Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

The young priest wiped his mouth on his sleeve, went to a tree-stump and slumped against it. Until today his whole life had been marked out: he would go on his journey, and when he returned, he would go to the university. From there, he would take up a senior position with Bishop Walter at Exeter, or perhaps, if the good Bishop was still Treasurer, then maybe Mark might be able to find a position with him in the King’s Exchequer in London. His future had seemed bright and ripe for promotion; now all was lost, and all because he couldn’t keep his tarse in his hose.

It felt as though the entire world had rejected him. Until today his life had been untroubled except by loneliness, but now his future had been snatched from him. His past friends would be his companions no longer; the teachers and choir at Exeter Cathedral would not stop to talk as had been their wont. All the delights he had anticipated, all the pleasures, all the duties, had been cruelly snatched away. His life was ruined purely because of one error – the girl, and a thoughtless fist.

He could see the pain in her eyes as soon as he struck her. She had fallen and he had hesitated, sickened, before bolting. Later, when he came to his senses and returned, there she was, lying on the ground, her legs parted and blood, blood everywhere ! He’d nearly thrown up on the spot, revolted by the sight of his lover, exposed like a slab of pork on the butcher’s table.

Standing there, his mind seemed to work with an immediate clarity. Everyone would think he had intentionally killed her. He hadn’t, he’d only lashed out at her, but that wouldn’t be enough for the locals here, Christ’s blood, no! They would appeal him. He was an outsider who had got one of their women pregnant and wanted to avoid the shame and expense of an illegitimate child.

If he was found, if he was caught, he could claim Benefit of Clergy, demand to be tried in the ecclesiastical court, but he knew he’d be dead long before he could get there. No one in the village would try to protect him. He knew how the place worked: it was Sir Ralph’s manor against the world. They looked upon a man who came from South Tawton as a foreigner, and that was a town only some four miles away. If the Hue was raised against him and he were captured, his life would be worth nothing. What was the value of a foreigner’s life compared to the hurt and sorrow felt by a father for his murdered daughter? Nothing! They would castrate him and hang him from the nearest tree, rather than wait for the Law to take its measured time to consider his case and release him into the Bishop’s hands for trial.

The Bishop’s court. He had been there several times listening to cases; once he had helped make a note of the transcripts of a case. Sitting there before the Bishop’s steward and the clerics who would try the matter, he had felt as though their importance and glory was reflected upon him, just as light from a candle could illuminate the faces of three or four, although it was intended to assist only one man to read.

Once or twice, while the judges were deliberating, he had studied the man who stood so patiently before them. Pale, thin, worn down with work, he had been accused of stealing a sheep from the Cathedral. If he was found guilty, he would be hanged immediately. In his eyes, Mark saw resignation. No shame, no guilt, just a weary acceptance. He didn’t expect sympathy. That was some seven years ago, 1316, and famine was killing people up and down the country: men, women and children lay starving, weakened by malnutrition, their souls weighed down with the grim weather. Oh, what weather! Mark could recall it only with horror. It rained all through the winter, and then on into the summer in those famine years. Harvests failed. Animals collapsed and died. It was as though God Himself had decided to punish the world. First the loss of the Crusader kingdoms, then the announcement of the crimes of the Templars, and now famine, pestilence – and the war in Scotland. No one would consider a man who stole to fill his belly to be deserving of kindness. If he were treated leniently, others would try the same. So he had been hanged.

Never, during that trial, had it occurred to Mark that he might one day stand there himself, pleading his own case. At least he wouldn’t be hanged by the Bishop. Priests could anticipate a less rough form of justice. The penance might be severe, but it would not entail death.

That was the spur that had set his legs running originally. He couldn’t simply wait there to be taken and executed without trying to save himself. He had pelted up Deave Lane, hardly knowing where he was going, through Throwleigh and out towards the mill east of the vill. There was a stream there that flowed from the moors. The Baron would seek him with dogs, he knew. He must escape by evading their noses.

The stream was cold enough to take the breath away, but Mark didn’t care. He splashed on through the water, desperate to put as many miles between him and pursuit as possible. The way was hard, with trees and bushes snagging at his clothes. He had to duck beneath straggling branches, soaking his tunic with water so cold he felt his flesh creep. His chest was constricted, his breath ragged with exertion, and his toes and shins were bruised and barked from falls against rocks and tree trunks. A blackthorn branch was before him now, a sharp spike almost piercing his eye, and his breath sobbed in his throat as he took hold of it, moving it away from his face. His hands were already scratched from a thousand wild roses and brambles, and as he moved on, a spine slid into his palm. In his pain, he let the branch go, and it scraped along his tonsure, two splinters breaking off in his scalp. He wailed with the pain, but he had to continue, driving himself onwards, sploshing through shallows, wading noisily through the deeper waters, until at last he reached a tributary.

It was much smaller, approaching from the north, but it held the merit that the Baron and his posse would surely assume he would continue on the broader reaches of the river if they thought of coming this way. And no matter where this led, he must be out of the jurisdiction of Sir Ralph’s court soon.

He took the turn, but first he spread water over some dry rocks further up, to make it look as though he had continued within the main stream and hadn’t turned away. A little farther still, he grabbed a pair of stout tree limbs near the banks, hoping that a hound would notice it, and the hunters would carry on without turning off.

The tributary was much smaller, and he had to walk carefully to prevent his steps moving outside the water, where they could be seen – or smelled. Saplings and smaller trees fringed the water, and he kept well within their protective screen, peering nervously between the branches while not touching them. After a half mile or more climbing a shallow valley, at the bottom of which lay his stream, he saw some rude dwellings through the trees. A small barton. There was the odour of cattle, and the wind brought the distinct, almost human, stench of pigs’ dung. One house stood higher than the others, but there were four or five stretched below it, all pointing to the top of the hill.

He was exhausted and starved. If only he had made time for a meal before leaving, but he hadn’t. The thought of warmth and food was poignant in his present state, but he dared not ask for help. He wouldn’t cut a very respectable figure in his present sorry state.

Just as he was thinking this, he saw a door open in the nearest house. A short man walked out, stopped, sniffed, and then ambled around the side of his house, a wooden pail in his hand, a dog scurrying at his heels. Before long Mark saw them wandering up a lane, into a pasture, and over to a cow.

Afterwards he would remember it with shame, but at that moment all he could think of was his belly. When he saw the man crouch at the side of the cow, Mark clambered out of the stream and tried to hurry to the house inconspicuously, although after spending so many hours in the cold waters of the streams, he was incapable of speed.