Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Simon nodded grimly. ‘And that murderous little shit’s made an attempt on me, don’t forget. It was all I could do not to challenge him last night. Smirking up on the top table like that!’

‘I was not going to forget him, old friend,’ Baldwin said. ‘No, but we shall have to be cautious with him. I do not want to have to fight him, especially with all those men-at-arms about his castle. The sooner we can get Hugh up and about, and back at the inn, the better I shall be pleased.’

‘And I too,’ Simon agreed, but absently. He was peering ahead. ‘I think we’re near now. I remember this hill, and then we go through a small hamlet, and the road drops again. At the bottom is the river.’

‘Then let us discover what this good hermit has to tell us,’ Baldwin said lightly, but when Simon shot him a look, he saw that Baldwin’s face showed no humour, only cold determination.

Hugh gasped as his foot caught a loose stone in the yard and jarred his wound.

‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ Thomas hissed.

‘Oh, belt up!’ Hugh responded. ‘If a man can’t walk about the yard to get some exercise, what can he do?’

They were at the door to the stable now, and Hugh peered inside.

To his right, on either side, heads facing the wall, were the rings for the horses. Most, of course, were out with the posse, and Simon and Baldwin had borrowed more, so the place was all but empty.

The trap door that led to the cell was wide open, and Roger Scut was crouched by it, a guttering candle in his hand, apparently staring down into the little room. As Hugh watched, he rose slightly and used the candle to gaze at the floor near the trap door.

‘Dropped something, Brother?’ Hugh said loudly.

There was a sputter, a low curse, and the candle dropped into the cell with a dull splash. Roger Scut stood and surveyed the two men in the doorway angrily. ‘Why aren’t you with the posse?’

‘Look at my head!’ Hugh said. ‘What are you doing in here? You lost something?’

‘No. Why should you think that?’ Roger Scut said, his head tilting back.

Hugh had had enough. His head hurt, he didn’t want to be here in this castle, he didn’t want to move to Dartmouth, and he didn’t like people who stared at him imperiously down their long noses. ‘You got a problem? Blocked nose or something?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you doing that?’

‘It is nothing,’ Roger said defensively, sniffing slightly, and then quickly looking up, as though he had always intended studying the rafters in this little stable.

This servant was an infuriating little serf. He would have to speak to the Bailiff and complain, when he had a chance – but then again, perhaps no. Roger Scut disliked the suspicion in his eyes, the way that his attention flew from Roger himself to the trap door and back. ‘Do you want something from me?’ he asked haughtily.

Hugh turned slowly and peered up at Thomas. ‘What do you think, Tom?’

‘I don’t want anything from him.’

‘No, I don’t reckon many would.’

Roger Scut felt his face flush with anger at the man’s insolence. ‘I shall speak to your master as soon as he returns, and you will regret your rudeness!’

‘Yes, you do that,’ Hugh said. Then he did something which Roger Scut found more alarming than anything else.

He smiled.

Surval had finished his prayer when he heard the sound of horses. He got up, genuflected, and then unhurriedly made his way to his door, where he stood staring up the road. No traveller could miss him.

The trio was not an ordinary set of passers-by. The man at the front looked like a knight. He had the arrogance and confidence in his own power, and the man at his side was clearly also a man of authority. Both stopped and sat in their saddles, making no move towards their pockets, nor did they appear to be in a hurry to continue their journey. The last man was plainly a guard, but he merely surveyed the hermit’s property with a suspicious glower.

Surval took his staff, a useful weapon in defence as he always said, and leaned on it like an old man. ‘Lordings, Godspeed. I hope I see you well?’

‘Hermit, we would like to speak to you.’

‘What if I don’t want to speak to you ?’

‘I think you’d prefer to talk to us here than make us have you arrested and held in a gaol for a night or two,’ Simon said curtly.

‘I am a hermit, Bailiff; you think to threaten me?’ Surval said, but without rancour. He looked them both up and down and quickly formed his opinion of them. Both looked serious, which was good. When a lord decided to turn bad and started abusing his power and privilege, that was a situation that called for intelligence and caution, and these two looked like they might indeed be able to deal with a dangerous fool like Sir Ralph. Indeed, he hoped they could deal with his son as well, that murderous oaf Esmon.

In fact, looking up at them, he felt some amusement in this meeting. He had the distinct impression that they were not the sort to make empty threats, but nor did he think that they would abuse their own powers. Not that they’d need to, he reminded himself. If one was a Keeper and the other was a Stannary Bailiff, they had enough power to do what they wanted.

‘Do you normally welcome people with threats of gaol?’

‘Only when we are in a hurry,’ Baldwin said.

‘And why should a great lord like you be in such a hurry, Sir Keeper?’

He did not see fit to answer. Instead, he jerked his chin towards the hermit’s breast. ‘I see you lie to pray, as men used to of old.’

Surval glanced down at the dust covering his rags. ‘I believe it helps a man’s prayers to wing their way to God if we show our understanding of Christ’s suffering. Yes, I prostrate myself in imitation of the cross. Perhaps if more men did so, the world would be a happier place.’

‘Perhaps it would. You say you do not believe the accusation of murder against the monk.’

Surval closed his eyes and sighed. He had thought that the two must have come here for this, but he had hoped not. ‘I do not believe accusations unless I have witnessed the attack. I didn’t. I leave accusations of guilt or innocence to God Himself.’

Simon asked, ‘Did you know Mark?’

‘Of course. He and I used to pray together often,’ the hermit said. He could see that Simon was surprised to hear that, and a wry smile twisted his beard. ‘Ah, so you reckoned I was one of those lazy, runaway serfs who claim to be hermits to avoid hard work, did you? Not all are dishonest, Bailiff. I break my back here, maintaining that bridge. Do you know how old it is?’

‘No.’

‘Nor do I, but look at the span of it. Either side, the metal tires of carts passing by have cut into the stone. On the right there, near the pillar, you can see where the tracks have worn through the stone, and you can see the river beneath you. There were three other holes until recently. I have mended them all, and now there is only that remaining. I keep this bridge, Bailiff, and with every spare moment I tend to the poor folk about here, see to their spiritual needs and pray for their lost souls when they die, so don’t think to accuse me of laziness!’

His voice had risen, and he had to calm himself. If only he didn’t feel the need of his penance so strongly, he wouldn’t react so angrily when people said to his face that they thought he was one of those men who took up a counterfeit religiousness in order to avoid working for a living. All he ever tried to do was ease the toils of ordinary people.

‘Master, we meant no insult,’ Baldwin said.

‘No. You never do, you great lords and masters, do you? You look on all serfs as serfs, nothing else. You can insult people with impunity, without a care for their feelings, can’t you? But some of us are as honourable as you. Some of us more so, perhaps.’