Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Many a priest has been accused of killing off his woman when she grew pregnant,’ Piers said sorrowfully as the embarrassed guard set her head more naturally and draped the jack once more over her.

Sir Ralph swallowed his sadness and raked his spurs along his horse’s flanks. The mount burst into action, throwing a large pool of black water up into the air. On they went, into Throwleigh and then north and east, the dogs eagerly following a scent, tails waving like so many saplings in the wind, occasionally baying as the excitement got to them.

‘Huward’s not with us?’ Sir Ralph shouted.

‘No, sir. I think Huward would tear him limb from limb, if he was to catch him,’ Piers responded. All too true. If Huward caught Mark, the lad wouldn’t last two minutes. At least this way, with a posse, Mark could be captured and taken back to Sir Ralph’s goal.

‘Bad. You should have brought him along.’

Piers opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut. In that moment, he realised that Sir Ralph intended executing the priest as soon as they caught him. He felt the urge to protest, but there was no point. Sir Ralph was within his rights to slaughter a fleeing murderer. An outlaw could be beheaded on sight, and there was no more obvious felon than a man who murdered a pregnant woman and then fled with her blood on his hands. Except that Mark was a priest.

‘Where can he be heading?’ Sir Ralph cried with frustration as the dogs took them eastwards, towards Frog Mill. ‘This goes nowhere.’

Piers himself had little enough idea of the direction of the roads from here. In his youth he had once travelled to Oakhampton, but apart from that one journey, he had never been further than Chagford and the local market there. He’d never had the need of a longer trip.

Today the hounds led them down the track away from Throwleigh, but suddenly they bounded off north, through a large pasture shared by the vill, until they came to the Blackaton Brook. There they milled uncertainly.

‘Devious scroyle!’ the knight muttered as they waited for the hounds to pick up the scent. ‘He’s done this a’purpose. Running into the water to hide his trail.’

‘What shall we do, sir?’ Piers asked. If he had the choice, he’d head downstream a way, with some dogs on each side of the water. He doubted that the priest would have gone north and west, back towards the moors themselves. That was too dangerous. Only men who had grown up here knew the safe routes through the shifting mires, and the priest would surely be too fearful to attempt such a path. No, he must surely have followed this water until it met the Teign, and maybe hurried on the banks of that river towards the sea. Or until he met with more outlaws, he told himself gloomily.

Sir Ralph agreed with him. ‘We’ll go down the stream here. He’s only a damned priest, not an experienced felon. He isn’t used to hard walking. Chances are we’ll find him down here, lying on the bank dozing. Come!’

Piers nodded and they went down to the stream, wading slowly through it where they must, at those places where the vegetation on either bank was impenetrable, at other times riding at the water’s edge and watching the dogs all the while. Sir Ralph egged them on as keenly as any huntsman after a hart, hoping to catch sight of the murderer. He wanted the man who had killed the young maid.

Piers felt more ambivalent. He had liked Mary – who hadn’t? She was a bright little thing, with a saucy manner when she flirted, but generally a kindly soul if she wasn’t annoyed; if her temper was fired, she could be as ferocious as any alewife. Yet mostly she was a good, comely member of the vill, and Piers would have liked to see her murderer caught. His only concern was, if the knight should catch her killer, he might well run him through for what he had done to Mary, one of his own peasants. Piers didn’t want that. He was content to see the killer pay for his crime, but it was wrong to execute a priest. They had protection from God, and Piers wasn’t sure he could stand aside quietly and see Mark struck down.

For him it was a relief when, after hunting the priest for many hours, Sir Ralph finally called a halt to their search. Men had already gone to the other Hundreds to warn them that there was a renegade priest on the loose who had murdered his lover and his child. All should be aware, and all should have arranged for their own posses to search for Mark.

It struck Piers as odd, though, how badly Sir Ralph had taken the priest’s escape. Once he realised that he couldn’t catch Mark, he slumped in his saddle like a man who had lost everything. If he hadn’t been a knight, Piers might have thought he was weeping. And all, Piers thought cynically, because a priest had robbed him of his property. For now, though, as the sky darkened, there was no more they could do.

For now they must wait and see what news was brought to them.

That night Sampson huddled, arms wrapped about himself, staring into the fire smouldering and hissing on the floor before him. Every so often a log cracked and spat out a small flame, throwing sparks far. One landed on him. Sampson didn’t care. He flicked it away, his eyes bleared with tears as he thought of the girl: the lovely girl, her with the smiling face; her who radiated kindness when she spoke to him.

He hadn’t thought to see her. No. When he heard the steps he wanted to hide, but there was the sound of a man ploughing, the noise of chopping in a field, and they scared him. They might attack him. Men did. He didn’t know what to do. No, so he turned and limped unsteadily on his bad leg, until he was hidden around a bend. Out of sight. Safer.

There were thick roots in the hedge here. Clumsily, he pulled himself up until he could force his way through the hedge and topple onto the thick grasses of the pasture beyond. He rolled over and stared up at the grey clouds. He was safe. His head resting on the clean, cold grass, he panted.

Steps approached. Loud. A man’s. He turned over, keeping flat to the soil, as though by making it impossible to see the traveller, he would render himself invisible.

More steps. Lighter, softer. Must be a girl’s. Not like the heavy tread of the other.

‘Mark! I’ve been to find you.’

‘My dear.’

‘That’s a cool welcome for a lover.’

He didn’t want to hear. Sampson knew them. Both of them. A hollowness came to his throat. He felt tears filling his eyes, couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t run. They’d hear.

‘I am a priest, Mary. What do you expect from me?’

‘A little affection, Mark. Am I so repellent now? You didn’t think so before.’

‘That was before I realised what we had done.’

‘Your voice – you sound so cold!’

‘How else can I be? Do you realise what could happen to me?’

‘Would you like me to pretend nothing’s wrong, then? Pretend this isn’t real?’

‘Listen, I have heard that there are potions, drugs, which can help us. Just take a drink, and all the problems go away…’

‘I’ll have nothing to do with such a thing!’ she burst out. ‘What – you, a priest, want me to take something to murder our child?’

‘No! Not murder – simply make it never live. It’s not a real person until it’s born,’ Mark mumbled. He sounded like he knew he was lying.

Sampson understood all right. He had seen them, hadn’t he? Oh, yes. Almost a year ago, he’d seen them. They’d come out from Mark’s dwelling, laughing. And then she had said something and darted away even as his hand grabbed for her. He missed her, but caught her wimple, and it came away. When she turned, her long dark hair was glinting and gleaming in the sun, streaming away like a dark smoke over her shoulder. She was running now, towards the trees that bounded the path to the river, and Mark suddenly bellowed in raw pleasure, ducked his head and pelted after her.