Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

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!’

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.