Sir Ralph grinned to himself as he studied the workings of the mill. The woman was attractive still, even after six babies, three of which had survived. She was full-breasted, with a sturdy frame and long legs. Her eyes were green, a peculiar colour, and her dark hair had bright copper-coloured tints. She had a strange look to her. When she spoke or looked at a man, her oval face was turned to him entirely, as though giving him her full attention. Her slim eyebrows made her look almost severe, but the lie was told by her lips. The lower was quite narrow, the upper wider and more plump, which gave her the appearance of smiling. Sir Ralph had always liked that upper lip.
Her well-preserved looks were probably due to Sir Ralph’s own careful treatment of Huward. The miller had a better time of it than most others in the vill. This mill had been a part of Sir Ralph’s inheritance from his father.
Having taken note of the number of sacks waiting to be ground, Sir Ralph strode out and took his reins back. ‘It looks well. I’ll have the gather-reeve visit you to assess your rents.’
Huward said nothing, merely nodded solemnly and watched as the knight mounted, then, pulling his horse’s head about, raked his spurs down the animal’s flanks and cantered off.
‘What did he want?’
Flora had left her mother and now stood at Huward’s side. He put an arm about her shoulders and gave his youngest daughter a hug. ‘I don’t know, my love. He says he likes to keep a tab on us, but I wonder if there’s more to it. It’s always easy for a lord to get more money by seeing how much we grind.’
He shot a look inside as he spoke. His wife sat on her little stool as though she had not seen Sir Ralph’s arrival, but then she looked up as if she could feel her husband’s eyes upon her, and when she stared past him after the clattering hooves, he could see she was pale.
His little hut looked dilapidated, and as Surval stood outside, he nodded to himself in approval. For him, it was comfort and peace, but others saw only the ruination and wouldn’t bother him here. The place had nothing to offer anyone. It was only when he stepped inside that the heat blasted at him from the roaring fire. Surval hated the thought of dying from the cold, and the older he grew, the more he appreciated a good fire. It made him feel guilty, because with his sins, he should have allowed himself to suffer, but if he were to freeze himself to death, that would be no better than intentionally starving himself, a form of suicide. Far better that he should keep himself alive to pray and beg forgiveness.
He set his staff by the door and inspected his boots. They were worn and soggy, and he knew he would soon have to take them in to the cobbler’s in Chagford. In years gone by there had been a wandering cobbler who had mended his shoes on his way to the Chagford market, in exchange for a blessing from the Hermit of the Bridge, but he had apparently changed his route in order to avoid the expense of supporting the hermit. Many people did that, Surval knew. Strangers were happy to offer him alms – a bundle of firewood or a loaf of bread – but locals who passed him every day grew resentful and changed their routes.
No matter. Sitting on his old three-legged stool, he pulled his boots off and held his thick, horny feet towards the glowing embers, drawing a large horn of ale from the little barrel at his side. A farmer’s wife in Murchington gave him five gallons a week. It wasn’t much compared with a monk’s allocation of a gallon a day, but it sufficed.
At one end of his room was a cross, and he knelt on the damp soil before it, then lay face down, his arms widespread in imitation of Christ on the cross. This was his manner of praying, the old way, showing proper respect for Christ and His sufferings. When a man had committed such a foul and heinous sin as Surval, he must show all the respect he could. As a murderer should.
Later, when he had stacked logs on the hearth and set his tripod over them, his pot filled with peas and leaves, the water beginning to swirl as the heat got to it, he sat back and stared at the flames. He knew Sir Ralph of Wonson perfectly well. A nasty piece of work, in Surval’s view, although better than Sir Richard Prouse. He had wanted to evict Surval from here, just because he didn’t like the hermit.
Sir Ralph had been lord of the neighbouring manor of Wonson ever since inheriting it from his father fifteen years ago. He had grown up there, had learned the arts of warfare and had taken on his knighthood, all while living only a scant mile from Gidleigh. Easy enough for a man like him to ride about the countryside on a great charger, as Surval told himself, nodding.
There were many reasons for a knight to wander about the land, and few were honourable. Especially now, at a time of trouble. The famine was scarcely over, and many stooped to robbery to help fill their empty bellies; even knights.
He sipped his ale, stirring his potage. Many things worried him: Sampson, Sir Ralph and his foul son, Esmon. Surval knew what the knight and his son were guilty of, but Surval had no right to point out their evil. He was a sinner himself; he had killed. How could a miserable soul like him try to show a man of Sir Ralph’s stature the error of his ways? Surval was a sinner, yes, but he wasn’t a hypocrite.
In any case, what could a poor hermit do? He gave a cynical grin, but there was no humour in it, only self-knowledge and disgust. Looking over at the cross, he shook his head slowly, and then fell to the floor again, sobbing.
‘Oh, God! Please let me find peace!’
The banging on the door had stirred Mark from his delicious reverie about Mary, and he shot to the present with a start.
‘Sir Ralph!’ he cried as the door opened.
It was a miracle. Today he had felt the first urgent desire to remain here. Whereas the place had appeared dismal before, now it was blessed with the angelic presence of Mary. He could not dream of going elsewhere. Why live in Exeter when there was such a heavenly influence on this delightful vill? And now his father had arrived. Perhaps this was a message from God, that Mark should broach the subject of his paternity while he had the chance?
‘Sir Ralph, I am so glad you have–’
‘Be silent, boy! I’m not here to exchange pleasantries. What was she doing here?’
Mark gaped. ‘Who?’
‘Don’t piss about with me!’ Sir Ralph said, ominously taking a step forward. ‘What was Mary doing here?’
‘Mary? She came by to talk about–’
Sir Ralph grabbed a handful of his robe, pulling him close. ‘Well she won’t do so again. I know about clerics, about what you get up to with women! I’ve heard of monks getting their women pregnant by telling them it’s a penance they have to undergo – all sorts of crap! I won’t have it here. You touch her – or any other peasant woman here – and I’ll make you regret it! Understand?’
Long after he had gone, Mark sat shaking his head in disbelief. All this time he had hoped for a reconciliation with his father, an opportunity to explain who he was, and now, before he could open his mouth, Sir Ralph had already formed the opinion that he was a callow, womanising clerk like so many others. It was unfair! He must find the right moment to speak to Sir Ralph again, explain that he wasn’t trying to molest Mary.
Sir Ralph could help him, if he accepted his paternity, and make Mark’s future considerably more rosy. Surely he must accept his responsibility!
For a moment he fell to wondering whether Sir Ralph would object to his own son seeing Mary. With that, he found a picture of her face appearing in his mind, and soon he was lost in a romantic dream about her. A dream that would indirectly lead not to one death, but to many.
Chapter Three
Unaware of the fears – and hopes – that her impulsive kiss had stirred in the young priest’s breast, Mary hurried home.
The mill was a large building, thatched, and with the great wheel turning slowly on its bearings. It was old, and the walls were cracked and pitted, the cob weakened by a thousand burrowing insects and creatures. In fact, as she glanced about her at the comforting little homestead, she realised that animals seemed to be everywhere. The cockerel stood arrogantly on the log store at the side of the house
, the fuel already sadly depleted, while his hens scrabbled in the soggy dirt below him. Nearby, in the shelter of the store, was the old grey cat, cleaning a paw elegantly. He was a vicious brute: he’d scratch or bite as soon as look at Mary, and she left him well alone, for all that he always had this apparent inner calmness, as though he was still a playful little kitten. He paused and turned his evil yellow eyes towards the copse, and soon she heard what had distracted him. In among the trees was the scuffling and grunting of the family’s old sow. The cat returned to his preening and Mary went on to the house.
It was a happy place, and Mary herself had been content through her childhood. Her father was comfortably off, her mother was attentive and loving, and Mary had been appreciated as intelligent and pretty. The idea that before too long she must leave was alarming. Not that she had decided upon a husband yet, but soon she must think of a man. She was of an age where the longer she dallied, the more her looks would begin to fade, and if she wasn’t careful, she would be unmarriageable.
At the door she saw Osbert waiting. Os was an ox-like young man, a little older than her, built like a great bullock, with his stout legs and chest, his thick arms and shoulders, surmounted by a square face under a messy thatch of sandy hair. He was kind and generous, always polite to her, as he should be. A freeman, he was invariably poverty-struck, always grateful for the offer of a cup of ale or loaf of bread, so although Mary was a serf and he was free, her status as daughter of a miller meant Os was deferential.
Poor Os. Wherever she went, he followed her with a hound’s eyes, and what made his affection for her more difficult to bear was the way that he ignored Flora, Mary’s sister, who treated him with a reverence she usually reserved for the figure of Jesus in the church. Flora was utterly besotted with Os, a ridiculous passion in Mary’s mind, but there it was. Other girls often had these grand loves. At least Os was better than some.
It was dreadfully difficult. Life was always confusing, but love she found the most distressing emotion of all, because she didn’t feel that way towards any of the men in the vill. Here was Os, a good, kind man, if penniless, who adored her, and she had no feelings for him. Meanwhile, her sister, little Flora, whom she loved, craved Os’s affection more than life itself, but he never noticed because he only ever had eyes for Mary.
Even though Mary did not fancy Os, she couldn’t help but like him, and she favoured him with a smile as she drew near, although his instant beaming grin in return made her regret it.
The gruff voice from inside the mill was a welcome distraction. ‘Mary, my little angel! Where have you been?’
‘Hello, Father,’ she said happily.
‘That’s no way to greet your old man, is it?’ he roared cheerily. He swept her up in his arms, a genial, powerful man with a bushy beard that all but concealed his face. Lifting her high above him, just as he had always done ever since she was a child, he smiled up at her contentedly. She could see his happiness, and she felt her own heart swell in response. When he threw her up and caught her, she put a hand on each of his cheeks and kissed him heartily. Only then did he enfold her in a great bear-hug, before setting her down on the ground and walking away, laughing.
‘He is always happy,’ she murmured to herself.
‘Why shouldn’t he be?’ Os replied. ‘He has a good mill, money to keep his children and wife, low rents, two daughters a man could be proud of. What more could he want?’
She had noticed the tone of his voice when he mentioned the daughters, and daren’t look at him. A woman always knew when a man eyed her a certain way, as though he was peering beneath the clothes rather than at them, and although she liked Os as a friend, that was different from wanting him as a husband. Kindly he might be, but that was no substitute for… What? Excitement? Riches? What did she actually want? She had no idea.
‘He is a good man,’ she said a little distantly, deliberately ignoring his compliment.
‘But fearful of the Lord.’
She cast a look at him. Os was gazing absently after her father.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Sir Ralph was here a little while ago,’ Os replied. Suddenly he reddened and shot her a look. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t meaning to insult your father.’
‘No, I am sure you weren’t. But what about Sir Ralph?’
‘He came here on his horse, puffed up like a cockerel, and walked straight into your home without a by your leave. Left your dad out here with his horse like a common hostler.’
She smiled at his hot tone. He sounded like a child who had been caught thieving apples and had been thrashed for the theft, who was later trying to explain that he was the victim of a crime, not the perpetrator. ‘He has been good to us.’
‘He is always after more from all his peasants.’
‘So is every lord, but at least he has helped us. Did you know he introduced my father to my mother? If he hadn’t worked to see them married, I might not be here. He doesn’t treat us so badly.’
‘You don’t think so?’ he snapped. ‘Your father was offended today, and so was your mother. She was upset by his visit. It’s not surprising. When he rode off, your father was glad to see the back of him.’
‘Of course. No man likes to be watched over by his master,’ she said.
It was true. There could never be peace while a man knew that his every movement could be monitored by his lord. Any activity which generated money could – and would – be taxed or all the profits taken without compensation. Some serfs, even here in Gidleigh, had so little for themselves after they had paid their taxes, spent their labour maintaining their lord’s lands, seen to his cattle, helped repair his hedges, ploughed and tilled and sown his fields, that they were constantly close to starvation. Mary was just glad that her father seemed to have a little of Sir Ralph’s respect.
That brought her full circle, to considering a husband. Any man she married must also be respected by Sir Ralph. She couldn’t afford to pay the merchet fine for a man outside Sir Ralph’s lands, because she knew he set that very high. He didn’t want to lose good breeding stock, as she had heard him say with a chuckle.
‘It’s not so tough when you’re a freeman,’ Os said with a slight cough.
She was about to open her mouth to speak again, but shut it quickly. Anything she said would be misconstrued by Os, she knew that from long experience. While she wondered what to say to him to make her lack of interest plain, she caught sight of her brother, and this drove all thoughts of Os and marriage from her mind.
Ben saw how her expression changed, but it only served to make him smile. He sauntered over to her and Osbert. ‘Well, sister. How do I find you?’
‘I saw you today, baiting Sampson. He was bleeding when I got to him. Bleeding badly!’ she said, her voice clipped and haughty.
‘So what? He deserves it. They say he’s got a demon in him. You’ve heard the priest talking.’
She had: Mark had spoken about a man in the Bible who had been possessed by demons, and Jesus had made them leave him. It had made many in the congregation think of Sampson because there had to be a reason why he was so slow-witted. His widespread eyes and round face marked him out, and surely he would only look that way if God had meant him to. ‘That’s not for you to decide, is it? A little boy with so few brains is hardly the best judge.’
‘I’ve got good enough brains to see a fool. If he wanted, he could defend himself. He doesn’t bother, and that’s his lookout.’
‘What’s all this? What’s he done this time?’
Mary was glad of Osbert’s intervention and looked up at him gratefully. When she turned back to Ben, he had set his jaw.
‘It’s none of your business. I’m talking to my sister.’
‘He was bullying Sampson again,’ she said.
‘You should pick on someone your own size,’ Osbert said with a hint of contempt in his voice.
It was enough to goad Ben. He thrust his head forward, mockingly rolling his eyes. ‘
Yeah? Why, do you think you could do better, eh? You! A pathetic worker for my father! You try to harm me, and I’ll see to it that you never work here again. How would you like that, big fellow? Never have a chance of staring at my sister’s bubbies again. Never have a chance of fondling them, either.’
Os growled incoherently, and he stepped a pace toward Ben, but before he could get close, Ben had whipped out a slender eating knife from his belt and held it close to him, ready to strike, his left hand ahead, palm outstretched. ‘Don’t try it, Ossie! My father taught me plenty about fighting when I was a lad. You try something now, I’ll kill you. All because you can’t keep your eyes off my sister.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘Is it? Maybe it is! Sorry, sis. Perhaps I should leave you and him to talk. He’d like that.’
‘Just leave Sampson alone in future,’ Mary said.
‘Why? What would you do if I didn’t?’ Ben asked. He gave a laugh, thrust his knife back in its sheath, and walked away, still sniggering.
Osbert cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘I…’ he had blushed to the roots of his hair, and he looked down at his feet. ‘It’s not true, what he said. I don’t always…’
‘I know. I never believe anything he says,’ Mary lied. She knew Os often glanced at her breasts when he thought no one would notice.
She stayed standing there a moment, watching after her brother. It was so difficult. Since that fateful day, Ben had been horrible to her, and she couldn’t bear to be alone with him. There was something evil about him. She couldn’t tell what he might do, not any more. He was capable of hurting Sampson just to get back at her. She had no one in whom she felt she could confide. Not Father, because he would beat Ben like a dog; not Mother, because she wouldn’t be able to do anything; not Flora because it would only scare her. No. The only person she could talk to was Os – but if she did, it would be impossible for him to control his anger. She couldn’t tell him unless he gave his oath to keep her secret.
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 5