Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

He had been out most of the previous night, up near the road where Wylkyn the miner had been found dead, because he wanted to go and pray over the poor soul. Wylkyn was a pleasant enough fellow, the sort of man with whom Surval would have enjoyed sharing a pot of ale in the past, especially after receiving that bird. It had been delicious.

Instead he had seen Sampson.

Usually Sampson was content to sit with Surval while the hermit cooked something for him or prayed for him. At such times Sampson would stop squirming and a light like a heavenly pleasure would seem to illuminate his features. Surval always thought that seeing Sampson sitting before his altar, the light from a candle shining on his simple wooden cross, made Sampson look like an angel. He was handsome at those times.

He hadn’t wanted to talk last night, though, and there was no ease in his face. Instead he had stammered and whined, pulling at Surval’s arm until the hermit had gone with him and helped him. Surval hadn’t wanted to help when he realised what Sampson intended, but Sampson explained that Esmon had told him to, and then Surval agreed.

This morning, he wondered why Esmon had been so keen to have that body hidden. He could have got his own men to move the corpse if he was truly that concerned about it, but instead he had told Sampson to go up to the moors and conceal Wylkyn. Not that hiding the body was difficult. Surval knew of several ideal hiding-places, and the one he had picked was perfect, especially with a few stones piled over it to protect the body from wild animals. Henry was fast asleep before they got there, so he was no obstruction. Dunderhead! He would pay for his failure. The Coroner would demand a princely sum for failing to protect the body from theft.

Gradually the noise of hooves broke into his thoughts. He rose and strode to the door. There, at the bridge, were a number of carters, their faces pale, their manner urgent and fretful, starting at every noise. Surval stood at his door, grasping his staff and leaning upon it like the old man he felt himself to be as he recognised their fear. These were the men captured and ransomed by Esmon. ‘Is there no end to their damned rapacity?’ he muttered to himself.

‘Old man! This is the right road to Chagford, isn’t it?’ The speaker was Alan, and Surval took in his thin, wispy beard and pale skin. Weakly-looking fool, he thought.

Alan sported a blued and half-closed eye, and he spoke with a slight slurring, because his jaw was bruised after being punched, but overall he felt happy enough. His worst fear, of being recognised as having escaped Sir Ralph’s men before, had not materialised, and he was still alive. That was better than the alternative, he reckoned.

‘Yes. You must follow the road up the hill there. Are you well, boy?’

‘I’m fine. Yeah, fine. Are there any footpads between here and the town?’

‘Hoy, Alan!’ another man shouted out. ‘We’ve told you there’s nothing else. For God’s sake don’t keep whining.’

‘Oh, shut up, Saul!’

‘What is he complaining about?’ Surval demanded grimly.

‘We’ve been ambushed, our goods ransacked, a companion taken from us, and there’s nothing we can do! Why – should we expect another attack?’ Alan asked.

‘Shut up, boy! Don’t talk about what you can’t change!’ The second man was a thickset fellow with the ruddy, well-lined features of one who spent much of his life in the open air. He had a bushy beard and black, suspicious eyes, which were made malevolent by their red rims, which Surval at first thought were due to lack of sleep or torture, but then he saw the man wipe his nose on his sleeve and heard him snort loudly. It was only a cold.

‘Wylkyn has gone – disappeared, for God’s sake! Do you feel nothing for him?’ Alan burst out.

‘No. Little enough. Can I bring him back? No. Can I give him back his goods? No. So what’s the point of complaining? We can’t do anything about it, so that’s that. Meantime, I’ve got a wife and children to feed. It’s buggers like you make that hard. Oh!’ He wiped at his nose again, muttering, ‘This damned cold. Flies in summer, colds in winter. You can’t do anything about either, damn them! Why did God send such pests to plague us?’

‘It was murder. Murder! They must have killed him! And now we’ve been held in his castle while his men go through all our goods! Does everyone passing through here get taken and held, their goods snatched from them?’

The older carter shrugged. ‘Yes. It happens. And we didn’t see anyone killed, did we? Maybe he ran off and we’ll find him waiting at Chagford. More to the point, if we don’t get on, we’ll miss the market altogether, and then we’ll lose the rest of our goods. My cheeses won’t last in the wet for long. So stop your bloody dawdling, boy, and get on!’

‘Hermit, what would you do?’ the boy Alan appealed. ‘You’re a man of God! In His name, what would you do?’

Surval could say nothing. The lad stared at Surval as though hoping for some sort of answer, an explanation for what had happened to him, a suggestion as to a course of action that might return that which had been stolen from him, but Surval remained silent. He bowed his head in shame, knowing that if he was a real holy man he’d be able to make this man feel better. But he had nothing to give. God knew, he’d tried often enough to help people, but how much use was he? It was bad enough trying to deal with his own shame and guilt.

The lad spat at the ground, disgusted by his rough treatment at the hands of Sir Ralph and Esmon’s men and equally disgusted by the hermit’s inability to offer even verbal support. He snapped his reins.

‘Godspeed, hermit. Buy a capon!’ the older man called. He flicked a penny at Surval, who automatically caught it and bobbed his head in thanks, then watched as the group ground past him, the axles squeaking and grumbling, the iron tires cracking over small stones and making pebbles fly.

Surval watched them go with a feeling of emptiness in his belly. He knew better than Alan or Saul what had happened to Wylkyn.

‘Poor Wylkyn!’ he murmured, shaking his head. It seemed obvious that Esmon and his men must have killed him, and yet there was little he dared do about it.

With that thought, he re-entered his chamber and prostrated himself before his cross, praying for the man’s soul, while all the time at the forefront of his mind was the picture of Wylkyn’s body lying in the shallow grave while he and Sampson set the stones all about it.

He could have gone to the Port Reeve at Chagford and told him all, but here he was, lying before his altar, begging God to forgive him. It made him feel his cowardice. If he had courage, he would go, and damn the consequences. Esmon and Sir Ralph were ruthless, they would trample any man who stood in their path. They should be restrained. Yet there were loyalties too strong to be broken, and Surval couldn’t throw the two to the dogs, even if they were guilty of killing Wylkyn.

‘Forgive me, Wylkyn!’ he implored.

They spent as much time as possible searching along the line of the road, then up and into the moors, before Baldwin took a look at the wall and peered over it. ‘Could they have taken him over here?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Baldwin, look at the sun!’ Simon said. ‘We have to get back for the court.’

Regretfully, Baldwin agreed. He went to his horse, but could not help staring over the wall again.

Simon noticed the direction of his gaze. ‘The boy Henry was asleep there. If someone took the body of Wylkyn away, they’d hardly drag it right over the lad’s head, would they? They must have carried it over that wall, I suppose, but where in all this shire did they hide the damn thing? Perhaps we could use dogs to find it.’