Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Hugh had a wife now, Constance, who lived north, towards Iddesleigh. Constance was calm, quiet, and a little reserved because her child, whom she had named Hugh, was not Hugh’s son, but that didn’t affect Hugh’s love for the boy and his adoration of Constance. To him, she was the ideal woman. As gentle and kind as Holy Mother Mary herself, but bright and bubbling with laughter. She had a reputation for midwifery in the vill already because she had been trained as a nurse, and all in the area had grown to love and respect her. Hugh travelled to see her when he got the chance, whenever Simon gave him an afternoon of freedom, and to his credit, Simon sent him as often as he might up to Hatherleigh. Their master, the Abbot Robert, owned the fair there, so there were always opportunities to make use of a messenger.

It wouldn’t be so easy to invent reasons to travel there once Simon was moved to Dartmouth, though, Hugh thought. That was far from anywhere, that was. Miserable journey every time he wanted to see Constance, and it’d be longer between each trip. He’d be lucky to see young Hugh at all.

Thoughts like these kept circulating in his mind, causing depression. And Hugh was not alone. He was all too aware that his friend and ally in Simon’s household, young Edith, was as set against the move as he was himself. It was her opinion that Simon should give up the post, that he should become something else – maybe a farmer. There were worse jobs, she had said to Hugh.

Worse maybe, but few that offered such opportunities for suffering the most bitter extremes of weather, to Hugh’s way of thinking. He’d lived that life, he’d been out in all weathers, he’d led the plough teams of oxen up and down the fields, covering miles each day, he’d got soaked and frozen, he’d got cut and stabbed by bushes while hedging, and he’d seen friends die: one man kicked in the head while wrestling a young calf to the ground, another squeezed against a wall by a dull-witted ox until his entire chest cracked with a rippling noise like tearing cloth. It wasn’t the sort of life Hugh was keen to return to, not while there was a warm indoor room with a roaring fire, and plenty of ale and wine to be drunk. But it would be hard, very hard, to go so far away. At least being a merchant was safer, he thought, but he wasn’t convinced that Simon would be able to ‘merchant’ for a living.

‘It’s not as though you have to worry about the job much longer,’ Hugh grunted.

‘While it’s my job, I’ll do it as best I can,’ the Bailiff said sternly.

Osbert rode a short distance behind them. ‘It’s not far now, Sir Bailiff.’

‘It would have been a damned sight quicker if you’d not got us lost!’ Simon snapped.

Osbert ducked his head as though Simon had aimed a physical missile at him. He had tried to warn the Bailiff against using that route, but Simon had insisted upon it. The path had become a quagmire, and there was the risk that a new mire had opened up there. If that was so, they could have ridden to their deaths. As it was, they were forced to turn back and take the longer way east to Chagford because they had already passed so far from the other track that would have taken them to Scorhill and thence to Gidleigh. However, Osbert wasn’t going to mention that at this particular moment.

The Bailiff had looked grim all the way, riding stiffly as though he was expecting a barbed comment at any moment from his servant, who in turn had looked like he’d just bitten into a crab-apple. Osbert had taken the safest approach, leaving them to their bickering, like a long-wedded husband and wife, but it was difficult and made for a tense journey. At least the rain had held off, he thought wearily.

‘What do you know of the dead man?’ Simon suddenly shot out.

Osbert gulped. ‘Wylkyn? He was steward to Sir Richard. Looked after his master with potions and powders to cure his aches and pains. He left when Sir Richard died. Went to live with his brother the miner.’

‘What’s his brother’s name?’

‘John of Chagford.’

‘I know him,’ said Simon, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of miners on the moors. ‘Why would Wylkyn have gone up there after a relaxing life in a warm castle?’

‘Like I said, he went as soon as Sir Richard died,’ Osbert said evasively.

‘Not when Sir Ralph took over?’ Simon asked.

‘It was the same thing. Sir Ralph was here with his son when Sir Richard died.’

They were at the bottom of the hill, close by Chagford Bridge, when he saw the old hermit, and Osbert groaned, hurriedly making the sign of the cross.

‘Masters, Godspeed!’ Surval called.

Osbert kept his eyes averted, but Surval seemed to take an especial pleasure in speaking directly to him. ‘Come, Os, why the long face? Surely you’re not fearful that men such as this great Bailiff might accuse you of anything?’

Although he tried to ignore Surval, Osbert felt his face colouring, and it was a relief to hear the Bailiff speak and take Surval’s attention from him.

‘You call me Bailiff? How do you know my position?’

‘There are no secrets here, my Lord. Surval the hermit knows people to speak to, and when a friend like Os is sent away to act the messenger, calling on an important Bailiff to come and inspect a corpse which might be that of a dead miner, it’s easy to guess who might be with him when he returns. I don’t think,’ he added, gazing at Hugh from beneath his lowered brows, ‘that this man would be a Bailiff, somehow.’

Simon chuckled at that, especially when he saw Hugh’s glowering mien. ‘Come, then, master. Have a coin for your words, and may my thanks speed you.’

Surval caught the coin with a swift hand, and then glanced back at Simon as though daring him to mention it. Simon smiled, slightly bemused at the sight. A hermit with such quick reflexes was rare. Most were worn down with their way of life, if they were genuine, because a poor diet and harsh living conditions meant that they were always near to starvation while their concentration on prayer and God’s will meant that all too often they could forget to throw on a robe.

‘Hermit, you have a good position here,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Master. I keep it as clean as I can. There’s no point in squalor for squalor’s sake.’

Simon shot a look at him. It seemed that the hermit was unaware of the irony of his words. Simon had meant the location of his place right beside the bridge, where he was sure to win plenty of alms from travellers, for it was the only bridge for miles over the river and almost all must cross at this point, but looking at the hermit’s face, or what was visible above the bushy mass of his beard, Simon was sure that Surval was proud of the hovel in which he lived.

It was constructed of stone. That much was obvious, because where the limewashed daub had flaked and fallen away, the rocks were plainly visible. The fact that it was thatched was easy enough to guess at, because where the thick green felt of the mossy covering had broken apart, and where the ivy hadn’t yet colonised, Simon was almost sure he could see signs of rotting straw. It facilitated egress for smoke from his fire, but Simon was convinced that this filthy place must be chill and unwelcoming at the best of times. At least it was in keeping with the woods all about here, green and grey like the trees, and so ramshackle and dilapidated, it could be missed by a traveller in a hurry.

All created the impression of a genuine holy man who lived without consideration for his own wants; indeed, a man who was far removed from earthly desires and troubles. Like other hermits, he would labour to God’s praise, mending the bridge when it failed, working with the rocks and stones to repair all damage. It was his life’s work, keeping the bridge operating, because all men must use bridges; preserving a bridge was good for all in the vill. Especially here, where it was the main route from the north to reach the important little town of Chagford with its busy market.