Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

He noticed that Thomas glared at the place. ‘What is the matter, Thomas? You look as though you feel that place is the haunt of demons!’

Thomas said nothing, merely pulled his horse’s head around and trotted away.

‘It’s the Brothers, Sir Baldwin,’ Godwen said with a chuckle at his side. ‘He never liked them, not since they started making Jack’s life harder. You see, the landlord who keeps Jack on his toes, he’s a Brother too.’

‘What is his name?’

‘He’s a tight-arse, so it’s appropriate, really. He’s called Roger Scut.’

He wanted to stay. Huward’s little angel had meant so much to him, he really wanted to remain there by her body all through the long night’s vigil, but he had others to think of. His wife would remain here in the church, as would little Flora and some of the other women from the vill, but he was finding the atmosphere stifling. The smell of the incense was getting into his throat and irritating his eyes. He could have coped with it, but there was nothing to be done here, while he had something he desperately needed to do, ideally alone.

If he could have, he would have gone after that priest. He would have torn the devil limb from limb, pulled out his entrails and scattered them, ripped open his breast and fed his beating heart to the crows! That puppy would have suffered so much, he’d have begged for death. Perhaps he would still have an opportunity to kill him, too. If he was caught, there was a good chance that he’d be returned to the place where he committed his crimes. A double murder, mother and child! Hideous.

The priest at Gidleigh hadn’t wanted to let them in at first. He’d said that he couldn’t deal with the bodies of people from the next parish, especially women who died in childbirth. And the baby itself was not baptised, so it couldn’t be allowed in the church. Huward had squared up to the skinny little streak of piss, and the other men of the vill were with him, muttering and cursing the priest so volubly that he retreated nervously, fingering his rosary. It was lucky Piers was there. Before Huward could set his daughter’s body down, Piers appeared at his side, speaking soothingly, but quickly. He pointed out that the priest was standing in the way of a young girl’s soul if he refused to bury her. In the end the priest agreed, but more because of the grim-faced men who watched him while Huward shoved him from his path and carried his daughter to the communal hearse, than because of the force of Piers’s arguments.

‘She lies here until she is buried by you, here in your graveyard, Priest,’ Huward said calmly. He was proud of that. He wasn’t angry, didn’t shout or scream, just stated what would happen. His daughter had made her last journey. And his grandchild.

He walked from the place and took a deep breath. Although he wanted to sob, he couldn’t. Maybe later. For now, it was hard to believe that his daughter had in truth been ripped from him. She was gone, for ever. He would only see her again on the day that all the dead were called to God. Perhaps even the priest who had killed her would be there… No. God couldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t make Mary have to see her murderer in Heaven, even if he swore his repentance.

Huward walked slowly from the church. There hung about him, ever so faint in the still air, the subtle odour of her. That buttery, sweet smell that he recognised so well. He had noticed it when she was suckling, and it had never left her. Not even now, in death. He sniffed at the shoulder of his jacket, then knelt, falling forward on one hand, the other covering his eyes while racking sobs convulsed his whole body, and yet still the tears wouldn’t fall. It was as though her death had removed some part of him, so that while he could feel his despair, he couldn’t fully appreciate the grief that she deserved. His angel, his little darling, was gone.

He remembered her life in a strange sequence. It was like a series of flashes, pulses of life bursting into his memory: the babe suckling; older, smiling and laughing as she gulped down meat already chewed and softened by her mother; a toddler who had taken a tumble, her knees all bloody, bravely trying to stop her sobbing; a child with her first illness, spewing and wailing with the pain and indignity of throwing up; a young woman proud of the new ribbon in her hair; a girl holding up her first blackened attempt at baking bread with the smile on her face that said she knew her father, if no one else in the world, would love it. She knew that if she were to hand him a crisp of charcoal, he would declare it delicious and swallow it, if it meant she would be pleased.

The scenes passed through his mind in an apparently endless procession. Mary helping at harvest, brushing the hair from her brow with a smile as she took a jug of cider from him; sitting and staring at her father as he told her ever more unlikely stories; that curious, still, serious expression she occasionally wore; the beaming smile; the bellow of laughter; the soft, gentle kindness of the perfect nurse.

Gone. All gone. His life was shredded in the face of his unbearable loss.

Wiping at his face, he stood, and now he set off with a fresh vigour and determination. He went north, down into the valley and through the ford at the bottom, then up to the chapel. He tested the door. It was unlocked.

Inside, he felt the anger rise until it seemed about to strangle him. It was like a thick fist in his throat that was slowly clenching, and as it did so, it cut off the air from his lungs. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was return to his home. When he turned to shut the door, he almost did so. The urge to leave this place came upon him, and he nearly opened it again and fled.

It was the memory that stopped him – of that feeble, pimply youth the monk who had served the people here, and later served her , Huward’s daughter. And murdered her. That thought brought to his mind’s eye a recollection of Mary as he would always remember her, held up in his arms, smiling down at him; happy to see him, full of love. As he always had been whenever he saw her.

It was enough to stiffen his resolve. Although the altar stood at the far end of the room like a physical reproof and warning, he slammed the door and stared about him. There was little enough in here that looked as though it would serve his purpose, and he pursed his lips. Undaunted, he went to the chest at the back of the church and tested it. The lid was unlocked. When he threw it open, he saw that it was full of priestly garb. Even to touch Mark’s clothing made him feel sick, as though it was defiled and could pollute him; it was foul, just like the soul of the evil priest who had worn it. Rich cloth, designed to enhance the aura of he who wore it, with silken threads and expensive velvets, had served only to conceal his true nature. They were a sham, false stuff that Mark could don or doff as it suited him, so that when he wanted a counterfeit integrity or honour, he could throw it on with these vestments.

Huward pulled the stuff free, making a pile near him. Then he looked about and found a small cupboard. In it was a book, and he pulled at the leaves of parchment, tugging them free and throwing them onto the clothes before shoving the whole lot into the middle of the room.

There must be more things to burn, and he went across to the priest’s little home next door, finding just what he needed: the store of faggots and logs. Carrying them through to the church, he dropped the faggots on top of the small mound, and then he began the arduous task of striking sparks from his flint and his knife. Shreds of lint began to smoke, tiny wisps rising in the still evening air, and soon he had a small flame. Carefully he tended it, adding small pieces of material and parchment, before throwing the first of the faggots on. In Mark’s house he had found a little oil lamp too, and this he hurled at the fire together with the earthenware jug that held spare oil. There was a whoosh! and it all began to shimmer with the flames. Then there was a roaring noise, and Huward could feel his brows begin to contract in the enormous heat.