The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Six

While Sir Baldwin de Furnshill suffered the tortures of adding and subtracting the Latin figures, trying to reach agreement on the totals with Roger Scut, his friend Simon Puttock was returning to his own home after a lengthy meeting with his master, the Abbot of Tavistock.

Simon was a tall man, his dark hair sprinkled with silver now that he was nearing his middle thirties, but although his belly had grown in the last year, and he was the possessor of a second chin, he still rode across the moors often enough on Stannary business to keep his weight from exploding. His face was ruddy-complexioned from his hours abroad in all weathers, and the lines that marked his brow gave character to his features.

He looked relaxed enough today as he rode back from Tavistock to his home at Lydford, but that was only on the surface. As Bailiff, he was an official of Stannary Law, and all too often his expression must reflect the severity of the rough justice given at the Stannary Court. Outside the Court, he was contented enough, and judged by many to be a good companion, but when he was at his rest, his smile was often tempered with sadness in memory of his firstborn son, Peterkin, who had died some few years ago of a fever. The pain of losing him would never leave Simon, or so he felt. Death had marked both him and his wife; their grief was only moderated when their second son was born, named, like the first, Peterkin.

Now he had more to occupy his mind than memories of his dead child. Since the terrible events of the last year, life was becoming more complicated.

In 1318 Abbot Robert had paid three hundred pounds to buy the revenues from all the tin-mining in Dartmoor for three years. It had proved a worthwhile investment, and in 1321 he leased the revenues for one hundred pounds a year over ten years. It brought in a good sum annually, and his most important official was Simon, his Bailiff, the man charged with maintaining law and order on the moors. It was Simon who must negotiate with miners and landowners, who had to defuse arguments almost before they started, who had to soothe the ruffled feathers of knights and barons all around the King’s forest of Dartmoor when the tinners took it into their heads to divert streams or declare that another prime piece of pasture was perfect for mining. There were always rows between the miners and the other inhabitants of the Stannaries or their near neighbours. When those disputes came to blows, it was Simon who must perform his inquest and record the details so that the matter could be raised at the next Stannary Court and suitable fines or punishments imposed.

It was wearing on a man, but Simon had coped well so far. Nowadays, though, he was losing his temper more and more often. He wasn’t naturally irascible, but he had problems enough to distract him, and they made his brow darken now as he lurched on homeward.

The problems had begun with his daughter, Edith, about a year ago. Recently he had felt close to a form of peace with her, but things had flared up again. He knew why, but knowing the root cause of a problem was not the same as possessing a cure.

It started during the last summer. She had bitterly resented his interference in her choice of a suitor, and she had become a source of disharmony in his household. Meg, his wife, and even his servant Hugh began to take her part in discussions, leaving Simon feeling like an outcast in his own home. Later in the year, she had appeared to submit to his authority, when her favourite died, and for some time thereafter she had been friendly, as she used to be, but now her attitude had suffered another reversal and she was once more froward and uncooperative.

If it were only her, he wouldn’t mind, but a sullenness had infected his wife and other members of his household. Young Peterkin sat and watched Simon and Meg whenever they were in a room together, with an oddly adult expression on his young face, as though he was gauging their mood and assessing how he might make best advantage of their mutual antipathy.

Simon sighed deeply. He knew it wasn’t Meg’s fault – it was the way that her dreams had been so rudely shattered.

The whole trouble was, Simon was being promoted. Abbot Robert was so pleased with his work that he had arranged to send Simon to the coast because at the same time as leasing the mining revenues, the Abbot had acquired the position of Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth as well. Naturally he had no intention of removing himself to a place so far from his comfortable quarters at his Abbey in Tavistock, but it was plain that he needed a representative there whom he could trust, and since the death of the previous Lieutenant, he had decided that Simon should go.

Margaret was delighted that he had won so much favour with the good Abbot, as she often said. ‘If you are happy in your work, my husband, I am happy.’

‘But you’d be happier not to move to Dartmouth,’ he had said last week when she protested her delight once too often.

She had bent her head slightly. ‘I love our home here.’

‘It took you a while to get used to Lydford, didn’t it?’

‘I adored our farm in Sandford.’

He knew that. They had married there, and set up their family in Sandford. That house was where their daughter had been born, and their memories of the place were all happy. The summers seemed longer and hotter, the winters more mild, and life itself had been simpler. ‘You were unhappy to move here to Lydford.’

‘Yes, Husband, but that was mainly because we lived in the castle itself, and that is a terrible place,’ she said with a delicate shiver. ‘The walls seem to echo with screams. I have been very happy here.’

That was obvious. Her manner had become calm again since they moved here, to the little house near the castle at Lydford. ‘Perhaps you will find it as easy to like Dartmouth,’ he said hopefully.

‘Perhaps,’ she said dully.

‘I believe it is a pleasant enough town.’

‘Filled with sailors? A nice place for Edith to mature,’ she countered.

‘We should be able to afford a good house. I believe people say that it is healthful to live next to the sea. It may be good for Peterkin.’

‘Yes, Husband. Unless pirates raid the town and fire the house about our ears,’ she retorted, and that was where they had left the matter.

Simon could have refused the post. He was almost a free yeoman, scarcely a serf owned by his master, but even an entirely free man who had taken his Lord’s livery and salt must obey his Lord’s whim. If Abbot Robert decided that Simon would be best used down at Dartmouth, to Dartmouth he must go, no matter what his wife thought, if Simon wished to remain in his service. There would have to be an overwhelming need and urgency for Simon to even postpone taking up his new responsibilities.

Meg could stay here at Lydford, but neither of them would enjoy so long a separation. Others left their wives at home when they went to their work: Hugh himself had to leave his wife and son miles away up at Iddesleigh while he worked for Simon, just as any other servant would. A household, whether it was a man’s, woman’s or child’s, would only expect men to remain to serve their masters. Women were called in for specialist tasks, for wet or dry nursing, for brewing, or for jobs where their skills were valued, such as milking, but generally a servant was a man, and he left his wife while he served his master. Women tended to be too much of a distraction and cause of dispute in a household. For that reason some poor fellows didn’t see their wives for months at a time. Simon could never leave his Meg that long.

He couldn’t refuse the post, but he knew that his wife dreaded the idea of moving so far from their home. Especially with the dangers of pirates, as she said. There were always French ships prepared to test the defences of little ports like Dartmouth.

There was no way out of it. He had already received the seal from Abbot Robert, and now he must set about packing up all their belongings on carts ready to be transported to Dartmouth.

Not that he was looking forward to informing Meg that the date for their departure was agreed.

It was almost time for their midday meal when Baldwin heard hooves ringing loudly on the cobbles outside. There was shouting, a horn was blown, and he could hear servants chattering while a horse stood blowing, clattering its shoes. Scut looked up at the door with a face filled with annoyance, which was itself enough to lighten Baldwin’s mood.

The noise was enough to persuade him that something urgent had brought the rider, although he would have been willing to break the meeting on hearing news of a wren dying, Roger Scut bored and irritated him so much. He stood quickly as the door opened to admit a servant and a mud-bespattered messenger.

‘Who are you and what do you want here?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘Sir, I am Joel, from North Tawton Hundred. Two days ago we had a messenger from South Tawton, from Sir Ralph of Wonson. He said that the cleric of Gidleigh Chapel has murdered a girl and run away.’

‘A priest? Christ’s pain!’ Roger Scut said, and crossed himself.

‘I’m sorry, Brother. He got her pregnant, I heard. Punched her or something. Probably trying to kill the baby.’

Baldwin nodded, but he could feel the revulsion in his belly. Hurting anyone unnecessarily was repellent to him, but to harm a child while still in the womb was surely the worst crime. His voice was harsh as he said, ‘It is not unknown for even a priest to do such a thing.’

‘Surely it is very rare,’ Roger Scut protested.

Baldwin ignored him. ‘What makes you think he might have come this way?’

‘There was a theft of bread from a farm,’ Joel said, then explained how he had heard that the day before, there had been another theft of food and some ale reported from a farm near Spreyton. ‘I may be wrong, but he could be coming this way, Keeper.’

‘Then we must search for him!’ Baldwin said decisively, smacking a hand against his sword hilt.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ Roger Scut said smoothly, his hand encompassing the piles of documents still lying on the table. ‘We must complete this work before you ride away.’

‘I am Keeper. I have a duty to find this man.’

‘No, he is a cleric and therefore not your responsibility. Perhaps this fellow could ride to the Dean of the church here and advise him that our Brother has gone abroad. We shall have to learn why, of course.’

Baldwin barely acknowledged him. Seeing a watchman in the doorway, he said, ‘Godwen, I shall be with you as soon as my horse is saddled. Raise the Hue with your horn and call for all the men with horses.’

‘Sir Baldwin.’ Roger Scut leaned his head back and peered at Baldwin down his podgy nose as though it was a cocked and ready crossbow. His voice was so oily, Baldwin could have used it to soften twenty-year-old leather. ‘We have much still to do. Surely a man of your importance need not ride about for no reason? Especially when we have so much ground still to cover in here.’

‘No reason?’ Baldwin gave him a look up and down, and made no effort to conceal his annoyance. ‘Brother, I am responsible for the King’s Peace. Having a man wandering the land stealing from every house he comes upon is not conducive to maintaining the Peace. Apart from his offences, this priest may be caught and disturbed while in someone’s property, and could be attacked – either he would add another murder to his crimes, or he might even die himself. I will not have that! Godwen, do as I said. Brother, I suggest you go through the cases in my absence, and we shall discuss them later.’

He spun on his heel and swept out from the room, a little ashamed at his sense of victory over the fool of a clerk, but mostly pleased to have escaped sitting in Roger Scut’s company any longer. Except, as soon as he realised the source of his pleasure, he felt himself contemptible: he was no more than a hypocrite who was willing to use his official position and arguments of protecting others to evade an afternoon spent in the company of a man like Scut.

Mark shivered and wrapped his arms about his body once more as he stumbled and slipped onwards, hardly aware of his cracked flesh, the purple colour of his fingers and toes, the shivers which made his whole body convulse like a man in his death throes. His only aim was to escape South Tawton and get to Exeter, his sole guide was the sun, but fear made him avoid roads and lanes in case he was spotted. Instead he crossed fields, concealed himself in woods, made use of narrow runs created by deer and foxes, and tried to keep out of sight of farmers and other peasants.

As he trod along yet another tortuous path at the side of a stream, he turned and stared back, still fearing pursuit; however, there was no sound but the clattering of water over stones and occasional birdsong.

It was awful. He had stolen food and drink, he had worn his feet to a blistered mess, and he had no idea what would become of him. The more he considered it, the more the hollow fear grew in his belly at the thought of telling Bishop Walter about his crimes. Tears of self-pity sprang into his eyes again, and he snivelled miserably. His life was devastated, and why? Because the Bishop had chosen to send him to Gidleigh, that’s why! It was damned unfair that he should lose his good name and honour this way. If he hadn’t been dropped in that midden of a vill, with no other monks for company, he’d never have even noticed Mary. And now look at him.

The trees were thick down here, growing close together, and as he thrust himself forward, Mark could feel the brambles catching at his habit, pulling it apart thread by thread. He had a thick stick in his hand which he had fashioned from a young sapling, and he used it to prod aside the heavier clumps and smash down the thinner, but even so his progress was slow.

God’s dear bones, but how could this have happened? All because he discovered lust after so many years. It was mad. Poor Mary! If it had been possible, Mark would have been happy to live with her, but that was impossible for a priest who intended advancement. Only a feeble-minded, semi-literate cleric of the type who would have been content to live in Throwleigh could have done that. And God preserve any priest who was found by Bishop Walter enjoying the comfort of a woman. He would soon be exiled to a much worse place – although how anywhere could be worse than Gidleigh was more than Mark could imagine.

Grimly, he recognised that Bishop Walter would no doubt find it easy. It would be either a miserable monastery on a bleak, windswept moor, or a church on an isolated island where he would be forced to live a hermit-like existence.

Well, he wouldn’t accept it. He had never committed any form of crime until he’d been forced to. He hadn’t meant to hurt poor Mary. He’d only slapped her – a little hard, yes, but not enough to hurt. Not enough to kill. Certainly not to kill, he repeated, as though his denial could reverse the events of two days ago. It was only the frustration, that was all. It had made him lash out. But he wouldn’t hurt her on purpose! Not her!

‘I didn’t mean to, God,’ he whispered, but God brought no comfort. How could He? Mark knew that behind him, somewhere, his own father was now chasing after him, bent on his capture and death. God could bring no solace that might ease that horror.

Piers the Reeve watched the Coroner leave, then hitched up his hose and belt with a grunt, making his way back along the lane to where the body still lay, her head slack and loose where her neck had been broken.

‘Come on, then. Better get her up to the chapel,’ he sighed.

There were three others from the vill still there. Huward, the miller, her father, was keeping the tears at bay, while trying to comfort his wife, Gilda. Sir Ralph had already ridden off, slashing with his whip at any folk who stood in his way, but Piers could rely on Osbert and Elias.

That poor fool Sampson had told his story haltingly. He’d seen Mark and Mary, heard Mark apparently thump her, gag, and run. That was clear enough, then. They were justified in going after the bastard. Sampson hadn’t heard the neck break, but the feebleminded dolt had probably run off after hearing the punch.

‘Let’s lift her, then,’ he said. He was glad he’d gone to the chapel before coming to this inquest. It had given him a chance to calm himself before the horror of the inquest, not that it had been his reason for going there. He’d gone to tell the men who were waiting there in case Mark should return, that they could forget their vigil. The priest had obviously made it clean away and they were needed for the jury at the inquest.

It was strange there without the young priest. The lean-to shack where Mark had lived was warm with the fire that the guards had set blazing in the hearth, but there was no comfort in the place. It was a bachelor’s house, merely a chamber in which an exhausted man could rest from his toil. Piers thought it felt too much like his own home: bleak without a woman’s touch to enliven it. Since his own wife had died, he was more aware of that lack than before. While Agnes lived, he assumed that the comfort he enjoyed was no more than that which all men had as their due, but then she died. A disease attacked her, and in the space of a few days, she was gone. Since then, he had come to realise that his contentment with her company was in reality due to her. A vast emptiness had opened in his life once she was buried. The sparkle had gone, and he thought, looking around Mark’s little cell, that there was much the same atmosphere of loss here.

In the chapel he kneeled and gave a quick prayer for Mary, but also for his dead Agnes. Not a day passed that he didn’t think of her, and he found the cool silence in the chapel conducive to reflection, giving him time to gather his thoughts before he came here to Mary’s body.

She had been rolled onto a blanket, naked, while the Coroner studied her, prodding and prying with the subtlety and sympathy of a butcher with a hog’s carcass before the vill’s jury. All he cared about was the fines he could impose. Piers had observed a dignified silence while the money was totted up, convinced that the cash would mostly end up in the Coroner’s pocket. You couldn’t trust officials who collected taxes. Too often, most of the money they took would stick to them.

‘You couldn’t tell him much, could you?’ he said conversationally to Elias.

The peasant was older than Piers by some four years or so; Piers remembered him being almost married when he himself was still being sent out to hurl stones at the birds pecking at the grain as it was sowed.

‘What more do you expect me to tell him?’ Elias snapped. He had not aged well. His wife had also died years before, but Elias had never learned to cope with his loss. It had been worse for Elias than for Piers, partly because his wife had died during the birth of his son, who also perished, and then his first and only child died during the famine seven or eight years ago, raped, and suffering a slow death. At least Piers still had his own son and daughter. The lad lived with him, while his daughter had married and moved away to Oakhampton. Still, Piers saw her every so often, and her children, when he went up to the market in South Zeal, the new town roughly halfway between them.

Up till his wife’s death, Elias had been a cheery companion, always one of the first with a song or a story in the ale-house, but since his daughter’s death in the famine, he had grown withdrawn and surly. His greying hair was unkempt at all times, his heavy, round head tended to hang like a whipped cur’s, and his craggy features remained fixed in a scowl from dawn to dusk, his brown eyes all but hidden beneath his grim brows. He wore a thick grey beard that almost concealed his mouth and his solid jawline, but any strength it gave to his appearance was marred by the particles of bread and mashed pea that adhered to it.

If anything, his demeanour today was blacker than usual, a fact which gave Piers pause for thought. ‘Nothing. I was just interested.’

Elias said nothing, but Piers saw him shoot a look towards Huward. The miller had left his wife to her grief, and was marching towards the men carrying his daughter’s body.

‘We can take her to the chapel,’ Piers said comfortingly, but inwardly he wondered how he would cope were this his own daughter.

‘Be damned to that! You think I want her body set down in there, in the place where he raped her?’ Huward rasped.

The miller didn’t speak directly to Piers. He couldn’t. This was the saddest day of his life. Until he had been called to see Mary’s body, he had known only happiness. His wife was a source of delight, his daughters were both adored by him, and he had a son to take on the mill after his own death. This sudden collapse from joy to despair had left him with a more acute pain at his loss that he would have thought it possible for one man to bear.

Since confirming that the body was his daughter’s, he’d been filled with misery for the death of his little Mary – his little angel, as he always called her. He had the two girls, Mary and Flora, and Mary was always the calmer, quieter of the two. Flora, his flower, was sweet-natured, but more turbulent to live with. When she had a mood, all in the house knew it. Many was the time he had been forced to roar at her to be silent when she was teasing Mary or Ben, their brother.

Walking here, he had known that the inquest would be grievous. It was the hardest thing, burying your children. He remembered his mother saying that once, when his brother Tom died. She’d said that it was the toughest thing she’d ever had to do, putting him in his grave. Well, perhaps it was, but for Huward, the hardest part was the inquest. Seeing her poor, bloodied body being stripped and exposed for all to see. Every man in the vill standing there, eyeing her – oh, not with any lust, no, but that wasn’t the point. They could all see her, his little Mary, naked, like a whore.

That bastard priest would regret his brief fling and murder, Huward swore to himself. The devil-spawn had destroyed more than Huward’s little girl, he had killed off Huward’s grandchild and taken away the peace of Huward’s home. He felt as though with that one blow, the killer had slaughtered his entire family.

‘You think I’d let you take her there?’ he said brokenly. His hand reached out to stroke her cheek. ‘Cold. She’s so cold!’

Piers put a hand to Huward’s shoulder. ‘Come, let’s go to the tavern and find you a good draught of cider.’

‘I don’t need cider. All I want is revenge.’ He thrust forward and took his daughter up in his arms, forcing the men who held the blanket to relinquish their burden. Huward softly turned her face to him, then tucked it into his shoulder, his arms about her back and behind her legs. Then he turned away, and set off in the direction of Gidleigh and the church there.