The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  Huward marched through the woods. As he went, he tugged at his thin leather belt; it would serve his purpose. When he heard running steps, he paid them no heed, but then he saw who it was, and he stopped.

  For his part, Mark didn’t realise who he had blundered into until he was a scant few feet from Huward, and then his face blanched and he stood like one petrified. He had no idea what to say. There was nothing he could say to the man who only yesterday had been demanding his execution for the murder of his daughter. He opened his mouth, but no words came. In preference he would have resorted to flight, but he couldn’t. He felt like his feet had taken root with the trees in the dark soil.

  Huward broke the silence with a sob. ‘Dead. All dead!’

  ‘Who is?’ Mark stuttered. In truth, Huward looked as though he had died and gone to Hell. His face was scorched on the left cheek, his hair seared away, and his eyes were quite mad.

  ‘All. Gilda, Ben, Flora – all dead. All burned. I did it – I had to. Sir Ralph made me. He made me a fool and murderer. He used me and my wife, like he uses everyone. So I’ve stopped their pain and suffering. My poor Gilda! My poor Flora! Why do I still love them? How can I? They aren’t mine, they’re his!’

  ‘His?’ Mark watched as Huward slowly moved away, still muttering heedlessly about his family, and then Mark heard the shouts and saw the smoke. A chill in his heart, he crept towards the edge of the trees and peered out at the scene before him.

  In front of the burning mill were some men sprawled on the grass. Mark could see that the Keeper was coughing and staring at the house, his beard singed on one side, while at his feet the Bailiff was being attended by his servant. Sir Ralph sat with his head resting on his hands and gazing at the mill with a kind of disbelieving horror, while at his side, Ben lay like one dead, his upper body covered in a blackened and filthy shirt, his hair all but gone, his hands terribly burned. While Mark watched, he saw Osbert emerging from the mill, a body over his back. Os lurched away from the building, depositing the figure on the ground, and then submitted to a racking cough. The body squirmed. It was Flora, and as her burned flesh touched the ground, she started to wail, long and mournfully. As the Keeper ordered men to her, she gave a sudden cough and, turning over, vomited over the grass. Piers was at her side and mopped at her face with a damp cloth from a bucket.

  If he could, Mark would have gone to Flora immediately to pray and ease her pain, but he couldn’t. Any of the men there might kill him on sight. No, it was better that he should get away from here. Leave this place of murder and rapine, go to the Bishop’s palace and try to find some peace.

  They had given up the battle – that much was obvious. The place was an inferno, and the odd bucket or two of water could do nothing to assuage the fearsome hunger of the flames. The fire must be left to burn itself out.

  He walked back the way he had come, going quietly as a deer to avoid being heard, but there was no one around. Any men in the area would be at the mill, trying to save what they could. He could breathe more easily, secure in the knowledge that the disaster at the mill had distracted any thought of pursuit of him.

  Carrying on, he upset a blackbird, which suddenly flew off, moving close to the ground and crying its warning as it went.

  All at once, as the noise faded, Mark became aware that this was a very quiet part of the wood. There seemed to be no animals, no birdsong, no scuttling of mouse feet, nothing. It was disconcerting. Yet there was still the slow creak of boughs rubbing against each other in the wind, a languid, relaxing sound in the peace. He stood still a moment, enjoying the silence, and then a drip or two of rain pattered on his shoulder, except he noticed that it smelled like urine.

  When he looked up to see where the drops came from, he saw the body of Huward, dangling from a high branch, his belt suspending him by the neck.

  Baldwin had brought a wineskin with him when he left the castle, and now he sent a man to fetch it from his horse. He was weak and dizzy after the strain of trying to hold his breath as long as possible in that terrible place, and he was not as young as he had once been, so lifting and carrying even so slight a body as Ben’s had torn something in his back and strained his upper belly. As he moved his shoulders and tentatively flexed muscles, he had to give a wry grin. Once he would have been able to dart in, bring out the girl, then run back in and save another.

  The man returned with the skin. Baldwin took a mouthful and swilled it around his teeth, swallowing gratefully before offering it to Simon. The Bailiff was kneeling now, groggy as a fighter who had been felled once too often, spitting the sour flavour of vomit from his mouth. Seeing the skin he took it greedily, gulping at it until Baldwin had to wrench it away.

  While Simon groaned and smacked his lips, Baldwin went to the girl and Sir Ralph. Flora was alive – but only just. She looked as though she was sorry not to have been left in the house. Her eyes were open, but she was lying on her back and staring up at the darkening sky. She didn’t flinch even when a great roaring crash came from the mill as the machinery collapsed, bringing down the whole roof with it. Sparks gleamed and flew up as the smoke gushed, and then there was a great howl as flames sped to feed upon the fresh timbers. Now the heat was astonishing, with orange-red lighting the whole area, and flames leaping towards the heavens.

  ‘Will you not drink a little, maid?’ he asked. ‘A sip of wine might clear your mouth of the fumes.’

  ‘I’m not thirsty,’ she said.

  It was true. Although the whole of her body felt burned, she was content to lie here on the damp grass, uncaring of what the future might bring. It didn’t matter. Her soul felt empty. All her family was gone. If her father was ever to return, she would be filled with fear, not love. There was no one, no one at all, who could fill the terrible void that had opened in her life tonight.

  Hands lifted her and carried her gently to a horse. There she was placed into the arms of another man, who she soon realised was Sir Ralph, and the horse set off slowly for the castle.

  In the past, Flora had always felt a sense of dread when she had passed beneath the gateway, but this time, there was nothing, except the gradual awakening of pain from the dreadful burns on her thighs and face.

  And the awareness of the silent sobs of the knight who held her so softly and yet so well.

  He was still there as night came on fully.

  It took him an age to get the body down. He was unused to clambering up trees, but he must reach out along that branch and slash away at the leather, slowly sawing with his little blunt eating knife until at last there was a short ripping noise and the badly cured leather gave way.

  Huward fell silently, and somehow Mark thought that was wrong. A man dropping so far, at least ten feet, should at least gasp or wail, but this body simply disappeared from view and landed on the grass and leaves. When Mark looked down, the bloated face and curiously bloodshot eyes met his accusingly.

  It took some while to climb back down, and then Mark was startled to hear Surval’s voice.

  ‘Be gracious to him. He was a good man,’ the hermit said.

  ‘I never heard a bad word about him.’

  ‘No. I think that was what he feared most,’ Surval said contemplatively. ‘The idea that all the men he knew in the vill might begin to think of him as a figure of ridicule. He was a kind fellow, but proud, and the idea of losing any respect from the folk here was too appalling for him.’

  ‘He has killed them all, hasn’t he? He said something about Sir Ralph.’

  Surval gave him a sombre look. ‘What would you have done?’ he said. ‘Huward learned that Sir Ralph fathered all the children: Ben, Flora and Mary were his, not Huward’s.’

  ‘He told you all this?’

  ‘And more.’

  Mark nodded. He was setting out the body as neatly as he could, trying not to look into Huward’s eyes. Huward’s hands he crossed over his breast, and then those terrible eyes were closed. Mark bent his head and said a long prayer over the dead man, plea
ding for Jesus’s intervention, asking St Mary to protect Huward’s soul and give him her compassion. It seemed ironic to be pleading with her when the whole cycle of death and horror had started with her namesake’s murder.

  Surval was uncompromising. ‘I liked him, but he committed suicide.’

  ‘He did so while he was temporarily mad. That wasn’t his fault. Just as,’ Mark added, rising to his feet, ‘the murder of his family wasn’t his fault either. That was down to Sir Ralph.’

  Suddenly, as he stood gazing about him, the full horror of Surval’s words struck at him, and he uttered a faint gasp as he tottered on legs suddenly powerless to support him. He closed his eyes as the terrible truth was revealed.

  ‘Christ in Heaven!’

  ‘Boy? What is it?’ Surval demanded. He had crossed to Mark’s side and now he leaned on his staff and peered at the young man, but Mark was incapable of responding.

  If it was true that Sir Ralph was the father of the children of Huward’s family, then Mark had been sleeping with his own sister! Half-sister, perhaps, but that was no defence. Worse – he had made her pregnant!

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘You sound petrified, boy,’ Surval said quietly. ‘What is this – has something alarmed you?’

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ Mark croaked.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Surval lowered his head. ‘There is a family resemblance. But remember, vengeance is the Lord’s, not ours.’

  Mark didn’t agree. Standing and staring down at the corpse, he was aware of a revulsion so complete, so all-enveloping, that it made him feel quite weak. Sir Ralph – he was the man responsible for all this misery.

  Sir Ralph! He had condemned Mark to Hell, for unknowingly, Mark had committed the sin of incest, but his own ignorance was no excuse. All so that Sir Ralph could slake his carnal lusts with a woman other than his wife. Mark could comprehend a man’s desire for a woman, but to have cuckolded a man to this extent, leaving so many souls to perish, that was appalling! Sir Ralph had ruined so many by his thoughtless satisfaction of his desires.

  Mark felt sick. He couldn’t meet Surval’s eyes. Instead he found his gaze passing down his body toward his own cods, staring at his groin with loathing. There, there was the root of all man’s sin, he felt. Sex. It had led Sir Ralph to Gilda and then he himself to Mary, poor, beautiful Mary. ‘Christ!’ At least she had died without knowing the depth of her sins. She didn’t have to live with her guilt as Mark would.

  Even the sin of self-murder was better than this self-hatred. How could any man live with the weight of this crime burdening him?

  ‘What are you thinking, lad? That Sir Ralph is deserving of death? Leave him for the moment. Come with me to my home and I’ll give you a safe bed for the night. Tomorrow I can tell the Coroner about this man’s body. Meantime, you can escape. You don’t want to be found, do you?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I have to make my way to the Bishop’s palace. There’s nothing for me here,’ Mark said sadly. ‘I shouldn’t have waited around so long. I should have gone this morning.’

  Surval nodded twice with deliberate emphasis. ‘If you’re sure, fine. But leave vengeance to God. He’s better placed to determine guilt than we are.’

  ‘I want to go and pray at my chapel first, though.’

  ‘There’s nothing there, lad. It was burned by the vill,’ Surval said sympathetically.

  So even that had been taken from him. Everything had gone. His soul was tormented by his crime against God’s law of incest, his woman was dead and his living was gone; his chapel, which should have been a holy refuge, was destroyed, and now Huward’s family was dead, all killed because of Sir Ralph’s adultery. Mark knew his thoughts were not rational, knew that he was being less than sensible, but could do nothing about it.

  He bade Surval farewell and walked from that grim, desolate place. He knew what he must do: he would go to his burned chapel and pray at the ruined altar, pleading for all those poor souls – Mary, Huward, Gilda, Flora, Ben and Wylkyn. That would take him until the night was at its deepest and darkest, and then he could go to the castle. Nobody would expect him there. He could enter by the fence, the same way he had got out of the place last night.

  He had to get back in if he was to kill Sir Ralph.

  Baldwin tried hard to refuse Sir Ralph’s hospitality, but he did feel as weak as a newborn lamb after his exertions in the fire, and Simon was worse. They had little choice but to accept the man’s offer.

  As soon as they all arrived the men began bawling for wine and food, and Baldwin was happy enough to sit at a table and gulp at the pot of wine set in front of him while others cared for the wounded. In a change of role that he would have found amusing, were the circumstances less serious, he saw that the still pale-faced Hugh had returned to his duties and was now serving his paler-faced master.

  Simon was not looking well, and occasionally gave a dry, hacking cough, but Baldwin was comfortably sure that he would recover. He was younger than Baldwin, and had not been exposed to the fire or smoke for long. The knight watched Hugh fussing over his master with a fond smile. Their companionship, which always appeared to be based upon mutual antipathy, sullen disagreement and regular arguments, was as strong as that which any master could enjoy with a servant.

  That was the way of a man’s life, though. Service was the basic fact of life, no matter who the man was, and from service grew respect and even, sometimes, love. It took love for a man to risk his own life in saving his master’s, as Hugh had when he thrust Simon from the path of that fool Esmon.

  Esmon. He had not arrived at the fire, and now, as Baldwin glanced about the room, he could see no sign of the lad. Surely he should be here with his men, but for some reason he was not. The noise in here was deafening, and on a whim, Baldwin got up and walked out to the court.

  It was a clear night. The great burning torches that were set near the stables and the gatehouse failed to dim the light from the stars overhead. Baldwin looked up and marvelled once more at their beauty. There was a strange sweep to them, as though God had painted them in a great arc just to demonstrate that He had no need of symmetry in His Heaven. Occasional wisps of cloud floated past slowly, like blue and grey ships of silk, each apparently lighted from within by a flame of white purity.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured to himself.

  A man-at-arms nearby glanced up. ‘It’s only clouds.’

  ‘The banal only ever see the banal,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Eh?’

  Baldwin was already walking across the yard. The door to the makeshift prison by the gate was wide open, showing the empty room beyond. Sensing a man nearby, he spun on his heel, a hand going to his sword, but it was only Roger Scut.

  ‘They’ve all gone,’ Roger Scut said. ‘She released them as soon as you’d left the place.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘You don’t like me, do you?’

  Baldwin surveyed him frankly. Scut was peering at him along his nose once more. It made Baldwin want to break it for him. ‘I think you are an arrogant fool, without compassion, and so keen to satisfy your own greed that you’d hurt any other man without counting the cost.’

  Roger Scut blinked. He had not expected such abuse. ‘Do you always speak to priests with so little respect, or do you reserve your bile for me alone?’

  ‘Have you seen Esmon?’ Baldwin rapped out, ignoring the question.

  ‘Why do you ask me?’

  ‘I am not talking to you for the joy of it, Scut. Have you seen him or not?’

  ‘Not recently,’ Roger Scut said truthfully. He had not seen Esmon since Baldwin had questioned him at the trap door to the cell.

  ‘Fine,’ Baldwin said and was about to leave him when a thought struck him. ‘Your leather-covered weight that Simon found at the cell. You said that the cell was already empty when you got to it, and that there was no guard? Of course not. He would have raised the alarm. So who could have released the monk before you reached there?’
/>   ‘Anyone, so far as I know. I was in the hall and went out when all seemed quiet.’

  ‘So most of Sir Ralph’s men were asleep in the hall, I assume?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Only a few guards were not there, the men on the walls.’

  ‘But Sir Ralph and his wife sleep in the solar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What of Esmon?’

  ‘He remains in the hall at night. He was there and spoke to his father. Sir Ralph couldn’t sleep and left to get some air. Apparently he hasn’t slept well since the girl died.’

  ‘You saw him leave?’

  ‘Yes. He was soon back. Why?’

  Baldwin nodded. That, he felt sure, answered the question about who had released Mark from captivity, if it did not explain why. And then the inspiration struck him.

  ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘That is what it was: he had to make sure Mark got out so that he could be hunted down. Sir Ralph thought he wouldn’t be able to get away, so he made Mark get out, threatening to kill him if he did not, purely so that the dogs could be set upon him again and he could be killed.’

  ‘You are talking nonsense!’ Roger argued. ‘Why – Sir Ralph had him put in the gaol! What on earth would he want to set him loose for?’

  ‘Go to the hall, priest,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘You are as foul as him. You planned to see this poor devil run down. Yes, and you hoped he might be captured and executed. Then you could take responsibility for his little church and demand to retain it. Why would you want to live in a miserable place like this, though? It is rural, far from any town. Surely you would hate it?’

  ‘And so I would. I never intended living here for long,’ Roger Scut said, but he felt stung enough to add, ‘Look, Sir Knight, I admit I was wrong. I was offered the inducement of the living of the place as well as being introduced to the Despensers. You know what that means? It means the support of the King, in effect. Me! I could have gone wherever I wanted, with their support.’

  ‘But? I assume that there is a “but”?’