The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Cracking?’ Sampson queried, mouth hanging slackly.

  ‘Someone broke her neck,’ Baldwin explained. Something made him frown. A fact which niggled, but he could not put his finger on it.

  Sampson sniffed, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘I didn’t know that. No. Didn’t know that then. Only heard later.’

  ‘Did anyone else walk by on the road?’ Simon pressed.

  Sampson averted his head slightly. Didn’t like the Bailiff. He was loud; scary. Sampson didn’t want to be scared. Didn’t want to say Sir Ralph came by. Sir Ralph was scary too. Sir Ralph was on a horse, though, Sampson remembered slyly. ‘No one walked by.’

  ‘What, then?’ Simon demanded. ‘Did she sit, did she walk away, did she hit herself?’

  Sampson shrugged. ‘I came home,’ he said simply.

  ‘Can you remember seeing anyone else there who might have had something to do with her death?’

  Sampson remembered what Surval had said only the night before. ‘No. No one.’

  ‘See, Sir Baldwin? Easy. And now,’ Piers added, looking up at the sky, ‘we should get back to the castle. The court must be about to start.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Baldwin glanced about him when he walked into Sir Ralph’s hall that afternoon with a feeling that this would not be a straightforward meeting.

  He had told Godwen and Thomas to wait outside. There was no point in additional witnesses, and from the look of the men traipsing in from the fields, there would be enough and to spare.

  ‘But do not drink too much, and for God’s own sake, try to resolve your problems,’ he said crossly.

  ‘Nothing to sort,’ Thomas grumbled.

  ‘I fear that any conversation I attempt is a little too far over his head,’ Godwen said with a chuckle.

  ‘Try to behave like sensible adults, not warring children,’ Baldwin snarled as he left them.

  It was not only the two men, it was his frustration. Piers’s son Henry had obviously slept all night, and his fear and anxiety had stemmed more from nervousness at what his father would say when he realised Wylkyn’s body was missing, than from terror of wild dogs overnight.

  For all Baldwin’s diligent searching, all he had learned was that Henry had slept in the shelter of the wall, away from the body, to be out of the wind. After he fell asleep, someone had come and taken Wylkyn away. Obviously that man would avoid Henry, so he dragged or carried the body away, and yet Baldwin had found no sign. It was infuriating.

  Now he stood in the hall with Simon; Hugh stood behind them wearing a fixed scowl that seemed to demonstrate that he would have preferred by far to be out in the buttery with Godwen and Thomas, their ongoing feud notwithstanding, than in here with a reeking population of villagers.

  Baldwin ignored him, concentrating on the men in the hall. Huward was there, he saw, at one corner of the room, while Sir Ralph had taken his seat in a carved chair like a throne on his dais, a table before him. He sat impassive as the men filtered into the room. Baldwin could see that Sir Ralph had brought in all the men of over twelve years to act as jury, and Piers was there among them all. Esmon loitered against a wall.

  ‘A good-sized hall,’ Simon muttered.

  ‘Good if you want to entertain the King and his Host,’ was Baldwin’s murmured opinion. ‘It is larger than a small castle like Gidleigh warrants, I should say.’

  ‘It was built smaller originally.’

  Baldwin nodded. He too had seen the tell-tale marks on the walls where the place had been extended and limewash painted over the new plaster. ‘No doubt before long Sir Ralph will attach it to his keep and construct a real moorstone wall about the place.’

  ‘Provided he can solicit the necessary permits to castellate.’

  ‘I doubt,’ Baldwin said, ‘that he would find that to be a difficulty if he remains on close and amicable terms with Hugh Despenser the Younger.’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Simon snorted. ‘That young fool dozed and the murderer returned to hide the body.’

  ‘But where?’

  They had searched carefully in and around the place but found nothing. Blood was spread thickly where the body had lain, but there was no sign to show how or to where Wylkyn had been removed. It was maddening, but it pointed to a serious urge to conceal the murder. Fine. So Baldwin and Simon must seek more diligently, then.

  Baldwin glanced about him. The hall was certainly generously proportioned, and the roof timbers seemed as high overhead as a cathedral’s, although he knew that was an illusion created by the warm fug. The room was filled with the odour of dirty, soggy men and their dogs. Smoke from the fire rose to the rafters. All the tables had been stored away around the walls, their trestle-stands collapsed and set in front of the tables to stop them toppling. Thus the floor was clear, apart from Sir Ralph’s great throne and his wife’s alongside.

  On the walls of what Baldwin took to be the older part of the room were faded paintings of saints. Left was the great window which lighted the room. It was open, unglazed, and with square sectioned wooden bars rising to cover the space. At the back of Sir Ralph’s dais hung a pair of matching tapestries which Baldwin assumed gave out to the solar block of the hall. That was where Sir Ralph would retire when his work was done, with a strong door to lock out intruders. The tapestries could be moved aside to allow escape from Sir Ralph’s retainers and servants when all went to sleep. As he gazed at the heavy hangings, both depicting a hunt for a white hart, Baldwin noticed that one of them trembled. A moment later, he saw a dainty white hand slip out and pull the material away, and there stood a woman whom Baldwin could only think of as beautiful.

  She was in her mid-thirties, a slender woman clad in a long, pale-blue tunic, her hair carefully bound up beneath a wimple, and her wealth and position made clear by her posture and carriage. She had an oval face, slightly slanting almond eyes, and a fine, long neck. As she walked, her head did not turn to inspect the servants and men waiting for the court, but instead appeared to stare over their heads.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Simon whispered from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was very tired,’ Baldwin returned. There was a snigger from behind him, and he cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder at Hugh.

  ‘She’s about as tired as a ploughman who’s finished the strong ale at breakfast.’

  ‘That is a villainous thing to say,’ Simon said, scandalised. ‘Remember, you are in her hall with her husband about to open his court.’

  ‘I hate to admit it, Simon, but I think Hugh is right this time,’ Baldwin murmured.

  It was not only her own appearance, but the expression on Sir Ralph’s face when he saw her that persuaded Baldwin. The knight stood as his wife came close, but even so, neither attempted to take the other’s hand as she took her seat next to him, in a chair which a servant hurriedly pushed forward for her. Once sitting, she remained still, calmly staring ahead as though she was entirely alone. It was as if she was blind and deaf, unaware of others in the hall with her.

  ‘She looks unhappy about something,’ Simon said, studying her with his arms folded over his breast, occasionally throwing a suspicious glance at Sir Ralph.

  Baldwin had no doubts about Simon’s ability to read a man’s character quickly, and the same skill often worked with women. Now, watching the Lady closely, Baldwin was sure there was misery in her features. Even from this distance her eyes looked as though they were red from weeping. It was all too common for a knight like Sir Ralph to beat his wife, but somehow Baldwin doubted that Sir Ralph was forged from that mould. He was no gentle lord to his servants, and his behaviour towards Baldwin and Roger Scut had been cavalier yesterday, but there was an apparent tenderness in his treatment of her even now. His annoyance was based on the fact that she was so obviously drunk in public, but even so Baldwin was sure that he caught sight of several sidelong glances from Sir Ralph, as though he feared
that her spirit might fail her, and that insight intrigued Baldwin. What could he fear in this, his own hall?

  Then Baldwin caught a glimpse of Sir Ralph’s face and saw, not the simple arrogance of a man at his wife’s drunkenness, but the face of someone whose soul was already tormented in Hell. His eyes were too wide, grown immense, like a hunted stag’s when the raches catch him at bay, and the gaze Sir Ralph cast at his wife was not accusing, Baldwin saw. Rather, it was apologetic, penitential almost, like a man who had been forced to confess to a serious failing. It reminded Baldwin of Simon’s expression when his drunken snores had kept his wife awake all night – but more serious.

  Baldwin was about to nudge Simon and see whether his friend had noticed, when Sir Ralph’s expression hardened and the misery disappeared, and he was once more the lord of his own court.

  There was a vague shuffling as men moved aside, and Baldwin turned to find that Roger Scut had entered, a servant following with arms full of parchments rolled inside leather tubes. Roger walked to the side of the hall and waited pompously while a table was set before him. He eyed his stool doubtfully before sitting and motioning for his bag and parchments to be delivered. Immediately he set about sharpening his reeds and cleaning a large parchment, held down as usual with his leather-covered stones.

  ‘What’s that polished-arse doing clerking for the knight?’ Simon asked coarsely.

  ‘He likes money. Perhaps he has been offered cash for helping,’ Baldwin said lightly, but he was concerned. There was something wrong here. Uncharitable thoughts about Roger Scut began to develop in his mind.

  ‘I don’t like this, Baldwin.’

  Baldwin nodded in agreement. Then he shot a look at Hugh. ‘Fetch Godwen and Thomas, Hugh. Bring them in here.’

  To his credit, Hugh did not hesitate. He instantly slipped out, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd, but before he could reach the door, there was a dull rumbling noise from the people, and Baldwin turned to see Mark.

  He had managed, just, to stay awake all night. With the pain from the beating, the cold, the threat of rodents attacking him, and the fear that in such temperatures were he to fall asleep he might never reawake, Mark had passed a miserable night.

  It was not only that his present predicament was so grim, but also that he was sure he would be unable to show that he should be sent to the Bishop’s court. And that would mean that this was his last night, in all probability. Through the long hours of darkness, he had stood shivering, or pacing frantically, trying to imagine a means of escape, a brilliant plan that would allow him to spring free from this hellish place, and find himself back in the Cathedral, but he could think of nothing but his bruised kidneys, his black eyes, his torn muscles. His mind went blank when he tried to envisage his own future. When he thought of anything, it was his darling Mary, dead… and then he wanted to weep, but couldn’t. It was as though that part of his life was only a dream. All that truly existed was this misery, this dreadful underground tomb. Even when he tried to call to mind Mary’s face when they had been happy, it was impossible, as though all memory of their bliss had been eradicated.

  When they threw open the trap door, he was blinded. After the dark, it was like staring from a long tunnel into a brilliant white light, and it lanced into his eyes like pure heat, as though it was burning not only his eyes but his brain as well.

  There was a harsh scraping noise, and then he was relieved to hear Roger Scut’s voice calling to him gently. Slowly, my God, how slowly, he managed to clamber up the ladder, his eyes all but closed against the sun’s rays. At the top he had to close his eyes again. When at last he felt he could open them again, he found himself being watched by Roger Scut, Brian of Doncaster and two burly watchmen.

  ‘My God, Mark, you have suffered. I did all I could to get him to release you from that sewer, but Sir Ralph wouldn’t listen to me. I am terribly sorry.’

  ‘My friend, my Brother, I am grateful. God gave me some solace,’ Mark said. His voice was hoarse. ‘Do you have any water? My throat, I am so…’

  Hands took him by the elbows as he swayed with weakness, and the men half-carried, half-led him to a barrel in a corner. There he was seated, and he had to bend over, retching, with giddiness and hunger. A cup of almost pure water was pressed into his hand, and he drank it quickly. His belly tried to vomit it back as soon as he had swallowed, some spurting up into his sinus, and it was only with exaggerated gulping that he kept it down, holding out the cup for another.

  ‘Are you ill?’ Roger Scut asked. He was crouching at Mark’s feet, and looking up at him solicitously.

  ‘Yes. I feel so bad, so foul and tainted. The shame! And I don’t know what to do! All I want is to be safe in the Cathedral, but look at this,’ he motioned to his ruined tunic and robes. ‘This is all I am now, a churl with only a common fame! Who would believe in my innocence? Even I thought I must have killed her when I saw her body lying there!’

  ‘My Brother, don’t speak like that,’ Roger Scut urged him. ‘Pray to God and trust in Him, and you will be saved. Don’t let that knight browbeat you, but stand your ground, tell the truth and damn him if he dares try to hold you.’

  ‘I must tell him that he is my father, too,’ Mark said, glancing about him to check that Brian and the guards couldn’t overhear. ‘That should save me.’

  ‘Mark,’ Roger Scut bent lower, ‘you are about to enter his court, with his wife there, and his son. If you say you’re his son, they’ll think you invented it to curry favour and he’ll probably be harder on you than he otherwise would! I’d not mention that you’re his son until later, when you’ve proved your innocence.’

  Mark stared at him. ‘How much longer must I keep this secret?’

  ‘As long as you need to. You are innocent, Mark. And you can claim Benefit of Clergy. Prove that you are a cleric and you will be all right.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘He will ask you to recite something – the Pater Noster, I expect. It’s what all clerics remember.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Mark closed his eyes and spoke the words again, his tongue using the Latin easily. After so many repetitions, he could say them with ease.

  ‘That is good,’ Roger Scut said, although his face looked no easier. ‘Now, simply remember, don’t allow Sir Ralph to push you into accepting his court or his justice. You have your own court under Bishop Walter. This is a farce here, nothing more than that.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I thank you, my friend.’ There were tears in Mark’s eyes at the thought of how kind this brother cleric had been to him. His generosity of spirit was stunning, spending time with a man of notoriety like Mark. ‘I shall pray for you.’

  Roger Scut withdrew, but not fast enough for Mark to avoid seeing the revulsion on his face.

  ‘Holy Mother,’ Mark whispered, ‘take pity on a poor sinner. Ease my torment.’

  Roger gave him a faint smile as though to encourage him, but then it fell from his face as he left the room with an overburdened servant. Mark watched them cross the yard and enter the hall. He shuddered, as though someone had walked over his grave.

  ‘Come on, you.’ It was Brian and he pulled Mark to his feet and bound his wrists with strong thongs. ‘Our master wants a chat with you, little priest.’

  There was no cell in the land which was designed to be comfortable, as Baldwin knew too well, but the sight of Mark blinking, stumbling, his head smeared with filth that yet did not obscure the swollen temple and split upper lip where he had been punched, made him feel a welling of sympathy and sorrow, and anger. But also that curious niggling sensation, as though something was jarring his soul.

  The crowd didn’t bay for blood like hounds. It was a more intimidating front that they presented to Mark. As he entered, all talking ceased, and men stood and glared at him. Not a soul there spoke, and Baldwin was sure that where Mark was, passing along a narrow way between the men, all he would have seen was utter contempt and loathing. It was that which probably made t
he fellow duck his head, evading eye-contact with any of the men amongst whom he had lived, if only for a short while.

  ‘You are Mark, the priest of Gidleigh Chapel?’ Sir Ralph rasped and then, when Mark dumbly nodded his head, he suddenly roared, ‘You will answer!’

  ‘I am Mark, the Parson of Gidleigh.’

  ‘You know why you are here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have been appealed by Huward, father of Mary, the girl you murdered with malice aforethought on–’

  ‘No, I never murdered her, you have to–’

  His quavering voice was silenced as Brian punched him in the lower back with full force. Mark flew forward, arms out to break his fall, and stayed there, retching, as the pain ebbed and flowed about his kidney. Rough hands were thrust under his armpits and he was lifted, still bent and weeping, until he could stand on his own feet again.

  Seeing the boy slammed to the ground, Baldwin was about to go to him, but even as he took his first step forward, he felt Simon’s warning hand on his shoulder, and then, while the guards ungently lifted Mark, he heard Simon’s gruff murmur. ‘I don’t like it either, but there’s nothing illegal about it. Interrupt the court and you’ll probably make matters worse for him.’

  It was difficult, but Baldwin gave a curt nod even as Sir Ralph thundered, ‘Elias? Speak!’

  While Mark tried to gather his breath, Elias told his story again. He wouldn’t look at Mark, Baldwin noticed, but gave his evidence to the wall over Sir Ralph’s head. Soon Huward was called to assert that Mary had not had a boyfriend that she had told him of. She had been too dutiful and obedient a daughter to seek out a callow youth. Mark must have raped her, then murdered her to silence her.

  ‘Piers! What did the Coroner say?’

  Piers sighed. ‘That the girl was murdered. She’d been made pregnant and the child was dead. Mary’s neck was broken and…’