Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Only when he had seen to it that all Mark’s possessions, all his clothing, his bed, his stool, everything, all the little he owned, had been thrown onto the pyre, did he open the door and leave.

He looked back once, when he reached the ford. Even then the sight of the forked, reptilian tongues of fire licking upwards from windows and the door gave him no satisfaction. It was a job that had needed to be done, he considered. That was all. Just something that had to be done. He was getting rid of the evil that had lived there in the chapel.

Turning away, he set off homewards. It was going to be a cold, quiet night tonight, with his wife and daughter sitting vigil over Mary’s body.

The Reeve had seen him go, and wondered whether he should follow his neighbour, but the sight of Huward’s face was enough to put him off. It was undoubtedly the face of a man who sought, and needed, solitude. Companionship would not be welcome.

Instead Piers glanced at Elias. The ploughman was standing at the back of the room, frowning at everyone from beneath his brows as usual, but Piers was sure that his appearance was even more grim than normal. Elias’s expression was that of a man who has newly discovered misgivings about all his neighbours.

Glancing at him again, Piers saw that Elias’s eyes were now upon him , and the hostile expression remained.

With a grunt, Piers rose and crossed the floor to Elias’s side. ‘Come on, what’s the matter?’

‘Who’s asking – my friend of many years or the Lord of the Manor’s Reeve?’

‘What difference does that make?’ Piers asked with frank surprise.

Elias opened his mouth and investigated a loose tooth. He had lost two teeth over the last winter, and was worried that he would soon lose more. It was sometimes the way, he knew. When food was short, people lost their teeth. Soon he’d have to suck all his meals. Everything would have to be liquid. Nothing to chew. He spoke slowly. ‘When you’re my friend, you listen to me as a friend would. When you’re Sir Ralph’s Reeve, you listen to me like a tax-collector – that’s the difference.’

‘I always treat you the same, Elias.’

‘That answers that, then.’

‘What?’ Piers demanded as Elias made to walk away.

‘I need someone I can trust. I can’t trust you if you’ll run to Sir Ralph.’

‘I swear I won’t,’ Piers said, more quietly now. He placed his hand on his breast and gazed at Elias meaningfully. ‘What is this about? Is it Mary?’

‘’Course it is.’

‘Well? What of her?’

Elias looked away. ‘There was others down the lane that day. Osbert was working on the hedge. I saw that hermit, old Surval, too. And a rider.’

Piers felt his heart pounding with more gusto. ‘What of it? Surely the priest must have done it. Why else would he have run off like that?’

‘Why do you think? What if he thought the knight on whose land he lives was responsible for killing poor Mary?’

‘The knight on…’ Swallowing anxiously, Piers glanced about them to see if anyone else had heard Elias’s words. ‘You saw him there?’

‘Sir Ralph. I saw him ride away, a broad smile on his face – the bastard.’

‘When was this? Are you sure it was after she was killed?’

‘I heard something. I didn’t realise until later, but I’m certain of it. I heard her cry out. Then I was turning away, heading back along the next furrow, and it was when I got back that I saw him mounting his horse. He was on that big bugger. His head suddenly appeared above the hedge line.’

‘He could have been riding along and–’

‘Don’t give me that!’ Elias said scathingly. ‘Think I’m as thick as Sampson? If he’d been on his horse all the way along there, I’d have seen his head moving along, wouldn’t I? No, I saw him spring up into the saddle, and he saw me – and smiled. Like he was out for a happy little ride and fancied a–’

It was Piers’s turn to silence Elias. He shot the peasant a look, held up a hand in admonition. ‘I don’t want you to say that, not in my hearing, and not in anyone else’s. It’s a villainous tale, Elias, and it’d get you into trouble.’

‘That’s why he bolted,’ Elias said, a cynical grin twisting his face. ‘The priest wasn’t stupid. He came along a little after, when I was back near the hedge again.’

‘You saw him?’

‘No. But he’s the only man who’s run off, isn’t he?’

‘You’re certain you heard someone running off?’

‘I told you I did.’

‘But you didn’t mention our master at the time,’ Piers said sharply.

‘I missed that out,’ Elias agreed. ‘I like life. It was that priest who ran off.’

‘Why’d he do that if you’re right and Sir Ralph killed her?’ Piers said more quietly.

Elias shrugged. ‘He was a priest, and he got her with child. We’ve all heard of clerks who keep their women but try to kill them when they realise it could hurt them in future. He probably thought we’d all be after his blood. Anyway, he hit her – I’m sure of that. Maybe he was scared then – you know, shocked. Maybe he just saw her lying there and thought he’d actually killed her! He might’ve seen her and bolted.’

‘He should have waited.’

‘What – and let the Hue and Cry behead him in their rage?’ Elias’s smile seemed to hitch up the whole of his beard. ‘You know more about the law than I do, Piers, but I say this: if I was a poor priest like him, I’d not think twice. I’d bolt and make for the woods. Or I’d go to my Bishop. I wouldn’t bugger about here hoping for justice. Not when someone like Huward was hankering for my neck, and not when the man who owns the court was Sir Ralph; the man who’d actually killed the poor girl.’

Baldwin was already up before the landlord, and with the early dawn, he was in the inn’s hall with his sword and dagger, practising thrusts and parries, blocking imaginary blows at his head, at his belly, at his thighs and flanks, each time manoeuvring to keep his feet glued flat on the ground as he blocked, maintaining his position as he swung away. That was strength in a battle: remember, feet firm to give a base from which to strike. The man who moves his feet while striking is the man who will suffer defeat, because he is unbalanced.

When he could feel the sweat running freely, he began his exercises, swinging his weapons from side to side, holding them out at arm’s length and moving them in small circles, or up and down, until the pain in the junction of his shoulder and neck grew too extreme for him to continue. Only then did he set his weapons aside and take a deep breath, gradually relaxing all the tension. He drew himself a bowl of wine from the inn’s bar and, adding water from the pot beside the fire, he sipped the warm drink.

‘Most impressive, Sir Baldwin.’

The knight groaned inwardly. He had hoped to avoid the clerk today. ‘Brother Roger. How pleasing it is to see you.’

Roger Scut was sitting at a bench near the door. ‘I hadn’t expected to find you with your sword drawn at this time of day, Sir Baldwin,’ he said teasingly. ‘I needs must be careful not to upset so warlike a knight.’

Baldwin used his tunic to wipe away the sweat. ‘You should always seek to avoid upsetting a knight. Some do not possess such remarkable calmness of spirit as me.’

‘Haha! I am sure you are quite right in that, Sir Baldwin!’ Roger Scut laughed. He was aiming along his nose again, and that, together with his irritating voice, was already getting to Baldwin.

‘You look damp,’ he remarked through gritted teeth.

‘The weather is inclement,’ Roger replied. ‘The rain is sheeting down, and the wind tries to blow it through you.’