The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Oh.’ Hugh glanced at him doubtfully.

  ‘Always niggling at me, digging. He thinks he’s better than us, just because his family has more money. Well, I don’t care! My family work hard and we earn our crusts. He just lives off his father’s money.’

  ‘What does his father do?’

  ‘He’s a tailor in Exeter. He’s not free, he’s a serf to the Dean of Crediton Church, but the Dean is a generous man with his serfs. Provided they pay a bit to commute their services, and cough up their rents each year, he’s happy to let them make as much as they want.’

  Hugh grunted. ‘It all comes back to them in the end, doesn’t it? When Godwen’s old man dies, the Dean will want his death duties.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Thomas said, brightening a little. ‘I must tell Jack that.’

  ‘Who’s Jack?’

  ‘My sister’s husband – he’s a groom now. Used to be a farmer. Every time Godwen sees him, he laughs at him…’

  Hugh turned his head to peer at him, wincing slightly as more pain shot through his head. ‘What? You forgotten what you were going to say or something?’

  ‘No. It’s that son of a donkey over there,’ Thomas said, pointing.

  Hugh could just make out the portly figure of Roger Scut walking quickly towards the stables. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s the thieving goat who keeps putting up Jack’s rents so that he can’t survive on his money,’ Thomas grated. ‘I have a good mind to go in there and give him a pasting, just to give him a taste of his own medicine.’

  ‘You do that and you’ll be in the gaol before you can swing a second punch,’ Hugh said, nodding towards a group of guards lounging at the stable entrance. Then he frowned. ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That Roger Scut. What’s he doing, sidling into the stables?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Simon and Baldwin had ridden for the best part of an hour, sweeping around in a great arc with the castle at the centre, hoping to see some sort of sign that Mark had passed by, but after returning over their own tracks, Baldwin pulled a face and shook his head.

  ‘There is no point in continuing this. Look, you can hardly see where our horses have gone in among all these fallen leaves. It would be unrealistic to hope that we could catch a glimpse of Mark’s footsteps.’

  ‘If he came this way,’ Simon added sombrely.

  ‘Yes. I have no firm conviction on that,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But if I were him, I wouldn’t go in another direction.’

  ‘What of the hermit at the bridge?’ Godwen asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Simon returned. ‘What of him?’

  ‘He’s a holy man. Wouldn’t he stop a felon from running away?’

  Simon snorted. ‘You think a hermit at a place like Chagford Bridge is going to be careful of the law?’

  ‘If he’s a holy man he would.’

  ‘If he was a holy man, he’d be in a chamber in York or Winchester or Canterbury, or if he was even more holy, he’d be living in the middle of Dartmoor,’ Simon scoffed.

  ‘Come, Simon, it is possible,’ Baldwin said. ‘But Godwen, you must know that most hermits are people who have no knowledge of the religious life? There are many frauds and vagabonds who claim alms. I have even known of some outlaws who pretended to be religious and preyed on the weak and foolish who passed.’

  ‘You mean he could be false?’ Godwen said, shocked. ‘That’s disgusting! Taking money and charity from anyone who travels past here pretending to be able to pray for them… It’s outrageous!’ He had a high respect for money and corresponding distaste for theft.

  ‘Yes,’ Simon grunted. ‘And it’s as natural as breath itself to many of these fellows. I had one bastard up near Oakhampton who preyed on the women passing back and forth for weeks. He told them that God had given him the ability to pardon all sins. All he had to do was get them to kneel before him and lean forward so that he could pray with them, but behind them. It took ages before any of the women complained.’

  ‘No, well, you can’t trust women, can you?’ Godwen said bitterly. ‘Even when they make promises, you can’t be sure that they mean them.’

  Baldwin eyed him for a moment. His own marriage was so happy that a man who could slander the female sex was strangely repellent.

  Godwen caught the tail end of his look and felt himself colouring. It was irritating that he should still be so angry at losing her, but she was a beautiful girl when he had wooed her, and then that clumping, bone-headed cretin Thomas had got her instead. Until then, he and Thomas had been, if not close, then at least closer than their parents for many decades. Thomas’s great-grandsire had fought for some queen who called herself Empress, while Godwen’s had fought on the other side. That was enough, apparently, for their parents to quarrel, but Godwen and Thomas thought it was foolish to continue that strife. They had met, and they had been friendly enough. Until they both met Bea.

  Bea was a breath of fresh air in the town. Only short, she had a thick body with strong hands and heavy breasts, but her nature shone through. No man who had ever had her large green eyes fixed upon him while she laughed, her cheeks dimpling, her mouth open to display her small, well-formed teeth, could have failed to have been smitten, and Godwen was completely under her spell still. He had married, and his Jen had given him several children, but still, when he dreamed of a woman coming to his bed, it was always Bea. Even now, miles from her, and some distance from Thomas and the castle, Godwen could feel his jealous anger simmering. There was no cure for it.

  They were passing along a winding road that followed a fast-flowing Dartmoor stream, and Godwen came to as they splashed through the uncommonly deep ford.

  ‘Take care!’ Baldwin called before he entered. ‘The rains of the last few days have swollen it.’

  He watched Godwen as the guard steered his unwilling mount into the water and through it. Luckily the ford was not broad, and the horse had little time to grow alarmed, but Baldwin reckoned that they would have to be careful before long. The streams and rivers about here were all swift-flowing and dangerous after rain, and God knew how much rain had fallen in the last few days.

  Godwen was an odd character, in his opinion, and had the appearance of a man who had bottled up a grudge over the years, but Baldwin had other things to occupy his thoughts than the mood of a watchman.

  ‘We have no evidence which would point to anyone, apart from witnesses who say Esmon is involved in robbing travellers. He may be involved in the death of the miner, whose body we cannot find,’ he noted.

  Simon nodded grimly. ‘And that murderous little shit’s made an attempt on me, don’t forget. It was all I could do not to challenge him last night. Smirking up on the top table like that!’

  ‘I was not going to forget him, old friend,’ Baldwin said. ‘No, but we shall have to be cautious with him. I do not want to have to fight him, especially with all those men-at-arms about his castle. The sooner we can get Hugh up and about, and back at the inn, the better I shall be pleased.’

  ‘And I too,’ Simon agreed, but absently. He was peering ahead. ‘I think we’re near now. I remember this hill, and then we go through a small hamlet, and the road drops again. At the bottom is the river.’

  ‘Then let us discover what this good hermit has to tell us,’ Baldwin said lightly, but when Simon shot him a look, he saw that Baldwin’s face showed no humour, only cold determination.

  Hugh gasped as his foot caught a loose stone in the yard and jarred his wound.

  ‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ Thomas hissed.

  ‘Oh, belt up!’ Hugh responded. ‘If a man can’t walk about the yard to get some exercise, what can he do?’

  They were at the door to the stable now, and Hugh peered inside.

  To his right, on either side, heads facing the wall, were the rings for the horses. Most, of course, were out with the posse, and Simon and Baldwin had borrowed more, so the place was all but empty.

 
; The trap door that led to the cell was wide open, and Roger Scut was crouched by it, a guttering candle in his hand, apparently staring down into the little room. As Hugh watched, he rose slightly and used the candle to gaze at the floor near the trap door.

  ‘Dropped something, Brother?’ Hugh said loudly.

  There was a sputter, a low curse, and the candle dropped into the cell with a dull splash. Roger Scut stood and surveyed the two men in the doorway angrily. ‘Why aren’t you with the posse?’

  ‘Look at my head!’ Hugh said. ‘What are you doing in here? You lost something?’

  ‘No. Why should you think that?’ Roger Scut said, his head tilting back.

  Hugh had had enough. His head hurt, he didn’t want to be here in this castle, he didn’t want to move to Dartmouth, and he didn’t like people who stared at him imperiously down their long noses. ‘You got a problem? Blocked nose or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you doing that?’

  ‘It is nothing,’ Roger said defensively, sniffing slightly, and then quickly looking up, as though he had always intended studying the rafters in this little stable.

  This servant was an infuriating little serf. He would have to speak to the Bailiff and complain, when he had a chance – but then again, perhaps no. Roger Scut disliked the suspicion in his eyes, the way that his attention flew from Roger himself to the trap door and back. ‘Do you want something from me?’ he asked haughtily.

  Hugh turned slowly and peered up at Thomas. ‘What do you think, Tom?’

  ‘I don’t want anything from him.’

  ‘No, I don’t reckon many would.’

  Roger Scut felt his face flush with anger at the man’s insolence. ‘I shall speak to your master as soon as he returns, and you will regret your rudeness!’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ Hugh said. Then he did something which Roger Scut found more alarming than anything else.

  He smiled.

  Surval had finished his prayer when he heard the sound of horses. He got up, genuflected, and then unhurriedly made his way to his door, where he stood staring up the road. No traveller could miss him.

  The trio was not an ordinary set of passers-by. The man at the front looked like a knight. He had the arrogance and confidence in his own power, and the man at his side was clearly also a man of authority. Both stopped and sat in their saddles, making no move towards their pockets, nor did they appear to be in a hurry to continue their journey. The last man was plainly a guard, but he merely surveyed the hermit’s property with a suspicious glower.

  Surval took his staff, a useful weapon in defence as he always said, and leaned on it like an old man. ‘Lordings, Godspeed. I hope I see you well?’

  ‘Hermit, we would like to speak to you.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to speak to you?’

  ‘I think you’d prefer to talk to us here than make us have you arrested and held in a gaol for a night or two,’ Simon said curtly.

  ‘I am a hermit, Bailiff; you think to threaten me?’ Surval said, but without rancour. He looked them both up and down and quickly formed his opinion of them. Both looked serious, which was good. When a lord decided to turn bad and started abusing his power and privilege, that was a situation that called for intelligence and caution, and these two looked like they might indeed be able to deal with a dangerous fool like Sir Ralph. Indeed, he hoped they could deal with his son as well, that murderous oaf Esmon.

  In fact, looking up at them, he felt some amusement in this meeting. He had the distinct impression that they were not the sort to make empty threats, but nor did he think that they would abuse their own powers. Not that they’d need to, he reminded himself. If one was a Keeper and the other was a Stannary Bailiff, they had enough power to do what they wanted.

  ‘Do you normally welcome people with threats of gaol?’

  ‘Only when we are in a hurry,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘And why should a great lord like you be in such a hurry, Sir Keeper?’

  He did not see fit to answer. Instead, he jerked his chin towards the hermit’s breast. ‘I see you lie to pray, as men used to of old.’

  Surval glanced down at the dust covering his rags. ‘I believe it helps a man’s prayers to wing their way to God if we show our understanding of Christ’s suffering. Yes, I prostrate myself in imitation of the cross. Perhaps if more men did so, the world would be a happier place.’

  ‘Perhaps it would. You say you do not believe the accusation of murder against the monk.’

  Surval closed his eyes and sighed. He had thought that the two must have come here for this, but he had hoped not. ‘I do not believe accusations unless I have witnessed the attack. I didn’t. I leave accusations of guilt or innocence to God Himself.’

  Simon asked, ‘Did you know Mark?’

  ‘Of course. He and I used to pray together often,’ the hermit said. He could see that Simon was surprised to hear that, and a wry smile twisted his beard. ‘Ah, so you reckoned I was one of those lazy, runaway serfs who claim to be hermits to avoid hard work, did you? Not all are dishonest, Bailiff. I break my back here, maintaining that bridge. Do you know how old it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor do I, but look at the span of it. Either side, the metal tires of carts passing by have cut into the stone. On the right there, near the pillar, you can see where the tracks have worn through the stone, and you can see the river beneath you. There were three other holes until recently. I have mended them all, and now there is only that remaining. I keep this bridge, Bailiff, and with every spare moment I tend to the poor folk about here, see to their spiritual needs and pray for their lost souls when they die, so don’t think to accuse me of laziness!’

  His voice had risen, and he had to calm himself. If only he didn’t feel the need of his penance so strongly, he wouldn’t react so angrily when people said to his face that they thought he was one of those men who took up a counterfeit religiousness in order to avoid working for a living. All he ever tried to do was ease the toils of ordinary people.

  ‘Master, we meant no insult,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘No. You never do, you great lords and masters, do you? You look on all serfs as serfs, nothing else. You can insult people with impunity, without a care for their feelings, can’t you? But some of us are as honourable as you. Some of us more so, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin allowed with a grin. ‘Yet some, you will admit, leave something to be desired when it comes to their holiness! Do you find charity is freely given here?’

  Surval looked up at him, and through his anger, he felt a grudging respect. This was the sort of man whom others would instinctively trust, he felt. The sort whom others would follow willingly. ‘Not always without men being reminded,’ he acknowledged. Then he raised his staff with a quizzical smile. ‘But there are ways of reminding them.’

  ‘And you receive plenty of pennies and halfpennies?’

  ‘Aye, and often the odd old farthing, too. But rarely minted coins,’ Surval said. ‘They think that a simple hermit doesn’t know what’s been going on in the world outside his sphere and seek to offload their quarters and halves on me.’

  Baldwin could smile at that. ‘I am sure you quickly disabuse them of their foolishness!’

  It was more than twenty years since farthings and halfpennies had been minted as coins. Before that, a trader who needed a halfpence would simply cut a penny in two, or four for farthings. There were still many such pieces about the place, but few traders wanted them any more.

  The tale always made Surval feel bitter, but standing here in front of Baldwin, he could almost see the funny side of it. There was a lightness and cheerful calmness in Baldwin’s eyes which was rare to find in a knight, and something else: a determination, as though he had decided to see the matter through. He would find Mary’s murderer, no matter what.

  ‘So you want to find the monk Mark.’

  Simon was instantly alert. ‘How did you know he was gone? We
didn’t say that. Who told you?’

  ‘Come, Surval. What do you know of him?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I was woken by him this morning. He banged on the door and called for me.’

  ‘Why did he come here?’ Simon wondered.

  ‘He wanted advice from someone who could help him. Poor devil! He had admitted his offences to that priest you brought with you, such as they were, but he realised he couldn’t trust the man.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon said.

  ‘Mark, the priest, is the son of Sir Ralph. He told me so this morning, and I believe him. Sir Ralph has many children! His mother was a widow of Axminster and Sir Ralph wooed her many years ago, before he met his Lady Annicia.’

  ‘That cannot be true!’ Baldwin exclaimed. ‘I find it hard to believe that he would pursue his own son.’

  ‘He would if he didn’t know anything about it,’ Surval said. ‘Mark took your priest’s advice and told Sir Ralph nothing. The man has no idea Mark is his son. The monk never screwed up enough courage to tell him in all the time he lived here.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ Simon demanded, glancing about them as though expecting to see Mark’s face peering at them from around a tree trunk.

  ‘What with the murder of Wylkyn as well, I think he’s run away as fast as he can.’

  ‘That is another matter: Wylkyn. What can you tell us about the miner’s murder?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Miner? Well, he wasn’t that for long, was he? He was a servant to Sir Richard Prouse, the man who used to own the castle before Sir Ralph took it. I think Sir Ralph and his appalling son thought Wylkyn did something to kill Sir Richard. They sought to punish him.’

  ‘I wondered about that,’ Baldwin said. ‘Wylkyn certainly had plenty of poisonous plants and powders in his room.’

  ‘What,’ Simon mused, ‘if it was Esmon or Sir Ralph who murdered Sir Richard, and Wylkyn saw? That would explain why he bolted to the moors, and why he had to die.’

  Baldwin said, ‘True. Surval, did the Coroner view Sir Richard’s body and hold an inquest?’

  ‘Why should he? A sick man who was a mass of twisted muscles and bones died in his bed. There was nothing surprising about the end of his life, so no reason to call the Coroner.’