Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Where is your father, girl?’

The strange voice made her heart leap. When she was able to recognise the man, Flora asked: ‘Hermit, what do you want here?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘He’s at the court, I think. All the men are.’

‘That’s good. Where is your mother?’

‘Inside – why, do you need alms? Leave my mother alone, I beg! Since my sister’s loss, she has been very sad. It is hard for a woman to lose her child.’

‘It is as hard for a sister to suffer loss,’ he observed gruffly, peering at her from under the old felt brim of his hat.

‘Perhaps less hard,’ Flora said uncertainly.

‘You sound like someone who shoulders a little of the blame.’

‘No! I had nothing to do with my beloved sister’s death,’ she burst out.

‘I never thought you did, child. Yet you feel responsible.’

‘A little. It’s just that…’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think I ever had quite so much of my mother’s affection as Mary did. Maybe I’ll never match up to her measure of me. I’ll be a disappointment for ever.’

‘If you are, it’s not your fault; it’s the fault of a foolish parent who didn’t think of you as a person but as a “thing” to be possessed. You are as good as your sister, child,’ he said with firm reassurance.

‘You sound like my father,’ she smiled.

‘Maybe he is an intelligent man,’ Surval said, peering over her shoulder into the mill. ‘Is she there?’

‘Yes, but please, won’t this wait?’

‘Because of the loss of your sister? No. And don’t blame yourself for your mother’s attitude towards you. She loves you greatly, but she is scared… and her suffering goes back long before your birth, child.’

‘You mean there was a problem with Mary?’ Flora asked, frowning with incomprehension.

‘Oh no. This goes back before her birth even,’ Surval said, and ducked inside.

‘Hello, Gilda,’ he said as he caught sight of her.

‘Surval. What do you want?’

‘An opportunity to offer you my sympathy,’ he said, resting on a stool. ‘I have known you all your life, after all.’

‘You have,’ she said bitterly. ‘So I suppose you’re really here to see if I know why your relative is dead.’

‘My relative?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I guessed,’ he said, and sighed heavily. ‘So it was as I thought. I am glad I came here when your husband was out.’

‘My husband !’ she burst out, and covered her face with her hands as she began sobbing.

Surval watched her for a while, but her grief was too all-consuming for him to feel at ease. Powerful emotion was unsettling to him. Quietly he rose and walked from the place, heading back towards his home, wondering vaguely who actually was her husband.

Ben belched and swallowed hard. The cider he was drinking was rough and thick, and he could feel it fighting back in his stomach. He should have eaten something, but he wasn’t hungry. Already his head was growing dull, but he didn’t care. Not now. It was good to have evaded the eye of the Bailiff and the Keeper.

‘You were quiet enough about seeing the others, weren’t you?’ he chuckled to Elias.

‘I told all I had to.’

‘But you forgot Sir Ralph and his son passing by.’

Elias was startled. He shot a look at Ben. ‘I didn’t see the boy.’

‘I did when I was up having a leak. He was there, all right.’

‘I only saw his father,’ Elias said.

‘What of it? It must have been that priest, anyway. The shit got between Mary’s thighs and made her pregnant, then killed her. Why else would he have run off like that? He deserves to have his neck stretched!’

‘But if Esmon was there as well,’ Elias said, ‘it could have been either one of them.’

Baldwin followed Huward but didn’t try to catch up with him until they were out of sight and earshot of the castle. There was something about the place that was making him feel very wary. The little uproar in the court had been perfectly judged. If Baldwin had not reacted so swiftly and had not thrust the two watchmen into the midst of the crowd, Mark might already be hanging – and there would be nothing which Baldwin could have pointed at in order to appeal either Roger Scut or Sir Ralph. Neither had openly incited the peasants, the mob was merely incensed by the implication of their words.

‘Master Miller. Please wait a moment!’

Huward’s expression was that of a man who was about to be tortured to death and who was intimately acquainted with each device designed to inflict the maximum pain. ‘What do you want?’

Baldwin had left the watchmen with Simon, and now he was glad. Huward stood strongly, a large man with thick fingers and a broad back. He stood slightly bowed, as though he was preparing to spring, and Baldwin kept his attention fixed firmly on his eyes, watching for any sign that he might attack. However, Huward looked more like a man at the very end of his tether than one who was about to explode into murderous violence at any moment. Except there was something else in his face, Baldwin thought: a terrible, rending sadness that was wrenching him apart, a horror more overwhelming than any Baldwin had seen in many long years. It made Huward seem as though he was on the brink of complete collapse, as though he was about to submit to a fit of sobbing.

‘Huward, I know this must seem like a terrible time for me to ask you more questions, but I have to.’

‘Why? What about?’

‘Come, let us walk.’ Baldwin had a shrewd suspicion that a man used to working hard, either with his hands or simply with his muscles and his own lifting power, was easier to question when moving, as though a part of their minds only functioned when their bodies were engaged upon some activity. Huward appeared to have sprung from that kind of mould. His tension visibly reduced, and he moved his arms as though every muscle within had been tensed for action.

‘You haven’t said what you want to talk about.’

‘There are two matters, of course. You know that perfectly well. The death of your daughter, and the death of Wylkyn the miner.’

‘We know who killed my daughter,’ Huward said dully. ‘The Coroner said it was the priest. The mad monk.’

‘It is possible,’ Baldwin conceded, ‘but answer me some questions. Your daughter, she had many boyfriends?’

‘None. It made us rib her about it. She was never keen on any of the boys here.’

‘Perhaps because she was seeing the priest already,’ Baldwin said. He was silent a few moments. ‘She was a good and dutiful daughter?’

Huward cleared his throat. ‘She was perfect. Beautiful as a young doe, obedient and loving. I couldn’t…’ He broke off, coughed, and wiped at his face with an angry hand. ‘Whoever did that to her, if I could just get my hands on him for a few minutes…’

‘You mustn’t dwell on it. If it was that boy in court today, you cannot touch him. You know that.’

‘I don’t care what some Bishop in his great palace says. That shit killed my little angel. My angel,’ he repeated firmly. ‘ My Mary. What do words from some priest above him mean to me? If he was here now, I’d pull his head off with my bare hands.’

He was flexing his fingers as he spoke, and Baldwin could all too easily imagine them gripping Mark’s head and pulling until his bones cracked and his flesh submitted. Hands used to hefting great sacks of grain were more than capable of tearing a lad like Mark limb from limb. It brought to his mind a picture of a woman with her neck broken. A neck was a tough construction, with strong sinews and muscles. Breaking one was not easy with bare hands.

‘What of the miner? Did you know him?’ he asked.