Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

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 stood 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.’

Roger Scut nodded, outwardly content, although in reality he was burning with jealousy. It had taken him so long to clear all the debris from the chapel, and all the effort had been his own. Others were not keen to see the little building restored. They preferred to think of it as defiled.

‘If you wanted,’ Os said haltingly, ‘I think I could persuade some men to help you.’

‘There is no need. They think this place is evil, but it’s not true. This is a house of God. With care and love, it can rise again. Especially if the monk who lives here can prove himself to the community.’

‘Will you remain?’

‘Come, Os! I married you, what more do you want from me!’ Scut laughed.

Osbert gave a fleeting smile. He had married Flora at the first opportunity.

After the attack on the castle, he had left the place and gone back to his old home. The news that Ben had given him, that Huward had been a cuckold and Flora was likely Sir Ralph’s and not the miller’s, had struck him dumb with horror. He had wanted her so badly. After discovering the power of his love for her, after wanting her sister for so long, learning that he was prevented by that most simple barrier from ever marrying her had all but destroyed him.

And then, soon after the battle at the castle, this same Scut had hurried to his home and berated him for being so feeble-minded that he couldn’t see that he himself looked in no way like Sir Ralph. It wasn’t something he’d have thought of.

As soon as the news had sunk in, he had dropped his tools and sped to the castle, where Flora had been living as maid to Lady Annicia. Scut had followed him, and with the priest at his side, he had stated his desire to marry Flora. Then, when he had fallen silent, he had stood gazing at her with mingled dread, at the thought of a refusal, and expectation. He was sure she wouldn’t refuse him. And at last, when she dropped her eyes and told him in front of the witnesses that she was pleased to marry him now, he had felt as though his breast would burst for sheer joy.

‘I am the happiest man in the world, monk.’

Roger Scut paused. He had been gulping a mazer of ale, and now he slowly lowered the cup. It was automatic. He couldn’t help but gaze down his nose at the lad, the great, lumbering oaf, who sat with that beatific smile all but splitting his head in two. His mouth opened to let slip a scathing comment, but he closed his mouth and instead, smiled in return. It was not his place to be contemptuous of peasants. He had no right.

That point had been made abundantly clear when he had met the representative of the Bishop. It was Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton, who appeared at the castle a day or two after Sir Baldwin himself had gone, and held a meeting with Roger. It had not been a pleasant meeting. Much of Roger Scut’s behaviour was known to the Dean, and Roger had not been able to deny the main thrust of the accusation, which was that he had been seeking to win money to the detriment of his holy duties. It would have to cease.

‘It is over, Dean,’ Roger had said. ‘I will not forget the lessons which I have learned here. In future, I shall be humble and obedient. Trust me, I do not intend ever trying to seek preferment. Rather, I would take a small church far from anywhere and live the quiet life of the recluse.’

The Dean had smiled at that. A thin, calculating smile, and at the sight of it, Roger Scut had felt his cods freeze.

‘Very well. But there is no need to find a church, when we have a chapel that needs repairing. See to that, and we shall be pleased enough. Let the rebuilding be your penance for your pride and greed. And when it is done, we shall consider where you may best serve the Church.’

Os was finished. He had to go to the castle now to speak to the carpenter and Lady Annicia’s steward about the timbers he needed for the mill, and he rose and gave a fond farewell to the priest. For him, Roger Scut was a generous, kindly man who deserved respect.

It was odd. Roger felt quite warm inside as Os left. It was as though a man’s wholehearted respect was enough in itself to cheer him. A curious thought. He went back to his chapel and stared up at the single beam. It was good to see the beginning of his efforts. Next he must set the roof trusses in place, each leaning at opposite sides of the main beam, and begin the laborious task of nailing each rafter in place. Someone else must bind the thatch.

So much labour. He had already ripped his tunic in three places, and there was no bath here. If he wished to clean himself, he must mortify his flesh in the freezing stream. Yet oddly enough, there was something about this place, something that had struck a chord in his breast…

Hearing a mew, he bent and picked up his kitten. Os had brought it a week ago. Strange, he’d never owned a pet, but this small, frail-feeling creature was oddly comforting.

In fact, if he wasn’t ever allowed back to Crediton… he wasn’t sure that he’d care.

Thomas sat in the alehouse feeling pleased with life. His arm still smarted from a long raking cut that had opened it almost to the elbow from the wrist, and there was a startlingly bright coloured bruise on his flank where a cudgel had connected during the battle at Gidleigh Castle, but apart from that he felt well enough.