Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Killed her… killed our baby!’ Mark cried despairingly. He bent forward and burst into sobs of despair, exhaustion and self-loathing.

Baldwin watched him cynically. He had witnessed all too many felons who wept and moaned when their guilt was established. Often they would then declare their misery over a momentary lapse, a flaring of anger that resulted in a death. It was usually shame and sorrow for being discovered, in his experience.

And yet there was something about this lad. Mark was like a youngster caught filching a penny for food because he was starving. He watched the fellow, in two minds, then looked at Dean Peter. The older man appeared as doubtful as Baldwin himself.

‘Oh, in God’s own name,’ he exclaimed, ‘damn it all! Peter, could you send a messenger to ride straight to Simon Puttock? Ask him if he could come and help me with this matter. He works for the Abbot of Tavistock, after all. It’s more his duty than mine to save this wretch from the people of his vill.’

‘You mean, you will hand this fellow over to Simon?’ Peter Clifford asked hopefully.

‘I mean I shall go with this fellow and protect him.’

‘I am so glad. I thank you,’ the Dean smiled. And then, ‘When all is done, you must come and speak to me, though. I will need to arrange a penance for your swearing.’

Huward stood, drained his cup, and walked to his door when he heard the footsteps in his yard. He stood silently in the doorway, his thumbs hitched in his belt, watching in silence as Piers approached the house.

‘Morning, Huward.’

‘Reeve.’

Piers was shattered. He’d hardly slept at all. His son had snored after a night of drinking at Mother Cann’s ale-house, but that wasn’t the reason why Piers had thrown his blankets away and dressed in the middle of the night, walking out and sitting on a log near his door, staring up at the clean, bright white stars in the moonless sky. No, it was the peasant’s accusation.

Sir Ralph was a hard bastard. No one who knew him even remotely could doubt that, and Piers could easily imagine that he might have killed the girl. Yes, and raped her too. It was perfectly easy to believe, as it was that he might have ridden away with a smile on his face. Sir Ralph was a killer, when all was said and done. He was used to getting his own way. If a girl thwarted his desires, he was capable of hitting her hard and then breaking her neck.

The worst of it was, if Sir Ralph was guilty, there was nothing that Piers could do. He was the Reeve to Sir Ralph’s court, and the one man who couldn’t be tried in a court was the man who owned it. Piers knew that, and he knew that Sir Ralph would have to be tried in another court, a court that was higher than Sir Ralph’s own. Perhaps the Sheriff’s – except it was too late. Elias had kept his mouth shut, so the Coroner had taken his money and fled. Just as they always did. So the murder was recorded as having been committed by Mark. The fact that he had bolted was proof enough; it made his guilt apparent and the jury had been happy to declare him responsible.

So an innocent, perhaps, would be forced to pay for the crime committed by Sir Ralph. Piers wasn’t happy with that. It made his gorge rise to think that a rich, greedy brute like that knight could benefit by seeing another convicted.

The sky had been no assistance to Piers’s grim assessment. He had stared up for inspiration, but all he got was a slight stiffness and a sore arse. It didn’t stop him looking up again now, though. He peered at the clouded skies for an age, trying to think how to broach the subject with Huward. It wasn’t easy to know how to begin, but when the wind began stirring about him and the first drops of rain pattered gently on his back and into the puddles in the roadway, he made an attempt. ‘Huward, I’ve just come from the castle. Was called there to look at the chapel.’

Huward shrugged without interest.

‘Someone set the place afire, you see,’ Piers went on. ‘It happened last night, after taking your girl to the church, we reckon. One of the servants at the castle thinks she heard something after dark, but she didn’t bother to tell anyone at the time. Probably thought it was the wind in the trees. Couldn’t see from there, of course. So by this morning, there’s nothing left but the stones.’

Huward scratched at his ear and scowled at the ground, impervious to the rain that had begun to fall around them. ‘Probably that monk left a fire untended when he ran, and it flared.’

‘Yes. Maybe it did,’ Piers said distantly. ‘If it didn’t, I’d have to think it was someone here in the vill who did it. That would be terrible.’

‘Bad enough. What makes you think it was deliberate?’

‘Nothing, Huward,’ Piers sighed. There was little point telling him that Piers had gone to the chapel and prayed there before the inquest. There had been no fire then, he knew, nor had there been the collection of rubbish in the middle of the floor. It was all made clear from the ashes: someone had built a fire in the place and left it to rage. Not that Piers cared overmuch. ‘How are you, man?’

‘How do you think?’ Huward snarled. ‘I’ve lost my daughter. That doesn’t make a man happy.’

Piers could see that. The miller’s face was pale, apart from the dark shadows under his eyes, and the lines seemed to have deepened at his brow and at the side of his mouth. He had been a cheery, happy-go-lucky fellow until Mary’s death: it was awful to see the change wrought by her passing.

‘Old friend, it’s hard to lose a child, but life continues.’

‘Ah! Life continues. Life goes on. One girl dies, but what’s that? All the others must live,’ Huward grunted. ‘It’s not very convincing right now, you know, Piers? Not what I’d call comforting. I loved her. She was my own, precious little angel, she was. Everything I ever wanted to see in a child. And now she’s snuffed out, her and her child within her.’

‘I know. It must be terrible.’

‘ You know? You can’t know!’ Huward suddenly raged. He felt his frustration and hurt welling up. ‘I want to punch someone, kill them, take away another life. I want that snotty little scrote here, in my hands, so that I can strangle him, see the life slowly fade from his eyes as he feels his own death approach, then I’d release him, let him breathe a little, until he realised how precious his life was to him, and only then would I start to squeeze, squeeze again, until he was on the brink, and then I’d let him recover again. I’d do that ten times, or twenty, or thirty if I could. Make him suffer. Make him feel his own horror. Make him hurt like I hurt, like my poor wife…’

‘How is Gilda?’

Huward wasn’t weeping. He couldn’t. The tears wouldn’t come today, for some reason. Last night he’d cried like a baby when he huddled himself alone in his bed, but now there was nothing, as though he’d emptied his well of grief.

‘She’s still at the church, but Gilda is destroyed. She hasn’t spoken to me yet. Not since hearing that Mary’s died. She walks in a daze,’ he said. ‘That’s what I find really hard, you know? I can’t even talk to her about it. I can’t comfort my own wife.’

He looked at Piers. The Reeve could do or say nothing to ease his pain. Huward had known Piers most of his life, but the two men had never shared their innermost secrets, they had never been close companions like some, and now in the depths of his misery, Huward looked at Piers and saw a stranger. Piers must have felt it, because the miller saw him half lift a hand as though to pat Huward’s shoulder in a show of affection, but then he allowed his hand to fall and thrust it behind his back like a thief hiding his gelt.