Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Baldwin nodded, but he could feel the revulsion in his belly. Hurting anyone unnecessarily was repellent to him, but to harm a child while still in the womb was surely the worst crime. His voice was harsh as he said, ‘It is not unknown for even a priest to do such a thing.’

‘Surely it is very rare,’ Roger Scut protested.

Baldwin ignored him. ‘What makes you think he might have come this way?’

‘There was a theft of bread from a farm,’ Joel said, then explained how he had heard that the day before, there had been another theft of food and some ale reported from a farm near Spreyton. ‘I may be wrong, but he could be coming this way, Keeper.’

‘Then we must search for him!’ Baldwin said decisively, smacking a hand against his sword hilt.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ Roger Scut said smoothly, his hand encompassing the piles of documents still lying on the table. ‘We must complete this work before you ride away.’

‘I am Keeper. I have a duty to find this man.’

‘No, he is a cleric and therefore not your responsibility. Perhaps this fellow could ride to the Dean of the church here and advise him that our Brother has gone abroad. We shall have to learn why, of course.’

Baldwin barely acknowledged him. Seeing a watchman in the doorway, he said, ‘Godwen, I shall be with you as soon as my horse is saddled. Raise the Hue with your horn and call for all the men with horses.’

‘Sir Baldwin.’ Roger Scut leaned his head back and peered at Baldwin down his podgy nose as though it was a cocked and ready crossbow. His voice was so oily, Baldwin could have used it to soften twenty-year-old leather. ‘We have much still to do. Surely a man of your importance need not ride about for no reason? Especially when we have so much ground still to cover in here.’

‘No reason?’ Baldwin gave him a look up and down, and made no effort to conceal his annoyance. ‘Brother, I am responsible for the King’s Peace. Having a man wandering the land stealing from every house he comes upon is not conducive to maintaining the Peace. Apart from his offences, this priest may be caught and disturbed while in someone’s property, and could be attacked – either he would add another murder to his crimes, or he might even die himself. I will not have that! Godwen, do as I said. Brother, I suggest you go through the cases in my absence, and we shall discuss them later.’

He spun on his heel and swept out from the room, a little ashamed at his sense of victory over the fool of a clerk, but mostly pleased to have escaped sitting in Roger Scut’s company any longer. Except, as soon as he realised the source of his pleasure, he felt himself contemptible: he was no more than a hypocrite who was willing to use his official position and arguments of protecting others to evade an afternoon spent in the company of a man like Scut.

Mark shivered and wrapped his arms about his body once more as he stumbled and slipped onwards, hardly aware of his cracked flesh, the purple colour of his fingers and toes, the shivers which made his whole body convulse like a man in his death throes. His only aim was to escape South Tawton and get to Exeter, his sole guide was the sun, but fear made him avoid roads and lanes in case he was spotted. Instead he crossed fields, concealed himself in woods, made use of narrow runs created by deer and foxes, and tried to keep out of sight of farmers and other peasants.

As he trod along yet another tortuous path at the side of a stream, he turned and stared back, still fearing pursuit; however, there was no sound but the clattering of water over stones and occasional birdsong.

It was awful. He had stolen food and drink, he had worn his feet to a blistered mess, and he had no idea what would become of him. The more he considered it, the more the hollow fear grew in his belly at the thought of telling Bishop Walter about his crimes. Tears of self-pity sprang into his eyes again, and he snivelled miserably. His life was devastated, and why? Because the Bishop had chosen to send him to Gidleigh, that’s why! It was damned unfair that he should lose his good name and honour this way. If he hadn’t been dropped in that midden of a vill, with no other monks for company, he’d never have even noticed Mary. And now look at him.

The trees were thick down here, growing close together, and as he thrust himself forward, Mark could feel the brambles catching at his habit, pulling it apart thread by thread. He had a thick stick in his hand which he had fashioned from a young sapling, and he used it to prod aside the heavier clumps and smash down the thinner, but even so his progress was slow.

God’s dear bones, but how could this have happened? All because he discovered lust after so many years. It was mad. Poor Mary! If it had been possible, Mark would have been happy to live with her, but that was impossible for a priest who intended advancement. Only a feeble-minded, semi-literate cleric of the type who would have been content to live in Throwleigh could have done that. And God preserve any priest who was found by Bishop Walter enjoying the comfort of a woman. He would soon be exiled to a much worse place – although how anywhere could be worse than Gidleigh was more than Mark could imagine.

Grimly, he recognised that Bishop Walter would no doubt find it easy. It would be either a miserable monastery on a bleak, windswept moor, or a church on an isolated island where he would be forced to live a hermit-like existence.

Well, he wouldn’t accept it. He had never committed any form of crime until he’d been forced to. He hadn’t meant to hurt poor Mary. He’d only slapped her – a little hard, yes, but not enough to hurt. Not enough to kill. Certainly not to kill, he repeated, as though his denial could reverse the events of two days ago. It was only the frustration, that was all. It had made him lash out. But he wouldn’t hurt her on purpose! Not her!

‘I didn’t mean to, God,’ he whispered, but God brought no comfort. How could He? Mark knew that behind him, somewhere, his own father was now chasing after him, bent on his capture and death. God could bring no solace that might ease that horror.

Piers the Reeve watched the Coroner leave, then hitched up his hose and belt with a grunt, making his way back along the lane to where the body still lay, her head slack and loose where her neck had been broken.

‘Come on, then. Better get her up to the chapel,’ he sighed.

There were three others from the vill still there. Huward, the miller, her father, was keeping the tears at bay, while trying to comfort his wife, Gilda. Sir Ralph had already ridden off, slashing with his whip at any folk who stood in his way, but Piers could rely on Osbert and Elias.

That poor fool Sampson had told his story haltingly. He’d seen Mark and Mary, heard Mark apparently thump her, gag, and run. That was clear enough, then. They were justified in going after the bastard. Sampson hadn’t heard the neck break, but the feebleminded dolt had probably run off after hearing the punch.

‘Let’s lift her, then,’ he said. He was glad he’d gone to the chapel before coming to this inquest. It had given him a chance to calm himself before the horror of the inquest, not that it had been his reason for going there. He’d gone to tell the men who were waiting there in case Mark should return, that they could forget their vigil. The priest had obviously made it clean away and they were needed for the jury at the inquest.

It was strange there without the young priest. The lean-to shack where Mark had lived was warm with the fire that the guards had set blazing in the hearth, but there was no comfort in the place. It was a bachelor’s house, merely a chamber in which an exhausted man could rest from his toil. Piers thought it felt too much like his own home: bleak without a woman’s touch to enliven it. Since his own wife had died, he was more aware of that lack than before. While Agnes lived, he assumed that the comfort he enjoyed was no more than that which all men had as their due, but then she died. A disease attacked her, and in the space of a few days, she was gone. Since then, he had come to realise that his contentment with her company was in reality due to her. A vast emptiness had opened in his life once she was buried. The sparkle had gone, and he thought, looking around Mark’s little cell, that there was much the same atmosphere of loss here.