The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Ten

It took little time for them to pack and prepare for the journey back to Gidleigh, especially since, to Baldwin’s profound gratitude, Roger Scut disappeared shortly after Godwen and the others had brought in Mark. The clerk took one last appalled look at the priest and then scuttled away like a small beetle disturbed beneath a stone.

Thinking of Scut’s expression made Baldwin stop and consider a few moments. Mark had been in a terrible state, soaked, frozen, his feet bleeding. His hands were scratched, his skin red, raw and in many places cracked and weeping, and he had fallen on his chin and scraped all the flesh from the point of his jaw. If there could have been any doubt about his guilt, it was removed at the sight of him snivelling and shuffling, his head hanging at a slight angle, as though he could already feel the hemp at his throat. It was somehow terrible to see a man whose whole life should have been one of moderate ease brought to such a pass. He stood downcast, flinching when Godwen or Thomas came too near.

He deserved little sympathy, though, if he were truly guilty of killing the girl, Baldwin told himself.

‘What is your name?’ he grated in a rumbling tone that conveyed his authority.

‘I am a poor traveller, Sir Knight. Please, give me peace and a place to rest my–’

‘I didn’t ask what you were doing, I asked you your name.’

The Brother’s glance shot up at Baldwin, and then slid away when he saw the grim determination on his face. ‘I am named Edward of Axminster, Sir Knight.’

‘Come, now. What name did you take when you took up the cloth?’ Baldwin asked silkily. ‘What is your Christian, baptismal name?’

‘I…’

‘Then I shall tell you,’ Baldwin said, sitting at a bench and fixing a blank stare on the unfortunate wretch. He often found that this persuaded criminals to confess and become more helpful, and so it proved today.

Mark was worn down with his grief and his shame. His legs were aching, and sores and blisters made his limbs feel as though they were gangrenous. He had managed to come so far, yet now he would be taken all that weary way back to Gidleigh once more. A sob broke from his breast, and he could feel the tears well and course down his cheeks. He felt as though his ruination was indeed inevitable. He was destroyed. His hands were bound so tightly that he could scarcely feel his fingers, and escape was impossible.

‘Sir Knight, pity me!’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have done nothing wrong of my own volition, I am merely the dupe of fate. On the Bible, I swear, I have intended no harm to anyone.’

‘And yet you bolt from your vill as though the legions of Hell were at your tail.’

‘What would you have me do? Stand there and await the retribution of a father who is insane with rage to see his daughter murdered?’

Baldwin allowed no relaxation of his features. ‘Why should her father think to accuse you, a priest?’

‘I am ashamed to confess,’ Mark said bleakly, and his head dropped as if he truly felt how unwholesome his behaviour must sound. ‘I forgot my cloth and my honour with this woman, and I admit I was horrified to learn that she was with my child. If her father were to hear that, how else could he react, other than by trying to destroy me?’

In his years as Keeper of the Rolls of the King’s Peace, Baldwin had heard many men’s confessions, and he reckoned that Mark sounded genuine, but that made little difference to him and his duty. ‘You shall still have to explain yourself in your vill, in your local court. Godwen, you will escort him there. Take another man to help you guard him. He can’t go like this, not with his feet in that condition. You shall have to demand a pony for him. Tell Jack I sent you, and ask for the healthiest mount he has for the lowest price. When he gives you a price, no matter how much it is, tell him you’ll pay him five pennies less and he should be glad that I won’t accuse him of trying to profit at the King’s expense.’

Mark had listened dully, but on hearing Baldwin’s calmly authoritative voice, he broke down again, and dropped to his knees. ‘God’s own body! Don’t just take me there and leave me like garbage! They’ll kill me!’

Baldwin eyed him without feeling. ‘You must be returned to the vill where the Hue and Cry was raised against you. You know that. It will be for the vill’s court to decide whether you are guilty or not.’

‘But if you have me taken there, they will kill me without a hearing! You can’t do that. I am a priest, I should be tried in the Bishop’s court, not in that of a wayward and detestable knight like Sir Ralph! He will see me destroyed without trying to mete out justice.’

‘You slander a knight? You, who have forgotten your vows to God? I have made oaths too, to keep the King’s Peace and see justice done. I have my duty.’

‘What of your duty to the law? You call yourself Keeper of the Rolls of the King’s Peace, but if you leave me there, I shall die in hours. They will see to it.’

‘Perhaps that is no more than you deserve,’ Baldwin said bluntly.

‘No man can tell that,’ Mark protested. ‘Please, Sir Knight, convey me to the Bishop’s court, where I can be tried by men who would see me tested fairly – don’t send me back to that terrible vill! It’s too unjust! That I have sunk to lewdness and fornication, I admit freely but, Sir Baldwin, I am no murderer! Look at me! Could I be so cruel, so barbaric, as to willingly slay my own love and the child in her womb?’

As Brother Mark made his protestations, Saul the carter and his apprentice Alan were in the process of mending Saul’s carts in his yard near the church at Oakhampton, prior to filling them with goods to take to the market at Chagford.

‘Still don’t see why we have to get ready so early,’ Alan objected. ‘The market’s not until Saturday. Today’s Thursday. It’s not far.’

Saul grunted. A short man with grizzled hair and beard, his sharp, suspicious eyes gleamed brightly beneath his hood. He was carrying a heavy sack, and he threw it into the back of his cart and stretched. ‘Because it means we have more time in the tavern the night before the market, that’s why. And we avoid footpads, too.’

Alan, a weakly-looking lad in his late teens with a thin, wispy beard and sallow complexion, pulled a face. ‘Footpads? What do you mean, footpads?’

‘Nothing! It was a joke. What’d they do with us? Who’s going to rob us, when we’re travelling with so many others? I’ve made sure there are more than ten carters, and then there are the six others with their packhorses.’

‘But you’re worried about footpads?’ Alan said anxiously.

‘Come on, lad, I was only joking,’ Saul said, but he didn’t meet Alan’s eye. Alan had been thinking again, always a mistake for an apprentice. He’d obviously been listening to the stories about the mad bastard at Gidleigh. Time was, that used to be a good clear road – when Sir Richard owned it. Now that cocky bugger up there had got so he wouldn’t listen to anyone. Thought he was beyond the reach of the Justices. Maybe he was, too, Saul told himself glumly.

Indeed, Saul felt generally gloomy today. His sinuses were giving him a lot of pain, like sharp pins and needles stabbing at the back of his palate, and there was a tickling in his nostrils. He must be getting another cold. Wonderful! Six he had had last year – two in the middle of the summer, by God’s wounds! His wife was growing peevish, complaining that he never did enough work, spent all his time at the tavern, and here he was with another flaming cold on the way. He needed a warm pot of spiced ale to drive it off, that’s what he needed. Instead he was getting ready to join the convoy of carts on the way to Chagford and getting grief from his blasted apprentice as well. At least in Chagford he could go to a physician and maybe get bled.

‘There’s no reason to think he’d come to get us,’ Alan muttered hopefully. ‘Sir Ralph’s sat there in his castle, and you’ve already said we’re not going to go close. He can sit there waiting for us all week, if he wants, and miss us.’

‘That’s why we leave early. He’s no idiot. He might have heard we’re approaching, and then he’ll demand money for passing his lands.’

‘Demanding money doesn’t mean we’ll be at risk.’

Saul eyed him bleakly. Alan was a pleasant enough lad, usually cheerful and helpful, but there was no getting away from the fact that he was sometimes argumentative; he would take a stance and speak smilingly about it, apparently listening to other views but ignoring whatever was said. It was infuriating. Saul himself preferred to have a simple stand-up row about something.

Still, today Alan seemed less disputatious for the sake of it. He looked more like a boy who had been told to go and sit all day in the rain watching chickens on the off-chance that a fox might happen along. Sulky, that was the word.

‘That’s why we go early – so that even if he chooses to extort cash from us, we’ll have gone already. What is it, lad?’ Saul asked, leaning on the wheel of his cart and studying Alan carefully.

‘It’s just daft, going tomorrow,’ Alan burst out. ‘Why not go without me? You don’t need me riding along.’

‘Who’ll drive the other cart, boy?’

‘You could lead it,’ Alan said.

‘What is this? Are you ’prentice to me or not?’

‘Anyway, he only takes money, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, it’s only money!’ Saul spat. ‘I suppose you have so much you’d be happy to give it all to him? Come on! What’s all this about?’

‘I don’t like it, that’s all.’

‘Why? You don’t mind going farther afield. We’ve been up to Hatherleigh, down to Tavistock – what’s the matter with going to Chagford?’

‘I went there once before.’

‘Ah!’ Saul thought he could understand. ‘You never told me this. And he caught you?’

‘No. I saw the ambush, and I bolted.’

‘So what’s your problem?’

‘If they recognise me, they might demand the money I owed them from that last journey!’

Saul sighed. ‘Al, if you escaped, they won’t remember. They only pinch what they can from a few folks, that’s all. I doubt whether they’ll remember you, all right?’

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘Well, get used to it, lad.’

‘Master Carter. Are you going to Chagford?’

Saul groaned to himself and turning, found himself looking up into a familiar face. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Wylkyn the miner.’

‘No need to be like that.’

‘You enjoying life up on the moors?’

Wylkyn smiled thinly. He wore good clothes, a heavy cloak of fine wool, a tunic of hardwearing fustian over a fine linen shirt, but all were worn and faded now. Once grand, now all was growing shabby. ‘It’s good enough.’

‘Not as comfortable as your old life though, up at the castle, boiling herbs for Sir Richard, eh?’

‘Perhaps. Is it true you’re going to Chagford?’

‘Yes. We’ll be leaving early tomorrow.’

‘I want to join you.’

‘You? Why?’

‘I have things to sell and provisions to buy. Where else should I go but the Stannary town to get them?’

Saul shrugged. ‘You can come with us, if you have a mind. Why not? The more men the better.’

‘Good, old friend. I’ll be here tomorrow, then, with my ponies.’

‘Aye.’ Saul watched him walk away with an unsettled feeling in his gut. ‘Why does he want to come with us?’

Alan shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘Are you as thick as a hog? Why do you think? We’re all travelling together to be safe from the men at Gidleigh, but he should be safe enough. He was one of them, wasn’t he?’

Roger Scut marched to the inn with Peter Clifford, the Dean of the Canonical Church, walking solemnly at his side. This early in the morning there were not yet many hawkers thronging the streets, but they must walk cautiously, avoiding the pots of night-soil being flung from upper windows and the excrement which lay in the kennel. While stepping around one, Roger felt his foot squelch and he smelled the odour of dog’s mess almost simultaneously. It made him feel queasy – and still more irritable. It was not helped by the onset of rain. They were only fine drops tapping at his face right now, but yes, Roger was sure they would soon become thicker. The wind was getting up again, too. He was bound to get soaked on the way back after this meeting.

‘I still think we should have brought some of our servants, Dean.’

‘There is no need for force with a man like Sir Baldwin.’

‘He is irrational, argumentative, and all too keen to resort to steel to impose his will.’

‘Your words are intemperate,’ Peter Clifford said, pausing and fixing Roger with a cold eye. ‘What proof do you have that Sir Baldwin has ever drawn a sword to push through an unjust action?’

Roger Scut reddened. ‘It is well known that knights are always prone to arrogance and haughty behaviour! You cannot think that this man is better than the others.’

‘I state it firmly, Brother, and I suggest you moderate your own opinions of him. Sir Baldwin is fair, intelligent and just. It is a shame more knights are not struck from the same mould.’

‘If you are wrong…’

‘I said no,’ Dean Peter said affably. A tall, grey-haired and wan-featured man in his later fifties, his back was bowed from sitting and reading by candlelight, and his thin, ascetic face gave him something of the look of an invalid, but his mind was perfectly clear and he was no man to be bent to another’s will without reason. ‘I know Sir Baldwin well. There is no need to try to scare him to a just solution. If there is merit in your proposition, he will see it, with or without guards.’

Roger Scut pursed his lips as they continued on their way. If anything were to go wrong, he would see to it that this refusal became widely known. The only way to deal with an arrogant bastard like this miscreant knight was with the threat of violence. Everyone knew that law officers were routinely corrupt, it was merely a matter of degree. Every so often Sheriffs would be cast out from their lucrative positions, Coroners would be told to go and Keepers would be changed. It was easy enough to see why. Each of them could influence decisions on a man’s guilt or innocence. It was a matter of supreme importance to a noble that he should see any of his men released from custody with their innocence determined. All his retinue must be protected. Otherwise the actions of a small number of hotheads might reflect badly upon their masters. Better that they should be released and their crimes denied.

Not that it was only a case of saving face. Sometimes professional assassins must be reprieved from a court so that their lords might point them in the direction of another enemy whose passing would be little missed by the world.

‘Men like this Keeper should be reminded occasionally that they do not control us in the Bishop’s See,’ he said, tilting his head back and staring down his nose at merchants and traders.

‘Men like this Keeper need no reminding,’ Dean Peter said with a chilliness in his manner.

‘I am glad you believe so,’ Roger Scut said equivocally.

They had reached the inn, and Roger Scut dived inside like a man gathering a last breath before jumping into a pool to grasp a shining bauble before it could be snapped up by a fish. Dean Peter sighed, tutted to himself, and then shrugged good-naturedly and followed. He was in time to see Roger Scut interpose himself between Sir Baldwin and the kneeling Mark, his arms held out dramatically as though he were pinned to a cross.

‘Sir Baldwin, I insist that you release this prisoner into the custody of Dean Peter and myself.’

Baldwin gazed at Roger Scut with ill-concealed distaste. ‘I fear I can do no such thing.’

‘Dean Peter and I demand that you release him to us.’

Dean Peter met Baldwin’s sharp glance with a mild smile, but said nothing.

Sir Baldwin turned his attention back to Roger Scut, but now his face, without changing expression, seemed to Roger to have taken on a deeply malevolent appearance, and the clerk took an involuntary step backwards, bumping into Mark.

‘Roger, I shall do my duty as seems fit to me. I shall not be bent by you like a straw in the wind, but will obey the instructions of my Lord the King, and of the law.’

‘Dean Peter, please persuade the Keeper that we should be permitted to take this fellow back to Exeter. I doubt very much that the Bishop will be content to hear that his will and authority has been flouted by a… a knight.’

Baldwin’s features became glacial as Dean Peter cleared his throat. Roger Scut looked about to retreat still further, but then Baldwin was surprised to see the pompous little arse stiffen his shoulders, raising his head and returning Baldwin’s look with determination.

‘You don’t scare me, Sir Knight. I am a man of God.’

‘Roger, please,’ Dean Peter remonstrated with a hint of annoyance. ‘Sir Baldwin, my friend here has a point, if he perhaps lacks a little of the wit to explain it fully and politely.’

‘He does!’ Baldwin growled. ‘I won’t listen to his whining about this any further. Godwen, I told you to find a horse, I believe?’

As Godwen hurried from the room, Dean Peter took a deep breath. ‘Sir Baldwin, you know that this man must surely be returned to the Bishop’s court as soon as it is shown that he is a man of God? What use is served by taking him all the way back to Dartmoor, deciding he is a priest, and then making the same journey back here again? It is foolish, surely.’

‘You know that the law says I have to see him taken back,’ Baldwin said. ‘I can do nothing else.’

‘If I am taken back they will kill me!’ Mark said. ‘Please, Dean, protect me! I cannot go back there. The father will kill me. Who would believe my story when they have my lover’s body?’

‘What is your story?’ Baldwin pressed. He was standing now, and bellowed for the host to come and serve wine.

‘I was there with her…’ Mark shot a glance at the Dean. ‘Father, please do not judge me. I have never done anything before which could cause me so much shame. Never before have I failed in my vows. It was that horrible place. All I ever wanted was to serve God in Exeter, maybe to travel, but I was sent to Gidleigh instead.’

‘You were being tested,’ Dean Peter agreed, adding pointedly, ‘and you failed.’

Mark winced as though Dean Peter had slapped him. He held his hands to his face, and the Dean saw how dreadfully scratched and scraped they were. ‘I know, I know it too well. I grew to desire the women, and even hearing their voices was enough to inflame my passions. I started building a wall just to occupy myself, exhausting myself to keep my thoughts pure, but it failed. I begged and pleaded with God to release me from my lusts, but He didn’t answer me. And then I met her.’

‘Who?’ Dean Peter asked.

‘Mary, daughter of the miller. She showed me kindness and calmed my fears, and when she also soothed my loneliness, I got her with child, God help me!’

‘She is dead,’ Baldwin stated flatly. ‘And you bolted.’

‘I spoke with her that day. She had told me a while before about our child, but I didn’t believe her. It was impossible, I thought, but she swore that her monthly days had stopped. Then I saw that she was growing large, and I knew she had told me the truth. On the day she died, I spoke with her, and we parted in anger. Later, I walked back that way, and found her lying dead. Dead! Someone had struck her down and killed her, and our child with her. I didn’t know what to do!’

‘You mean you didn’t strike her?’ Baldwin asked, thankfully accepting a cup of wine. ‘You should have called the vill to arms, raised the Hue and Cry.’ He sipped and grimaced. ‘This tastes of the midden! Bring a cup of the other barrel.’

‘I knew I should be accused and die.’

Dean Peter nodded. ‘Because you might be thought guilty of murdering her to stop news of the child.’

‘It is not unheard of,’ Baldwin agreed, musing. ‘Often a priest will try to punch his woman to kill the new life just growing. And sometimes the woman will die as well.’ He frowned at Mark. ‘Is that what you did?’

‘I swear I am innocent of intending her death.’

‘Did you hit her to make her miscarry?’

‘Yes – no! I don’t know! All I remember is, she struck me, and I struck her back, and then I left her.’

‘You knocked her down? You struck her on the belly and she fell?’ Baldwin said keenly.

Mark couldn’t answer. He had fallen to his knees, hands back at his face as he knelt, weeping, shaking his head. ‘I hit her, but not in the belly – and I didn’t kill her. I couldn’t! I loved her.’

‘Many men who love have killed their wives,’ Baldwin observed unsympathetically. ‘Did you see her fall after you struck her?’

‘No, no, she just turned away from me, and I was angry, bitter… I don’t know… I just walked away to cool down, and think. I had to pray for help and forgiveness. But she didn’t come past me and when I returned along that way to talk to her again, I found… I found…’

‘Her lying dead,’ Baldwin said flatly.

‘Blood on her legs, and she was so still,’ Mark said in a small voice, shivering at the memory.

‘You spoke with her,’ the Dean murmured. ‘What of?’

Mark bowed his head. ‘I desired her to take a potion I had acquired. It promised to end the pregnancy.’

‘You said you spoke to her and left her angrily,’ Baldwin said as the Dean’s face set like granite on hearing Mark’s crime. ‘Was that because she refused to take the potion?’

‘I loved her, I didn’t want to hurt her, only the baby!’

‘A potion like that will often kill the mother as well as the child,’ Baldwin said coldly.

‘If you take me back there, I shall be slaughtered! Please don’t take me back!’

‘You should have thought of that before you tried to make your woman miscarry!’

‘Come, Sir Baldwin,’ Dean Peter said after a moment. ‘Won’t you please let us take him to Exeter? Look at him! He is in danger, he says. I would be reluctant to see him strung up by angry villagers. No matter how foul, nor what, his crimes. Surely he may be quite right to fear for his life?’

‘No. You know I cannot set him free.’

‘Then I shall ride with him to this outlandish place,’ Roger Scut said. He gave Baldwin a look which expressed only distaste. ‘If the good knight won’t protect this poor priest, I shall do it myself and see that no harm comes to him. I will shield him with my own body.’

Baldwin eyed him wonderingly. ‘Why? What do you seek?’ he wondered aloud.

‘I seek nothing for myself, only to serve the best interests of this unfortunate.’

‘I thank you, friend,’ Mark said. He was weeping, and he humbly held his hands up towards Roger Scut in gratitude.

Baldwin grunted. He had intended to be home last night. Into his mind flashed a picture of his wife sitting at his great fire, the light gleaming in her red-gold hair, shining on her tip-tilted nose, sparkling in her green eyes. It was a most appealing scene, the more so because in it there was no place for Roger Scut.

‘Won’t anyone believe me?’ Mark wailed. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her. I loved her. I couldn’t have done that to her!’

‘Done what?’ Baldwin demanded harshly, brought back from his mild daydream with a jolt.

‘Killed her… killed our baby!’ Mark cried despairingly. He bent forward and burst into sobs of despair, exhaustion and self-loathing.

Baldwin watched him cynically. He had witnessed all too many felons who wept and moaned when their guilt was established. Often they would then declare their misery over a momentary lapse, a flaring of anger that resulted in a death. It was usually shame and sorrow for being discovered, in his experience.

And yet there was something about this lad. Mark was like a youngster caught filching a penny for food because he was starving. He watched the fellow, in two minds, then looked at Dean Peter. The older man appeared as doubtful as Baldwin himself.

‘Oh, in God’s own name,’ he exclaimed, ‘damn it all! Peter, could you send a messenger to ride straight to Simon Puttock? Ask him if he could come and help me with this matter. He works for the Abbot of Tavistock, after all. It’s more his duty than mine to save this wretch from the people of his vill.’

‘You mean, you will hand this fellow over to Simon?’ Peter Clifford asked hopefully.

‘I mean I shall go with this fellow and protect him.’

‘I am so glad. I thank you,’ the Dean smiled. And then, ‘When all is done, you must come and speak to me, though. I will need to arrange a penance for your swearing.’