Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Are you ill?’ Roger Scut asked. He was crouching at Mark’s feet, and looking up at him solicitously.

‘Yes. I feel so bad, so foul and tainted. The shame! And I don’t know what to do! All I want is to be safe in the Cathedral, but look at this,’ he motioned to his ruined tunic and robes. ‘This is all I am now, a churl with only a common fame! Who would believe in my innocence? Even I thought I must have killed her when I saw her body lying there!’

‘My Brother, don’t speak like that,’ Roger Scut urged him. ‘Pray to God and trust in Him, and you will be saved. Don’t let that knight browbeat you, but stand your ground, tell the truth and damn him if he dares try to hold you.’

‘I must tell him that he is my father, too,’ Mark said, glancing about him to check that Brian and the guards couldn’t overhear. ‘That should save me.’

‘Mark,’ Roger Scut bent lower, ‘you are about to enter his court, with his wife there, and his son. If you say you’re his son, they’ll think you invented it to curry favour and he’ll probably be harder on you than he otherwise would! I’d not mention that you’re his son until later, when you’ve proved your innocence.’

Mark stared at him. ‘How much longer must I keep this secret?’

‘As long as you need to. You are innocent, Mark. And you can claim Benefit of Clergy. Prove that you are a cleric and you will be all right.’

‘How do I do that?’

‘He will ask you to recite something – the Pater Noster , I expect. It’s what all clerics remember.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Mark closed his eyes and spoke the words again, his tongue using the Latin easily. After so many repetitions, he could say them with ease.

‘That is good,’ Roger Scut said, although his face looked no easier. ‘Now, simply remember, don’t allow Sir Ralph to push you into accepting his court or his justice. You have your own court under Bishop Walter. This is a farce here, nothing more than that.’

‘Yes, yes, I thank you, my friend.’ There were tears in Mark’s eyes at the thought of how kind this brother cleric had been to him. His generosity of spirit was stunning, spending time with a man of notoriety like Mark. ‘I shall pray for you.’

Roger Scut withdrew, but not fast enough for Mark to avoid seeing the revulsion on his face.

‘Holy Mother,’ Mark whispered, ‘take pity on a poor sinner. Ease my torment.’

Roger gave him a faint smile as though to encourage him, but then it fell from his face as he left the room with an overburdened servant. Mark watched them cross the yard and enter the hall. He shuddered, as though someone had walked over his grave.

‘Come on, you.’ It was Brian and he pulled Mark to his feet and bound his wrists with strong thongs. ‘Our master wants a chat with you, little priest.’

There was no cell in the land which was designed to be comfortable, as Baldwin knew too well, but the sight of Mark blinking, stumbling, his head smeared with filth that yet did not obscure the swollen temple and split upper lip where he had been punched, made him feel a welling of sympathy and sorrow, and anger. But also that curious niggling sensation, as though something was jarring his soul.

The crowd didn’t bay for blood like hounds. It was a more intimidating front that they presented to Mark. As he entered, all talking ceased, and men stood and glared at him. Not a soul there spoke, and Baldwin was sure that where Mark was, passing along a narrow way between the men, all he would have seen was utter contempt and loathing. It was that which probably made the fellow duck his head, evading eye-contact with any of the men amongst whom he had lived, if only for a short while.

‘You are Mark, the priest of Gidleigh Chapel?’ Sir Ralph rasped and then, when Mark dumbly nodded his head, he suddenly roared, ‘You will answer!’

‘I am Mark, the Parson of Gidleigh.’

‘You know why you are here?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have been appealed by Huward, father of Mary, the girl you murdered with malice aforethought on–’

‘No, I never murdered her, you have to–’

His quavering voice was silenced as Brian punched him in the lower back with full force. Mark flew forward, arms out to break his fall, and stayed there, retching, as the pain ebbed and flowed about his kidney. Rough hands were thrust under his armpits and he was lifted, still bent and weeping, until he could stand on his own feet again.

Seeing the boy slammed to the ground, Baldwin was about to go to him, but even as he took his first step forward, he felt Simon’s warning hand on his shoulder, and then, while the guards ungently lifted Mark, he heard Simon’s gruff murmur. ‘I don’t like it either, but there’s nothing illegal about it. Interrupt the court and you’ll probably make matters worse for him.’

It was difficult, but Baldwin gave a curt nod even as Sir Ralph thundered, ‘Elias? Speak!’

While Mark tried to gather his breath, Elias told his story again. He wouldn’t look at Mark, Baldwin noticed, but gave his evidence to the wall over Sir Ralph’s head. Soon Huward was called to assert that Mary had not had a boyfriend that she had told him of. She had been too dutiful and obedient a daughter to seek out a callow youth. Mark must have raped her, then murdered her to silence her.

‘Piers! What did the Coroner say?’

Piers sighed. ‘That the girl was murdered. She’d been made pregnant and the child was dead. Mary’s neck was broken and…’

Mark’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t have done that! When he struck her, that was shameful, but he hadn’t hit hard enough to break her neck, he’d just thumped her from frustration, and that had been enough to make him retch with horror. It was a reaction to how low he had sunk, nothing more – he couldn’t have killed her! Now, overwhelming his caution, his sense of complete innocence made him open his mouth. ‘But I didn’t touch her head or face! I couldn’t have been her killer!’

This time the fist missed his kidney and crashed into the side of his chest. It felt like a leaden hammer, and he didn’t truly feel it at first. It was as though he was outside his body, slightly breathless, but without fear. Except he couldn’t speak. Then, when he gasped for breath, a raging, icy agony exploded along his left side. He must have broken or at least cracked a rib or two.

When the Jury had declared their suspicions, Sir Ralph spoke again. ‘It seems to me that you are guilty as the Jury believes. They have presented the case against you, and I find it convincing. Have you anything to say before I declare your guilt?’

‘I… I claim the Benefit of the Clergy. Benefit of Clergy! You can’t keep me here. You have to give me up to the Cathedral.’

At this point, Simon saw Esmon shoot a glance at Roger Scut. There was something in that look, and Simon was certain that he saw Roger Scut give a slight nod. There was no need for them to speak: they had an agreement, Simon thought, and he wondered what that agreement might be. He was relieved to see that the two watchmen had returned with Hugh.

‘So you, Mark, say that you are a clerk and you cannot and will not answer here. Well, if that’s the case, we must deliver you to your lord’s court, but before you are delivered, your character must be determined. So we shall have to find out the truth of the matter.’

‘You cannot try me! I am one of the clergy! Please, Fa–’ Before he could call on Sir Ralph as a parent, Brian’s fist whirled into his belly, and he collapsed, choking.

‘This is no inquest. We are merely determining your character, so that we can deliver you to the court of the Bishop, and we find that you are guilty. Your guilt was proven by your flight. Your goods and chattels are forfeit, clerk.’