Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

‘ Father! ’ Flora screamed, and ran to Ben’s side.

Huward paid her no attention. He walked over to his wife and stared down at her with eyes filled with despair. Unbunching his fist, he swung his hand at her and heard, rather than felt, the impact. Gilda’s head snapped back as though her neck was broken, and she was flung to the ground where she lay, a trickle of blood leaking from her mouth, her eyes now wide with shock and pain. A faint mewling sound came from her.

Ignoring Flora’s squeals of panic and horror, Huward stalked across the room to the lamps and oil. He filled a lamp, walked to the hearth, lit it, and threw it at the doorway. Instantly the cheap pottery smashed and blue flames chased across the floor.

‘Father! Please don’t kill us. Don’t kill me!’ Flora begged. She watched the flames licking at a length of material dangling from a table, then smoking and flickering as they continued the dance upwards. Smoke was already coiling about the room as Huward flung a pot of oil at the machinery that had been his life and preoccupation for so many years. He moved like a man in a nightmare, his eyes wild.

‘Father!’

The tide of oil was almost at Ben’s legs. She grabbed at his tunic, weeping with the effort, dragging him along, only to find her retreat blocked by more flames. There was a slight crackling sound, a flare of noise, and then a foul stench, and Flora turned to see that her mother’s head had been engulfed by flames. Gilda was standing, beating at her head, trying to scream, but all that came from her mouth were hoarse, masculine roars as she inhaled the fires that tormented her. Huward was near her, the pot of oil in his hands. He had tipped it over her, and now he stood as though compelled to witness his wife’s death.

Flora screamed high and mad. She felt as though her jaw must break from her face, her mouth opened so wide in mortal horror. Giving dry, wracking sobs, she tore her skirts from her legs and ran to her mother. She raised the cloth to beat at the flames that were consuming her mother’s face and shoulders, but then felt the dreadful grip of her father. He pulled her away, turned her and peered into her face, and she saw that he was quite mad. It was as though he was looking into her soul to see if there was any part of her that was in truth his.

She wanted to tell him that she was entirely his, she had never been another man’s. Sir Ralph was nothing to her, even if his seed had given her life; the only father she had known was Huward. And then there was another deep roar of pain from Gilda, and Flora shuddered and shrieked, high and desperate, and in that moment she saw her father’s eyes die, as if he had seen that even Flora, his little Flora, had deserted him.

Flora felt her shoulder released and knew what was to happen. She closed her eyes, waiting for the punch that would finish this hideous scene and give her peace, but nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

Fire was leaping up at the inner walls, washing over the wooden machinery like fingers of liquid death, and all about her was a whistling and bubbling as the conflagration took hold. She went to her mother and tried to pull her dead weight to the door, ignoring the flames that seared her legs.

Huward stood in the cover of the trees and stared back at the destruction of all that he had loved and considered most important in the world. His mill had been his pride, his family had been his joy. Now the building was smoking like a charcoal-burner’s stack, thick coils of smoke seeping out of gaps in the thatch and from windows like poisonous grey snakes seeking the daylight.

He was still there when Sir Ralph galloped back to the burning building leaping from his horse and running towards the doorway. Other men appeared, but Huward paid them no attention. He was watching the knight, the man who had caused this destruction.

Sir Ralph shouted something; Huward couldn’t hear him over the din of the fire. It sounded almost as though the flames were mocking the knight and him together, laughing at them. Men went to Sir Ralph’s side, staring inside, but then Sir Ralph gave a loud cry and pointed. The others grabbed at him, but he slipped away, ducked beneath the flaming timber of the doorway, and was inside. As others scooped water from the river and threw it over the flames, in at the door, over the roof, everywhere, Huward saw one man turn and see him. It was the Bailiff.

Huward moved away. He had done enough. Now he had just one more task to fulfil before he could find peace.

Simon was in two minds whether to go and try to catch up with Huward, but there was someone trapped inside the mill, and he was sure that his duty lay in saving life rather than chasing after the miller. He pulled off his coat as he ran to the river, and threw himself in, making sure that the coat was well soaked. Running back, he draped the coat over his head and plunged inside the mill.

It was hard to see anything. The smoke from the damp thatch was as thick and viscous as oil. Simon stared about him, choking on the harsh fumes. Thinking he saw movement, he walked cautiously towards it, but when he reached the place, he realised it was the dancing flames on a burning timber. Gazing about him again, he saw something else, and was convinced it must be a man. He ran to the figure, and saw that it was Sir Ralph, dragging someone else. Simon took his arm and tried to help him, but then he found himself being overwhelmed by an increasing lassitude, and he couldn’t quite recall where the door was. He coughed, and then realised that the acrid stuff had risen up into his nose and was searing his nostrils.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder; it was Baldwin. His old friend tore the coat from Simon’s head and threw it away. Then he reached forward, picked up the body from Sir Ralph, placed it over his shoulder and pulled Simon out of that house of horror. Only when he was outside did Simon realise that he had kept hold of Sir Ralph and hauled him out too.

‘Thank–’ he began, and then submitted to a paroxysm of coughing and retching, feeling the cool grass and stones on his face as he sprawled, incapable of moving.

Huward marched through the woods. As he went, he tugged at his thin leather belt; it would serve his purpose. When he heard running steps, he paid them no heed, but then he saw who it was, and he stopped.

For his part, Mark didn’t realise who he had blundered into until he was a scant few feet from Huward, and then his face blanched and he stood like one petrified. He had no idea what to say. There was nothing he could say to the man who only yesterday had been demanding his execution for the murder of his daughter. He opened his mouth, but no words came. In preference he would have resorted to flight, but he couldn’t. He felt like his feet had taken root with the trees in the dark soil.

Huward broke the silence with a sob. ‘Dead. All dead!’

‘Who is?’ Mark stuttered. In truth, Huward looked as though he had died and gone to Hell. His face was scorched on the left cheek, his hair seared away, and his eyes were quite mad.

‘All. Gilda, Ben, Flora – all dead. All burned. I did it – I had to. Sir Ralph made me. He made me a fool and murderer. He used me and my wife, like he uses everyone. So I’ve stopped their pain and suffering. My poor Gilda! My poor Flora! Why do I still love them? How can I? They aren’t mine, they’re his !’

‘His?’ Mark watched as Huward slowly moved away, still muttering heedlessly about his family, and then Mark heard the shouts and saw the smoke. A chill in his heart, he crept towards the edge of the trees and peered out at the scene before him.

In front of the burning mill were some men sprawled on the grass. Mark could see that the Keeper was coughing and staring at the house, his beard singed on one side, while at his feet the Bailiff was being attended by his servant. Sir Ralph sat with his head resting on his hands and gazing at the mill with a kind of disbelieving horror, while at his side, Ben lay like one dead, his upper body covered in a blackened and filthy shirt, his hair all but gone, his hands terribly burned. While Mark watched, he saw Osbert emerging from the mill, a body over his back. Os lurched away from the building, depositing the figure on the ground, and then submitted to a racking cough. The body squirmed. It was Flora, and as her burned flesh touched the ground, she started to wail, long and mournfully. As the Keeper ordered men to her, she gave a sudden cough and, turning over, vomited over the grass. Piers was at her side and mopped at her face with a damp cloth from a bucket.