Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin allowed with a grin. ‘Yet some, you will admit, leave something to be desired when it comes to their holiness! Do you find charity is freely given here?’

Surval looked up at him, and through his anger, he felt a grudging respect. This was the sort of man whom others would instinctively trust, he felt. The sort whom others would follow willingly. ‘Not always without men being reminded,’ he acknowledged. Then he raised his staff with a quizzical smile. ‘But there are ways of reminding them.’

‘And you receive plenty of pennies and halfpennies?’

‘Aye, and often the odd old farthing, too. But rarely minted coins,’ Surval said. ‘They think that a simple hermit doesn’t know what’s been going on in the world outside his sphere and seek to offload their quarters and halves on me.’

Baldwin could smile at that. ‘I am sure you quickly disabuse them of their foolishness!’

It was more than twenty years since farthings and halfpennies had been minted as coins. Before that, a trader who needed a halfpence would simply cut a penny in two, or four for farthings. There were still many such pieces about the place, but few traders wanted them any more.

The tale always made Surval feel bitter, but standing here in front of Baldwin, he could almost see the funny side of it. There was a lightness and cheerful calmness in Baldwin’s eyes which was rare to find in a knight, and something else: a determination, as though he had decided to see the matter through. He would find Mary’s murderer, no matter what.

‘So you want to find the monk Mark.’

Simon was instantly alert. ‘How did you know he was gone? We didn’t say that. Who told you?’

‘Come, Surval. What do you know of him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I was woken by him this morning. He banged on the door and called for me.’

‘Why did he come here?’ Simon wondered.

‘He wanted advice from someone who could help him. Poor devil! He had admitted his offences to that priest you brought with you, such as they were, but he realised he couldn’t trust the man.’

‘Why?’ Simon said.

‘Mark, the priest, is the son of Sir Ralph. He told me so this morning, and I believe him. Sir Ralph has many children! His mother was a widow of Axminster and Sir Ralph wooed her many years ago, before he met his Lady Annicia.’

‘That cannot be true!’ Baldwin exclaimed. ‘I find it hard to believe that he would pursue his own son.’

‘He would if he didn’t know anything about it,’ Surval said. ‘Mark took your priest’s advice and told Sir Ralph nothing. The man has no idea Mark is his son. The monk never screwed up enough courage to tell him in all the time he lived here.’

‘Where did he go?’ Simon demanded, glancing about them as though expecting to see Mark’s face peering at them from around a tree trunk.

‘What with the murder of Wylkyn as well, I think he’s run away as fast as he can.’

‘That is another matter: Wylkyn. What can you tell us about the miner’s murder?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Miner? Well, he wasn’t that for long, was he? He was a servant to Sir Richard Prouse, the man who used to own the castle before Sir Ralph took it. I think Sir Ralph and his appalling son thought Wylkyn did something to kill Sir Richard. They sought to punish him.’

‘I wondered about that,’ Baldwin said. ‘Wylkyn certainly had plenty of poisonous plants and powders in his room.’

‘What,’ Simon mused, ‘if it was Esmon or Sir Ralph who murdered Sir Richard, and Wylkyn saw? That would explain why he bolted to the moors, and why he had to die.’

Baldwin said, ‘True. Surval, did the Coroner view Sir Richard’s body and hold an inquest?’

‘Why should he? A sick man who was a mass of twisted muscles and bones died in his bed. There was nothing surprising about the end of his life, so no reason to call the Coroner.’

‘True enough,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘So: Wylkyn. Do you have any idea where the body may lie? If you do, it would be better to tell us now. We could carry it back to the scene of the murder before the Coroner arrives, which would save another fine for removing it.’

Surval considered. ‘I may be able to find it.’

‘One other thing. You have met Mark and spoken to him. Yesterday you said you thought him innocent – do you still?’ Baldwin asked.

Surval led Simon and Baldwin to the bridge and stood staring reflectively down at the water.

‘I am all the more convinced Mark is innocent because of my family.’

‘ Your family?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I am brother to Sir Ralph. Although I am older, I early decided to take up the religious life, as I told you, Sir Baldwin. I enjoyed the desires of the flesh. And then my woman fell pregnant again and one night, when I was angry and drunk, I gave her a beating. It… it killed her and our child.’

Involuntarily, Simon took a step back.

‘Yes, Bailiff. I am not a pleasant man. I did it. I killed my own woman. Not intentionally, but in drunken frustration and anger. And afterwards, I came here because it was close to my old home of Wonson.’

‘Your Bishop allowed you?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Alas, he never realised. That all happened back in 1307. Walter Stapledon was being elected to the post, but Robert Winchelsea objected, and Bishop Walter wasn’t consecrated until October 1308. In that time, I had run away. I wandered a great deal, and then came here. I’ve been here ever since. At least it has meant that I can protect the poor and infirm.’

Simon gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘Even if that’s true, so what? Why should that make you decide Mark is innocent?’

Hearing voices and the rattling of carts, Surval threw a glance over his shoulder, irritated to have his train of thought broken. He had much to think about, especially since hearing from Mark this morning.

‘Because bad blood can run in a family. I believe it does in mine.’

‘So it runs in Mark’s blood too,’ Simon observed.

‘It’s possible, but I think it more likely that my other nephew Esmon holds foul blood. I saw him riding along near that road on the day that Mary died.’ He had seen Sir Ralph too, but no one could think his brother could be guilty of murdering poor Mary. Esmon, though, yes – he was capable. Especially if he didn’t know the truth. Esmon could well have raped and killed her.

‘If Mark is your nephew,’ Baldwin said, ‘then surely he would be capable of the same offence as you. You killed your woman while you wore the cloth; his woman has now died in the same way. Why do you think him innocent?’

‘The two are not the same,’ Surval said. ‘I was drunk; he was sober. I punched my woman in the belly in rage; he merely slapped his in irritation. I sat and drank more, unable to see what I had done; he was overwhelmed with remorse and bolted from the scene, only returning later. And of course, his woman died from a broken neck. I cannot see him breaking a neck, can you?’

‘But Esmon is more powerful,’ Simon said. ‘He could have snapped her neck with ease.’

Baldwin nodded absently. He was thinking of Ben, and wondering whether he had the strength in his arms to be able to break a neck. Would his sister’s rejection of his advances give him the resolution to kill her in that way? It was possible.

Simon said, ‘Again, do you know where the miner’s body lies?’

Surval stood watching the doorway to his home. ‘It must be well hidden,’ he said.

Before Baldwin could respond, there was a gruff rumble from a man on horseback. Baldwin had not seen his approach behind two carts, and now the sound of his voice made the Keeper whirl round.

‘Aha! Well hidden, is it? No doubt it was some Godless heathen did that. I expect it was some mad Keeper of the King’s Peace, don’t you, Master Bailiff?’