Roger Scut nodded, outwardly content, although in reality he was burning with jealousy. It had taken him so long to clear all the debris from the chapel, and all the effort had been his own. Others were not keen to see the little building restored. They preferred to think of it as defiled.
‘If you wanted,’ Os said haltingly, ‘I think I could persuade some men to help you.’
‘There is no need. They think this place is evil, but it’s not true. This is a house of God. With care and love, it can rise again. Especially if the monk who lives here can prove himself to the community.’
‘Will you remain?’
‘Come, Os! I married you, what more do you want from me!’ Scut laughed.
Osbert gave a fleeting smile. He had married Flora at the first opportunity.
After the attack on the castle, he had left the place and gone back to his old home. The news that Ben had given him, that Huward had been a cuckold and Flora was likely Sir Ralph’s and not the miller’s, had struck him dumb with horror. He had wanted her so badly. After discovering the power of his love for her, after wanting her sister for so long, learning that he was prevented by that most simple barrier from ever marrying her had all but destroyed him.
And then, soon after the battle at the castle, this same Scut had hurried to his home and berated him for being so feeble-minded that he couldn’t see that he himself looked in no way like Sir Ralph. It wasn’t something he’d have thought of.
As soon as the news had sunk in, he had dropped his tools and sped to the castle, where Flora had been living as maid to Lady Annicia. Scut had followed him, and with the priest at his side, he had stated his desire to marry Flora. Then, when he had fallen silent, he had stood gazing at her with mingled dread, at the thought of a refusal, and expectation. He was sure she wouldn’t refuse him. And at last, when she dropped her eyes and told him in front of the witnesses that she was pleased to marry him now, he had felt as though his breast would burst for sheer joy.
‘I am the happiest man in the world, monk.’
Roger Scut paused. He had been gulping a mazer of ale, and now he slowly lowered the cup. It was automatic. He couldn’t help but gaze down his nose at the lad, the great, lumbering oaf, who sat with that beatific smile all but splitting his head in two. His mouth opened to let slip a scathing comment, but he closed his mouth and instead, smiled in return. It was not his place to be contemptuous of peasants. He had no right.
That point had been made abundantly clear when he had met the representative of the Bishop. It was Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton, who appeared at the castle a day or two after Sir Baldwin himself had gone, and held a meeting with Roger. It had not been a pleasant meeting. Much of Roger Scut’s behaviour was known to the Dean, and Roger had not been able to deny the main thrust of the accusation, which was that he had been seeking to win money to the detriment of his holy duties. It would have to cease.
‘It is over, Dean,’ Roger had said. ‘I will not forget the lessons which I have learned here. In future, I shall be humble and obedient. Trust me, I do not intend ever trying to seek preferment. Rather, I would take a small church far from anywhere and live the quiet life of the recluse.’
The Dean had smiled at that. A thin, calculating smile, and at the sight of it, Roger Scut had felt his cods freeze.
‘Very well. But there is no need to find a church, when we have a chapel that needs repairing. See to that, and we shall be pleased enough. Let the rebuilding be your penance for your pride and greed. And when it is done, we shall consider where you may best serve the Church.’
Os was finished. He had to go to the castle now to speak to the carpenter and Lady Annicia’s steward about the timbers he needed for the mill, and he rose and gave a fond farewell to the priest. For him, Roger Scut was a generous, kindly man who deserved respect.
It was odd. Roger felt quite warm inside as Os left. It was as though a man’s wholehearted respect was enough in itself to cheer him. A curious thought. He went back to his chapel and stared up at the single beam. It was good to see the beginning of his efforts. Next he must set the roof trusses in place, each leaning at opposite sides of the main beam, and begin the laborious task of nailing each rafter in place. Someone else must bind the thatch.
So much labour. He had already ripped his tunic in three places, and there was no bath here. If he wished to clean himself, he must mortify his flesh in the freezing stream. Yet oddly enough, there was something about this place, something that had struck a chord in his breast…
Hearing a mew, he bent and picked up his kitten. Os had brought it a week ago. Strange, he’d never owned a pet, but this small, frail-feeling creature was oddly comforting.
In fact, if he wasn’t ever allowed back to Crediton… he wasn’t sure that he’d care.
Thomas sat in the alehouse feeling pleased with life. His arm still smarted from a long raking cut that had opened it almost to the elbow from the wrist, and there was a startlingly bright coloured bruise on his flank where a cudgel had connected during the battle at Gidleigh Castle, but apart from that he felt well enough.
As his ale arrived, he saw that another figure had appeared in the doorway – Godwen. This was the first time he’d seen him since the attack on the castle. Godwen had been badly pounded, even with Thomas guarding him, and he’d been taken to the Lady Annicia’s hall to be rested and nursed while Thomas had gone off to Crediton with messages for the Dean, and had been kept there. Other, unwounded messengers had been sent back.
Slowly, Godwen walked down the steps towards Thomas.
‘You want to sit?’ Thomas said.
‘Yes. Thanks.’
It was rare indeed to see Godwen short of a sharp comment or patronising remark, and Thomas felt his eyes widen. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Thanks.’
Thomas hailed the woman who owned the place and sat back, carefully avoiding Godwen’s red-rimmed eye. They had been friends for a little while, it was true, but their families had been on terms of near-hostility for many years; and then when Thomas was successful in his wooing of Bea, he had fallen out with Godwen. Shortly afterwards, Godwen had married another girl – as though to show that he was perfectly capable of winning whichever woman he wished, but the marriage was not a success. His Jen was a lively, attractive woman, but Godwen had always wanted Bea, and that was that. It was the end of their friendship.
‘I heard,’ Godwen said, grimly staring into his cup. ‘The Keeper told me today. You saved my life.’
Thomas shrugged his shoulders. If asked, he couldn’t have explained why he had leaped into the fray to rescue Godwen from those mercenaries, but there was a vague anger at the prospect that his own personal enemy, whose enmity had been forged in the hot fire of his youth, should be taken away by someone who had never even so much as thumbed his nose at Godwen before. That was unbearable. Even Godwen deserved to die at the hand of someone who truly hated him, rather than someone who simply saw him as an irritating obstacle.
‘Thank you.’
‘No matter.’
‘It is to me.’
‘Forget it,’ Thomas said. He lifted his cup and took a long draught.
His offhand manner irked Godwen. ‘There’s no need to be so ungracious. You jumped in there, when I’d been knocked down, and stood over me. You could have been shot… anything. I appreciate it, I tell you!’
‘It was nothing.’
‘You just can’t bear me thanking you, can you?’ Godwen hissed. ‘You great dough-laden tub of lard, why can’t I just say thanks?’
Thomas slowly turned to peer at him. ‘Tub of what?’
‘You heard me. God’s faith! You are intolerable.’
‘At least I don’t try long words and such to confuse folk.’
‘Aha! Yes, lack of education is a virtue in your family, isn’t it?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my family.’
‘No, nothing that a dose of rat poison wouldn’t cure.’<
br />
‘And how is the lovely Jen?’ Thomas jeered. He couldn’t help it. It was the effect of sitting next to this man. ‘By Christ’s wounds, I wish I’d left you to be trampled. It’s all you’re good for, anyway. Useless barrel of shit.’
‘You call me a barrel of shit?’
‘Well, tell me if I’m wrong, but I think you’d have to be a barrel. Shit on its own wouldn’t stand so tall,’ Thomas explained politely.
Godwen’s face blanched. He snapped his head to Thomas, winced and hissed as a pain shot through his temples, and jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Right, let’s go out now, then, and talk about this with steel!’
‘I’m not fighting you!’
‘Aha! Scared of me, are you?’
‘No. But I fear what the Keeper would say if he came here and learned we’d been fighting.’
‘Oh, it’s only fear of losing some blood, is it? If you’re scared, leave your dagger here, and we’ll fight bare-handed. I could whip you with a hand bound behind my back!’
‘You?’ Thomas leered, slowly letting his gaze travel the length of Godwen’s body.
Godwen stood, tottered, grabbed at the table, then spat, ‘Now. Outside, you bastard!’
Thomas rose. As soon as he did so, the pain stabbed at his flank again, and it was with a hand resting on his bruised and broken ribs that he followed Godwen. The rest of the ale-house, nothing loath, went too.
In later years, men still talked about that fight. The way that Godwen threw the first punch, missed, and almost fell on his face; how Thomas aimed a kick at his arse as he passed, slipped in a pat of dog turd, and fell to sit in it. With a roar, he was up again, and then moaning, grabbed at his side. By then Godwen was back, and he ran at Thomas. The other man moved away, but not quickly enough, and Godwen caught his bad side with a flailing fist, which made Thomas give a bellow of rage and agony, while Godwen himself was little better pleased, since he had jarred his own badly damaged shoulder.
That was the extent of the battle. Both withdrew, their honour proven, if not entirely to either man’s satisfaction. Both limping, they returned to their drinks. Studiously avoiding each other’s faces, they drained their ale. This time Godwen replenished their drinks, and while neither spoke, there was a curious expression on both faces. Later, when Baldwin questioned the alewife, she said that it was as though the natural balance of their humours had been restored. The two had been extremely uncomfortable with their imposed status as lifesaver and man owing gratitude.
‘I shall speak to them and tell them never to brawl in public,’ Baldwin said. He was preparing to go on his pilgrimage, and he didn’t want the trouble of this silly fight. It was beneath him.
‘I wouldn’t if I was you,’ the alewife said sagely.
‘Why not?’
‘They’re back to normal now. They’ll snarl and bicker like two tomcats, but when all’s said and done, they’re happy again. Just leave them be.’
‘But shouldn’t I make Godwen prove his gratitude?’ Baldwin wondered.
If he had asked Thomas, he would have had a speedy reply. Both men wanted what they already had. The certainty of a local enemy. It was so much easier than an uncertain one.
Sir Baldwin patted his servant on the back as he glanced about the room for the last time. ‘Take good care of them, Edgar. I won’t be gone that long.’
‘No? Travelling from here to Spain?’ his servant scoffed. ‘I only fear that you’ll come upon footpads or felons on the way, without me to guard you.’
‘There will be plenty of other travellers, I have no doubt.’
‘Perhaps. So long as none of them are more dangerous than others we have known.’
Baldwin smiled and pulled on a heavy riding cloak, as his wife entered the room.
‘My love! Please be careful,’ Jeanne cried.
‘It would be worse if I were travelling alone, but with Simon, I am bound to be safe. Anyway, we shall have many companions. The road to Santiago is filled with pilgrims.’
‘Then farewell, my love. Return to us soon,’ she said.
He grabbed her and hugged her closely. She was brought up to be restrained and not show her emotions, but he could see the tears trembling on her eyelids, and he loved her for not making a show at his departure. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘I shall be back soon.’
‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘And don’t delay. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can do to exorcise this demon?’
‘No, my love, nothing else. I have killed an innocent. My pilgrimage, I hope, will wash away that guilt.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
‘Why then, my Lady, I shall return here to you and live disgracefully for the rest of my days,’ he said lightly before he hugged her again. ‘But I will come back safely, and I shall be freed from this sense of sin, I swear,’ he added.
There. It was over.
The funerals of her husband and her beloved child had originally taken place only a couple of days after the mutiny, but now, after some negotiation and the promise of funds, the two had been disinterred and reburied up near the altar in the church.
As she sat, Annicia was aware of the people coming and going about her. Many came to offer her their condolences once again, for they sought to remain on friendly terms with the attractive widow of Gidleigh. She possessed good lands, several herds and flocks, and was rumoured to be rich enough to benefit any new husband.
The priest himself, a pompous, self-important little twerp, twittered about her, his hands fluttering, nervous in the presence of his Lady, but she gave him short shrift and at last she was alone in the great room.
Rising, she felt slightly giddy. At once there was a steadying hand on her arm, and she smiled at Flora without speaking. She was growing fond of her husband’s daughter. There was no doubt in her mind that Flora was his child: Flora’s eyes, her brow, her lips, all were too much like Sir Ralph’s. For his sake if for no other, she was pleased to see Flora so happy in her wedlock. It was good to see so cheery a wife.
Leaving Flora, she walked slowly to the front of the church and stood staring down at the new slabs set into the ground at her feet. There were three in a line, each equidistant from the altar. Although she couldn’t read, she was perfectly well aware that the central one was Esmon’s, because she had insisted that he should be there, right next to his father. On his other side lay Sir Ralph, and her eyes rested on his slab a moment, without reverence or respect, but with a certain friendship. After all, she had been married to him for some while.
No, her attention was divided equally between the only two men she had ever really loved. Esmon lay there in the middle of the floor, and next to him was his father, Sir Richard Prouse, once the elegant, suave master of Gidleigh – murdered, or so she had thought, by Wylkyn.
‘God forgive me!’ she said quietly. ‘I truly believed he was the murderer, or I should never have persuaded my son to kill him.’
Of course, she now knew that Wylkyn was innocent of the crime. But that was not her fault. It was the only obvious conclusion at the time.
She was sorry that an innocent man was dead, but she felt no remorse, only sadness for the two men she had loved and lost: her lover, Sir Richard Prouse, and her son by him, Esmon. They were all that mattered to her.
Final Note
I should now confess that the whole of this story is based on the poor man who came to be known as ‘The Mad Monk’: Robert de Middelcote, who lived and served in the chapel not far from Gidleigh. Like Mark, he too had a girlfriend, he too had her conceive, and he too ran from the area. His crime was that he punched his woman in the belly and killed their child in her womb on 28 March 1328.
His tale then diverged from Mark’s, because he escaped all the way to the outskirts of Exeter, to Haldon Hill, where he was captured.
The records show that he was hauled off to the Bishop’s court, but sadly the result of the action has been lost.
We do know what happened to his chapel, though
. It was demolished, the stones taken away, and a new chapel built nearer Gidleigh. This new one was consecrated in 1332.
We cannot be certain where the old chapel was, so I have made a guess for the purposes of this book. Some people do reckon to be able to point to the old one. If you want to find it, I suggest you try walking over the land from Gidleigh towards Moortown. It should be along that old footpath somewhere.
But I warn you, when I mention that Mark is disgusted by all the mud, I am not joking. This is about the wettest footpath on the eastern section of the moor!
Michael Jecks
The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Page 47
