Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

A smile spread over his face. He would go to the hermit. Surval always shared his bounty with Sampson. A recollection of cold, sharp eyes staring at him made him hesitate, but then memories of little kindnesses from Surval came to him and made up his mind.

Hugh watched his master and Baldwin ride from the yard with Godwen in their train. The thought of riding again made him wince. Then, ‘So what’s the problem with you and Godwen?’ he asked Thomas.

‘Why does there have to be a problem?’

‘Don’t know, but there is. Just need to look at you once and you can see it.’

‘Our families never got on. During the old wars, I’m told, my father’s father’s sires supported the King, but Godwen’s supported the traitors.’

‘You tell me this is all because of a war from before you were born?’ Hugh said sceptically.

Thomas grunted, then sat at Hugh’s side. ‘Him and me used to want the same woman.’

‘Oh. And he got her?’

Thomas scowled at Hugh. ‘No, I did. He’s been a bastard ever since.’

‘Oh.’ Hugh glanced at him doubtfully.

‘Always niggling at me, digging. He thinks he’s better than us, just because his family has more money. Well, I don’t care! My family work hard and we earn our crusts. He just lives off his father’s money.’

‘What does his father do?’

‘He’s a tailor in Exeter. He’s not free, he’s a serf to the Dean of Crediton Church, but the Dean is a generous man with his serfs. Provided they pay a bit to commute their services, and cough up their rents each year, he’s happy to let them make as much as they want.’

Hugh grunted. ‘It all comes back to them in the end, doesn’t it? When Godwen’s old man dies, the Dean will want his death duties.’

‘Perhaps,’ Thomas said, brightening a little. ‘I must tell Jack that.’

‘Who’s Jack?’

‘My sister’s husband – he’s a groom now. Used to be a farmer. Every time Godwen sees him, he laughs at him…’

Hugh turned his head to peer at him, wincing slightly as more pain shot through his head. ‘What? You forgotten what you were going to say or something?’

‘No. It’s that son of a donkey over there,’ Thomas said, pointing.

Hugh could just make out the portly figure of Roger Scut walking quickly towards the stables. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s the thieving goat who keeps putting up Jack’s rents so that he can’t survive on his money,’ Thomas grated. ‘I have a good mind to go in there and give him a pasting, just to give him a taste of his own medicine.’

‘You do that and you’ll be in the gaol before you can swing a second punch,’ Hugh said, nodding towards a group of guards lounging at the stable entrance. Then he frowned. ‘What’s he up to?’

‘Who?’

‘That Roger Scut. What’s he doing, sidling into the stables?’

Simon and Baldwin had ridden for the best part of an hour, sweeping around in a great arc with the castle at the centre, hoping to see some sort of sign that Mark had passed by, but after returning over their own tracks, Baldwin pulled a face and shook his head.

‘There is no point in continuing this. Look, you can hardly see where our horses have gone in among all these fallen leaves. It would be unrealistic to hope that we could catch a glimpse of Mark’s footsteps.’

‘If he came this way,’ Simon added sombrely.

‘Yes. I have no firm conviction on that,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But if I were him, I wouldn’t go in another direction.’

‘What of the hermit at the bridge?’ Godwen asked.

‘Aye,’ Simon returned. ‘What of him?’

‘He’s a holy man. Wouldn’t he stop a felon from running away?’

Simon snorted. ‘You think a hermit at a place like Chagford Bridge is going to be careful of the law?’

‘If he’s a holy man he would.’

‘If he was a holy man, he’d be in a chamber in York or Winchester or Canterbury, or if he was even more holy, he’d be living in the middle of Dartmoor,’ Simon scoffed.

‘Come, Simon, it is possible,’ Baldwin said. ‘But Godwen, you must know that most hermits are people who have no knowledge of the religious life? There are many frauds and vagabonds who claim alms. I have even known of some outlaws who pretended to be religious and preyed on the weak and foolish who passed.’

‘You mean he could be false?’ Godwen said, shocked. ‘That’s disgusting! Taking money and charity from anyone who travels past here pretending to be able to pray for them… It’s outrageous!’ He had a high respect for money and corresponding distaste for theft.

‘Yes,’ Simon grunted. ‘And it’s as natural as breath itself to many of these fellows. I had one bastard up near Oakhampton who preyed on the women passing back and forth for weeks. He told them that God had given him the ability to pardon all sins. All he had to do was get them to kneel before him and lean forward so that he could pray with them, but behind them. It took ages before any of the women complained.’

‘No, well, you can’t trust women, can you?’ Godwen said bitterly. ‘Even when they make promises, you can’t be sure that they mean them.’

Baldwin eyed him for a moment. His own marriage was so happy that a man who could slander the female sex was strangely repellent.

Godwen caught the tail end of his look and felt himself colouring. It was irritating that he should still be so angry at losing her, but she was a beautiful girl when he had wooed her, and then that clumping, bone-headed cretin Thomas had got her instead. Until then, he and Thomas had been, if not close, then at least closer than their parents for many decades. Thomas’s great-grandsire had fought for some queen who called herself Empress, while Godwen’s had fought on the other side. That was enough, apparently, for their parents to quarrel, but Godwen and Thomas thought it was foolish to continue that strife. They had met, and they had been friendly enough. Until they both met Bea.

Bea was a breath of fresh air in the town. Only short, she had a thick body with strong hands and heavy breasts, but her nature shone through. No man who had ever had her large green eyes fixed upon him while she laughed, her cheeks dimpling, her mouth open to display her small, well-formed teeth, could have failed to have been smitten, and Godwen was completely under her spell still. He had married, and his Jen had given him several children, but still, when he dreamed of a woman coming to his bed, it was always Bea. Even now, miles from her, and some distance from Thomas and the castle, Godwen could feel his jealous anger simmering. There was no cure for it.

They were passing along a winding road that followed a fast-flowing Dartmoor stream, and Godwen came to as they splashed through the uncommonly deep ford.

‘Take care!’ Baldwin called before he entered. ‘The rains of the last few days have swollen it.’

He watched Godwen as the guard steered his unwilling mount into the water and through it. Luckily the ford was not broad, and the horse had little time to grow alarmed, but Baldwin reckoned that they would have to be careful before long. The streams and rivers about here were all swift-flowing and dangerous after rain, and God knew how much rain had fallen in the last few days.

Godwen was an odd character, in his opinion, and had the appearance of a man who had bottled up a grudge over the years, but Baldwin had other things to occupy his thoughts than the mood of a watchman.

‘We have no evidence which would point to anyone, apart from witnesses who say Esmon is involved in robbing travellers. He may be involved in the death of the miner, whose body we cannot find,’ he noted.