Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

As his ale arrived, he saw that another figure had appeared in the doorway – Godwen. This was the first time he’d seen him since the attack on the castle. Godwen had been badly pounded, even with Thomas guarding him, and he’d been taken to the Lady Annicia’s hall to be rested and nursed while Thomas had gone off to Crediton with messages for the Dean, and had been kept there. Other, unwounded messengers had been sent back.

Slowly, Godwen walked down the steps towards Thomas.

‘You want to sit?’ Thomas said.

‘Yes. Thanks.’

It was rare indeed to see Godwen short of a sharp comment or patronising remark, and Thomas felt his eyes widen. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Thanks.’

Thomas hailed the woman who owned the place and sat back, carefully avoiding Godwen’s red-rimmed eye. They had been friends for a little while, it was true, but their families had been on terms of near-hostility for many years; and then when Thomas was successful in his wooing of Bea, he had fallen out with Godwen. Shortly afterwards, Godwen had married another girl – as though to show that he was perfectly capable of winning whichever woman he wished, but the marriage was not a success. His Jen was a lively, attractive woman, but Godwen had always wanted Bea, and that was that. It was the end of their friendship.

‘I heard,’ Godwen said, grimly staring into his cup. ‘The Keeper told me today. You saved my life.’

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. If asked, he couldn’t have explained why he had leaped into the fray to rescue Godwen from those mercenaries, but there was a vague anger at the prospect that his own personal enemy, whose enmity had been forged in the hot fire of his youth, should be taken away by someone who had never even so much as thumbed his nose at Godwen before. That was unbearable. Even Godwen deserved to die at the hand of someone who truly hated him, rather than someone who simply saw him as an irritating obstacle.

‘Thank you.’

‘No matter.’

‘It is to me.’

‘Forget it,’ Thomas said. He lifted his cup and took a long draught.

His offhand manner irked Godwen. ‘There’s no need to be so ungracious. You jumped in there, when I’d been knocked down, and stood over me. You could have been shot… anything. I appreciate it, I tell you!’

‘It was nothing.’

‘You just can’t bear me thanking you, can you?’ Godwen hissed. ‘You great dough-laden tub of lard, why can’t I just say thanks?’

Thomas slowly turned to peer at him. ‘Tub of what?’

‘You heard me. God’s faith! You are intolerable.’

‘At least I don’t try long words and such to confuse folk.’

‘Aha! Yes, lack of education is a virtue in your family, isn’t it?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my family.’

‘No, nothing that a dose of rat poison wouldn’t cure.’

‘And how is the lovely Jen?’ Thomas jeered. He couldn’t help it. It was the effect of sitting next to this man. ‘By Christ’s wounds, I wish I’d left you to be trampled. It’s all you’re good for, anyway. Useless barrel of shit.’

‘You call me a barrel of shit?’

‘Well, tell me if I’m wrong, but I think you’d have to be a barrel. Shit on its own wouldn’t stand so tall,’ Thomas explained politely.

Godwen’s face blanched. He snapped his head to Thomas, winced and hissed as a pain shot through his temples, and jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Right, let’s go out now, then, and talk about this with steel!’

‘I’m not fighting you !’

‘Aha! Scared of me, are you?’

‘No. But I fear what the Keeper would say if he came here and learned we’d been fighting.’

‘Oh, it’s only fear of losing some blood, is it? If you’re scared, leave your dagger here, and we’ll fight bare-handed. I could whip you with a hand bound behind my back!’

‘You?’ Thomas leered, slowly letting his gaze travel the length of Godwen’s body.

Godwen stood, tottered, grabbed at the table, then spat, ‘Now. Outside, you bastard!’

Thomas rose. As soon as he did so, the pain stabbed at his flank again, and it was with a hand resting on his bruised and broken ribs that he followed Godwen. The rest of the ale-house, nothing loath, went too.

In later years, men still talked about that fight. The way that Godwen threw the first punch, missed, and almost fell on his face; how Thomas aimed a kick at his arse as he passed, slipped in a pat of dog turd, and fell to sit in it. With a roar, he was up again, and then moaning, grabbed at his side. By then Godwen was back, and he ran at Thomas. The other man moved away, but not quickly enough, and Godwen caught his bad side with a flailing fist, which made Thomas give a bellow of rage and agony, while Godwen himself was little better pleased, since he had jarred his own badly damaged shoulder.

That was the extent of the battle. Both withdrew, their honour proven, if not entirely to either man’s satisfaction. Both limping, they returned to their drinks. Studiously avoiding each other’s faces, they drained their ale. This time Godwen replenished their drinks, and while neither spoke, there was a curious expression on both faces. Later, when Baldwin questioned the alewife, she said that it was as though the natural balance of their humours had been restored. The two had been extremely uncomfortable with their imposed status as lifesaver and man owing gratitude.

‘I shall speak to them and tell them never to brawl in public,’ Baldwin said. He was preparing to go on his pilgrimage, and he didn’t want the trouble of this silly fight. It was beneath him.

‘I wouldn’t if I was you,’ the alewife said sagely.

‘Why not?’

‘They’re back to normal now. They’ll snarl and bicker like two tomcats, but when all’s said and done, they’re happy again. Just leave them be.’

‘But shouldn’t I make Godwen prove his gratitude?’ Baldwin wondered.

If he had asked Thomas, he would have had a speedy reply. Both men wanted what they already had. The certainty of a local enemy. It was so much easier than an uncertain one.

Sir Baldwin patted his servant on the back as he glanced about the room for the last time. ‘Take good care of them, Edgar. I won’t be gone that long.’

‘No? Travelling from here to Spain?’ his servant scoffed. ‘I only fear that you’ll come upon footpads or felons on the way, without me to guard you.’

‘There will be plenty of other travellers, I have no doubt.’

‘Perhaps. So long as none of them are more dangerous than others we have known.’

Baldwin smiled and pulled on a heavy riding cloak, as his wife entered the room.

‘My love! Please be careful,’ Jeanne cried.

‘It would be worse if I were travelling alone, but with Simon, I am bound to be safe. Anyway, we shall have many companions. The road to Santiago is filled with pilgrims.’

‘Then farewell, my love. Return to us soon,’ she said.

He grabbed her and hugged her closely. She was brought up to be restrained and not show her emotions, but he could see the tears trembling on her eyelids, and he loved her for not making a show at his departure. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘I shall be back soon.’

‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘And don’t delay. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can do to exorcise this demon?’

‘No, my love, nothing else. I have killed an innocent. My pilgrimage, I hope, will wash away that guilt.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘Why then, my Lady, I shall return here to you and live disgracefully for the rest of my days,’ he said lightly before he hugged her again. ‘But I will come back safely, and I shall be freed from this sense of sin, I swear,’ he added.