The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Four

Mark would have been grateful for any company, even if it meant his arrest and later death, he was so worn out from flight and mental torment after seeing her lying dead.

It was almost an instinctive thing at first, heading for the water, but as soon as he was in it, he knew he had to go where pursuit wouldn’t think of looking. That meant following the stream to its source, he reckoned, heading northwards. Surely the Hue and Cry would think he was going to head straight for the coast, maybe following the river south to the Teign and thence to the sea. No. He’d not make his capture easy.

He was soaked. Shortly after slipping into the sluggish brown water of the brook, he tripped and fell headlong, slamming down onto the flat surface with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. His head struck a rock, and instantly he was overwhelmed. It was as though his senses were destroyed in an instant. His eyes could discern nothing, his ears were full of a rushing noise, and his mouth was filled with water. There was no up or down, no north or south, only this perpetual immersion: nothing had happened before, and there was no future, only an all-enveloping now of noise. Although a part of his mind knew he must surely die if he remained here, that this would be his grave, it was comforting, somehow. He was tired, bone tired, and just the chance of closing his eyes and shutting out the horror of the world was so attractive, that he allowed himself to be dragged along for a short while.

But then the world impinged upon him once more. He was rolled over, and air struck his face, bright sunlight burst upon his closed eyes. Coughing and choking, he realised that the air was so much warmer than the water, it was like a waft of dragon’s breath.

The water pushed him gently into a shallow, and he felt his head bump another rock, but softly, as though the river itself was trying to stir him without alarming him, conscious of his suffering.

His suffering! What could water – yea, or earth or fire! – know of suffering? Mark felt as though he had been born to suffer, that his existence was marked by the endurance of pain and fear, overwhelming sorrow and misery.

Mark lifted himself from the river, shivering uncontrollably, and stumbled up to the bank, but he couldn’t carry on. He threw himself to his hands and knees, retching, and while there, all he could see in his mind’s eye was her: Mary.

It was the sight of her body that had made him bolt. He had hit her, yes, but not hard. Not hard enough to kill. Not hard enough to make her miscarry! He had slapped at her, the blow glancing off her shoulder and then, as she stared at him with her love turning to loathing, he had felt his life shatter like a window struck by a stone. He was supposed to be celibate, yet he had lain with this maid; he was supposed to be kindly, yet he had struck at her in rage. And then, when he went back later, he saw that she was dead, and he was sure that it was he who had killed her. Overwhelmed with horror, he fled the sight and that cursed vill.

He knew what he had done, knew that he was wrong to have lain with her, not once, but at every opportunity during the last summer and autumn, no matter how many times he had prayed to God. It was no use. Every time she had come to him again, drawn to him by some power that neither could understand, he had allowed himself to submit to his natural instincts. They had once tried to pray together, when he had insisted, hoping that if he were to ask help from God while she was there at his side, perhaps God could give him a sign, or merely eradicate every vestige of whoring from Mark’s soul, but even that had failed. It was as though He had turned his back on Mark.

The young priest wiped his mouth on his sleeve, went to a tree-stump and slumped against it. Until today his whole life had been marked out: he would go on his journey, and when he returned, he would go to the university. From there, he would take up a senior position with Bishop Walter at Exeter, or perhaps, if the good Bishop was still Treasurer, then maybe Mark might be able to find a position with him in the King’s Exchequer in London. His future had seemed bright and ripe for promotion; now all was lost, and all because he couldn’t keep his tarse in his hose.

It felt as though the entire world had rejected him. Until today his life had been untroubled except by loneliness, but now his future had been snatched from him. His past friends would be his companions no longer; the teachers and choir at Exeter Cathedral would not stop to talk as had been their wont. All the delights he had anticipated, all the pleasures, all the duties, had been cruelly snatched away. His life was ruined purely because of one error – the girl, and a thoughtless fist.

He could see the pain in her eyes as soon as he struck her. She had fallen and he had hesitated, sickened, before bolting. Later, when he came to his senses and returned, there she was, lying on the ground, her legs parted and blood, blood everywhere! He’d nearly thrown up on the spot, revolted by the sight of his lover, exposed like a slab of pork on the butcher’s table.

Standing there, his mind seemed to work with an immediate clarity. Everyone would think he had intentionally killed her. He hadn’t, he’d only lashed out at her, but that wouldn’t be enough for the locals here, Christ’s blood, no! They would appeal him. He was an outsider who had got one of their women pregnant and wanted to avoid the shame and expense of an illegitimate child.

If he was found, if he was caught, he could claim Benefit of Clergy, demand to be tried in the ecclesiastical court, but he knew he’d be dead long before he could get there. No one in the village would try to protect him. He knew how the place worked: it was Sir Ralph’s manor against the world. They looked upon a man who came from South Tawton as a foreigner, and that was a town only some four miles away. If the Hue was raised against him and he were captured, his life would be worth nothing. What was the value of a foreigner’s life compared to the hurt and sorrow felt by a father for his murdered daughter? Nothing! They would castrate him and hang him from the nearest tree, rather than wait for the Law to take its measured time to consider his case and release him into the Bishop’s hands for trial.

The Bishop’s court. He had been there several times listening to cases; once he had helped make a note of the transcripts of a case. Sitting there before the Bishop’s steward and the clerics who would try the matter, he had felt as though their importance and glory was reflected upon him, just as light from a candle could illuminate the faces of three or four, although it was intended to assist only one man to read.

Once or twice, while the judges were deliberating, he had studied the man who stood so patiently before them. Pale, thin, worn down with work, he had been accused of stealing a sheep from the Cathedral. If he was found guilty, he would be hanged immediately. In his eyes, Mark saw resignation. No shame, no guilt, just a weary acceptance. He didn’t expect sympathy. That was some seven years ago, 1316, and famine was killing people up and down the country: men, women and children lay starving, weakened by malnutrition, their souls weighed down with the grim weather. Oh, what weather! Mark could recall it only with horror. It rained all through the winter, and then on into the summer in those famine years. Harvests failed. Animals collapsed and died. It was as though God Himself had decided to punish the world. First the loss of the Crusader kingdoms, then the announcement of the crimes of the Templars, and now famine, pestilence – and the war in Scotland. No one would consider a man who stole to fill his belly to be deserving of kindness. If he were treated leniently, others would try the same. So he had been hanged.

Never, during that trial, had it occurred to Mark that he might one day stand there himself, pleading his own case. At least he wouldn’t be hanged by the Bishop. Priests could anticipate a less rough form of justice. The penance might be severe, but it would not entail death.

That was the spur that had set his legs running originally. He couldn’t simply wait there to be taken and executed without trying to save himself. He had pelted up Deave Lane, hardly knowing where he was going, through Throwleigh and out towards the mill east of the vill. There was a stream there that flowed from the moors. The Baron would seek him with dogs, he knew. He must escape by evading their noses.

The stream was cold enough to take the breath away, but Mark didn’t care. He splashed on through the water, desperate to put as many miles between him and pursuit as possible. The way was hard, with trees and bushes snagging at his clothes. He had to duck beneath straggling branches, soaking his tunic with water so cold he felt his flesh creep. His chest was constricted, his breath ragged with exertion, and his toes and shins were bruised and barked from falls against rocks and tree trunks. A blackthorn branch was before him now, a sharp spike almost piercing his eye, and his breath sobbed in his throat as he took hold of it, moving it away from his face. His hands were already scratched from a thousand wild roses and brambles, and as he moved on, a spine slid into his palm. In his pain, he let the branch go, and it scraped along his tonsure, two splinters breaking off in his scalp. He wailed with the pain, but he had to continue, driving himself onwards, sploshing through shallows, wading noisily through the deeper waters, until at last he reached a tributary.

It was much smaller, approaching from the north, but it held the merit that the Baron and his posse would surely assume he would continue on the broader reaches of the river if they thought of coming this way. And no matter where this led, he must be out of the jurisdiction of Sir Ralph’s court soon.

He took the turn, but first he spread water over some dry rocks further up, to make it look as though he had continued within the main stream and hadn’t turned away. A little farther still, he grabbed a pair of stout tree limbs near the banks, hoping that a hound would notice it, and the hunters would carry on without turning off.

The tributary was much smaller, and he had to walk carefully to prevent his steps moving outside the water, where they could be seen – or smelled. Saplings and smaller trees fringed the water, and he kept well within their protective screen, peering nervously between the branches while not touching them. After a half mile or more climbing a shallow valley, at the bottom of which lay his stream, he saw some rude dwellings through the trees. A small barton. There was the odour of cattle, and the wind brought the distinct, almost human, stench of pigs’ dung. One house stood higher than the others, but there were four or five stretched below it, all pointing to the top of the hill.

He was exhausted and starved. If only he had made time for a meal before leaving, but he hadn’t. The thought of warmth and food was poignant in his present state, but he dared not ask for help. He wouldn’t cut a very respectable figure in his present sorry state.

Just as he was thinking this, he saw a door open in the nearest house. A short man walked out, stopped, sniffed, and then ambled around the side of his house, a wooden pail in his hand, a dog scurrying at his heels. Before long Mark saw them wandering up a lane, into a pasture, and over to a cow.

Afterwards he would remember it with shame, but at that moment all he could think of was his belly. When he saw the man crouch at the side of the cow, Mark clambered out of the stream and tried to hurry to the house inconspicuously, although after spending so many hours in the cold waters of the streams, he was incapable of speed.

The opening was a rough affair with a long strip of leather supporting a wooden door. Splinters attacked his hand as he touched it, but he pushed it nonetheless. If he was asked, he would beg food, declaring himself a mendicant and relying on the peasants’ respect for the tonsure, but when he opened the door, his breath caught in his throat at the smell of fresh bread. There was no time to consider. He snatched the loaf where it lay cooling, turned, and was gone, ripping shreds from the loaf as he went and stuffing them into his mouth.

Sir Ralph soon had his horse saddled and ready. Piers had arrived at the castle on his own sturdy little pony, but had left as soon as Sir Ralph bellowed for his mount. They were to meet with the posse out at the bottom of Deave Lane, where the girl’s body still lay under the protection of the first man Piers had found.

The knight spurred his mount furiously and clattered out through the gateway, turning north up the road towards Throwleigh. His route led him under the great trees, whose boughs gleamed under fluffy, emerald mantles of moss. At several places, the muddy track was so full of puddles that the knight’s horse threw up immense sheets of water on either side, but he didn’t notice. He was thinking only of the dead girl.

That she should be dead was unthinkable! He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe that he’d never again see her smiling face, hear her cheerful voice, thrill to the sound of her laughter. The light was verdant beneath the trees, the sun slanting through thin, new leaves, but he saw nothing of it. If he had, he would have thought it obscene that such freshness, such explosive fruitfulness, should be here still, when that beautiful, perfect child was destroyed.

The journey passed by in a whirl. He cantered up the hill towards Deave Lane and reined in at the sight of the men milling. There were a few on horseback, but most were afoot, all the villeins from the fields and houses nearby, from twelve years up to forty-odd, strong, hearty men, all wearing their horns and staffs, a couple with their billhooks in their belts, but most only armed with their knives. All about them were the hounds, great monsters with drooling jowls and powerful shoulders.

Stopping, Sir Ralph stared about him with his mouth agape. ‘So few men? Piers! Piers! Jesus Christ above! Where in God’s name have you got to?’

The Reeve had been talking to a pair of hunting men, but hearing the hoarse bellow, he immediately made his way to his Lord. There was no telling with Sir Ralph. Sometimes he could be sensible, but more often than not he was overbearing, taking no account of how others felt. Not that it was surprising. Sir Ralph’s family was an old one. It was said that many years ago a clerk for the King had demanded to know by what right he held his lordship and the rights to his own court, and Sir Ralph had smiled, then fetched down a rusting sword from his wall. He threw it at the now anxious clerk.

‘There’s my right. That’s the sword my father wore; it’s the sword he used to kill the man who owned this land before him.’

‘You’re threatening me!’

‘No. It was a fair fight in the tournament,’ Sir Ralph had said softly, taking back the sword, but then he had suddenly swung it. It whistled as it sliced through the air, narrowly missing the clerk’s head. ‘But I won’t give away my inheritance just because a pissy priest who took to the Law decides he must see papers. Tell the King I claim the right by ancient privilege.’

Ancient privilege, Piers thought to himself. That was all this family ever thought of. They certainly had little enough feeling for their servants. Looking about him here, at the men standing so quietly, he could see too many whose faces were gaunt. Scurvy again. The poor harvest last year, the depredations of the King’s Purveyors, grabbing everything they could for his armies as they marched to Scotland, all the good food gone when the peasants here were already hungry.

‘My Lord?’ he said respectfully.

‘Where have you been? I’ve been calling for you.’

‘My Lord, I had sent those men to see if the priest was in his chapel.’

‘Well?’ Sir Ralph demanded, leaning forward. ‘Did they find the foul scroyl?’

‘No – there’s no sign of him.’

‘He’s fled!’

‘All the other men of the vill are accounted for, but he is gone, and I know some have said that he was sleeping with her. You know how rumours always start, but now… well, it looks very possible that it could have been Mark who killed her.’

‘Right, then, organise the men to chase the mad bastard down! I want him – alive or dead makes no difference to me!’ Sir Ralph bellowed at the top of his voice.

‘If we can, Sir Knight,’ Piers said, glancing about him with a feeling of helplessness.

‘Is this all the men you could find? We need at least twenty men on horseback for the posse, and you have found only seven!’

‘There aren’t the men, my Lord. Who has horses in the manor? Too few. And not many can ride. We have all the men over twelve years here, but these seven are the only men with horses. Even my own son is here,’ he added pointedly. Esmon, Sir Ralph’s son, had not turned out for the posse, Piers saw, nor the castle’s men-at-arms. The lad was no doubt sitting in his great hall, dreaming of owning it when his father died.

Sir Ralph gave the Reeve a long, cold stare. ‘God’s blessed will! If we don’t catch this murderer, Piers, I’ll have you flogged until I have the hide off your back, d’you hear me? Now get on your pony and let’s be off!’

The dogs were ready, and as soon as they had sorted out who was to go where, the hounds were released and the small party set off.

Piers had already instructed the men in what they were to do. He and Sir Ralph would hasten along Deave Lane and use the hounds to see whether they could catch the priest. Meanwhile, the bulk of the men would follow, separating at the different paths. Messengers had been sent to neighbouring vills and Hundreds already, so that the population would rise and attack Mark if he appeared. Finally, a small group was to make its way to the priest’s home and chapel and wait there, in case he returned to collect belongings while the posse was abroad.

Their way led them up along the old Deave Lane to where the poor girl’s body had been found. Sir Ralph slowed as they reached her. She lay with her legs parted, a red mess between them. One eye was closed as though she was winking, but there was too much blood for her to live. Sir Ralph felt a dreadful hatred stir in his breast. He wanted to find her killer and skin him alive, cut out his beating heart, make him suffer all the agonies a man could, for this defilement.

It was not only he who felt this rage against the murderer. He could feel it among the men about him. There was a stillness, a silence, that spoke of their horror at the sight of that pretty young girl, her body violated – desecrated – by this foul attack.

‘You! Put a shirt or something over her face!’ Sir Ralph said.

At Mary’s side stood a guard gripping a pole with a bill hammered onto the end as a makeshift weapon. This man nodded emphatically, then glanced about him. There was nothing near with which to obey, and at last he sighed to himself, set his polearm leaning against the hedge, and pulled off his own thin jack. He draped it over the girl’s face, but as he turned away, picking up his weapon, the butt caught the material and snagged. His jack came away, and suddenly Mary’s head lay oddly.

‘Her neck’s been broken, Sir Ralph,’ Piers said, peering at her.

‘The shit broke her neck,’ Sir Ralph whispered. ‘It takes effort to do that. He must have meant to kill her – this was no accident!’

‘Many a priest has been accused of killing off his woman when she grew pregnant,’ Piers said sorrowfully as the embarrassed guard set her head more naturally and draped the jack once more over her.

Sir Ralph swallowed his sadness and raked his spurs along his horse’s flanks. The mount burst into action, throwing a large pool of black water up into the air. On they went, into Throwleigh and then north and east, the dogs eagerly following a scent, tails waving like so many saplings in the wind, occasionally baying as the excitement got to them.

‘Huward’s not with us?’ Sir Ralph shouted.

‘No, sir. I think Huward would tear him limb from limb, if he was to catch him,’ Piers responded. All too true. If Huward caught Mark, the lad wouldn’t last two minutes. At least this way, with a posse, Mark could be captured and taken back to Sir Ralph’s goal.

‘Bad. You should have brought him along.’

Piers opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut. In that moment, he realised that Sir Ralph intended executing the priest as soon as they caught him. He felt the urge to protest, but there was no point. Sir Ralph was within his rights to slaughter a fleeing murderer. An outlaw could be beheaded on sight, and there was no more obvious felon than a man who murdered a pregnant woman and then fled with her blood on his hands. Except that Mark was a priest.

‘Where can he be heading?’ Sir Ralph cried with frustration as the dogs took them eastwards, towards Frog Mill. ‘This goes nowhere.’

Piers himself had little enough idea of the direction of the roads from here. In his youth he had once travelled to Oakhampton, but apart from that one journey, he had never been further than Chagford and the local market there. He’d never had the need of a longer trip.

Today the hounds led them down the track away from Throwleigh, but suddenly they bounded off north, through a large pasture shared by the vill, until they came to the Blackaton Brook. There they milled uncertainly.

‘Devious scroyle!’ the knight muttered as they waited for the hounds to pick up the scent. ‘He’s done this a’purpose. Running into the water to hide his trail.’

‘What shall we do, sir?’ Piers asked. If he had the choice, he’d head downstream a way, with some dogs on each side of the water. He doubted that the priest would have gone north and west, back towards the moors themselves. That was too dangerous. Only men who had grown up here knew the safe routes through the shifting mires, and the priest would surely be too fearful to attempt such a path. No, he must surely have followed this water until it met the Teign, and maybe hurried on the banks of that river towards the sea. Or until he met with more outlaws, he told himself gloomily.

Sir Ralph agreed with him. ‘We’ll go down the stream here. He’s only a damned priest, not an experienced felon. He isn’t used to hard walking. Chances are we’ll find him down here, lying on the bank dozing. Come!’

Piers nodded and they went down to the stream, wading slowly through it where they must, at those places where the vegetation on either bank was impenetrable, at other times riding at the water’s edge and watching the dogs all the while. Sir Ralph egged them on as keenly as any huntsman after a hart, hoping to catch sight of the murderer. He wanted the man who had killed the young maid.

Piers felt more ambivalent. He had liked Mary – who hadn’t? She was a bright little thing, with a saucy manner when she flirted, but generally a kindly soul if she wasn’t annoyed; if her temper was fired, she could be as ferocious as any alewife. Yet mostly she was a good, comely member of the vill, and Piers would have liked to see her murderer caught. His only concern was, if the knight should catch her killer, he might well run him through for what he had done to Mary, one of his own peasants. Piers didn’t want that. He was content to see the killer pay for his crime, but it was wrong to execute a priest. They had protection from God, and Piers wasn’t sure he could stand aside quietly and see Mark struck down.

For him it was a relief when, after hunting the priest for many hours, Sir Ralph finally called a halt to their search. Men had already gone to the other Hundreds to warn them that there was a renegade priest on the loose who had murdered his lover and his child. All should be aware, and all should have arranged for their own posses to search for Mark.

It struck Piers as odd, though, how badly Sir Ralph had taken the priest’s escape. Once he realised that he couldn’t catch Mark, he slumped in his saddle like a man who had lost everything. If he hadn’t been a knight, Piers might have thought he was weeping. And all, Piers thought cynically, because a priest had robbed him of his property. For now, though, as the sky darkened, there was no more they could do.

For now they must wait and see what news was brought to them.

That night Sampson huddled, arms wrapped about himself, staring into the fire smouldering and hissing on the floor before him. Every so often a log cracked and spat out a small flame, throwing sparks far. One landed on him. Sampson didn’t care. He flicked it away, his eyes bleared with tears as he thought of the girl: the lovely girl, her with the smiling face; her who radiated kindness when she spoke to him.

He hadn’t thought to see her. No. When he heard the steps he wanted to hide, but there was the sound of a man ploughing, the noise of chopping in a field, and they scared him. They might attack him. Men did. He didn’t know what to do. No, so he turned and limped unsteadily on his bad leg, until he was hidden around a bend. Out of sight. Safer.

There were thick roots in the hedge here. Clumsily, he pulled himself up until he could force his way through the hedge and topple onto the thick grasses of the pasture beyond. He rolled over and stared up at the grey clouds. He was safe. His head resting on the clean, cold grass, he panted.

Steps approached. Loud. A man’s. He turned over, keeping flat to the soil, as though by making it impossible to see the traveller, he would render himself invisible.

More steps. Lighter, softer. Must be a girl’s. Not like the heavy tread of the other.

‘Mark! I’ve been to find you.’

‘My dear.’

‘That’s a cool welcome for a lover.’

He didn’t want to hear. Sampson knew them. Both of them. A hollowness came to his throat. He felt tears filling his eyes, couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t run. They’d hear.

‘I am a priest, Mary. What do you expect from me?’

‘A little affection, Mark. Am I so repellent now? You didn’t think so before.’

‘That was before I realised what we had done.’

‘Your voice – you sound so cold!’

‘How else can I be? Do you realise what could happen to me?’

‘Would you like me to pretend nothing’s wrong, then? Pretend this isn’t real?’

‘Listen, I have heard that there are potions, drugs, which can help us. Just take a drink, and all the problems go away…’

‘I’ll have nothing to do with such a thing!’ she burst out. ‘What – you, a priest, want me to take something to murder our child?’

‘No! Not murder – simply make it never live. It’s not a real person until it’s born,’ Mark mumbled. He sounded like he knew he was lying.

Sampson understood all right. He had seen them, hadn’t he? Oh, yes. Almost a year ago, he’d seen them. They’d come out from Mark’s dwelling, laughing. And then she had said something and darted away even as his hand grabbed for her. He missed her, but caught her wimple, and it came away. When she turned, her long dark hair was glinting and gleaming in the sun, streaming away like a dark smoke over her shoulder. She was running now, towards the trees that bounded the path to the river, and Mark suddenly bellowed in raw pleasure, ducked his head and pelted after her.

Sampson was worried. Thought Mark might hurt her. He chewed his lip to see the priest running like a greyhound after a hare. Mary was giggling, darting left then right, as if careless of capture. She wasn’t evading Mark’s outstretched arms, but stringing out the inevitable.

Then Mark’s fingers snared her blouse and the material came away. Mary’s chest was exposed, her bare breasts bouncing, and Mark gaped, a trail of linen in his hand, crimson with embarrassment and Sampson felt the flood of relief. She was safe. The priest wouldn’t hurt her.

Mary had halted, and her hands rose as though to cover her breasts, but then her chin lifted and her hands fell away. She held her hands out, smiling. When Mark shamefacedly tried to pass her the material, she took him by the wrist and drew him towards her. Mark resisted, shaking his head, but she persisted and led him to the trees. There she leaned him back against an oak and softly put her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward to give him the kiss of peace.

At least, that was what Sampson had heard it called, the kiss of one mouth upon another. It was how monks and priests welcomed each other. Something here was different, though, and Sampson felt unsettled to see how there seemed little enough peace for them. He could feel his own blood coursing faster as, while he watched, their kissing grew more impassioned. There was a fumbling of hands, a lifting of habit and skirt, slow, sensuous stroking, followed by a more hurried and urgent fondling, before both fell to the ground and Sampson saw her spread her thighs wide, saw Mark fall between them, his bare buttocks lifting and falling.

Their voices broke in upon his thoughts.

She said, ‘I don’t care what ’tis called, I won’t do it. It’s against the law.’

‘So was what we did.’

‘That’s different. It’s natural.’

‘It’s wrong,’ Mark said miserably. ‘Think of me! It could ruin me. I might be left here for ever to rot if the Bishop heard.’

‘Don’t tell, then, if you hate it here so much. Go! Leave me and our babe, if we mean so little to you. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your shame, Father!’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘Do I? How do I know that?’

His tone was pleading. ‘Mary, you know I can’t wed you. What do you want me to say, that I’ll leave Holy Orders and run away with you? I have taken the vows, Mary, I can’t. If I tried to run away, they’d seek me out, no matter where I went.’

‘So deny us,’ she snapped.

‘Don’t be so cruel to me!’

‘You wanted me when your blood was up, when you were lonely and needed company.’

‘I know. My lo– Mary, I tried so hard to ignore you, so I could escape this torment, but it didn’t work. I was so despairing, and you were so beautiful… I couldn’t help but want you.’

‘And now you can’t face the consequence.’

‘It was impossible to reject you. When your blouse came away in my hand and I could see you… My God! A man would have had to have been made of stone to resist you.’

‘That was the first time. What of the others?’

‘Christ’s bones, but I was so tempted,’ Mark said, and there was a catch in his voice as though he was staring at Mary’s body and remembering.

Sampson’s brain whirled. After seeing them rutting by the river he’d known he could never have her. No, this priest had won her. But perhaps she could love him now. If her priest didn’t want her, Sampson could win her himself. She had been so kind. Surely she loved him? He would speak to her, soon as he could. Maybe tomorrow or the day after.

He heard a slap, then a great gasp. ‘What have I done?’ from Mark, and then nothing. Sampson lay still, and for a great while there was no sound, but then there was a retching, a loud hawking and a spit, and then there were the footsteps running away, as though all the devil’s hounds were already chasing after Mark’s soul.

A scant mile from Sampson, a second man lay huddled and weeping. Osbert was curled like an infant on his rough straw palliasse, while tears flooded his cheeks and he sobbed silently. There was nothing left for him. His life was ended. His Mary was gone.

Mary, his love; his life. The priest was said to have killed her after he got her with child. That was why Mary never wanted Os, even though he adored her, because she was sleeping with that skinny cleric. How could she fancy him, when he was so scrawny! Yet she did.

The only satisfaction was, it was not her brother who had killed her. When Os heard she was dead, that had been the first thing to cross his mind, that her brother had again tried to take her, and this time he had forced her to submit, or rather, had killed her when she refused. If that had been the case, Os would have killed him.

But it was the priest. Little Mark from the chapel. He had ended her life.

She had made Os swear not to tell anyone about Ben, and he wouldn’t. It couldn’t help her, so he’d keep it secret, as he had promised. Letting the secret out could only besmirch Mary’s memory.