Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Precisely. If anyone would lend their aid to an outlaw, it would be a hermit,’ Baldwin said, but then he shrugged. ‘This is all guesswork. What I need are facts.’

Sampson heard the hooves approaching, and he dropped to his belly in the mud just inside the line of the trees, eyes darting hither and thither, petrified, as the horses came nearer and nearer, and then, blessed relief, passed by and thundered off into the distance. Scrambling up, he looked about him with the wide-open eyes of a startled creature, a faun expecting the hunt, before making his way back homewards.

Soon he reached a hill between the moors and the castle, its sides covered with oaks and beech, chestnut and elm, and in the thick leafy mould on the ground, his steps made little sound. As he entered the peace of the trees, he felt a little of his fear slipping away. It wasn’t so bad. He’d been naughty, but he hadn’t been found out, and now he had a friend.

It had been late last night that he’d heard the anguished sobbing, the stumbling gait, and he had pressed himself further back into his shelter, shivering with terror. This must be a demon, like the ones that he’d heard of in church, for no one else would be out at this time of night.

But as he listened to the sobs shuddering on the wind, he felt that this was nothing to be feared. A man, it was; a man in mortal pain. Someone who’d been hurt, needed help.

Sampson pulled his blanket over his shoulders and peeped out through his little entrance. The sobbing came from further up the hill. Sampson slid out from the entrance, then crept carefully up the hill on all fours.

It was the priest. Sampson recognised him immediately. Mark sat with his head bowed, face in his hands, consumed by overwhelming grief.

He was a nice man – Sampson knew that. He liked the monk. Mary had liked him, too. He’d been kind to Sampson. No one else was, only Mary. She was good – but now Mary was gone. Sampson shivered at the memory of all that blood. He’d touched her face. Her eyes were open: they didn’t move. He’d left her, crying. Went through the hedge again, into the field. There he’d seen the hermit.

The hermit was kind, and often gave him food. Yes, when the castle had little, the hermit shared with Sampson. Not that day – not when Mary died. Sharp eyes, he had then. Sharp and cruel. Sampson was scared by him. The hermit looked through him, saw the nastiness in his soul. It was scary.

This monk never looked through Sampson. Never looked at him like that. He was nice. He’d let Sampson sit at his fire. He’d been good – told those boys not to hurt Sampson. Now he himself needed help.

But maybe the priest had changed. He might hit him. He’d hit her . Sampson had spent his entire adult life running from people who threatened him. He waited now, watching Mark weep, watching him cradle a hand, sniffing with despair, eyeing a long gash in his wrist. Blood trickled slowly, and the sight made Mark wail and cover his face again.

He’d only got up here after failing to find his way in the dark. Desperate to put as many miles as possible between him and Sir Ralph, he had come to a road, and hoping to find his way to the moors, he’d rushed on down it, only to find himself at the door to the castle again. Stopping in horror, he turned and bolted, careless of his direction, only caring that he might get away from this hellish place. It was like a nightmare: at every corner he was convinced that he would find himself confronted by Gidleigh Castle once more.

He had flung himself into these woods hoping to find security. Not daring to stop for brambles or blackthorn, he ran on while the breath whistled in his lungs and the muscles in his thighs and calves started to tense. His legs were heavier than lead. The time he had spent in the cell with his arms bound had taken its toll, and he tripped and stumbled as he went, driven by his terror. Behind him was the horror of death, before him the uncertainty of fleeing to – to what? Some sort of safety? He had thought he could announce his relationship to Sir Ralph, but now he knew that had been a false hope. Everyone would think he was trying to curry favour with his chief accuser.

There could be no safety for him now. Not unless he could reach the Bishop’s court, and to do that he would have to pass through Sir Ralph’s men and all those other Hundreds on the way to Exeter. There was no security for him there. He could find a church and Abjure the Realm, it was true, but where could he go? It was impossible to think of life in one of the King’s foreign possessions, even if he survived the journey. He’d heard of sailors who had offered passage to abjurers, but who then threw the felons overboard when the ship was in mid-channel.

He sank his face into his hands again, heedless of the warm blood trickling down his sleeve. When he heard the steps approaching, he froze. At first he wanted to climb to his feet and just bolt, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. The breath sobbed in his breast again as he gave himself up to his doom. There was nothing to save him here, in the middle of nowhere. He stiffened, waiting for the sharp whistle of the blade which would cut off his head, but nothing happened.

‘Are you tormenting me? Is that it?’ he cried at last, and threw his hands down. To his astonishment, he found himself staring into the nervous, half-smiling face of Sampson.

‘Master?’ Sampson said slowly. ‘Sad?’

Mark looked away. Sampson had always reminded him of the despair of this place. His disabilities were reminders to Mark of his own physical dislocation from the places that he loved and where his career should have been continuing on its calm, unhurried course, rather than in this midden. If only he had never been commanded to come here, he told himself again. But he had, and now look at him.

‘Yes. Sad.’

‘Food? Eating food? Water?’

Mark closed his eyes. The nausea which washed through his frame at the thought of food was curious, mingled as it was with the sharp urge to eat anything and everything as quickly as he could. He tried to shake his head, but somehow he failed. Instead, he allowed his head to drop onto his hands again. When he looked up again, Sampson was hurrying away, down the hill.

Sampson felt a thrilling in his blood at the thought that the priest had come to him. All his hatred for the priest, for what he’d done to Mary, was gone. Sampson didn’t care. She was dead, and her image had almost faded from his memory, and it was nice to have a companion.

That night he had fetched everything he possessed to make Mark’s life easier. He had gone to his little store and shaken the beetles and woodlice from his bread, he had beaten the maggots from his small piece of cheese, and carried them to Mark. He had watched with pleasure to see his meagre supplies eaten, at first with slow, meditative chewing, but then with a ravenous hunger that alarmed Sampson. When Mark was done, Sampson had led him to his own little shelter and settled him on his soft bed, made of mosses, herbs and grasses, before Sampson himself settled down and curled into a ball at his side on the hard-packed soil of his floor. He didn’t mind; he didn’t grudge the priest a little comfort.

Sampson had a friend again. Yet this morning he rose early to fetch water for his friend, and when he got back, the place was deserted.

The tears threatened, but he blinked them away. He shrugged and accepted it, just as he accepted life itself. Only… Mark had eaten all his food. He must find something to eat. The castle always put out food for him and other needy people, but he didn’t want to go there. Not today. Men at the castle always had questions. Especially that son. ‘Hide this’; ‘Hide that’; and ‘Where did you put it?’ Sampson didn’t want that.