Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

If he could, Mark would have gone to Flora immediately to pray and ease her pain, but he couldn’t. Any of the men there might kill him on sight. No, it was better that he should get away from here. Leave this place of murder and rapine, go to the Bishop’s palace and try to find some peace.

They had given up the battle – that much was obvious. The place was an inferno, and the odd bucket or two of water could do nothing to assuage the fearsome hunger of the flames. The fire must be left to burn itself out.

He walked back the way he had come, going quietly as a deer to avoid being heard, but there was no one around. Any men in the area would be at the mill, trying to save what they could. He could breathe more easily, secure in the knowledge that the disaster at the mill had distracted any thought of pursuit of him.

Carrying on, he upset a blackbird, which suddenly flew off, moving close to the ground and crying its warning as it went.

All at once, as the noise faded, Mark became aware that this was a very quiet part of the wood. There seemed to be no animals, no birdsong, no scuttling of mouse feet, nothing. It was disconcerting. Yet there was still the slow creak of boughs rubbing against each other in the wind, a languid, relaxing sound in the peace. He stood still a moment, enjoying the silence, and then a drip or two of rain pattered on his shoulder, except he noticed that it smelled like urine.

When he looked up to see where the drops came from, he saw the body of Huward, dangling from a high branch, his belt suspending him by the neck.

Baldwin had brought a wineskin with him when he left the castle, and now he sent a man to fetch it from his horse. He was weak and dizzy after the strain of trying to hold his breath as long as possible in that terrible place, and he was not as young as he had once been, so lifting and carrying even so slight a body as Ben’s had torn something in his back and strained his upper belly. As he moved his shoulders and tentatively flexed muscles, he had to give a wry grin. Once he would have been able to dart in, bring out the girl, then run back in and save another.

The man returned with the skin. Baldwin took a mouthful and swilled it around his teeth, swallowing gratefully before offering it to Simon. The Bailiff was kneeling now, groggy as a fighter who had been felled once too often, spitting the sour flavour of vomit from his mouth. Seeing the skin he took it greedily, gulping at it until Baldwin had to wrench it away.

While Simon groaned and smacked his lips, Baldwin went to the girl and Sir Ralph. Flora was alive – but only just. She looked as though she was sorry not to have been left in the house. Her eyes were open, but she was lying on her back and staring up at the darkening sky. She didn’t flinch even when a great roaring crash came from the mill as the machinery collapsed, bringing down the whole roof with it. Sparks gleamed and flew up as the smoke gushed, and then there was a great howl as flames sped to feed upon the fresh timbers. Now the heat was astonishing, with orange-red lighting the whole area, and flames leaping towards the heavens.

‘Will you not drink a little, maid?’ he asked. ‘A sip of wine might clear your mouth of the fumes.’

‘I’m not thirsty,’ she said.

It was true. Although the whole of her body felt burned, she was content to lie here on the damp grass, uncaring of what the future might bring. It didn’t matter. Her soul felt empty. All her family was gone. If her father was ever to return, she would be filled with fear, not love. There was no one, no one at all, who could fill the terrible void that had opened in her life tonight.

Hands lifted her and carried her gently to a horse. There she was placed into the arms of another man, who she soon realised was Sir Ralph, and the horse set off slowly for the castle.

In the past, Flora had always felt a sense of dread when she had passed beneath the gateway, but this time, there was nothing, except the gradual awakening of pain from the dreadful burns on her thighs and face.

And the awareness of the silent sobs of the knight who held her so softly and yet so well.

He was still there as night came on fully.

It took him an age to get the body down. He was unused to clambering up trees, but he must reach out along that branch and slash away at the leather, slowly sawing with his little blunt eating knife until at last there was a short ripping noise and the badly cured leather gave way.

Huward fell silently, and somehow Mark thought that was wrong. A man dropping so far, at least ten feet, should at least gasp or wail, but this body simply disappeared from view and landed on the grass and leaves. When Mark looked down, the bloated face and curiously bloodshot eyes met his accusingly.

It took some while to climb back down, and then Mark was startled to hear Surval’s voice.

‘Be gracious to him. He was a good man,’ the hermit said.

‘I never heard a bad word about him.’

‘No. I think that was what he feared most,’ Surval said contemplatively. ‘The idea that all the men he knew in the vill might begin to think of him as a figure of ridicule. He was a kind fellow, but proud, and the idea of losing any respect from the folk here was too appalling for him.’

‘He has killed them all, hasn’t he? He said something about Sir Ralph.’

Surval gave him a sombre look. ‘What would you have done?’ he said. ‘Huward learned that Sir Ralph fathered all the children: Ben, Flora and Mary were his, not Huward’s.’

‘He told you all this?’

‘And more.’

Mark nodded. He was setting out the body as neatly as he could, trying not to look into Huward’s eyes. Huward’s hands he crossed over his breast, and then those terrible eyes were closed. Mark bent his head and said a long prayer over the dead man, pleading for Jesus’s intervention, asking St Mary to protect Huward’s soul and give him her compassion. It seemed ironic to be pleading with her when the whole cycle of death and horror had started with her namesake’s murder.

Surval was uncompromising. ‘I liked him, but he committed suicide.’

‘He did so while he was temporarily mad. That wasn’t his fault. Just as,’ Mark added, rising to his feet, ‘the murder of his family wasn’t his fault either. That was down to Sir Ralph.’

Suddenly, as he stood gazing about him, the full horror of Surval’s words struck at him, and he uttered a faint gasp as he tottered on legs suddenly powerless to support him. He closed his eyes as the terrible truth was revealed.

‘Christ in Heaven!’

‘Boy? What is it?’ Surval demanded. He had crossed to Mark’s side and now he leaned on his staff and peered at the young man, but Mark was incapable of responding.

If it was true that Sir Ralph was the father of the children of Huward’s family, then Mark had been sleeping with his own sister! Half-sister, perhaps, but that was no defence. Worse – he had made her pregnant!

‘Oh God!’

‘You sound petrified, boy,’ Surval said quietly. ‘What is this – has something alarmed you?’

‘You know, don’t you?’ Mark croaked.

‘Perhaps.’ Surval lowered his head. ‘There is a family resemblance. But remember, vengeance is the Lord’s, not ours.’

Mark didn’t agree. Standing and staring down at the corpse, he was aware of a revulsion so complete, so all-enveloping, that it made him feel quite weak. Sir Ralph – he was the man responsible for all this misery.

Sir Ralph! He had condemned Mark to Hell, for unknowingly, Mark had committed the sin of incest, but his own ignorance was no excuse. All so that Sir Ralph could slake his carnal lusts with a woman other than his wife. Mark could comprehend a man’s desire for a woman, but to have cuckolded a man to this extent, leaving so many souls to perish, that was appalling! Sir Ralph had ruined so many by his thoughtless satisfaction of his desires.