Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Sampson did not tell me that. You are saying Sir Ralph killed her?’

‘My God, no!’ Surval said with obvious shock. ‘Sir Ralph would not have harmed a hair on her head.’

‘Then who did?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anything myself.’

‘What about the death of Wylkyn? Do you know what happened to him?’

Surval gave him a look from under thick, bushy eyebrows. ‘You know he was keen on potions and herbs? And Sir Richard died quite suddenly after a short illness. He had been prone to all kinds of illnesses, the poor man, but that was the consequence of his willingly ignoring the Pope’s words and taking up weapons to entertain people in the joust.’

‘You do not approve of such things?’

‘I told you about my sin. I could never think to hurt someone again, and since my woman’s death, I have taken the Pope’s instructions very seriously. I could never commit such a crime again. No. And others should obey the Pope, too. Sir Richard suffered greatly. If he was fortunate, it will mean that he will have swiftly risen to Heaven. Like a leper, his pain will allow him more quickly to reach God’s side, while those who remained hale and hearty all through their lives, enjoying wealth and power, will suffer the torments of devils!’

Baldwin sought to distract him from a long-winded sermon. ‘What sort of illnesses did he have?’

Surval scowled as though struggling with the attraction of a lecture he had practised, but then shrugged. ‘He had inflamed joints, fevers, gout… many afflictions.’

‘Inflamed joints and gout wouldn’t kill a man.’

‘No, but a fever can, and he endured many. It was a fever finally killed him.’

There was a certain tone in his voice that made Baldwin pause. He said, ‘You think Wylkyn poisoned him?’

‘Stranger things have happened. And that would explain why an honourable man like Sir Ralph might want to punish him, mightn’t it?’

‘By murdering him?’ Baldwin growled.

‘No, by executing a murderer like any other felon.’

Walking along the road, Huward suddenly came upon the castle, and instantly he stopped, staring at it, wide-eyed, his mind, at first, quite blank. Gradually, as he recalled that mad bitch’s hate-filled words that she spat at him like venom, his mind began to work again.

He couldn’t stand the sight of the castle; he had to move away, go somewhere else, but his heart was pounding with a sickly rhythm. There was nowhere for him to go: his home was his no more, it was lost to him. He knew of nowhere he might go and find peace. Stumbling slightly, he crossed the road, away from the castle, and took the track up towards the moors. The way was dark, deeply wooded with great beech and oak trees rising on both sides, and with the sun moving behind the hills ahead, the whole area was grim and gloomy. Soon Huward felt a little calmer. Away from other people, he could see things more clearly. Perhaps there was a way through this mess. Unbidden, a picture of Flora appeared in his mind, and he choked as he recalled her beauty, her smiling face and calmness. He felt sweet affection for her – and revulsion.

Suddenly he was through. The trees fell away on either side, and he was climbing a shallow hill with a thin scattering of rocks about a rushing stream. As he continued, the wind played at his hair, whipping at his tunic and gusting occasionally hard enough to make him lean into it. A fine spray of mizzle was in the air, and he could feel it flick against his cheeks like fine needles.

Over the brow of the hill were the dark shapes of the ring of stones. All the men of the vill knew these stones, the Scorhill circle, and he walked to it, sitting with his back to one of them, staring eastwards towards the vill where he had been born, where he had grown, where he had married, and where he had been so utterly betrayed.

He had never guessed: how could he have been so stupid! A week ago, perhaps he would have disbelieved her, maybe even dared to scoff at her, if he had been in a more optimistic frame of mind, but in his present mood he knew that she was telling him the truth. There was no point in her lying to him. She could have no motive to lie – but plenty to tell him the facts. Christ Jesus! The poison in her voice!

The recollection of Lady Annicia’s little speech tore at him. It had felt as though his very soul was shredding under the torrent of words, as though her cold anger and loathing for him and his entire family were penetrating him even now, so far from the castle. Wrapping his arms about himself, he dully registered that he was not dressed for a night on the moors. He should return to the security at least of the trees, if not the safety of his mill, but he daren’t do that. He didn’t know what he might do if he went back there. No, better to sit here, maybe to die here. There was nothing for him to live for, not now. All he valued had been taken.

He heard the sound of splashing water, and then, as he squinted up the hill, he saw a figure, a man, dressed in filthy grey clothing, with a thick, bushy beard and dark, grim eyes: Surval.

The hermit slowly made his way to the miller and stood leaning on his staff, gazing down. ‘I thought you’d be here.’

‘You knew. All this time, you knew.’

‘No. I only learned today; before, I only suspected.’

‘I suppose I am too stupid to have realised.’

‘You were always too kind for your own good. Others are more cynical.’

‘And now little Mary is dead. Is that my fault too?’

‘None of it is your fault, friend, you were just unfortunate.’

‘It’s a bit bloody easy for you to say that, isn’t it!’ Huward snapped. ‘For me it seems very straightforward, now I can see the facts for myself.’

‘Perhaps you are wrong to fear? They could all be your children.’

‘Instead of his !’ Huward spat bitterly. ‘Yes, but my wife still cleaved to him, even when she was married to me. My whole marriage is a lie.’

‘I had wondered. I had seen him with her many long years ago,’ Surval said sadly.

‘Why did she marry me, then?’

‘Perhaps because she knew she could never marry him.’

‘So instead of her being miserable alone, she has ruined all our lives. I shall have to leave. I don’t know if either or neither of them are mine.’

‘Or both.’

‘You expect me to remain on the off-chance?’ Huward sneered.

The hermit grunted, then slowly eased himself down to sit at Huward’s side. ‘It’s always easier to see things after the event.’

‘Oh, good ! I suppose you mean I should be glad to have seen it at last. It’s no comfort, hermit. No comfort at all.’

‘No. God doesn’t offer comfort, miller. Only hard effort and the will to resist temptation.’ The very thought made him shiver.

Huward noticed. ‘It’s cold, but where else can I go, Surval – eh? Where can I call home? My family is no more, my life is ended. How can I find peace?’

Surval didn’t look at the miller, but stared out over the trees towards the castle. ‘A good question. I wish I knew the answer, old friend. All I can say is, that tonight you may come to my home and stay there with me. I have a duty to help poor travellers.’

‘Yes. That’s all I am now, isn’t it? A poor traveller. An outlaw,’ Huward said. ‘And through no fault of mine! I have done nothing wrong.’

‘Then you , my friend, are truly fortunate,’ Surval said quietly.

Baldwin found Simon at the castle gate. Piers and Elias were helping to carry Hugh, and the knight stared down at the man’s bloody face with astonishment and concern. He had only left them a few moments ago. ‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘Has Hugh been attacked?’