Michael JECKS: The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Sitting on his stool, he shivered as the flames licked upwards, then grabbed his trivet and set it over the heat to warm some milk. He must have something to take away the chill from his bones. As the milk began to steam in his old pot, there came a knocking at his door. He rose stiffly and opened it with a scowl on his face. Interruptions always happened when a man was about to eat, he found.

Later, when he sat in irons in Sir Ralph’s gaol and had time to reflect, he realised that this was the moment when the whole future course of his life was decided.

As Mark had entered his home, Sampson had wriggled back along the edge of the trees, giggling. He pushed his way though the cold leaves and twigs until he came to the hole in the hedge. Made by a fox, it smelled rank, but bad smells didn’t worry Sammy, never had.

He stuck his head out and rolled his eyes from side to side. Someone might be there, might see him. Didn’t want that, no. Better to look, better to see them before they saw you. You see someone, you hide quick. Don’t let them find you, that was best. Don’t show yourself. Don’t give them something to throw stones at. Everyone throws stones at him. It’s hard. Sad.

No noise. No people. He glanced both ways. Safe. With a great shove, he squeezed out, shooting down the muddy slide and landing on his hands on the icy stones and frozen mud, grazing both palms.

‘Poor Sammy!’ he whimpered, his mood changing instantly. Sniffing at them, he licked at the blood like a hound, wincing at the stinging. He cradled his scraped flesh against his breast. ‘It hurts, it does. It hurts…’

He was so engrossed in his misery that he didn’t hear the horse walking towards him from the west.

‘Sampson, fool, get out of the road.’

The voice cut into his thoughts like a hatchet through an apple. Glancing up, he saw the great dappled palfrey approaching and threw himself from its path, kneeling, his hands clasped before him, keeping his eyes from the rider.

‘You contemptible little whore’s whelp. I’ve told you before about blocking my path, haven’t I?’

Sampson shivered. ‘Please, Master, don’t hit ’un! I hurt my hands, Master, hurt bad. I’ll not be in your way again, Master. Not again.’

Sir Ralph listened to him with his head cocked. His clear grey eyes were slightly narrowed as though he was listening to Sampson’s pleas, but in reality Sir Ralph de Wonson didn’t care what the lad might say. Sampson was the vill’s idiot. He had been born stupid so many years ago, it seemed as though he had always been there in Sir Ralph’s memory, a drooling figure on the edge of all the vill’s events. Always near, but never a part. There was something about Sampson that offended Sir Ralph. The imperfection of the imbecile, probably. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that such an awful affliction could only be the proof of an especial evil in his soul or in that of his father, which was demonstrated in this way, like a leper whose malady reflected the sexual sins of his parents. Whatever the reason, Sir Ralph detested him; indeed he had more than once thought about executing him, because a cretin like him was an embarrassment to the community, and probably wasn’t particularly happy in himself either. Assuredly no man could be content without a brain.

That he had not killed Sampson was not the result of any foolish sentimentality. Glancing down at Sampson, he thought how easy it would be, to draw his sword and thrust it down into that skull. The bone was so thin, it would offer no resistance to a sharp blade like his. End of Sampson. Sir Ralph could not help but glance up and down the road. There were no witnesses, and he was sorely tempted. Sampson’s mind was that of a child. His cheap tunic, given to him by the last priest at the chapel, was faded and worn, and permanently smeared with mucus and dribble, for Sampson slobbered worse than a mastiff. The sooner he died, the better for everyone.

His hand moved towards his sword hilt – and then he saw the figure up ahead, a spare, stooped man leaning on a staff, keen eyes peering ahead above a thick beard.

‘God’s blood, but there’s never any peace!’ Sir Ralph muttered. ‘Am I to be stopped by that damned hermit now?’

As he watched, Surval appeared to nod to himself, then slowly turned and walked through a gate and into a field.

It was better, Sir Ralph told himself as his ardour cooled again. He had given his oath and he wouldn’t be foresworn. Many years ago his father had made him promise that he would never harm Sampson. Father was long dead now, but that didn’t affect Sir Ralph’s oath. He had given his word and as an honourable man he couldn’t break it. A knight without honour was nothing.

He shrugged. There it was: a noble had duties, and that was that. Sir Ralph pulled his rich red woollen cloak aside and reached for the whip that dangled from his saddle’s crupper. Idly, he slashed with it, twice, and the weighted leather cut through the thin tunic and flesh of Sampson like a razor.

‘Next time you block my way,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll take off one of your ears. You obviously don’t need them because you don’t deign to use them.’

With a last short swipe he cut open Sampson’s forehead, and then patted his horse’s neck. ‘Come, Bayard, let’s get you home and fed.’

Sampson lay in the road weeping, the blood trickling from the slashes in his back and brow, and it was only after some little while that he could raise himself and stare after the knight. The freezing mizzle had stopped for a while, but now it was coming down thicker. Sampson slowly rose to his feet, sobbing, and stood with his hands thrust under his armpits to protect them before setting off homewards, hobbling on his bad leg.

‘I hate you, Master. Hate you!’ he moaned pathetically. He had never hurt the master, never meant to upset him, but Sir Ralph treated him like a dog. All Sampson wanted was to be liked, and he did all he could to please people, but they hated him and whipped him or punched him for no reason. He couldn’t understand. It wasn’t fair.

‘I hate you,’ he repeated, but his voice was almost a sigh, without passion. No point being sad. People just didn’t like him. He was stupid. They could live normally, but no one trusted him. Others would marry and have children, but he was doomed to a life apart. Alone.

The mizzle stopped and the clouds parted. Suddenly the land was warmed by a thin sun, pale and wintry, but better than the freezing rain. He could feel it on his back.

Only one man was like him. The priest. He was lonely, too. That was why Sampson liked to watch him. The priest made him feel whole, as if he wasn’t completely alone in the world.

He heard steps, and caught his breath. There was no hole in which to hide here; the walls and hedges were solid. He cast about for an escape but there was nothing, not even a rabbit hole, and the noise of voices and laughter came more loudly on the calm air. He threw himself to the edge of the roadway, hoping that whoever it was would leave him alone if he withdrew from their path.

It was three lads from the vill, all of them adults, at sixteen years or so. Spotting Sampson, they hurried to him with a whoop, one boy kicking at him, then grabbing a stick and thrashing him with it, while two others threw stones and mud at him with gay abandon, as though they were taunting a cock in the pit or a bear at the stake.

‘Leave me!’ Sampson screamed in terror. He covered his face – if he couldn’t see them, maybe they’d leave him alone. Pebbles stung him, balls of mud smacked into his upper arms and back, making him cry out and whimper. A larger lump of stone cracked his finger where it protected his temple, and he shrieked with the pain, but the missiles still flew, flung with the concentrated malice of men attacking another who was weaker than them.