Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘Ah yes?’ Sir Ralph curled his lip as he approached the fire. He didn’t sit, but stood with his back to the wall, the safest position for a man on his own in unwelcoming territory. ‘What lessons do you have to give me?’

‘You are a fornicator.’

‘Many are,’ Sir Ralph laughed. ‘You have no balls. That’s not my fault.’

‘I choose not to use them.’

‘But you have in the past, though, haven’t you?’ Sir Ralph sneered.

‘I saw the miller last night.’

‘So? What’s it to do with me? He’s just a serf. Where is he?’

‘I do not know. Perhaps on his way to Exeter to find a new life; perhaps he is going to the coast to board a ship.’

‘It’d be better if he does,’ Sir Ralph muttered, relaxing slightly.

‘All your fine clothes: velvet hose, crimson tunic, bright cloak of fur-trimmed wool, a man of power and authority – and you start at the slightest noise. You should copy me, my Lord,’ Surval jeered. ‘Join me here in my little chapel and help me serve the poor travellers you once fleeced.’

‘You mock me, hermit!’

‘Keep your hand from your sword, my Lord. I wouldn’t want you to have another death on your conscience.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘We both know, don’t we? Wylkyn had to die because he found out the truth.’

‘You pathetic little man, you know nothing!’

Surval smiled coldly. ‘Calm your ire, Sir Knight. You have much to mend, and little time to do it in.’

Sir Ralph had pulled his sword half from the scabbard, and now he thrust it back home with a muffled curse and sat down. ‘What am I to mend?’

‘You are sinful, Knight! You should be on your knees begging God’s forgiveness, not ranting at me, a mere humble spirit whose sole duty is to see God’s will done.’

‘Mere humble spirit, my arse! You were a priest who had a good position in the world, who could have been a great magnate in the Church, but no! You had a woman, didn’t you? And you killed her.’

‘Yes, and there isn’t a day I don’t sit here and plead with God to take me to Him so that I might see her again and beg for her forgiveness,’ Surval said, casting a longing look at his little altar. ‘If I could, I should depart this miserable life this moment, and thank my executioner.’

‘You ask me to murder you?’

‘No, I ask you to make good the sins you have committed. I am here, wallowing in guilt and yet trying to make amends. You, though, you sit in your fine castle and think so little of others that you see them slaughtered to save your name and conceal your guilt.’

‘I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Your guilt will result in the ruination of your family. Your children will die, Knight.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Gilda told me of your crimes against Huward. You have ruined him utterly.’

Sir Ralph felt a sudden shock of weakness attack him. For a while he sat silently, scarcely breathing, merely listening to the blood hammering in his ears, and then he faced Surval once more, but all the boldness was gone from him. In its place was a quiet alarm, like a man who can see a runaway cart heading towards him in a dark alley, but who knows there is no escape.

‘Yes,’ Surval said quietly. ‘Huward knows how you cuckolded him!’

‘How could he have learned?’

‘Your wife told him. She is, I fear, horrified at what you have done.’

‘She will learn to be silent!’ Sir Ralph said with a flare of his passion. ‘Christ! The bitch knew what she was doing.’

‘Of course. You have stolen his life, Sir Ralph.’

‘Sweet Jesus! By God’s own pains, he could…’ Sir Ralph felt fear like a fist clench about his heart, and he thought he must die, but the sensation only lasted a moment, and then his sight cleared and he found himself staring at Surval. ‘He might kill them!’

‘Brother, I do not know,’ Surval said.

‘You bastard! You keep me here talking while he’s planning their death? You delay me… I shall return, and when I do, you shall have cause to regret your part in all this, you bastard whoreson!’

Surval set his jaw. ‘You would insult our own mother, brother? Begone from here, and I pray that you save their lives, but don’t look to return here unless you can be thankful to our blessed mother, and thank me for warning you!’

Baldwin and Simon soon reached the castle.

To Simon’s eyes it was curious. For the first time since they had seen it, the place seemed quiet, as if there had been a death and a thrill of horror had affected all the men inside. For once there was no one at the gate itself, and the two passed straight through and into the main court. There they waited, Simon feeling that something was terribly wrong.

It was a relief, when he glanced over towards the hall, to see Hugh walking out with Thomas behind him. Simon and Baldwin crossed to meet them.

‘How’s the head, Hugh?’ Simon asked.

‘I’m all right,’ Hugh said gruffly. It wasn’t exactly true, because he still had a powerful headache, which he was attempting to cure with Sir Ralph’s best strong wine, but the wine itself was making him more comfortable. ‘Just a bit tired.’

‘He’s been sleeping all day,’ Thomas grumbled behind him.

‘Not all day. I spoke to that fat fool of a clerk, didn’t I?’

‘Much good it did.’

‘It did some good,’ Hugh declared firmly. He was quiet a moment, and when Simon followed his gaze, he saw Roger Scut appear in a doorway near the gate. Simon glanced back at Hugh, who was assuming once more his customary glower. ‘Don’t like him.’

‘What did you learn from him?’ Simon asked.

‘He was at the prison, looking at where the monk was kept.’

‘Looking at it?’ Baldwin said.

‘He had a candle, but he dropped it when he heard us.’

Simon turned back, but Roger Scut had already disappeared. ‘And? I assume there’s something you’re bursting to tell us.’

Hugh made a play of drinking his cup of wine, belched softly, and yawned. ‘Only one thing…’

‘The monk was set loose on purpose,’ Thomas said, his eyes on Baldwin.

‘Show us.’

Hugh and Thomas led the way to the trap door, and stood watching while Simon and Baldwin crouched, peering.

‘Certainly it doesn’t look as though it’s been forced,’ Simon admitted.

‘No. This bolt fits neatly into the staple in the floor,’ Baldwin said, drawing the bolt back and forth a few times. ‘And it moves silently, too. No one would hear it opening. Only the prisoner.’

‘In which case, who released him? Could it have been Scut?’

Baldwin rocked back on his heels. ‘Possibly, but why? What motive could he have, other than, perhaps, to save the life of another cleric? Yet why should he do that? He did more than anyone else to see Mark installed here in the first place.’

‘I don’t think so, Sir Baldwin!’

The pained tone made Baldwin almost topple over with surprise, but when he righted himself, he found that he was peering up into the nostrils of Roger Scut.

Simon stood. ‘It was perfectly obvious you wanted him out of the way. You gave him no support in the court, did you? You could have demanded that Sir Ralph release Mark into your custody on behalf of Bishop Walter, but you let Sir Ralph shove him down into this noisome pit instead. Hardly the action of a man supporting his friend.’

‘That may be how you perceived it, Sir Bailiff, but really! Can you think so ill of a priest like me that you’d believe me capable of such an act? Of course I didn’t intend to see my friend Mark suffer.’

‘Incarceration here would lead to suffering enough,’ Baldwin observed.

Roger Scut held out his hands and smiled gently. ‘I felt that it could do no harm for Mark to be safely out of the way of others.’