The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  The scenes passed through his mind in an apparently endless procession. Mary helping at harvest, brushing the hair from her brow with a smile as she took a jug of cider from him; sitting and staring at her father as he told her ever more unlikely stories; that curious, still, serious expression she occasionally wore; the beaming smile; the bellow of laughter; the soft, gentle kindness of the perfect nurse.

  Gone. All gone. His life was shredded in the face of his unbearable loss.

  Wiping at his face, he stood, and now he set off with a fresh vigour and determination. He went north, down into the valley and through the ford at the bottom, then up to the chapel. He tested the door. It was unlocked.

  Inside, he felt the anger rise until it seemed about to strangle him. It was like a thick fist in his throat that was slowly clenching, and as it did so, it cut off the air from his lungs. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was return to his home. When he turned to shut the door, he almost did so. The urge to leave this place came upon him, and he nearly opened it again and fled.

  It was the memory that stopped him – of that feeble, pimply youth the monk who had served the people here, and later served her, Huward’s daughter. And murdered her. That thought brought to his mind’s eye a recollection of Mary as he would always remember her, held up in his arms, smiling down at him; happy to see him, full of love. As he always had been whenever he saw her.

  It was enough to stiffen his resolve. Although the altar stood at the far end of the room like a physical reproof and warning, he slammed the door and stared about him. There was little enough in here that looked as though it would serve his purpose, and he pursed his lips. Undaunted, he went to the chest at the back of the church and tested it. The lid was unlocked. When he threw it open, he saw that it was full of priestly garb. Even to touch Mark’s clothing made him feel sick, as though it was defiled and could pollute him; it was foul, just like the soul of the evil priest who had worn it. Rich cloth, designed to enhance the aura of he who wore it, with silken threads and expensive velvets, had served only to conceal his true nature. They were a sham, false stuff that Mark could don or doff as it suited him, so that when he wanted a counterfeit integrity or honour, he could throw it on with these vestments.

  Huward pulled the stuff free, making a pile near him. Then he looked about and found a small cupboard. In it was a book, and he pulled at the leaves of parchment, tugging them free and throwing them onto the clothes before shoving the whole lot into the middle of the room.

  There must be more things to burn, and he went across to the priest’s little home next door, finding just what he needed: the store of faggots and logs. Carrying them through to the church, he dropped the faggots on top of the small mound, and then he began the arduous task of striking sparks from his flint and his knife. Shreds of lint began to smoke, tiny wisps rising in the still evening air, and soon he had a small flame. Carefully he tended it, adding small pieces of material and parchment, before throwing the first of the faggots on. In Mark’s house he had found a little oil lamp too, and this he hurled at the fire together with the earthenware jug that held spare oil. There was a whoosh! and it all began to shimmer with the flames. Then there was a roaring noise, and Huward could feel his brows begin to contract in the enormous heat.

  Only when he had seen to it that all Mark’s possessions, all his clothing, his bed, his stool, everything, all the little he owned, had been thrown onto the pyre, did he open the door and leave.

  He looked back once, when he reached the ford. Even then the sight of the forked, reptilian tongues of fire licking upwards from windows and the door gave him no satisfaction. It was a job that had needed to be done, he considered. That was all. Just something that had to be done. He was getting rid of the evil that had lived there in the chapel.

  Turning away, he set off homewards. It was going to be a cold, quiet night tonight, with his wife and daughter sitting vigil over Mary’s body.

  The Reeve had seen him go, and wondered whether he should follow his neighbour, but the sight of Huward’s face was enough to put him off. It was undoubtedly the face of a man who sought, and needed, solitude. Companionship would not be welcome.

  Instead Piers glanced at Elias. The ploughman was standing at the back of the room, frowning at everyone from beneath his brows as usual, but Piers was sure that his appearance was even more grim than normal. Elias’s expression was that of a man who has newly discovered misgivings about all his neighbours.

  Glancing at him again, Piers saw that Elias’s eyes were now upon him, and the hostile expression remained.

  With a grunt, Piers rose and crossed the floor to Elias’s side. ‘Come on, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Who’s asking – my friend of many years or the Lord of the Manor’s Reeve?’

  ‘What difference does that make?’ Piers asked with frank surprise.

  Elias opened his mouth and investigated a loose tooth. He had lost two teeth over the last winter, and was worried that he would soon lose more. It was sometimes the way, he knew. When food was short, people lost their teeth. Soon he’d have to suck all his meals. Everything would have to be liquid. Nothing to chew. He spoke slowly. ‘When you’re my friend, you listen to me as a friend would. When you’re Sir Ralph’s Reeve, you listen to me like a tax-collector – that’s the difference.’

  ‘I always treat you the same, Elias.’

  ‘That answers that, then.’

  ‘What?’ Piers demanded as Elias made to walk away.

  ‘I need someone I can trust. I can’t trust you if you’ll run to Sir Ralph.’

  ‘I swear I won’t,’ Piers said, more quietly now. He placed his hand on his breast and gazed at Elias meaningfully. ‘What is this about? Is it Mary?’

  ‘’Course it is.’

  ‘Well? What of her?’

  Elias looked away. ‘There was others down the lane that day. Osbert was working on the hedge. I saw that hermit, old Surval, too. And a rider.’

  Piers felt his heart pounding with more gusto. ‘What of it? Surely the priest must have done it. Why else would he have run off like that?’

  ‘Why do you think? What if he thought the knight on whose land he lives was responsible for killing poor Mary?’

  ‘The knight on…’ Swallowing anxiously, Piers glanced about them to see if anyone else had heard Elias’s words. ‘You saw him there?’

  ‘Sir Ralph. I saw him ride away, a broad smile on his face – the bastard.’

  ‘When was this? Are you sure it was after she was killed?’

  ‘I heard something. I didn’t realise until later, but I’m certain of it. I heard her cry out. Then I was turning away, heading back along the next furrow, and it was when I got back that I saw him mounting his horse. He was on that big bugger. His head suddenly appeared above the hedge line.’

  ‘He could have been riding along and–’

  ‘Don’t give me that!’ Elias said scathingly. ‘Think I’m as thick as Sampson? If he’d been on his horse all the way along there, I’d have seen his head moving along, wouldn’t I? No, I saw him spring up into the saddle, and he saw me – and smiled. Like he was out for a happy little ride and fancied a–’

  It was Piers’s turn to silence Elias. He shot the peasant a look, held up a hand in admonition. ‘I don’t want you to say that, not in my hearing, and not in anyone else’s. It’s a villainous tale, Elias, and it’d get you into trouble.’

  ‘That’s why he bolted,’ Elias said, a cynical grin twisting his face. ‘The priest wasn’t stupid. He came along a little after, when I was back near the hedge again.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘No. But he’s the only man who’s run off, isn’t he?’

  ‘You’re certain you heard someone running off?’

  ‘I told you I did.’

  ‘But you didn’t mention our master at the time,’ Piers said sharply.

  ‘I missed that out,’ Elias agreed. ‘I like life. It was that priest who ran off.’


  ‘Why’d he do that if you’re right and Sir Ralph killed her?’ Piers said more quietly.

  Elias shrugged. ‘He was a priest, and he got her with child. We’ve all heard of clerks who keep their women but try to kill them when they realise it could hurt them in future. He probably thought we’d all be after his blood. Anyway, he hit her – I’m sure of that. Maybe he was scared then – you know, shocked. Maybe he just saw her lying there and thought he’d actually killed her! He might’ve seen her and bolted.’

  ‘He should have waited.’

  ‘What – and let the Hue and Cry behead him in their rage?’ Elias’s smile seemed to hitch up the whole of his beard. ‘You know more about the law than I do, Piers, but I say this: if I was a poor priest like him, I’d not think twice. I’d bolt and make for the woods. Or I’d go to my Bishop. I wouldn’t bugger about here hoping for justice. Not when someone like Huward was hankering for my neck, and not when the man who owns the court was Sir Ralph; the man who’d actually killed the poor girl.’

  Chapter Nine

  Baldwin was already up before the landlord, and with the early dawn, he was in the inn’s hall with his sword and dagger, practising thrusts and parries, blocking imaginary blows at his head, at his belly, at his thighs and flanks, each time manoeuvring to keep his feet glued flat on the ground as he blocked, maintaining his position as he swung away. That was strength in a battle: remember, feet firm to give a base from which to strike. The man who moves his feet while striking is the man who will suffer defeat, because he is unbalanced.

  When he could feel the sweat running freely, he began his exercises, swinging his weapons from side to side, holding them out at arm’s length and moving them in small circles, or up and down, until the pain in the junction of his shoulder and neck grew too extreme for him to continue. Only then did he set his weapons aside and take a deep breath, gradually relaxing all the tension. He drew himself a bowl of wine from the inn’s bar and, adding water from the pot beside the fire, he sipped the warm drink.

  ‘Most impressive, Sir Baldwin.’

  The knight groaned inwardly. He had hoped to avoid the clerk today. ‘Brother Roger. How pleasing it is to see you.’

  Roger Scut was sitting at a bench near the door. ‘I hadn’t expected to find you with your sword drawn at this time of day, Sir Baldwin,’ he said teasingly. ‘I needs must be careful not to upset so warlike a knight.’

  Baldwin used his tunic to wipe away the sweat. ‘You should always seek to avoid upsetting a knight. Some do not possess such remarkable calmness of spirit as me.’

  ‘Haha! I am sure you are quite right in that, Sir Baldwin!’ Roger Scut laughed. He was aiming along his nose again, and that, together with his irritating voice, was already getting to Baldwin.

  ‘You look damp,’ he remarked through gritted teeth.

  ‘The weather is inclement,’ Roger replied. ‘The rain is sheeting down, and the wind tries to blow it through you.’

  ‘Typical!’ Baldwin said, thinking of his long journey homewards. He grimaced, then continued towelling himself dry.

  ‘I assume you, um, failed to find the man yesterday?’

  ‘We did not capture him, no. But I have men sweeping all around the town today,’ Baldwin said shortly.

  ‘The Dean has asked that you present the priest to him when you do catch him.’

  ‘You may tell the good Dean that I shall consider his request.’

  ‘It was not a request, I fear.’

  Baldwin heard the slight intonation. He met Roger Scut’s bland expression with a keen look. ‘I fear it was exactly that, Roger. Dean Peter asked if I would present him with his murderous priest. I shall consider his request when I catch the fellow. First, of course, I have to catch the felon. Once I have done so, I shall think about whether I should release him to Peter or take him back to Gidleigh.’

  ‘He is a priest, you know.’

  ‘No, I do not. He is rumoured to have been living there as a priest, it is true – but that means naught. What if this was a felon who waylaid your priest on the way to his church? He might have slaughtered your cleric and buried the body, then thought to himself what fun he could have with a small congregation like Gidleigh’s.’

  ‘My God! You don’t mean that?’ Roger Scut said, blanching. He nervously felt for his rosary. ‘But how could a man hope to get away with such an imposture?’

  ‘Easily. I have known some outrageously bold felons in my time. Why,’ Baldwin said with a sudden sharpness, ‘how do I know that you are who you say you are? You could be another false man.’

  ‘I?’ Roger Scut spluttered, his face suddenly reddening like an apprentice caught with his buttocks bared with his master’s daughter. ‘But I have been here for years, I am known to–’

  ‘It was merely an example. I shall decide when I see the boy,’ Baldwin lied mildly; his mind was already made up. The lad’s crime was awful, and to Baldwin’s mind it was neither fair nor just that he should be allowed to escape to the Bishop’s court without having to face those whom he had wronged.

  Gradually Roger Scut’s complexion returned to normal. ‘I am glad to hear it. So tell me,’ he said, his head tilting back again until he was drawing a sight on Baldwin once more, ‘why do you practise with your sword this morning? It is hardly the time of year to expect a war, is it?’

  ‘There is no time of year when one should not expect a war. Especially now, with the King’s army shattered again.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Roger’s face fell. ‘We live in terrible times, Sir Baldwin. I sometimes wonder when we shall know peace again.’

  ‘So do I,’ Baldwin said with feeling. The Scottish had drawn the King northwards during the previous year at the completion of the latest truce, by swarming over the border and ravaging the lands of the north-west. King Edward II had gone with a massive, well-provisioned body of men. Yet the stories which were filtering back to the south were all of subterfuges and disasters.

  The Scots had withdrawn before the might of the English host, refusing them battle, but also destroying all the food stores and animals in their path, with the result that the English were soon decimated by starvation and disease. The King had to pull back, but his orderly retreat was harried by Scottish forces, and one made its way even so far as the middle of Yorkshire. It was only with difficulty that King Edward II himself escaped capture in a skirmish near to Byland and Rievaulx. The whole of Yorkshire was struck with terror as their King fled and the upstart rebels from Scotland devastated their lands.

  It was a disaster for everyone in the realm, with repercussions even down here in Devon. Simon, Baldwin’s friend, had helped a King’s Arrayer the previous year, organising men to be used in the King’s host, and some of these fellows had limped back, but all too few. The rest, they said, had been captured and slaughtered by the mad Scots, or they had died of pestilence or starvation. Many died because, after suffering the worst pangs of hunger, when they came across food, they gorged themselves and their poor bodies couldn’t cope. They died in terrible pain as their stomachs burst within them.

  The cost was vast, too. Huge stocks of grain, meat and fish, all salted, had been taken to feed the men fighting for the King, but this was the food that the towns had expected for their own winter supplies, and without them, many households had gone hungry over the winter. Crediton itself was better stocked than many other towns, but Baldwin had several cases of families who must beg for food from Church stores.

  ‘We can only hope and pray that the Scottish rebels will accept their fate,’ Roger Scut said piously.

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed, although privately he wondered whether they ever would. It was all very well having the Pope’s approval for the King’s claim to the Scottish crown, but if all the people continued to refuse, point blank, and wouldn’t offer battle either, but instead ran away into the bleak, miserable far north of their lands, it was hard to see what the King could do about it.

  He was considering this miserable fact
and wondering what miracle of strategy could be used to defeat the Scottish, when there was a sudden shouting and laughter from the road. Baldwin paid it little heed at first, thinking it was only some folk playing the fool, but then the noise drew nearer and he realised that the source of the row was already in the cross passage. He stood, putting a hand near his sword, but did not draw it. In a few minutes a group of cheerful men entered.

  Godwen was first to walk in. ‘Sir Baldwin, I think we have your man!’

  ‘That is him?’ Baldwin asked with ill-concealed disbelief.

  Sir Ralph eyed the sky as he climbed up the three steps of moorstone and mounted his horse. It had been blowing like a horn since before dawn, and the rain had come across like a grey mist, obscuring everything behind it. Now at least there was a brief period of calm and dryness, but the grey clouds above left him feeling dubious as to how long it would last. The wind had not abated.

  He shivered. It felt as if there was an ague in his guts. Since the death of Mary, he’d been feeling like this. It was hard to swallow food or drink, and he must force himself. It was no comfort to observe that the energy which had at last failed him would appear to have been transferred entirely to his son.

  While a groom led him a short distance away, Esmon leaped lightly into his own saddle and nonchalantly pulled on his gloves.

  Esmon was quite a chip off the old block, Sir Ralph had to admit, but he wasn’t sure that it was pleasing. Certainly he had the fair-haired good looks and the appearance of hardness, but his mouth was all too often a thin line, displaying his petulance. Although his eyes were a clear, bright green like emeralds, they did not reflect mere jealousy but comprehensive and consuming avarice. He didn’t care what his neighbour possessed: what he wanted, he would take. In many ways, he would be the ideal knight, Sir Ralph thought. He was not prepared to allow any rudeness or cheek to his honour, he wouldn’t take any foolishness that might reflect upon him, and he had just enough sense to know when to hold his tongue when the odds were heavily laden against him.