Baldwin asked, ‘How did he know you were brother to Sir Ralph? It was seemingly well enough hidden to others about here?’
Surval gazed at him with surprise. ‘We grew up here, and so did Sir Richard; even if he was younger than us, he knew us as close peers as well as neighbours. Our families hunted and dined together. But that meant nothing last year when that damned moneylender died in Exeter.’
He chewed his lip. ‘You remember what things were like. The whole country on tenterhooks, armies massing to fight the enemies of the King, the Despensers called back from their exile and pardoned… and the Despensers – damn them! – came back and once more had the ear of the King to the detriment of the realm. Well, my brother had thrown in his lot with the Despensers some little while before. But Sir Richard hadn’t.
‘Sir Richard had borrowed a sum from a moneylender, and when that man was murdered, Sir Richard found people demanding repayment. The debt was taken by the King, and because of Sir Ralph’s friendship with the Despensers, they persuaded the King to let my brother take over the castle. Sir Richard fought back in the only way he knew. He employed clerks to argue, he sought another moneylender, and then he tried to slander my brother through me.’
Surval grunted to himself. ‘It wasn’t the act of a kind or generous soul. He sought to ruin my brother’s reputation by first ruining mine. Perhaps once he had removed me, he thought he could slander Ralph and thereby gain a little time to find more money and keep his castle. That it would have destroyed my reputation meant nothing to him.
‘I have rebuilt my life here. The thought of leaving – especially in order to satisfy another man’s spite against a brother I detest – seemed terribly unfair. So I sought to protect myself.’
‘By killing again.’ Baldwin’s face was set like moorstone.
‘Yes. He was going to destroy me, so I sought to destroy him first,’ Surval said with a fierce defiance. ‘When Sir Richard was forced to take to his bed with his gout, I went to visit the castle. I offered him peace, and tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t listen, and while I was there, I saw Wylkyn mix medicine for his master. When I asked what it was, he told me it was henbane. I knew where Wylkyn kept his stock of herbs, and I looked in there. I confess, I hadn’t realised henbane could be used to ease the gout, but when I heard Wylkyn say that, I added more and mixed it with Sir Richard’s wine. Within a day he was complaining about his sight and some giddiness. Soon he fell to lethargy, and within a day or two, he was in a delirium, and then he died.’ The hermit gave a long sigh.
‘You poisoned him over several days?’
‘The priest from the church only saw him on the first day or two. After that, the monk from the chapel and I remained with him. We prayed together for his soul.’
‘Even though you were killing him?’ Simon burst out.
‘Bailiff, a man’s soul is more important than any petty disputes on earth,’ the hermit said sententiously.
‘You killed him to keep your place here,’ Baldwin stated.
‘It is everything to me!’
‘What of the girl?’ Baldwin asked, a sadness gradually overtaking him on hearing this confession. Surval was clearly an intelligent man, and he had sought to protect himself as best he might, but in so doing he had caused the deaths of too many others: Sir Richard, Mary and Wylkyn at first, but now Mark, Esmon, Sir Ralph, Ben, Huward and all the others, because if he had not committed those first crimes, Sir Ralph’s affair might not have become known, his men might not have rebelled, and many would now be alive who had died.
Surval shook his head, staring down at the ground. ‘I knew of the affair between Mark and her. Who didn’t? In a vill, there are never any secrets. No matter what, lovers will be seen. And these two were. It was terrible. The appalling sin of incest in the first degree.’
‘But they had no idea that they were guilty of such a sin!’
‘They knew he was a monk, sworn to celibacy,’ Surval shot out. ‘He was supposed to have dedicated himself to God, but instead he enjoyed the girl’s body.’
‘She was pregnant,’ Simon said quietly.
‘I didn’t realise that at first, but then she began to moan and cry.’
‘In the road? You were there with her?’ Baldwin confirmed.
‘Yes. I went to speak to her after the others had passed by. She looked unhappy, troubled. Of course, she had just lost her child.’
‘The blow,’ Baldwin mused.
‘Yes, I think her shock and horror at Mark’s violence made her miscarry. I tried to soothe her, explained that it was for the best because it was her brother’s child, but she wouldn’t listen. She screamed at me, really loudly, and I… well, I saw that the anguish and morbid terror were gripping her, so I killed her. It was kinder. She was in terrible pain, and bleeding heavily.’
‘You murdered her just as you did your own woman.’
‘No, Sir Baldwin. I protected her from her shame. Imagine how she could have lived, knowing that her child was repellent to God Himself? It was better to spare her that. I was being kind.’
‘And you were willing to allow Mark to hang for your crime.’
‘Ach! There was no risk he’d hang. He was young. He could soon rebuild his life. Perhaps he’d be protected by the Bishop. But me, what could I do? If I was accused again, I’d die. This place is all I have. Without it, I am dead.’
A week later, Simon and Baldwin returned to Gidleigh with Coroner Roger’s body. Baldwin was in a filthy mood, because he had ridden all the way to Exeter with Thomas, delivering Surval to the Bishop, and all during that long journey, Thomas had done nothing but complain about Godwen’s behaviour, how he was insulting Thomas’s family and Thomas himself, making sneering jibes about Thomas’s brother-in-law and others.
‘In God’s name,’ Baldwin exploded after ten miles, ‘I begin to wish you had not bothered to save his damned life, if you loathe the man so much!’
Thomas had stared at him, quite appalled. ‘Sir Baldwin! You can’t choose who should live or die just because you like them or not!’
‘I believe you saved him because life without your feuding partner would be insufferable.’
‘That is a terrible accusation!’ Thomas said with hurt in his voice, and he was silent. Then he flashed a grin at Baldwin. ‘Mind, it does add spice to have an enemy!’
Baldwin had given a longsuffering grunt. Now, with Coroner Roger’s widow at his side, walking to the church in Gidleigh, he could not recall any humour. It felt as though in the midst of her grief, she had sucked all the levity from people about her. Not surprising, Baldwin told himself; not after the shock of loss which she had suffered.
‘He always adored this area,’ Roger’s widow said. She was a large woman, her face ravaged with tears, and she leaned heavily on her maidservant as she walked behind the sheeted body of her husband.
Simon nodded. ‘He was born here, wasn’t he?’
‘And now he has died here and can be buried here,’ she agreed. ‘Daft old fool that he was, he’d probably be glad to think that although he lived most of his life in Exeter, he still came back here in the end.’
‘I am so sorry,’ Baldwin said sincerely. ‘If I could have done anything to save him, I would.’
‘I know that,’ she said.
She moved on behind the body being carried by the four bearers, all of whom were servants from his home in Exeter. The weather was foul, which was nothing new, merely a return to normal conditions, Baldwin thought to himself. Grey skies hurled chilly gobbets of rain like slingshots at the people standing by the grave. It was an old-fashioned grave, like those of many in this area, so that Roger would be buried kneeling as though in prayer. He would have liked that, his wife had said. He had not been as religious as he should have been during life, so it was best that he had a head start in death. Surely a man praying would win God’s attention faster than a lazy fool lying on his back.
After the short ceremony, Baldwin and Simon walked together
to the entrance of Gidleigh Castle. The gate stood wide still, and servants bustled about as enthusiastically as they ever had.
‘You can hardly tell anything happened, can you?’ Simon said.
‘No. But the memories are here nonetheless,’ Baldwin said, tapping his breast.
‘You still feel the pain, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I murdered that poor devil when all he wanted was to stop the pain.’
‘He was mad, Baldwin. You wouldn’t hesitate if it were a rabid dog, would you?’
‘No. Yet Mark’s offence was, he wanted to learn more about his real father. Since he had learned who his father was, he wanted to come and be accepted. Instead, he found himself being made the convenient scapegoat of another’s crimes.’
‘He did hit poor Mary. From what Surval said, he made her miscarry.’
‘True – but I doubt he intended to. And I do not think he would have wanted her to lose their child, either. Yet when he saw her dead body, he bolted. He thought his careless blow had killed her, so he hared off in the hope that he could make it to the Bishop’s palace where he would be safe. And he would have been, had I not insisted on bringing him back, partly because of Scut and my loathing for him. Only then did he hear of her broken neck and realise he was innocent.’
‘You aren’t to blame for his death,’ Simon tried again.
‘I think I am. I brought him back here, I surrendered him to his father’s tender care, I had him exposed in court, and I actually ended his life.’
‘Because he was attempting a murder!’
‘The murder of a man who probably deserved it. Some men do, because there is no other means by which their crimes can be resolved or justice dealt. Yet I executed poor Mark, the final terrible act in his pathetic life. And I must carry the guilt of that with me for ever.’
‘You should not carry guilt, Sir Knight, but exorcise it,’ said a fussy voice.
‘Scut. I should have expected you to appear at some point,’ Baldwin said, but without warmth.
‘People have been coming here to see where the battle was fought,’ the cleric said. ‘They call it the “Battle of the Mad Monk of Gidleigh” now, and folk have come all the way from Moretonhampstead to see where it took place.’
‘You will remain here?’ Baldwin asked, a tinge of hopefulness in his voice.
‘No, I shall return to Crediton. I wish nothing more to do with this area. I shall return to the church and forget.’
‘You are fortunate.’
‘What you should do is serve a penance. Travel, Sir Knight! Go on a pilgrimage, to Canterbury or further afield. It would salve your conscience.’
‘A pilgrimage – me? Perhaps,’ Baldwin smiled.
‘How is Flora?’ Simon asked.
‘Not good. She appears to be suffering a slow, lingering death. She wastes away, but there is no apparent cure, no matter what the leaches prescribe.’
‘She has not recovered from her horrors? It is not surprising,’ Baldwin said. ‘Women are the weaker sex.’
‘Weaker be damned,’ Scut said with surprising force. ‘There’s something else at bottom. Can you think of anything that should have upset her so strongly?’
‘I heard,’ Simon said, ‘that she and Osbert were to marry, but he has not spoken to her since the fire.’
‘Oh. The oldest reason in the world,’ Baldwin sighed. ‘I wish we could cure it.’
Roger Scut sniffed and peered along his nose at the stolid figure of Osbert in the distance. ‘Leave it to me,’ he grunted. ‘If he has strung that girl along, I shall put the fear of Hellfire into him!’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Simon was almost home again. The events of the last days were, happily, beginning to fade as he rode along the ridge that wound its way to the castle and his own home.
‘Sir?’
‘What, Hugh?’
‘Were you serious, like, about me staying on here when you go to Dartmouth?’
‘Yes. I don’t want to lose you and your support, but I’d rather that than force you so far away.’
‘Oh.’
They reached the yard before his house, and Simon dropped thankfully from his mount. He strode into the house. There, in his hall, he saw his daughter and a youth.
‘Ah. Um… Edith…’
‘Oh! Father!’ she cried, and ran into his arms. ‘You were gone so long. Do you know Peter? He’s apprentice to Master Harold, the merchant. Peter, this is my father.’
‘Sir, er, Bailiff, er, er…’
Simon was ready to blast the fellow for coming here and upsetting the nature of his homecoming, but then he thought again. The lad was gentle, devoted to Edith, from the way he watched her with a hound’s eyes, and if his clothing was anything to go by, his master was wealthy. There were many worse suitors whom Edith could have chosen. He was not, thank God, a priest or an already married man. That was greatly in his favour.
‘I am pleased to meet you, and here’s my hand on that,’ Simon said warmly. ‘Please, take a seat and have a little wine. Hugh? HUGH! Wine here.’
He settled back in his seat, gratefully accepting the cup that Hugh brought to him, and sighed contentedly. His daughter looked very happy, he thought, glancing at Edith, not that she noticed his look; she had eyes only for her man.
Peter, he mused. The same name as his son. Perhaps there was a sign there. Maybe this Peter was to be trusted as a son. And perhaps, he thought, it was no sign at all but merely the fluke of chance. Someone else favoured that saint’s name over all the others.
It would be good to have a son to whom he could speak as an equal, a fellow who would give his daughter a happy home and children, but Simon still felt dubious. This lad was too young. Hell and damnation: Edith was too! She’d been in love with so many others in the last year or two. He watched them covertly. There was something between them, he noted. Edith looked relaxed, and mature. Surprisingly mature.
Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. She was old enough to marry, to bear her own children, to live with her husband. Simon was the one who was confused about his age and position. He saw a middle-aged man in the mirror, but still felt young. And now, after the case of the mad monk at Gidleigh, he was still more confused. Giving Hugh the freedom to stay with his wife was not something he regretted, but it was a grim thought that he would have to live without Hugh when he moved with his wife to Dartmouth.
Dartmouth! He pursed his lips. That would be a while now. The Abbot wouldn’t mind, because any churchman’s first responsibility had to be to the cure of souls, but Simon did not look forward to telling his master that he would be grateful for a little time free so that he could make a penitential journey. Simon would still move to Dartmouth, but Abbot Robert must allow him to go on pilgrimage first.
The idea of travelling to Spain was daunting, but curiously attractive too. He had heard much of the countries over the sea from Baldwin, and there was a tingling delight at the thought of going and seeing them. It was alarming and exciting all at once. And he certainly owed thanks to God. He and Baldwin had been in danger too many times over the last year. It was time to give thanks.
His soul needed cleansing. He would go with Baldwin on the long journey to Spain. And while he was gone, he thought, surreptitiously eyeing his daughter and Peter once more, perhaps this fellow’s father would take care of his daughter. Hugh would remain and protect the house and Simon’s wife until Simon’s return.
His wife. Right now he was more scared of telling his wife this news than he ever had been during the battle at the castle.
Roger Scut grunted with the effort as he lifted one end of the long plank into place in the socket of the wall. It fitted, he thought, and went to the other end, raising that too. Balancing it on his shoulder, he started up the ladder to set it into the corresponding socket on the opposite wall, but as he climbed, the angle of the ladder made the plank move. It teetered and dropped, all but pulling him from the ladder.
He let his end fall and sto
od on the ladder without speaking. If he had opened his mouth, he knew that only expletives would have erupted from it. Better by far to remain silent. Only when his temper had returned to an even level did he sniff, clear his throat, and climb back down to the ground.
‘Master cleric! Would you like some help?’
‘Osbert, if I could fall on my knees and shower your feet with kisses, I would do so for that offer, but I fear my knees are a little barked and my back is twisted. If I fell to my knees, I might not be able to rise again.’
Osbert grinned. He had a slash in his flank where a man-at-arms had thrust at him after he opened the door to the hall, but it was healing nicely, according to his physician.
‘I can at least hold one end of the plank up there.’
With his help Roger Scut soon had the timber up. This was the first piece of the roof, the long plank that rested on the two highest points of the walls, and against which he could start to position the roof trusses. ‘That’s better!’ he approved, hands on his hips, when he was once more on the ground and could look up at the new timber.
‘You’re sure the walls will take the weight again? The fire was fierce here.’
‘With God’s support, this little house will remain secure,’ Roger Scut said with a confidence he did not feel. ‘May I offer you some bread and cheese? I have ale, too.’
Osbert nodded at the mention of ale, and the two men went to the monk’s little shelter, a rude dwelling built of branches and twigs with mud caking the gaps to make it windproof. There had been much rain in the last few days, and Osbert knew Scut was having to replenish the mud daily.
‘Now!’ the monk said, leaning back against a post when he had set out all his food and a jug of ale. ‘Tell me all. How is your wife?’
Osbert smiled shyly. ‘She is well, I thank you. Her face is healing, and Lady Annicia has promised us the mill when it is completed. I hope to be able to finish the roof next week.’
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 46