The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Twelve

Brian of Doncaster cuffed the boy about the head and made him squeal, then took up his cup and walked to the yard with it.

In the bright sun, the little court was baking. The heat seemed to reflect from limewashed buildings and the walls, adding to the heat, while the absolute lack of a breeze meant men sweltered in their thick woollen clothing. Brian himself found it all but unbearable. He was not used to such warmth, although that was no excuse for his men to be lolling on benches with emptied pots of ale before them.

Ach, there was time to get them up and working later. For now, maybe it was best to leave them to sweat and sleep off their drinking. Brian seated himself at a table near the hall, keeping an eye on the gate as well as his men. There was no sense in relaxing his guard. That was the way to receive a blade in the back. All these men were his, but only for as long as they reckoned his coin was forthcoming. As soon as his cash ran out, they’d be on to the next leader, leaving him, more than likely, lifeless.

Who cared? Brian didn’t. Death didn’t scare him – but lack of fear didn’t mean he would hasten its arrival, so when he sat in a room, he kept his back to the walls and his head facing the doorway.

This was a weird set-up, this castle. A bunch of old fools, one youngster with fire in his belly, and a gorgeous Lady. None of the servants were a threat to Brian. All of them were older men, as weak in the arm as they were in the head, and they could be flattened by Brian’s band of eighteen. Sir Ralph had been a cold, calculating devil, but now he’d gone soft. Hardly seemed able to concentrate for two breaths consecutively, since that miller’s girl had been killed.

Esmon was different. He wanted things. Life, money, women. There was a fellow who’d go far, if he had a mind. He was as ruthless as Brian had been in his youth. Anything he wanted, he took, and that was all there was to it. He could make a good leader. Some of Brian’s men already seemed to look on him like their own leader.

When Brian first met Esmon, he saw an easy time for a few months, nothing more. That was two years ago now, when Esmon was only fifteen. They had both been serving Hugh Despenser the Younger in Wales, just before the Despenser wars broke out and forced the Despensers, father and son, into exile. Brian had willingly taken Esmon’s invitation to come down here with his men. After the fighting, there was nothing to hold them in Wales, and with the Despensers gone, there were no more opportunities to reward themselves. Better to leave and find a new master. Perhaps Esmon’s own father would prove to be a warrior in need of a force, Brian had reasoned.

So it had proved. Sir Ralph had tasks for capable men-at-arms, and Brian and his fellows had earned their board and lodging. Now it seemed that some of his men would be content to remain here, taking orders from Sir Ralph and his son.

It was a state of affairs that Brian didn’t much like. If his men started to look to some other man as their master, it left little space for him. Now Esmon was talking about ambushing a group of travellers nearby, with the promise of good rewards for all. Brian wasn’t very pleased about it, although his men were delighted at the thought of money. They were content under the castle’s roof – some had even muttered that they were better off here, living well, under the direction of Esmon than they had been before. Brian himself should seek opportunities for making money, if he wanted to keep his men with him.

There was something odd about this proposed raid, Brian thought. It was almost as though Esmon was searching for revenge against someone. There was news of someone dying out on the moors. Perhaps it was something to do with that – although Brian couldn’t see how one man’s death should affect the date of a raid on merchants and tranters. Esmon had obviously been waiting to have something confirmed.

Not that it was anything to concern Brian. He had pressing matters of his own to consider, like how to keep his men loyal. After all, a mercenary leader without men is only a mercenary. If Esmon was taking Brian’s men from him, the least Brian could do was try to turn the situation to his profit. The question was, how to make cash from the position he was in.

As he had the thought, his attention was caught by the sight of a skulking figure at the gate. It was the dim one from the vill: Sampson, scavenging again in the alms dishes, taking anything edible for himself.

Pathetic! The cur was no better than a rat, sidling along walls as he went about collecting whatever he could. That was a sign of the feeble control of this place, the fact that he had been allowed to live. In most castles Brian had known, men like him would have drowned or fallen off a cliff by now. Not here. None of the peasants had the guts to kill someone. Only he and his men could do that sort of business. And Esmon.

It would, he mused, be very easy to take this place over. After all, there was no one to stop him. And the Lady Annicia, as he reminded himself, was still a marvellously attractive woman. She herself would be quite a prize.

Flora was nearly home, but she stopped when Piers left her, standing at the top of the track that gave onto her home. She was feeling odd, unsettled. It was Mary’s death, she told herself – that and Esmon’s attack. Nothing else. But she knew she was lying to herself. There could be few more revolting things than people who deceived themselves to make themselves feel better, she told herself sternly. She knew perfectly well what was behind it.

Yes, of course she felt deep sadness about Mary, but she was also glad, she couldn’t deny that, because with the loss of her sister, she now had no competition. Mary’s death had removed the most effective barrier to her own happiness.

Osbert had always had eyes only for Mary, and Flora had been made to feel like a silly younger sister. He humoured her, but he adored Mary. Maybe if Mary had even bothered to notice him, Flora could have got over her feelings of jealousy, but Mary had been embarrassed about Os’s slavish devotion to her, and she’d scarcely bothered to hide it. That only made poor Os more devoted, but it also left Flora feeling bitterly furious. Like a vixen who sought to protect her cubs, she wanted to cradle Os and preserve him against her sister’s uncaring disregard.

Down at the mill, she could hear chopping, and she knew Os would be there, swinging his axe at the logs ready for stacking. Some time perhaps, she would stand like this, listening to him logging, and he would be her husband, she his wife, and they would have children about them, all boys. It was a wonderful picture and Flora stood drinking in the scene as she saw it in her mind, feeling the wash of love cresting through her breast and belly. She adored Os; and she wanted him.

Mary was dead, but her death had given Flora new life. All she need do was look after Os and make him realise that his true, perfect lover was here still.

When the summons came late that afternoon, Simon Puttock was glad of the distraction.

‘What is it?’ he snapped when the messenger arrived at his door, directed there from the castle. Simon had been involved all morning in a dispute between two miners who were contesting a plot of land which both claimed to own. Simon could make no sense of the case: one had registered it, but then he rented out a part of it to a neighbour. Now the neighbour claimed that he had found tin on it, but the owner said that he had been digging in a plot that wasn’t rented, so he himself owned the tin. It was not the sort of case which Simon cared to wrestle with now. He had dealt with it as fairly as he knew how, recorded the matter for the Stannary Court to deal with when it next met, and left them to find himself a little peace over a pot or two of wine.

Not that he was likely to find much with a wife who walked about the house like a pale and melancholic shadow and a daughter who had taken to accusing her father of trying to ruin her happiness because he was taking her away from the only man she would ever love and expecting her to live in a miserable hovel far from any marriageable men and how could he be so cruel to his own daughter and hadn’t he married the woman he wanted when he had found her and…

If she hadn’t fallen in love, to Simon’s certain knowledge, three times in the previous ten months, he might have been more sympathetic. As it was, the thought of her endless complaints brought on a dull aching behind his eyes. All peace in his household had dissipated when he had been given his new job. It was all the more galling because until then it had been a contented, normally very happy home.

The messenger was a young lad of thirteen or so, with lank black hair and pale skin. Blue eyes gleamed as he glanced about him, but the rest of him looked simply soaked. Even as he stood before Simon in his hall, he was dripping onto the rushes. His cloak gave off a half dog, half woollen odour, and Simon could see that his hose and tunic were drenched. Fortunately he had kept warm with the ride, and appeared uncaring about it. He was much more interested in Simon’s house than Simon himself, not that it was any surprise. His home was well appointed and well decorated. Margaret had only recently had the interior repainted, with pictures of St Rumon and St Boniface on opposite walls.

‘Well?’ Simon growled.

‘A request from the Dean of Crediton Church, Bailiff.’

‘Come on, then! Spit it out!’

The messenger took a pot from Hugh with a grateful grin. ‘It’s a thirsty ride in this weather,’ he acknowledged as he lifted it to his lips.

‘What was the message?’ Simon ground out. ‘Or should I find you a bed and leave you a week to recover before you pass it on?’

‘A young woman has been murdered, her child too. The Dean ordered me here to pass on the message that Sir Baldwin of Furnshill is on his way there with an accused man, a priest called Mark. Sir Baldwin fears the priest’s life is in danger and begged that you might join him to ensure justice is seen to be done. The Dean felt sure the Stannary Bailiff would be interested.’

Simon gazed up the roadway. ‘Where is this place?’

‘Gidleigh.’

‘Ah, I know of this case,’ Simon said.

It was tempting to go. He had been told of the dead girl, for Gidleigh fell under his jurisdiction since there were miners trying to find tin near there, but this girl was a villein, nothing to do with the Stannary. If her killer was shown to be a miner, it would be a matter for Simon, but if the murderer was shown to be a priest, he would be tried in the Bishop’s own court. Nothing to do with Simon.

There was another factor that weighed with him. If Baldwin asked for his help, it must surely be an interesting case. He never called for help unnecessarily.

However, Simon would need better reasons to leave his home just now. The Coroner had already been to view the corpse and record all the details about her wounds; she was probably already buried now, so there was little enough for Simon to do. Baldwin was capable of protecting himself, Simon could add little to his investigations, and so there was no point in making the journey. Especially when Simon had so many other problems to deal with at home. Disputes between miners and landowners were increasing, and he wanted to clear up as many as possible before he left to go to live in Dartmouth.

That was another thing, he thought. Would his wife want to go with him? She seemed so upset recently that it wouldn’t surprise him if she decided to leave him to his own devices, perhaps stay here in Lydford with their children, and let Simon carry on. He couldn’t live without her. The thought of taking on his responsibilities without Meg at his side was worse than daunting, it was fearful.

He put all thoughts of the dead girl at Gidleigh from his mind. There was nothing over which he need trouble himself going on down there. It was just a simple murder, caused by a lovers’ row, no doubt. No more than that. Nothing for him to deal with.

Within a matter of hours he would be forced to reconsider that.

The next day it was after noon when Surval made his way home. He could feel his thighs and calves straining as he started his descent from the moors with his catch secure in a cloth pouch bound to his back, using his staff to make sure that he didn’t slip.

It was not normal for a hermit to walk about so far from his cell, but Surval had heard two days ago that a man had died out on the moors, a terrible, lonely death, drowning in the midst of a mire. The thought of dying out there, so far from anyone, and no one to hear your shrieks for help, both appalled and attracted Surval. If he were to fall into a mire, it would be a natural thing, an accidental death. God Himself couldn’t blame him.

Not that it would be right to seek death in that way. No, his death must be unintentional, unplanned, not suicide. Self-murder would be just one more sin to add to his existing crimes. Although he craved the long peace of the grave, that must come about in God’s own time, not his own.

Still, it was always possible to die by accident out on the moors, so when Surval heard of a death out in the wilds, he would always go to pray for the dead man. This time, the victim had walked to an ale-house and, returning, had fallen into the great mire beneath Cosdon, called Raybarrow Pool. Surval had gone to pray there yesterday, and had found another miner, Wylkyn, already present.

‘They all heard him. Screaming like a rabbit in a snare, he was, apparently. Screaming fit to tear the heart of a demon,’ Wylkyn said, unusually pale and nervy. ‘I was in town myself. If only I’d left with him, he’d still be alive.’

‘Or you’d be dead too,’ Surval grunted. ‘We all die.’

‘Yes, but to die like that!’

‘You knew him?’

‘He was my brother.’

Surval said no more, but slowly spread himself on the ground, his arms outstretched, and began to implore God’s help for the poor dead sinner’s soul. He often did so. Miners had a harsh existence, and there was always someone dying who would crave the aid of Surval’s prayers, especially now that there was no priest here. That fool, the priest at Gidleigh, wouldn’t bother himself over the soul of a miner; probably wouldn’t dare make the journey to open moorland in case he got his hose muddy, the useless bugger.

He had prayed for hours by the side of that sucking green swathe, thinking how easy it would have been for the man to stand and walk into it, feel the waters rising up his shins and thighs, the cold caress reaching his genitals and on upwards until the soft wash flowed up and over his head, drawing him downwards while the breath left his lungs and God at last allowed him to give up this endless toil. My God, it was attractive! But Surval knew he mustn’t give in, and that was that. He must carry on.

The miners had been grateful as always, and today when he’d returned to pray again by that mire, some men were there with a present for him. Now, walking back to his home beside the bridge, he must go carefully with the weight upon his back.

Admittedly a hermit was supposed to eat frugally, and many eschewed flesh altogether, but at present he had a good-sized mallard weighing him down, shot by a miner’s sling, and there was no problem with that so far as he was concerned. It was another form of alms.

He reached the clapper bridge over the Teign and began the climb up toward the great stone circle on Scorhill. An odd arrangement, he always thought. A sequence of massy moorstone lumps arranged in a broad circle. Pausing to look it over once again, for he often paused here feeling that it added something to his contemplations, he glanced back the way he had come.

It was a glorious winter’s day. The sky, for the first time in weeks, was clear of clouds, and the sun shone palely on the moors. All was still. Even the wind had abated, as though the elements were ashamed of their behaviour the previous day, although the evidence of the rains was all about. From here, Surval could see it. Rivulets, pools, tiny streams and waterfalls glinted and shone in the bright sun. Most were sharp and blue, discrete little patches of sky fallen to earth; others were pure silver, as though the tin that lay beneath had suddenly sprung to the surface.

Surval took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching it shiver, his own personal cloud. This view was always calming to him. In other parts of the moors there were fires and noise from the tinners who were digging, smelting and working the ores, here it was peaceful. Miners had worked this land years ago, but all the available metal had been dragged from the earth a long time since. Now this was only a trail for peat-cutters, farmers and suppliers who led their packhorses along these damp, tortuous paths.

He turned east and made his way back towards the bridge and his home. The way soon took him down among the trees, and the sunlight was sprinkled between the fresh leaves like a green mist. On a whim he took a northern path. It would take a little longer, but in this glorious weather, he didn’t care.

It was Surval’s favourite time of year usually, but now he was worried; had been ever since the death of the girl. Such a terrible crime – so stupid, so brutal. It was the act of a coward, a man who would punish those smaller, younger or weaker than himself just to satisfy his own lusts or his desire for power over anyone.

‘Oh God, forgive me!’ he shouted suddenly, throwing back his head in his despair and staring with agonised eyes at the sky. ‘Please, God, as You love men and share their pains, take my life. Please! Don’t make me suffer so much! I killed her, I admit it. I am the foul murderer of a young woman because I wanted her so badly, and… and…’

That was it. To murder a girl who was scarcely more than a child was unforgivable. God Himself couldn’t forgive him. And while he lived, the constant reminder of his murder would be here, the smell and sight of it would assail his senses, driving him mad. He felt more than a little mad. Was it a surprise? And all the while the foul atmosphere grew about him. It mattered not a whit how many good deeds he essayed, for that crime was always going to be there in his mind. That knowledge, the knowledge of his guilt, would not be dispelled by the sun or the wind: it would take more than them.

As he walked down the hill, near to the castle at Gidleigh, he heard a rattling, then shouts and the noise of hooves clattering over cobbles, approaching.

With a cold dread in his belly, he realised what that noise heralded, and he stopped as the row approached him. Soon he could see Esmon at the head of a force of men, all mounted, some with bows and crossbows, all armed with swords and long knives, ready for a fight.

‘Out of the path, fool!’ Esmon roared, and hurtled past.

The men followed him, none giving Surval more than a glance, as though he was an irrelevance. Soon they had all passed and the sound of their hooves faded into the distance. If it were not for the thick gouts of mud and horse shit which had been flung against him, he might have doubted that they had ever been here.