Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

On the walls of what Baldwin took to be the older part of the room were faded paintings of saints. Left was the great window which lighted the room. It was open, unglazed, and with square sectioned wooden bars rising to cover the space. At the back of Sir Ralph’s dais hung a pair of matching tapestries which Baldwin assumed gave out to the solar block of the hall. That was where Sir Ralph would retire when his work was done, with a strong door to lock out intruders. The tapestries could be moved aside to allow escape from Sir Ralph’s retainers and servants when all went to sleep. As he gazed at the heavy hangings, both depicting a hunt for a white hart, Baldwin noticed that one of them trembled. A moment later, he saw a dainty white hand slip out and pull the material away, and there stood a woman whom Baldwin could only think of as beautiful.

She was in her mid-thirties, a slender woman clad in a long, pale-blue tunic, her hair carefully bound up beneath a wimple, and her wealth and position made clear by her posture and carriage. She had an oval face, slightly slanting almond eyes, and a fine, long neck. As she walked, her head did not turn to inspect the servants and men waiting for the court, but instead appeared to stare over their heads.

‘Is she all right?’ Simon whispered from the corner of his mouth.

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was very tired,’ Baldwin returned. There was a snigger from behind him, and he cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder at Hugh.

‘She’s about as tired as a ploughman who’s finished the strong ale at breakfast.’

‘That is a villainous thing to say,’ Simon said, scandalised. ‘Remember, you are in her hall with her husband about to open his court.’

‘I hate to admit it, Simon, but I think Hugh is right this time,’ Baldwin murmured.

It was not only her own appearance, but the expression on Sir Ralph’s face when he saw her that persuaded Baldwin. The knight stood as his wife came close, but even so, neither attempted to take the other’s hand as she took her seat next to him, in a chair which a servant hurriedly pushed forward for her. Once sitting, she remained still, calmly staring ahead as though she was entirely alone. It was as if she was blind and deaf, unaware of others in the hall with her.

‘She looks unhappy about something,’ Simon said, studying her with his arms folded over his breast, occasionally throwing a suspicious glance at Sir Ralph.

Baldwin had no doubts about Simon’s ability to read a man’s character quickly, and the same skill often worked with women. Now, watching the Lady closely, Baldwin was sure there was misery in her features. Even from this distance her eyes looked as though they were red from weeping. It was all too common for a knight like Sir Ralph to beat his wife, but somehow Baldwin doubted that Sir Ralph was forged from that mould. He was no gentle lord to his servants, and his behaviour towards Baldwin and Roger Scut had been cavalier yesterday, but there was an apparent tenderness in his treatment of her even now. His annoyance was based on the fact that she was so obviously drunk in public, but even so Baldwin was sure that he caught sight of several sidelong glances from Sir Ralph, as though he feared that her spirit might fail her, and that insight intrigued Baldwin. What could he fear in this, his own hall?

Then Baldwin caught a glimpse of Sir Ralph’s face and saw, not the simple arrogance of a man at his wife’s drunkenness, but the face of someone whose soul was already tormented in Hell. His eyes were too wide, grown immense, like a hunted stag’s when the raches catch him at bay, and the gaze Sir Ralph cast at his wife was not accusing, Baldwin saw. Rather, it was apologetic, penitential almost, like a man who had been forced to confess to a serious failing. It reminded Baldwin of Simon’s expression when his drunken snores had kept his wife awake all night – but more serious.

Baldwin was about to nudge Simon and see whether his friend had noticed, when Sir Ralph’s expression hardened and the misery disappeared, and he was once more the lord of his own court.

There was a vague shuffling as men moved aside, and Baldwin turned to find that Roger Scut had entered, a servant following with arms full of parchments rolled inside leather tubes. Roger walked to the side of the hall and waited pompously while a table was set before him. He eyed his stool doubtfully before sitting and motioning for his bag and parchments to be delivered. Immediately he set about sharpening his reeds and cleaning a large parchment, held down as usual with his leather-covered stones.

‘What’s that polished-arse doing clerking for the knight?’ Simon asked coarsely.

‘He likes money. Perhaps he has been offered cash for helping,’ Baldwin said lightly, but he was concerned. There was something wrong here. Uncharitable thoughts about Roger Scut began to develop in his mind.

‘I don’t like this, Baldwin.’

Baldwin nodded in agreement. Then he shot a look at Hugh. ‘Fetch Godwen and Thomas, Hugh. Bring them in here.’

To his credit, Hugh did not hesitate. He instantly slipped out, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, but before he could reach the door, there was a dull rumbling noise from the people, and Baldwin turned to see Mark.

He had managed, just, to stay awake all night. With the pain from the beating, the cold, the threat of rodents attacking him, and the fear that in such temperatures were he to fall asleep he might never reawake, Mark had passed a miserable night.

It was not only that his present predicament was so grim, but also that he was sure he would be unable to show that he should be sent to the Bishop’s court. And that would mean that this was his last night, in all probability. Through the long hours of darkness, he had stood shivering, or pacing frantically, trying to imagine a means of escape, a brilliant plan that would allow him to spring free from this hellish place, and find himself back in the Cathedral, but he could think of nothing but his bruised kidneys, his black eyes, his torn muscles. His mind went blank when he tried to envisage his own future. When he thought of anything, it was his darling Mary, dead… and then he wanted to weep, but couldn’t. It was as though that part of his life was only a dream. All that truly existed was this misery, this dreadful underground tomb. Even when he tried to call to mind Mary’s face when they had been happy, it was impossible, as though all memory of their bliss had been eradicated.

When they threw open the trap door, he was blinded. After the dark, it was like staring from a long tunnel into a brilliant white light, and it lanced into his eyes like pure heat, as though it was burning not only his eyes but his brain as well.

There was a harsh scraping noise, and then he was relieved to hear Roger Scut’s voice calling to him gently. Slowly, my God, how slowly, he managed to clamber up the ladder, his eyes all but closed against the sun’s rays. At the top he had to close his eyes again. When at last he felt he could open them again, he found himself being watched by Roger Scut, Brian of Doncaster and two burly watchmen.

‘My God, Mark, you have suffered. I did all I could to get him to release you from that sewer, but Sir Ralph wouldn’t listen to me. I am terribly sorry.’

‘My friend, my Brother, I am grateful. God gave me some solace,’ Mark said. His voice was hoarse. ‘Do you have any water? My throat, I am so…’

Hands took him by the elbows as he swayed with weakness, and the men half-carried, half-led him to a barrel in a corner. There he was seated, and he had to bend over, retching, with giddiness and hunger. A cup of almost pure water was pressed into his hand, and he drank it quickly. His belly tried to vomit it back as soon as he had swallowed, some spurting up into his sinus, and it was only with exaggerated gulping that he kept it down, holding out the cup for another.