The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Fifteen

Sampson waited while they all stood talking. Talking, talking, talking! And here was poor Sampson, his tummy rumbling, hungry as a hound, and the alms dish out by the gate where he couldn’t get to it without walking past the great men on their horses.

Ah! At last! They’re going. As the grim little party turned away and rode towards the inn, Sampson sighed with relief. His tum needed filling. That was what. He’d get there, to the dish, now. That’d be good. Find some meat, some bread.

It was good the new lord gave away food. The Church ordered one tenth. Sampson was grateful for anything. He hurried to the bowl, took up the nearest hunk of brown bread soaked in thick, greasy, cold gravy, and rammed it into his mouth, turning and sinking to the ground, his back resting against the wall.

Then the crust was kicked from his hand, and Sampson squeaked in fear, raising his hands to protect his face as he recognised Esmon.

‘So, boy, you thought you’d take food?’

Sampson cringed in fear, and Esmon curled his lip in disdain. This poor cretin was little more than a dog. No brain at all – and yet he might be useful.

The sight of a Keeper of the King’s Peace at his gate had seriously alarmed him. At first, he had thought that he was to be accused of the robbery; luckily Sir Ralph hadn’t been dumb enough to let the Keeper into the castle, because he might have heard one of the carters complaining of the robbery if he had; however, Sir Baldwin would certainly be told of the body. Esmon was suddenly convinced that it would be foolish to let him find Wylkyn’s corpse. A man couldn’t be accused of murder when there was no body. If only he’d removed it as soon as he’d killed Wylkyn, but the red mist of rage had smothered him, and being rational and sensible was impossible. At least no one had seen Wylkyn die. It was only now that he realised how stupid he had been. Not that he regretted his actions. No. Wylkyn had to be killed. It was his potions that killed Sir Richard, and a murderer deserved his punishment.

Sampson was wailing now, reaching for the bowl as though expecting to see it kicked away and all its contents spilled into the dirt. ‘’Tis for me! ’Tis why it’s put out!’

‘It’s not for lazy and stupid people. I think I’d better stop it getting put out. You don’t need our food, you need work, that’s all.’

‘Can’t! No one hires me. No money!’

‘Everyone needs work, boy. I tell you what – I’ll give you a job. Then you can earn your food, can’t you?’ Esmon said.

It didn’t take long to explain. Esmon soon finished, and then the unhappy Sampson went scurrying off like a cur with his tail between his legs after a good whipping. The sight brought a smile to Esmon’s face, and he resisted the temptation of hurling a stone after the fool.

With a little luck, Sampson would take away the evidence, and then Esmon would feel more secure. And if Sampson failed – why, he would be bound to leave marks that would lead to his own arrest! Esmon wandered off grinning with self-satisfaction at the thought.

They had missed their road, and Simon was still swearing as they headed westwards out of the Stannary town of Chagford; they had gone at least two leagues out of their way.

‘Don’t see why we need to go to Gidleigh anyway,’ said his servant Hugh.

Simon bit back the curse that sprang to his lips. ‘Because I am Stannary Bailiff, and I am responsible if a miner’s robbed or attacked, Hugh. It’s that easy.’

Hugh was annoyed at being called away from the house at Lydford. He had been hoping to take a weekend off to go and visit his wife, but Simon had demanded that he should come to Gidleigh too, and he was determined that his master should know how dissatisfied he was.

Simon had been like a wolf with a sore tooth ever since he’d been promoted to the job in Dartmouth, but that wasn’t Hugh’s fault. All Hugh craved was a stable life, no more wandering about the place, like he’d had to do when he was a shepherd. It was a source of pride to him that he’d managed to catch Simon’s eye and get work with him, early on as a general servant but gradually becoming a close friend as well. He knew Simon laughed about him, but he also knew that Simon looked on him as an ally and associate. It was that which tore at him: his divided loyalty.

Hugh had a wife now, Constance, who lived north, towards Iddesleigh. Constance was calm, quiet, and a little reserved because her child, whom she had named Hugh, was not Hugh’s son, but that didn’t affect Hugh’s love for the boy and his adoration of Constance. To him, she was the ideal woman. As gentle and kind as Holy Mother Mary herself, but bright and bubbling with laughter. She had a reputation for midwifery in the vill already because she had been trained as a nurse, and all in the area had grown to love and respect her. Hugh travelled to see her when he got the chance, whenever Simon gave him an afternoon of freedom, and to his credit, Simon sent him as often as he might up to Hatherleigh. Their master, the Abbot Robert, owned the fair there, so there were always opportunities to make use of a messenger.

It wouldn’t be so easy to invent reasons to travel there once Simon was moved to Dartmouth, though, Hugh thought. That was far from anywhere, that was. Miserable journey every time he wanted to see Constance, and it’d be longer between each trip. He’d be lucky to see young Hugh at all.

Thoughts like these kept circulating in his mind, causing depression. And Hugh was not alone. He was all too aware that his friend and ally in Simon’s household, young Edith, was as set against the move as he was himself. It was her opinion that Simon should give up the post, that he should become something else – maybe a farmer. There were worse jobs, she had said to Hugh.

Worse maybe, but few that offered such opportunities for suffering the most bitter extremes of weather, to Hugh’s way of thinking. He’d lived that life, he’d been out in all weathers, he’d led the plough teams of oxen up and down the fields, covering miles each day, he’d got soaked and frozen, he’d got cut and stabbed by bushes while hedging, and he’d seen friends die: one man kicked in the head while wrestling a young calf to the ground, another squeezed against a wall by a dull-witted ox until his entire chest cracked with a rippling noise like tearing cloth. It wasn’t the sort of life Hugh was keen to return to, not while there was a warm indoor room with a roaring fire, and plenty of ale and wine to be drunk. But it would be hard, very hard, to go so far away. At least being a merchant was safer, he thought, but he wasn’t convinced that Simon would be able to ‘merchant’ for a living.

‘It’s not as though you have to worry about the job much longer,’ Hugh grunted.

‘While it’s my job, I’ll do it as best I can,’ the Bailiff said sternly.

Osbert rode a short distance behind them. ‘It’s not far now, Sir Bailiff.’

‘It would have been a damned sight quicker if you’d not got us lost!’ Simon snapped.

Osbert ducked his head as though Simon had aimed a physical missile at him. He had tried to warn the Bailiff against using that route, but Simon had insisted upon it. The path had become a quagmire, and there was the risk that a new mire had opened up there. If that was so, they could have ridden to their deaths. As it was, they were forced to turn back and take the longer way east to Chagford because they had already passed so far from the other track that would have taken them to Scorhill and thence to Gidleigh. However, Osbert wasn’t going to mention that at this particular moment.

The Bailiff had looked grim all the way, riding stiffly as though he was expecting a barbed comment at any moment from his servant, who in turn had looked like he’d just bitten into a crab-apple. Osbert had taken the safest approach, leaving them to their bickering, like a long-wedded husband and wife, but it was difficult and made for a tense journey. At least the rain had held off, he thought wearily.

‘What do you know of the dead man?’ Simon suddenly shot out.

Osbert gulped. ‘Wylkyn? He was steward to Sir Richard. Looked after his master with potions and powders to cure his aches and pains. He left when Sir Richard died. Went to live with his brother the miner.’

‘What’s his brother’s name?’

‘John of Chagford.’

‘I know him,’ said Simon, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of miners on the moors. ‘Why would Wylkyn have gone up there after a relaxing life in a warm castle?’

‘Like I said, he went as soon as Sir Richard died,’ Osbert said evasively.

‘Not when Sir Ralph took over?’ Simon asked.

‘It was the same thing. Sir Ralph was here with his son when Sir Richard died.’

They were at the bottom of the hill, close by Chagford Bridge, when he saw the old hermit, and Osbert groaned, hurriedly making the sign of the cross.

‘Masters, Godspeed!’ Surval called.

Osbert kept his eyes averted, but Surval seemed to take an especial pleasure in speaking directly to him. ‘Come, Os, why the long face? Surely you’re not fearful that men such as this great Bailiff might accuse you of anything?’

Although he tried to ignore Surval, Osbert felt his face colouring, and it was a relief to hear the Bailiff speak and take Surval’s attention from him.

‘You call me Bailiff? How do you know my position?’

‘There are no secrets here, my Lord. Surval the hermit knows people to speak to, and when a friend like Os is sent away to act the messenger, calling on an important Bailiff to come and inspect a corpse which might be that of a dead miner, it’s easy to guess who might be with him when he returns. I don’t think,’ he added, gazing at Hugh from beneath his lowered brows, ‘that this man would be a Bailiff, somehow.’

Simon chuckled at that, especially when he saw Hugh’s glowering mien. ‘Come, then, master. Have a coin for your words, and may my thanks speed you.’

Surval caught the coin with a swift hand, and then glanced back at Simon as though daring him to mention it. Simon smiled, slightly bemused at the sight. A hermit with such quick reflexes was rare. Most were worn down with their way of life, if they were genuine, because a poor diet and harsh living conditions meant that they were always near to starvation while their concentration on prayer and God’s will meant that all too often they could forget to throw on a robe.

‘Hermit, you have a good position here,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Master. I keep it as clean as I can. There’s no point in squalor for squalor’s sake.’

Simon shot a look at him. It seemed that the hermit was unaware of the irony of his words. Simon had meant the location of his place right beside the bridge, where he was sure to win plenty of alms from travellers, for it was the only bridge for miles over the river and almost all must cross at this point, but looking at the hermit’s face, or what was visible above the bushy mass of his beard, Simon was sure that Surval was proud of the hovel in which he lived.

It was constructed of stone. That much was obvious, because where the limewashed daub had flaked and fallen away, the rocks were plainly visible. The fact that it was thatched was easy enough to guess at, because where the thick green felt of the mossy covering had broken apart, and where the ivy hadn’t yet colonised, Simon was almost sure he could see signs of rotting straw. It facilitated egress for smoke from his fire, but Simon was convinced that this filthy place must be chill and unwelcoming at the best of times. At least it was in keeping with the woods all about here, green and grey like the trees, and so ramshackle and dilapidated, it could be missed by a traveller in a hurry.

All created the impression of a genuine holy man who lived without consideration for his own wants; indeed, a man who was far removed from earthly desires and troubles. Like other hermits, he would labour to God’s praise, mending the bridge when it failed, working with the rocks and stones to repair all damage. It was his life’s work, keeping the bridge operating, because all men must use bridges; preserving a bridge was good for all in the vill. Especially here, where it was the main route from the north to reach the important little town of Chagford with its busy market.

There were many hermits infesting the country, Simon reminded himself as they rode up the steep hill towards Murchington and Gidleigh beyond. Some, of course, were charlatans, masquerading as religious men in a bid to conceal their felonious pasts.

‘Osbert, you were quiet enough in his presence. Why?’

‘I don’t trust him. When Sir Richard was alive, he didn’t either. Said Surval was a mad escaped felon who shouldn’t be here, and that one day soon he’d evict him, but then he died.’

Simon considered this for a while, and then decided that he would have to ask about this man and see what sort of hermit he was: genuine or fake.

Baldwin was impressed by Huward. There was a kindness in his face, which was clouded by the knowledge of the terrible fate of his daughter, but it was still there. He looked like a clear-thinking man, an honourable, upright sort who would work diligently for his master without complaint, although his present state of distress was obvious; all the time, while Baldwin spoke to him, he was fiddling with his drinking horn, a cheap pot of badly glazed earthenware, chipping with his thumbnail at a piece of encrusted dirt on the rim.

‘I am sorry about your daughter,’ Baldwin said.

‘I just want justice – but I won’t get it, will I? He’ll get sent to some court for priests and that’s going to be that. They never pay like we do, do they? If they’re churchmen, they’re safe.’

He spat the last words, avoiding Baldwin’s eye, and the knight considered before continuing.

‘The Coroner held his inquest?’

‘Yes. Her neck was broken. Coroner reckoned the weapon might have been a stick and charged us a shilling for it. Wanted to take all the priest’s stuff, too.’

Baldwin knew that the Coroner would have taken an estimate of the priest’s worldly value so that the amount the King could expect would be known. An outlaw lost all his possessions – they were forfeit to the Crown – so one of the Coroner’s more important jobs was to assess the value of an outlaw’s worth so that it could be recouped from the vill in which he had lived.

‘Neck broken,’ he mused. It didn’t tie up with what Mark had said about striking Mary and nothing else, but many a murderer was a committed liar. ‘What did the Coroner learn about the death of your daughter?’

Huward drank deeply, then put his hands over his face a moment. When he pulled them down again, Baldwin saw that his eyes were glistening with unshed tears. ‘Elias heard it, most of it. Heard my little Mary, he did, heard a woman’s voice, then a slap, but thinking it was just a lovers’ tiff, he turned his plough and went back the other way. When he returned, there was nothing more to hear. Later, when he was done, he walked down the lane and found her body.’

‘He could see them from the field?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Through the hedge, you mean?’

‘No, the lane’s very low there, and the hedges are overgrown. It was just voices.’

Baldwin narrowed his eyes. ‘But if a man is ploughing, it must be difficult to hear voices, surely? The noise of the blade cutting through soil, the hooves of the oxen, the calls and whistling of the boy leading them – how could he have heard so clearly?’

‘You’d have to ask him. I don’t know.’

‘I shall want to see this field. Who was leading the ox team?’

‘My lad, Ben. He often works with old Elias.’

‘Did anyone else see or hear anything?’

‘That fool Sampson said he heard them talk about killing her baby, then he heard a punch when Mark got angry, then a sound of vomiting, and then he ran away. He reckons Mark made for the chapel, but he must have been wrong.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that was the wrong way. Unless he went there to fetch food and clothes, then bolted.’

‘I must speak to this Sampson,’ Baldwin muttered. ‘So it comes to this: your daughter’s and the priest’s voices were heard, but no one actually saw him hit her, let alone break her neck?’

‘They didn’t need to, did they? She was dead.’

Baldwin was about to speak, when there came a great clamour from the doorway. He spun around in time to see Godwen staggering backwards, a hand clutching his belly, and Thomas staring at him, then gazing at the man in the doorway with admiration bordering on adoration.

The sight made Baldwin sigh. ‘Simon, I asked them to keep people out. There was no need for that.’

Roger Scut waited with his toes tapping on the ground while the ostler fetched and saddled a pony for him. He already had some directions, but he made sure with the ostler just to be safe and then set off for the chapel.

It was a fine afternoon, albeit chilly, and he pulled his cloak about his breast to shield himself from the worst of the breeze, not that it stopped the whole of the icy blast. Some seemed to dive down to his breast like a fish. That was what it felt like, a dead fish slipping down between his tunic and his throat, cold as death itself. The reflection made him shiver.

The land was pretty, if you liked the wild. It certainly wasn’t cultivated like the fields and gardens about Exeter, but then he had always been told that Exeter was the edge of the civilised world. Other monks spoke with horror in their voices of the desolate lands further west. They implied that the sole place of any interest was Tavistock Abbey, and beyond that institution there was nothing of any merit whatever. The people were rough, untutored, and good only for manual labour.

In his humble opinion, the folk around here looked the same. They would be easy enough to lead. No doubt a priest like himself with a good understanding of people would be able to give them some direction. He would get them to do his bidding, and quickly find another priest to take over the duties here, and then he would live on the money which was sure to come in. A portion would go to his parson, but the rest he could pocket. That was the way for a man to make some money. Get someone else to do the work, while you yourself rested.

The roads were confusing, but before too long Roger had to ford a stream, then climb a hill before wandering along on the flat. When the roadway began to drop, he turned left, then forked right through trees.

Yes, it was good land, if uncultivated. The trees grew tall and strong, the soil looked dark but fruitful to his untrained eye, and he was sure that with some effort on the part of the locals, this place could be turned into a small Garden of Eden. All it took was a little labour, and there must be enough hairy-arsed workers down here. He would have to speak to the local lord and point out that he was failing in his duties to his local priest by not allowing the villeins enough time to work on the chapel’s lands.

He had almost reached the little brook when he recalled that the ostler had said, grinning, that he should have reached the chapel before he got thus far. There was nothing to see here, though. All he could discern was the faintly sweet odour of burning, as though someone had been coppicing recently and had burned some spare twigs to warm himself.

Looking back to his left, to the north, he pursed his lips. Either that boy at the ale-house was a fool, or…

As he caught sight of the ruins, his mouth fell open with stunned despair. ‘My God!’

‘A sad sight, eh, Priest?’

Roger Scut saw a tall figure at the door whom he recognised from the castle. ‘Master Esmon?’

‘Yes. Look at this! The bastards could have left it, couldn’t they?’ he said, kicking a blackened door-timber from his path and standing at the open entrance, hands on his hips as he glared inside. ‘What a shit-hole!’

‘Who was responsible?’ Roger Scut said, hurriedly dropping from his mount and going to the door. The sight that met his eyes made him groan aloud. His dreams had shattered like glass. All his hopes of creating a small area of lucrative peace here in this pretty valley had been broken and now seemed to lie at his feet in the mess of soot and ruined wood.

‘Some hot-head from the vill. If I find out who it was, he’ll regret his actions!’ Esmon said with a quietness that was more menacing than a bellow.

‘Perhaps it can be salvaged?’

‘Look at the place!’

Roger felt his shoulders droop. ‘I was hoping… Ah, well. God’s wonders can be curious on first sight.’

‘You were wanting this place for yourself?’ Esmon shot out suddenly. ‘I see. And now you have nothing.’

‘Nonsense! I came here to prevent that lad from being murdered illegally,’ Roger said, but as he spoke, his eyes went again to the ruin of the church’s interior.

‘Perhaps we could see a new chapel built. A place suitable for a man of your calibre, Priest.’

Roger Scut faced him. There was a light in Esmon’s eye that Roger wasn’t sure he liked. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You have travelled far, Priest. Come with me to the castle and share a quart of wine. Perhaps we have some interests in common!’

Smiling, Esmon returned to his mount. This, he reflected, was indeed good fortune. The priest was with the Keeper’s party. Provided Esmon could remain on friendly terms with him, Roger Scut could become a most useful informant.

Looking at him, seeing the despair on his face, Esmon was sure that Scut had wanted to acquire this chapel for himself.

‘And then we can discuss rebuilding the chapel,’ he said as he swung his leg over the saddle.