the strong wicker basket to his shoulders squeaking in protest. Grunting with the effort, he began lurching up the short hill to the chapel, unaware that his every move was being closely watched.
His task wasn’t easy. Winter had set in weeks ago, and the water about his feet was near to freezing. He couldn’t feel his toes, and although there was no ice, every step he took fell upon the leaves that lay rotting thickly on the stream’s floor, making him slip and curse through gritted teeth, using words which he had heard often enough among the peasants, but which he knew he shouldn’t use himself.
The basket of stones was an unbearable weight, but he had set himself the task of enclosing the chapel in a wall, and he would go to the devil rather than fail. The only thing that made sense of his life in this foul backwater was the effort he spent each day, collecting rocks and bringing them up the incline to the chapel, tipping the basket on top of the heap. When he had a big enough pile, he would grade the stones, using the largest for the bottom of the wall, graduating them with smaller and smaller rocks until he reached the topmost layer. The tiniest would be used to fit the interstices, gravel and chips blocking the cracks so that no wind could pass through.
He toiled on. Sweat was prickling at his forehead now and along his spine, forming a chilly barrier between his flesh and the coarse linen shirt. Over that he wore a habit of strait, a thick mix of short wool, lamb’s wool and flocks, the usual stuff that the moors produced from their weak, suffering sheep. Nothing like the soft cloth produced in the warmer, drier land about Axminster, where Mark’s family lived. The material from his home would never itch and scratch like this. He fancied he could feel every hair, each one tickling or stabbing him through his shirt. It was all but intolerable.
As was the pain in his thighs, the strain in his groin, the tautness in his shoulders and neck. It felt as though his muscles had solidified, as though they had been forged and hammered and were now as inflexible as iron. It was hard to imagine that they could ever relax again, and Mark’s breath came in shallow gasps as he struggled with his burden.
The path here was well-trodden, for he had been working on this project for two months now, ever since he had realised that he must fight the mind-destroying tedium of his existence or go mad.
When the Bishop had sent him here, it had not been intended as a punishment, Mark knew. Bishop Walter had always appeared pleased with Mark’s progress. Whenever they met, he was polite – a bit distant, maybe, but that was not surprising, since he was one of the most powerful men in the whole country. How else was a great magnate to respond to a lowly priest?
Mark had been with Exeter Cathedral for some years, and he had learned his lessons well. He had anticipated travelling, perhaps visiting the college at Oxford which Bishop Walter was so fond of, and then going on to Paris, or even Rome itself, but then one priest had died, another had run off with a woman, a third had been accused of murder… and suddenly Mark had been asked to serve the small community here, at the small chapel near Gidleigh. It was only until a replacement was found, he was told, but that was in 1320, a year ago last August, and no one had yet been found. Mark was beginning to think he’d be stuck here for ever.
Certainly Bishop Walter had no idea of Mark’s secret motive in wanting to come here: it stemmed from his desire to see his real father at long last.
He finally reached the mound of stones, and slowly bent his knees, then allowed his body to tilt backwards until the basket sat on the ground behind him. Letting the thick leather straps fall from his shoulders, he was suddenly struck with the feeling that he had become weightless, as though he could float upwards by simply raising his arms. It was a curious sensation, one which he had noticed before, and he wondered what caused it. There seemed no logical reason. Perhaps the stones weighed down his soul, because the reason he was carrying them was to protect himself, keeping his mind and thoughts pure.
No one else would have volunteered to come here, he thought as he eyed the view sombrely, rubbing at his shoulders where the straps had chafed. A sudden noise made him spin round and stare up the valley’s side. There was a roadway up there, a narrow track that led from the moors down to Gidleigh itself. It must have been someone on that path, he told himself. This place was terrible. He spent much of his time jumping at the slightest sound. It was so desolate, so lonely.
This land was fierce: it fought all who lived on it, in his opinion. It sucked the vivacity from them, leaving deadened husks – whey-faced youths or chestnut-brown men who looked as though they were forty years old when they were only twenty. And the women were worse. Either they were worn out from too many birthings, or they were ruddy-faced and as incontinent as bitches in heat. They terrified the chaste young scholar, but there was another part of his soul, a very human part, which jealously watched the young bucks flirting with them. On more than one
occasion, he had stumbled across naked buttocks hammering between parted thighs, and had rushed away, horrified; yet he also knew that the pounding in his chest wasn’t only from disgust.
There were times when, if he had been offered the solace of feminine company, he would have taken it, and that knowledge scared him. It was against his training and vocation to lie with a woman. Other priests might have sunk to that sin, but he had thought himself immune to such lust, that he had more willpower. It was to distract himself from his dreams of voluptuous female flesh that he had immersed himself in this building.
It was hateful, this place. Stories abounded of the devil, how he had tempted men and women into sin, how he and his hounds hunted for lost souls across the moors. When he still lived with his mother, Mark had known men who had laboured all their lives, but somehow they seemed less ancient than the shrivelled folk of Dartmoor. The people here had no sense of humour. Their existence was harsh, unleavened with laughter or pleasure. One survived, and that was all, in their world.
Mark gazed before him, thrusting his chilly hands beneath his armpits for warmth; he could feel the fingers like individual twigs of ice.
From here the land sloped down to the river. There, at the bottom, was the narrow track that led from Gidleigh to Throwleigh, a dangerous place in summer, when outlaws lurked, but safer now in the depths of winter when even the fiercest felon must be settled in his hovel. From here, at the door of his chapel, the priest could see the hills rising to the south. Bleak, they were, as though they had been blasted by God’s fury.
Glancing up, he saw that the clouds were heavy with threatening storms, lowering over the moors. They suited his mood, and he grabbed his basket and made his way through the ankle-deep black mud to his door. His legs were quickly caked up to his knees, and his habit was sodden and bespattered with it before he reached the small lean-to cob and thatch room that was his home.
It was tiny, but sufficient for his needs. There was a palliasse to sleep on, a few strands of hay – all he could afford – spread over the floor to keep in the warmth, and a good-sized hearth in the middle of the floor. At the wall which the room shared with the chapel stood his chest, a simple, plain box which contained his spare shirt, vestments and some parchment. It was little enough, and he found it a depressing sight. The fire was all but out, and the chamber was dingy and damp.
At least he could throw a faggot of sticks on his fire and enjoy the quick rush of heat. It might just bring the feeling back into his blue fingers and toes. The thought of flames was at once delicious and terrible: he knew that his chilblains would complain and the pain would be worse as the feeling returned to numbed toes and fingers. It was only at night, when he went to bed, lying beneath his rough blanket, that he knew peace. There, with the thick sheepskin pelts keeping him warm, he felt a kind of contentment. With his eyes closed, the room could have been anywhere. The dying fire at his side could have been the embers on the hearth of a great lord’s hall, the palliasse beneath his back a herb-filled mattress in a king’s solar and the thick skins and blanket the richly decorated bedclothes from an abbot’s private chamber. In his imagination, Brother Mark slept in magnificent halls.
In the morning, though, he always returned to real life and awoke shivering, huddled into a ball, arms wrapped about his breast and legs drawn up to his chin against the overwhelming chill.
Now, as the storm broke outside, he kicked his fire into life, poking the embers with a stick and then throwing a faggot on top. Almost instantly there was a crackling, a thin wisping of smoke, and then a sharp sound, like ripping cloth, as the dried twigs caught fire. He stood for a moment, holding his hands to the warmth and wincing as the first tingling began in his fingers. It was blissful, and he offered up a prayer of thanks to God.
He must put more logs on while the faggot burned. At the side of his door was a stack of thick branches which he had collected during the summer. He went to them and dragged the nearest over. At the door a projection caught on the doorframe, and he grimaced at a shooting twinge in his lower back as he pulled. It was like having a bowstring fail, a sudden explosion in his muscle, then a tearing upwards. He bit at his lip, but grunted and carried on, and dropped the bundle onto the fire. Nobody could come to help him. More logs he hauled slowly across the floor and set near his fire. One he positioned carefully over the flames where it might take light. It was over this that he would warm his supper.
Sitting on his stool, he shivered as the flames licked upwards, then grabbed his trivet and set it over the heat to warm some milk. He must have something to take away the chill from his bones. As the milk began to steam in his old pot, there came a knocking at his door. He rose stiffly and opened it with a scowl on his face. Interruptions always happened when a man was about to eat, he found.
Later, when he sat in irons in Sir Ralph’s gaol and had time to reflect, he realised that this was the moment when the whole future course of his life was decided.
As Mark had entered his home, Sampson had wriggled back along the edge of the trees, giggling. He pushed his way though the cold leaves and twigs until he came to the hole in the hedge. Made by a fox, it smelled rank, but bad smells didn’t worry Sammy, never had.
He stuck his head out and rolled his eyes from side to side. Someone might be there, might see him. Didn’t want that, no. Better to look, better to see them before they saw you. You see someone, you hide quick. Don’t let them find you, that was best. Don’t show yourself. Don’t give them something to throw stones at. Everyone throws stones at him. It’s hard. Sad.
No noise. No people. He glanced both ways. Safe. With a great shove, he squeezed out, shooting down the muddy slide and landing on his hands on the icy stones and frozen mud, grazing both palms.
‘Poor Sammy!’ he whimpered, his mood changing instantly. Sniffing at them, he licked at the blood like a hound, wincing at the stinging. He cradled his scraped flesh against his breast. ‘It hurts, it does. It hurts…’
He was so engrossed in his misery that he didn’t hear the horse walking towards him from the west.
‘Sampson, fool, get out of the road.’
The voice cut into his thoughts like a hatchet through an apple. Glancing up, he saw the great dappled palfrey approaching and threw himself from its path, kneeling, his hands clasped before him, keeping his eyes from the rider.
‘You contemptible little whore’s whelp. I’ve told you before about blocking my path, haven’t I?’
Sampson shivered. ‘Please, Master, don’t hit ’un! I hurt my hands, Master, hurt bad. I’ll not be in your way again, Master. Not again.’
Sir Ralph listened to him with his head cocked. His clear grey eyes were slightly narrowed as though he was listening to Sampson’s pleas, but in reality Sir Ralph de Wonson didn’t care what the lad might say. Sampson was the vill’s idiot. He had been born stupid so many years ago, it seemed as though he had always been there in Sir Ralph’s memory, a drooling figure on the edge of all the vill’s events. Always near, but never a part. There was something about Sampson that offended Sir Ralph. The imperfection of the imbecile, probably. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that such an awful affliction could only be the proof of an especial evil in his soul or in that of his father, which was demonstrated in this way, like a leper whose malady reflected the sexual sins of his parents. Whatever the reason, Sir Ralph detested him; indeed he had more than once thought about executing him, because a cretin like him was an embarrassment to the community, and probably wasn’t particularly happy in himself either. Assuredly no man could be content without a brain.
That he had not killed Sampson was not the result of any foolish sentimentality. Glancing down at Sampson, he thought how easy it would be, to draw his sword and thrust it down into that skull. The bone was so thin, it would offer no resistance to a sharp blade like his. End of Sampson. Sir Ralph could not help but glance up and down the road. There were no witnesses, and he was sorely tempted. Sampson’s mind was that of a child. His cheap
tunic, given to him by the last priest at the chapel, was faded and worn, and permanently smeared with mucus and dribble, for Sampson slobbered worse than a mastiff. The sooner he died, the better for everyone.
His hand moved towards his sword hilt – and then he saw the figure up ahead, a spare, stooped man leaning on a staff, keen eyes peering ahead above a thick beard.
‘God’s blood, but there’s never any peace!’ Sir Ralph muttered. ‘Am I to be stopped by that damned hermit now?’
As he watched, Surval appeared to nod to himself, then slowly turned and walked through a gate and into a field.
It was better, Sir Ralph told himself as his ardour cooled again. He had given his oath and he wouldn’t be foresworn. Many years ago his father had made him promise that he would never harm Sampson. Father was long dead now, but that didn’t affect Sir Ralph’s oath. He had given his word and as an honourable man he couldn’t break it. A knight without honour was nothing.
He shrugged. There it was: a noble had duties, and that was that. Sir Ralph pulled his rich red woollen cloak aside and reached for the whip that dangled from his saddle’s crupper. Idly, he slashed with it, twice, and the weighted leather cut through the thin tunic and flesh of Sampson like a razor.
‘Next time you block my way,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll take off one of your ears. You obviously don’t need them because you don’t deign to use them.’
With a last short swipe he cut open Sampson’s forehead, and then patted his horse’s neck. ‘Come, Bayard, let’s get you home and fed.’
Sampson lay in the road weeping, the blood trickling from the slashes in his back and brow, and it was only after some little while that he could raise himself and stare after the knight. The freezing mizzle had stopped for a while, but now it was coming down thicker. Sampson slowly rose to his feet, sobbing, and stood with his hands thrust under his armpits to protect them before setting off homewards, hobbling on his bad leg.
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 3