Michael JECKS - The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Mark felt sick. He couldn’t meet Surval’s eyes. Instead he found his gaze passing down his body toward his own cods, staring at his groin with loathing. There, there was the root of all man’s sin, he felt. Sex. It had led Sir Ralph to Gilda and then he himself to Mary, poor, beautiful Mary. ‘Christ!’ At least she had died without knowing the depth of her sins. She didn’t have to live with her guilt as Mark would.

Even the sin of self-murder was better than this self-hatred. How could any man live with the weight of this crime burdening him?

‘What are you thinking, lad? That Sir Ralph is deserving of death? Leave him for the moment. Come with me to my home and I’ll give you a safe bed for the night. Tomorrow I can tell the Coroner about this man’s body. Meantime, you can escape. You don’t want to be found, do you?’

‘Thank you, no. I have to make my way to the Bishop’s palace. There’s nothing for me here,’ Mark said sadly. ‘I shouldn’t have waited around so long. I should have gone this morning.’

Surval nodded twice with deliberate emphasis. ‘If you’re sure, fine. But leave vengeance to God. He’s better placed to determine guilt than we are.’

‘I want to go and pray at my chapel first, though.’

‘There’s nothing there, lad. It was burned by the vill,’ Surval said sympathetically.

So even that had been taken from him. Everything had gone. His soul was tormented by his crime against God’s law of incest, his woman was dead and his living was gone; his chapel, which should have been a holy refuge, was destroyed, and now Huward’s family was dead, all killed because of Sir Ralph’s adultery. Mark knew his thoughts were not rational, knew that he was being less than sensible, but could do nothing about it.

He bade Surval farewell and walked from that grim, desolate place. He knew what he must do: he would go to his burned chapel and pray at the ruined altar, pleading for all those poor souls – Mary, Huward, Gilda, Flora, Ben and Wylkyn. That would take him until the night was at its deepest and darkest, and then he could go to the castle. Nobody would expect him there. He could enter by the fence, the same way he had got out of the place last night.

He had to get back in if he was to kill Sir Ralph.

Baldwin tried hard to refuse Sir Ralph’s hospitality, but he did feel as weak as a newborn lamb after his exertions in the fire, and Simon was worse. They had little choice but to accept the man’s offer.

As soon as they all arrived the men began bawling for wine and food, and Baldwin was happy enough to sit at a table and gulp at the pot of wine set in front of him while others cared for the wounded. In a change of role that he would have found amusing, were the circumstances less serious, he saw that the still pale-faced Hugh had returned to his duties and was now serving his paler-faced master.

Simon was not looking well, and occasionally gave a dry, hacking cough, but Baldwin was comfortably sure that he would recover. He was younger than Baldwin, and had not been exposed to the fire or smoke for long. The knight watched Hugh fussing over his master with a fond smile. Their companionship, which always appeared to be based upon mutual antipathy, sullen disagreement and regular arguments, was as strong as that which any master could enjoy with a servant.

That was the way of a man’s life, though. Service was the basic fact of life, no matter who the man was, and from service grew respect and even, sometimes, love. It took love for a man to risk his own life in saving his master’s, as Hugh had when he thrust Simon from the path of that fool Esmon.

Esmon. He had not arrived at the fire, and now, as Baldwin glanced about the room, he could see no sign of the lad. Surely he should be here with his men, but for some reason he was not. The noise in here was deafening, and on a whim, Baldwin got up and walked out to the court.

It was a clear night. The great burning torches that were set near the stables and the gatehouse failed to dim the light from the stars overhead. Baldwin looked up and marvelled once more at their beauty. There was a strange sweep to them, as though God had painted them in a great arc just to demonstrate that He had no need of symmetry in His Heaven. Occasional wisps of cloud floated past slowly, like blue and grey ships of silk, each apparently lighted from within by a flame of white purity.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured to himself.

A man-at-arms nearby glanced up. ‘It’s only clouds.’

‘The banal only ever see the banal,’ Baldwin said.

‘Eh?’

Baldwin was already walking across the yard. The door to the makeshift prison by the gate was wide open, showing the empty room beyond. Sensing a man nearby, he spun on his heel, a hand going to his sword, but it was only Roger Scut.

‘They’ve all gone,’ Roger Scut said. ‘She released them as soon as you’d left the place.’

‘That’s good.’

‘You don’t like me, do you?’

Baldwin surveyed him frankly. Scut was peering at him along his nose once more. It made Baldwin want to break it for him. ‘I think you are an arrogant fool, without compassion, and so keen to satisfy your own greed that you’d hurt any other man without counting the cost.’

Roger Scut blinked. He had not expected such abuse. ‘Do you always speak to priests with so little respect, or do you reserve your bile for me alone?’

‘Have you seen Esmon?’ Baldwin rapped out, ignoring the question.

‘Why do you ask me?’

‘I am not talking to you for the joy of it, Scut. Have you seen him or not?’

‘Not recently,’ Roger Scut said truthfully. He had not seen Esmon since Baldwin had questioned him at the trap door to the cell.

‘Fine,’ Baldwin said and was about to leave him when a thought struck him. ‘Your leather-covered weight that Simon found at the cell. You said that the cell was already empty when you got to it, and that there was no guard? Of course not. He would have raised the alarm. So who could have released the monk before you reached there?’

‘Anyone, so far as I know. I was in the hall and went out when all seemed quiet.’

‘So most of Sir Ralph’s men were asleep in the hall, I assume?’

‘Oh, yes. Only a few guards were not there, the men on the walls.’

‘But Sir Ralph and his wife sleep in the solar?’

‘Yes.’

‘What of Esmon?’

‘He remains in the hall at night. He was there and spoke to his father. Sir Ralph couldn’t sleep and left to get some air. Apparently he hasn’t slept well since the girl died.’

‘You saw him leave?’

‘Yes. He was soon back. Why?’

Baldwin nodded. That, he felt sure, answered the question about who had released Mark from captivity, if it did not explain why. And then the inspiration struck him.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘ That is what it was: he had to make sure Mark got out so that he could be hunted down. Sir Ralph thought he wouldn’t be able to get away, so he made Mark get out, threatening to kill him if he did not, purely so that the dogs could be set upon him again and he could be killed.’

‘You are talking nonsense!’ Roger argued. ‘Why – Sir Ralph had him put in the gaol! What on earth would he want to set him loose for?’

‘Go to the hall, priest,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘You are as foul as him. You planned to see this poor devil run down. Yes, and you hoped he might be captured and executed. Then you could take responsibility for his little church and demand to retain it. Why would you want to live in a miserable place like this, though? It is rural, far from any town. Surely you would hate it?’

‘And so I would. I never intended living here for long,’ Roger Scut said, but he felt stung enough to add, ‘Look, Sir Knight, I admit I was wrong. I was offered the inducement of the living of the place as well as being introduced to the Despensers. You know what that means? It means the support of the King, in effect. Me! I could have gone wherever I wanted, with their support.’