‘I hate you, Master. Hate you!’ he moaned pathetically. He had never hurt the master, never meant to upset him, but Sir Ralph treated him like a dog. All Sampson wanted was to be liked, and he did all he could to please people, but they hated him and whipped him or punched him for no reason. He couldn’t understand. It wasn’t fair.
‘I hate you,’ he repeated, but his voice was almost a sigh, without passion. No point being sad. People just didn’t like him. He was stupid. They could live normally, but no one trusted him. Others would marry and have children, but he was doomed to a life apart. Alone.
The mizzle stopped and the clouds parted. Suddenly the land was warmed by a thin sun, pale and wintry, but better than the freezing rain. He could feel it on his back.
Only one man was like him. The priest. He was lonely, too. That was why Sampson liked to watch him. The priest made him feel whole, as if he wasn’t completely alone in the world.
He heard steps, and caught his breath. There was no hole in which to hide here; the walls and hedges were solid. He cast about for an escape but there was nothing, not even a rabbit hole, and the noise of voices and laughter came more loudly on the calm air. He threw himself to the edge of the roadway, hoping that whoever it was would leave him alone if he withdrew from their path.
It was three lads from the vill, all of them adults, at sixteen years or so. Spotting Sampson, they hurried to him with a whoop, one boy kicking at him, then grabbing a stick and thrashing him with it, while two others threw stones and mud at him with gay abandon, as though they were taunting a cock in the pit or a bear at the stake.
‘Leave me!’ Sampson screamed in terror. He covered his face – if he couldn’t see them, maybe they’d leave him alone. Pebbles stung him, balls of mud smacked into his upper arms and back, making him cry out and whimper. A larger lump of stone cracked his finger where it protected his temple, and he shrieked with the pain, but the missiles still flew, flung with the concentrated malice of men attacking another who was weaker than them.
Trying to flee, he clambered to his feet and began to limp away, but a lump struck him above his ear and stunned him, setting his head ringing. He felt himself stumble and his bad leg snagged a rock, tripping him; he fell flat, both bony elbows striking the ground together. Winded, he burst into paroxysms of tears at the fresh pain, weeping with utter dejection. He hated his life – he hated himself.
Gradually he became aware that the missiles had ceased. Then, to his amazement, he realised that a soft voice was speaking to him. Looking up, he saw that the three boys had gone, and that only Mary, the miller’s daughter, was with him. He was too astonished to speak as she crouched beside him. And then something burst inside him, and he was overwhelmed. All tears forgotten, he knew only that he adored this girl, he worshipped her.
Even when she had helped him to his feet and continued on her way down the road, he stood gazing after her, occasionally sniffing, shoulders hunched like a child’s. It was the first time since his mother had died that anyone had shown him kindness.
He would do anything for her, he thought, his heart swelling with love. If he had known then that she had only a year to live, he would have offered to die in her place, and done so gladly. But he didn’t know, and for the next few months his adoration grew.
Until more than a year later, in early 1323, when he saw her corpse lying at the side of the road.
Chapter Two
After his chance encounter with Sampson, Sir Ralph rode on up the hill. At the top, he continued south-east, making a circuit back towards his manor at Wonson.
He felt out of sorts; at a time of hardship like this, a drooling idiot like Sampson was a luxury the vill could scarce afford. The Church always said that men must support those who were unable to support themselves. That was all very well for churchmen, who took food and money from others to fill their bellies and their purses, but it was different when you were responsible for keeping your people fed, like Sir Ralph.
Entering the copse that bounded the stream, he jogged along, until something made him glance up. Looking through the trees, he saw Surval again. The old hermit was staring straight at him.
Unsettled, Sir Ralph tried to put the man from his mind. His path led him back down the lower lane beneath the chapel. There was no sign of the priest when he glanced that way, but he noticed Mary entering the field above Mark’s home and heading towards the monk’s door. Sir Ralph ran his eyes over her figure with interest. She was a fine-looking girl – very fine. When she’d been younger, she’d looked a little ungainly with her long, coltish legs and clumsy gait, but she had filled out well. She would adorn any man’s bedchamber, and Sir Ralph wondered whether she had already been rattled. He doubted it somehow. Huward was a stern parent.
Then he grew thoughtful. There was no reason for the girl to be visiting the chapel. If she wanted a word with a priest, there was a perfectly good man at Gidleigh, or the one at Throwleigh. So what was she up to? No matter how many times he told himself that she could be quite innocently taking a message for her mother, or offering some charity to a poor monk in the form of victuals, his mind kept turning to the normal reasons for a girl to visit a boy. The monk might look weakly, but Sir Ralph knew there was a certain charm in his features, a regularity about his face, an attractiveness to the large eyes.
‘Damn him, I’ll speak and make sure!’ he swore.
A scant half-mile north of him as he rode, Lady Annicia was in the yard of their manor, watching the servants. An elegant, slender woman in her mid-thirties, with pale features and chestnut hair, Sir Ralph’s wife was fortunate enough to know her place in the world and to be perfectly satisfied with it. Her sparkling amber eyes held a contentment and calm certainty. She had given birth to a son, Esmon, so her life could be called a success. Her husband was now a wealthy magnate and could expect still more advantages, especially now he had allied himself with the Despenser family, the King’s own favourites, once they were allowed to return from their exile, as the rumours indicated they soon might.
If there was one aspect of life with her husband that was less than pleasing, it was his womanising. Not only was it an insult to Lady Annicia, it was a malign influence on their child. Esmon had grown up considering all the local girls to be little more than exciting toys with which he could play. Sometimes a toy was damaged. When it was, he threw it away and found a replacement. The same was true of the women with whom he played. There were always more.
It was no surprise. Esmon was a terribly good-looking boy. As soon as one girl was thrown over, there were always three more ready to replace her in his affections. It was undoubtedly foolish, but most of these females seemed to think that by ensnaring Esmon, they would win his heart and wind up living here in the castle as his wife. The idiots!
In the case of her husband, she knew that Sir Ralph had enjoyed some of the women in the area. He had been doing so for years, ever since before their wedding, but that didn’t mean Lady Annicia had to understand his behaviour, nor that she had to approve. It was demeaning and embarrassing for her to know that he sought out other women occasionally, but he was at least discreet. She didn’t have to suffer the shame of having women with squalling brats turning up periodically and demanding help.
She could only hope that Esmon would be the same. While all the stales in the vill were throwing themselves at him, it would be a miracle if he didn’t enjoy himself with more than a few. There was one only a short way from the manor house – that little strumpet Margery. She had certainly fluttered her eyes at him often enough. Still, Esmon was capable of taking her without getting emotionally involved, Annicia reckoned. He was brighter than that. And to be fair, at least Margery wasn’t trying to win him as a husband. From all Annicia had heard, she was little better than a prostitute.
This was a good manor. Not as large, perhaps, as poor Richard Prouse’s castle, which bounded the manor on three sides, but even so, it was comfortable, and that was something Richard hadn’t known in the
five years or more since that terrible fight during which he was crippled. It was terrible to see a man so ruined when he had been so virile and masculine before, and it was partly that which made her determined that Esmon would never hazard his life in tournaments if she could prevent it.
With that thought in her mind, she found herself glancing at the men in the yard, and doing so, she caught the eye of Brian of Doncaster. Arrogant puppy! He stood there with his thumbs stuck in his belt as though he owned the place. All because her son had brought him and some other men-at-arms back with him after his time in Wales last year, helping guard a Despenser castle.
Brian met her gaze without flinching or looking away, and she felt her face freeze. The look on his face was much like the expression Sir Ralph wore when he drank in the looks of another young woman, a territory waiting to be conquered. That Brian of Doncaster should dare to look upon her so openly was a disgrace. Stories of ladies falling for the blandishments of men-at-arms and esquires among their households were all too common, but Lady Annicia had no intention of behaving in so lewd a manner. Especially with a man who was little better than a peasant.
She only broke off her cold stare when Brian was called away by one of his men.
‘That man!’ she hissed to herself.
It didn’t matter what Esmon said, that this Brian may have been valiant and a lion in battle. Lady Annicia felt that he was only in the castle because he wanted to lift her skirts and possess her.
Mary hated seeing Sampson so mistreated, and she banged on the priest’s door with an urgency born of anger at witnessing such mindless cruelty.
‘Who is it?’ snapped the priest’s voice before he opened the door.
Mary was in no mood to be spoken to like a child found tormenting a man’s cat, and was prepared to be as curt with Mark himself. ‘I often pray in your chapel, Father. Have you forgotten my name?’
Mark stood back from the door. Of course he hadn’t forgotten her name, or anything else about her. Mary had appeared in his more exciting dreams since he had first noticed her figure, and now he often found himself surreptitiously observing her well-filled bodice when he should have been concentrating on his offices. She was the most attractive woman for miles, in his view, and that was one very good reason for him to maintain a certain aloof distance. He daren’t risk compromising himself with her. As a priest he had to be constantly on guard against women and their wiles.
Mark threw a look over his shoulder at his milk. It was not overboiling yet, but he didn’t want to leave it too long. He needed that warming drink, just as he needed a rest before he celebrated the next service in the chapel. With his sore fingers and feet, he was not in the mood to be polite. Mary was very pretty, but Mark felt that it was more important that he should get that warm drink inside him than that he should stand here gossiping. ‘What do you want?’ he asked more politely.
Mary bit back her first sarcastic rejoinder. ‘It is cold out here, Father. Can’t we talk inside?’
‘Why, what do you want to discuss that shall take so long?’
‘Father, I am freezing. Won’t you let me in?’
With a bad grace, he reluctantly grunted assent and pulled the door a little wider. She slipped in past him, and as she did so, he felt her hip brush against his groin. It was fleeting, the merest touch, but it set his heart beating a little faster, especially when he caught a whiff of her fresh, sweet scent, as though she had rolled in new-cut grass infused with lavender.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked gruffly.
‘It is that poor dunderwhelp Sampson. He’s been beaten again. I saw three boys attack him just now, up on the high road.’
‘So what?’ he demanded. The sweetness of her smell was overpowering. It seemed to fill the room, and he took a pace away from her, but mere distance gave him no relief, and he could feel his blood coursing, being this close to a woman in his own room.
‘Can’t you stop them? Preach a sermon about how they should leave the feeble-minded alone?’ she said.
‘Who were they?’
‘Just boys,’ she said hurriedly, for she did not want to have to reveal that one was her brother Ben. ‘You don’t have to talk to them yourself, just make it plain that those who bully Sampson will have to answer to God in the future, and maybe even to the Lord of the Manor for breaking the King’s Peace.’
‘I shall try,’ he said. For some reason he found he was eager to agree to anything that might please her.
‘I thank you,’ she said.
Now she was so close, he could see that she was quite beautiful. Her calm demeanour reminded him of a statue of the Madonna in Exeter. Both had the same deep blue eyes, small, pointed chins, slender noses and broad brows. The statue also had delightful breasts which seemed scarcely decent on the religious figure, and which attracted the ribald attention of many of the younger choristers, but Mark was keen to avert his eyes from Mary’s own breasts. To look, he thought, would be to lose himself, to see the earthly pleasures he was missing. This girl, this young woman, appeared so soft, caring, gentle… He felt like a knight who, seeing a woman for the first time, wanted to go and slay a dragon to attract her attention.
Mary had noticed his confusion, and assumed that he was simply eager to be rid of her. She was preparing to flounce to the door, for she saw no reason for his being so dismissive, when she noticed the pot on the fire. A thick crust of creamy bubbles was swiftly rising to the brim, and she tutted to herself. Taking a thick fold of her skirt in her hand, she reached to the handle, to rescue the pot from the fire, but before she could take hold of it, Mark saw what she was doing.
Afterwards, he could only think that the devil put the idea into his mind, but so chilled was he from his day’s exertions, that he could only think that the girl was going to steal his hot milk. All thoughts of her attractiveness fled, and he leaped forward, reaching for the pot. Grabbing the handle, he lifted it, but then he realised how hot it was. His palm was seared by the heat, and it was all he could do not to hurl the thing from him. He cautiously set the pot down, before biting his lip in anguish and letting go of it, blowing on his hand, refraining, just, from the oaths that threatened to shower from his mouth.
‘Is your hand all right?’ she asked solicitously. ‘Let me see it.’
‘No. It is fine.’
‘It can’t be! The pot was boiling. Why didn’t you let me take it from the flames? Oh!’ Her face softened as she approached him. ‘You were trying to save me from burning myself, weren’t you?’
To deny it and confess his true motive would have reduced him to her ridicule, and he wasn’t going to have that. And then the pain seemed to subside as he felt her hand on his forearm. She took his hand gently in her own cool, slightly callused ones, studying the raw, painful mark. ‘Oh Father, it’s badly burned, isn’t it?’ She met his eyes. ‘Thank you for trying to protect me.’
As he opened his mouth to speak, he saw her own mouth drop to his hand, and as her lips touched the wound, as light as feather-down, he forgot the burn entirely. When she brought her face back up again, he couldn’t help himself leaning down a little, and in response she lifted herself to him, and their lips met briefly.
She left a short time afterwards, and he sat alone in the gloom of his home, but now he was less aware of his loneliness. In its place was a terrible certainty that although he hadn’t touched her body, in his mind he knew he had wanted to. If she had allowed him, he would have taken her.
He must reject any further advances from her. His difficulty was, he was certain that he would be unable to refuse, should she offer him her lips again. The idea that she might offer him more was too terrible to consider, and yet that was precisely what he did consider for the whole of that long, sleepless night. Especially after Sir Ralph’s visit.
On a whim, Sir Ralph took the lane from the ford up to the castle. It climbed up around a hillside smothered in trees, to join with the mud-filled track that led the short way down to the Castle of Gidle
igh and the small church at its side. Usually he would have spurred his mount here past the castle gate, for he disliked Sir Richard, but today he ambled along the way and hesitated at the entrance before turning eastwards. It was that fleeting sight of Mary that had made him change his route. He would go to Huward’s mill.
Although he and all the villagers referred to it as ‘Huward’s’, in fact it was Ralph’s own. Every manor had at least one mill, and each of the villeins would pay the miller one tenth or a twelfth of their grain for the privilege of having it ground into usable flour. The miller must pay the lord to fleece the peasants, and all too often was tempted to take more than his agreed share, leading to disputes and fights, but Huward was too wise to try anything like that. He knew when he was on to a good thing and so far appeared to have been fair in his dealings. Either that, Sir Ralph told himself, or he was simply too clever to be caught. Sir Ralph liked to drop in occasionally, unannounced, to check on the place. It was the best way of seeing whether he should increase the miller’s rent, and it was always enjoyable to see his family.
Huward was a heavy-set man in his early forties, with a sparse reddish moustache and beard. His hair was pale brown, and was receding to expose an angled forehead that raked back sharply from his nose. His eyes were small and close-set, but kindly, and surrounded by cracks in his weatherbeaten face.
‘Huward.’
‘Godspeed, my Lord.’
Sir Ralph glanced about him, then dropped from his horse and threw the reins to the miller. Without speaking, the knight marched to Huward’s door and entered, ducking below the low doorway.
Inside, Huward’s youngest daughter, Flora, sat teasing lambswool out into a long, ragged snake while her mother, Gilda, spun it using a weight until it had become a long cord. Sir Ralph smiled at them, and Gilda glanced out through the door, nervously looking for her husband, who was peering in, still holding onto the horse, before giving him a sombre nod of her head.
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 4
