The Mad Monk of Gidleigh

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Simon was almost home again. The events of the last days were, happily, beginning to fade as he rode along the ridge that wound its way to the castle and his own home.

‘Sir?’

‘What, Hugh?’

‘Were you serious, like, about me staying on here when you go to Dartmouth?’

‘Yes. I don’t want to lose you and your support, but I’d rather that than force you so far away.’

‘Oh.’

They reached the yard before his house, and Simon dropped thankfully from his mount. He strode into the house. There, in his hall, he saw his daughter and a youth.

‘Ah. Um… Edith…’

‘Oh! Father!’ she cried, and ran into his arms. ‘You were gone so long. Do you know Peter? He’s apprentice to Master Harold, the merchant. Peter, this is my father.’

‘Sir, er, Bailiff, er, er…’

Simon was ready to blast the fellow for coming here and upsetting the nature of his homecoming, but then he thought again. The lad was gentle, devoted to Edith, from the way he watched her with a hound’s eyes, and if his clothing was anything to go by, his master was wealthy. There were many worse suitors whom Edith could have chosen. He was not, thank God, a priest or an already married man. That was greatly in his favour.

‘I am pleased to meet you, and here’s my hand on that,’ Simon said warmly. ‘Please, take a seat and have a little wine. Hugh? HUGH! Wine here.’

He settled back in his seat, gratefully accepting the cup that Hugh brought to him, and sighed contentedly. His daughter looked very happy, he thought, glancing at Edith, not that she noticed his look; she had eyes only for her man.

Peter, he mused. The same name as his son. Perhaps there was a sign there. Maybe this Peter was to be trusted as a son. And perhaps, he thought, it was no sign at all but merely the fluke of chance. Someone else favoured that saint’s name over all the others.

It would be good to have a son to whom he could speak as an equal, a fellow who would give his daughter a happy home and children, but Simon still felt dubious. This lad was too young. Hell and damnation: Edith was too! She’d been in love with so many others in the last year or two. He watched them covertly. There was something between them, he noted. Edith looked relaxed, and mature. Surprisingly mature.

Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. She was old enough to marry, to bear her own children, to live with her husband. Simon was the one who was confused about his age and position. He saw a middle-aged man in the mirror, but still felt young. And now, after the case of the mad monk at Gidleigh, he was still more confused. Giving Hugh the freedom to stay with his wife was not something he regretted, but it was a grim thought that he would have to live without Hugh when he moved with his wife to Dartmouth.

Dartmouth! He pursed his lips. That would be a while now. The Abbot wouldn’t mind, because any churchman’s first responsibility had to be to the cure of souls, but Simon did not look forward to telling his master that he would be grateful for a little time free so that he could make a penitential journey. Simon would still move to Dartmouth, but Abbot Robert must allow him to go on pilgrimage first.

The idea of travelling to Spain was daunting, but curiously attractive too. He had heard much of the countries over the sea from Baldwin, and there was a tingling delight at the thought of going and seeing them. It was alarming and exciting all at once. And he certainly owed thanks to God. He and Baldwin had been in danger too many times over the last year. It was time to give thanks.

His soul needed cleansing. He would go with Baldwin on the long journey to Spain. And while he was gone, he thought, surreptitiously eyeing his daughter and Peter once more, perhaps this fellow’s father would take care of his daughter. Hugh would remain and protect the house and Simon’s wife until Simon’s return.

His wife. Right now he was more scared of telling his wife this news than he ever had been during the battle at the castle.

Roger Scut grunted with the effort as he lifted one end of the long plank into place in the socket of the wall. It fitted, he thought, and went to the other end, raising that too. Balancing it on his shoulder, he started up the ladder to set it into the corresponding socket on the opposite wall, but as he climbed, the angle of the ladder made the plank move. It teetered and dropped, all but pulling him from the ladder.

He let his end fall and stood on the ladder without speaking. If he had opened his mouth, he knew that only expletives would have erupted from it. Better by far to remain silent. Only when his temper had returned to an even level did he sniff, clear his throat, and climb back down to the ground.

‘Master cleric! Would you like some help?’

‘Osbert, if I could fall on my knees and shower your feet with kisses, I would do so for that offer, but I fear my knees are a little barked and my back is twisted. If I fell to my knees, I might not be able to rise again.’

Osbert grinned. He had a slash in his flank where a man-at-arms had thrust at him after he opened the door to the hall, but it was healing nicely, according to his physician.

‘I can at least hold one end of the plank up there.’

With his help Roger Scut soon had the timber up. This was the first piece of the roof, the long plank that rested on the two highest points of the walls, and against which he could start to position the roof trusses. ‘That’s better!’ he approved, hands on his hips, when he was once more on the ground and could look up at the new timber.

‘You’re sure the walls will take the weight again? The fire was fierce here.’

‘With God’s support, this little house will remain secure,’ Roger Scut said with a confidence he did not feel. ‘May I offer you some bread and cheese? I have ale, too.’

Osbert nodded at the mention of ale, and the two men went to the monk’s little shelter, a rude dwelling built of branches and twigs with mud caking the gaps to make it windproof. There had been much rain in the last few days, and Osbert knew Scut was having to replenish the mud daily.

‘Now!’ the monk said, leaning back against a post when he had set out all his food and a jug of ale. ‘Tell me all. How is your wife?’

Osbert smiled shyly. ‘She is well, I thank you. Her face is healing, and Lady Annicia has promised us the mill when it is completed. I hope to be able to finish the roof next week.’

Roger Scut nodded, outwardly content, although in reality he was burning with jealousy. It had taken him so long to clear all the debris from the chapel, and all the effort had been his own. Others were not keen to see the little building restored. They preferred to think of it as defiled.

‘If you wanted,’ Os said haltingly, ‘I think I could persuade some men to help you.’

‘There is no need. They think this place is evil, but it’s not true. This is a house of God. With care and love, it can rise again. Especially if the monk who lives here can prove himself to the community.’

‘Will you remain?’

‘Come, Os! I married you, what more do you want from me!’ Scut laughed.

Osbert gave a fleeting smile. He had married Flora at the first opportunity.

After the attack on the castle, he had left the place and gone back to his old home. The news that Ben had given him, that Huward had been a cuckold and Flora was likely Sir Ralph’s and not the miller’s, had struck him dumb with horror. He had wanted her so badly. After discovering the power of his love for her, after wanting her sister for so long, learning that he was prevented by that most simple barrier from ever marrying her had all but destroyed him.

And then, soon after the battle at the castle, this same Scut had hurried to his home and berated him for being so feeble-minded that he couldn’t see that he himself looked in no way like Sir Ralph. It wasn’t something he’d have thought of.

As soon as the news had sunk in, he had dropped his tools and sped to the castle, where Flora had been living as maid to Lady Annicia. Scut had followed him, and with the priest at his side, he had stated his desire to marry Flora. Then, when he had fallen silent, he had stood gazing at her with mingled dread, at the thought of a refusal, and expectation. He was sure she wouldn’t refuse him. And at last, when she dropped her eyes and told him in front of the witnesses that she was pleased to marry him now, he had felt as though his breast would burst for sheer joy.

‘I am the happiest man in the world, monk.’

Roger Scut paused. He had been gulping a mazer of ale, and now he slowly lowered the cup. It was automatic. He couldn’t help but gaze down his nose at the lad, the great, lumbering oaf, who sat with that beatific smile all but splitting his head in two. His mouth opened to let slip a scathing comment, but he closed his mouth and instead, smiled in return. It was not his place to be contemptuous of peasants. He had no right.

That point had been made abundantly clear when he had met the representative of the Bishop. It was Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton, who appeared at the castle a day or two after Sir Baldwin himself had gone, and held a meeting with Roger. It had not been a pleasant meeting. Much of Roger Scut’s behaviour was known to the Dean, and Roger had not been able to deny the main thrust of the accusation, which was that he had been seeking to win money to the detriment of his holy duties. It would have to cease.

‘It is over, Dean,’ Roger had said. ‘I will not forget the lessons which I have learned here. In future, I shall be humble and obedient. Trust me, I do not intend ever trying to seek preferment. Rather, I would take a small church far from anywhere and live the quiet life of the recluse.’

The Dean had smiled at that. A thin, calculating smile, and at the sight of it, Roger Scut had felt his cods freeze.

‘Very well. But there is no need to find a church, when we have a chapel that needs repairing. See to that, and we shall be pleased enough. Let the rebuilding be your penance for your pride and greed. And when it is done, we shall consider where you may best serve the Church.’

Os was finished. He had to go to the castle now to speak to the carpenter and Lady Annicia’s steward about the timbers he needed for the mill, and he rose and gave a fond farewell to the priest. For him, Roger Scut was a generous, kindly man who deserved respect.

It was odd. Roger felt quite warm inside as Os left. It was as though a man’s wholehearted respect was enough in itself to cheer him. A curious thought. He went back to his chapel and stared up at the single beam. It was good to see the beginning of his efforts. Next he must set the roof trusses in place, each leaning at opposite sides of the main beam, and begin the laborious task of nailing each rafter in place. Someone else must bind the thatch.

So much labour. He had already ripped his tunic in three places, and there was no bath here. If he wished to clean himself, he must mortify his flesh in the freezing stream. Yet oddly enough, there was something about this place, something that had struck a chord in his breast…

Hearing a mew, he bent and picked up his kitten. Os had brought it a week ago. Strange, he’d never owned a pet, but this small, frail-feeling creature was oddly comforting.

In fact, if he wasn’t ever allowed back to Crediton… he wasn’t sure that he’d care.

Thomas sat in the alehouse feeling pleased with life. His arm still smarted from a long raking cut that had opened it almost to the elbow from the wrist, and there was a startlingly bright coloured bruise on his flank where a cudgel had connected during the battle at Gidleigh Castle, but apart from that he felt well enough.

As his ale arrived, he saw that another figure had appeared in the doorway – Godwen. This was the first time he’d seen him since the attack on the castle. Godwen had been badly pounded, even with Thomas guarding him, and he’d been taken to the Lady Annicia’s hall to be rested and nursed while Thomas had gone off to Crediton with messages for the Dean, and had been kept there. Other, unwounded messengers had been sent back.

Slowly, Godwen walked down the steps towards Thomas.

‘You want to sit?’ Thomas said.

‘Yes. Thanks.’

It was rare indeed to see Godwen short of a sharp comment or patronising remark, and Thomas felt his eyes widen. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Thanks.’

Thomas hailed the woman who owned the place and sat back, carefully avoiding Godwen’s red-rimmed eye. They had been friends for a little while, it was true, but their families had been on terms of near-hostility for many years; and then when Thomas was successful in his wooing of Bea, he had fallen out with Godwen. Shortly afterwards, Godwen had married another girl – as though to show that he was perfectly capable of winning whichever woman he wished, but the marriage was not a success. His Jen was a lively, attractive woman, but Godwen had always wanted Bea, and that was that. It was the end of their friendship.

‘I heard,’ Godwen said, grimly staring into his cup. ‘The Keeper told me today. You saved my life.’

Thomas shrugged his shoulders. If asked, he couldn’t have explained why he had leaped into the fray to rescue Godwen from those mercenaries, but there was a vague anger at the prospect that his own personal enemy, whose enmity had been forged in the hot fire of his youth, should be taken away by someone who had never even so much as thumbed his nose at Godwen before. That was unbearable. Even Godwen deserved to die at the hand of someone who truly hated him, rather than someone who simply saw him as an irritating obstacle.

‘Thank you.’

‘No matter.’

‘It is to me.’

‘Forget it,’ Thomas said. He lifted his cup and took a long draught.

His offhand manner irked Godwen. ‘There’s no need to be so ungracious. You jumped in there, when I’d been knocked down, and stood over me. You could have been shot… anything. I appreciate it, I tell you!’

‘It was nothing.’

‘You just can’t bear me thanking you, can you?’ Godwen hissed. ‘You great dough-laden tub of lard, why can’t I just say thanks?’

Thomas slowly turned to peer at him. ‘Tub of what?’

‘You heard me. God’s faith! You are intolerable.’

‘At least I don’t try long words and such to confuse folk.’

‘Aha! Yes, lack of education is a virtue in your family, isn’t it?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my family.’

‘No, nothing that a dose of rat poison wouldn’t cure.’

‘And how is the lovely Jen?’ Thomas jeered. He couldn’t help it. It was the effect of sitting next to this man. ‘By Christ’s wounds, I wish I’d left you to be trampled. It’s all you’re good for, anyway. Useless barrel of shit.’

‘You call me a barrel of shit?’

‘Well, tell me if I’m wrong, but I think you’d have to be a barrel. Shit on its own wouldn’t stand so tall,’ Thomas explained politely.

Godwen’s face blanched. He snapped his head to Thomas, winced and hissed as a pain shot through his temples, and jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Right, let’s go out now, then, and talk about this with steel!’

‘I’m not fighting you!’

‘Aha! Scared of me, are you?’

‘No. But I fear what the Keeper would say if he came here and learned we’d been fighting.’

‘Oh, it’s only fear of losing some blood, is it? If you’re scared, leave your dagger here, and we’ll fight bare-handed. I could whip you with a hand bound behind my back!’

‘You?’ Thomas leered, slowly letting his gaze travel the length of Godwen’s body.

Godwen stood, tottered, grabbed at the table, then spat, ‘Now. Outside, you bastard!’

Thomas rose. As soon as he did so, the pain stabbed at his flank again, and it was with a hand resting on his bruised and broken ribs that he followed Godwen. The rest of the ale-house, nothing loath, went too.

In later years, men still talked about that fight. The way that Godwen threw the first punch, missed, and almost fell on his face; how Thomas aimed a kick at his arse as he passed, slipped in a pat of dog turd, and fell to sit in it. With a roar, he was up again, and then moaning, grabbed at his side. By then Godwen was back, and he ran at Thomas. The other man moved away, but not quickly enough, and Godwen caught his bad side with a flailing fist, which made Thomas give a bellow of rage and agony, while Godwen himself was little better pleased, since he had jarred his own badly damaged shoulder.

That was the extent of the battle. Both withdrew, their honour proven, if not entirely to either man’s satisfaction. Both limping, they returned to their drinks. Studiously avoiding each other’s faces, they drained their ale. This time Godwen replenished their drinks, and while neither spoke, there was a curious expression on both faces. Later, when Baldwin questioned the alewife, she said that it was as though the natural balance of their humours had been restored. The two had been extremely uncomfortable with their imposed status as lifesaver and man owing gratitude.

‘I shall speak to them and tell them never to brawl in public,’ Baldwin said. He was preparing to go on his pilgrimage, and he didn’t want the trouble of this silly fight. It was beneath him.

‘I wouldn’t if I was you,’ the alewife said sagely.

‘Why not?’

‘They’re back to normal now. They’ll snarl and bicker like two tomcats, but when all’s said and done, they’re happy again. Just leave them be.’

‘But shouldn’t I make Godwen prove his gratitude?’ Baldwin wondered.

If he had asked Thomas, he would have had a speedy reply. Both men wanted what they already had. The certainty of a local enemy. It was so much easier than an uncertain one.

Sir Baldwin patted his servant on the back as he glanced about the room for the last time. ‘Take good care of them, Edgar. I won’t be gone that long.’

‘No? Travelling from here to Spain?’ his servant scoffed. ‘I only fear that you’ll come upon footpads or felons on the way, without me to guard you.’

‘There will be plenty of other travellers, I have no doubt.’

‘Perhaps. So long as none of them are more dangerous than others we have known.’

Baldwin smiled and pulled on a heavy riding cloak, as his wife entered the room.

‘My love! Please be careful,’ Jeanne cried.

‘It would be worse if I were travelling alone, but with Simon, I am bound to be safe. Anyway, we shall have many companions. The road to Santiago is filled with pilgrims.’

‘Then farewell, my love. Return to us soon,’ she said.

He grabbed her and hugged her closely. She was brought up to be restrained and not show her emotions, but he could see the tears trembling on her eyelids, and he loved her for not making a show at his departure. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘I shall be back soon.’

‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘And don’t delay. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can do to exorcise this demon?’

‘No, my love, nothing else. I have killed an innocent. My pilgrimage, I hope, will wash away that guilt.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘Why then, my Lady, I shall return here to you and live disgracefully for the rest of my days,’ he said lightly before he hugged her again. ‘But I will come back safely, and I shall be freed from this sense of sin, I swear,’ he added.

There. It was over.

The funerals of her husband and her beloved child had originally taken place only a couple of days after the mutiny, but now, after some negotiation and the promise of funds, the two had been disinterred and reburied up near the altar in the church.

As she sat, Annicia was aware of the people coming and going about her. Many came to offer her their condolences once again, for they sought to remain on friendly terms with the attractive widow of Gidleigh. She possessed good lands, several herds and flocks, and was rumoured to be rich enough to benefit any new husband.

The priest himself, a pompous, self-important little twerp, twittered about her, his hands fluttering, nervous in the presence of his Lady, but she gave him short shrift and at last she was alone in the great room.

Rising, she felt slightly giddy. At once there was a steadying hand on her arm, and she smiled at Flora without speaking. She was growing fond of her husband’s daughter. There was no doubt in her mind that Flora was his child: Flora’s eyes, her brow, her lips, all were too much like Sir Ralph’s. For his sake if for no other, she was pleased to see Flora so happy in her wedlock. It was good to see so cheery a wife.

Leaving Flora, she walked slowly to the front of the church and stood staring down at the new slabs set into the ground at her feet. There were three in a line, each equidistant from the altar. Although she couldn’t read, she was perfectly well aware that the central one was Esmon’s, because she had insisted that he should be there, right next to his father. On his other side lay Sir Ralph, and her eyes rested on his slab a moment, without reverence or respect, but with a certain friendship. After all, she had been married to him for some while.

No, her attention was divided equally between the only two men she had ever really loved. Esmon lay there in the middle of the floor, and next to him was his father, Sir Richard Prouse, once the elegant, suave master of Gidleigh – murdered, or so she had thought, by Wylkyn.

‘God forgive me!’ she said quietly. ‘I truly believed he was the murderer, or I should never have persuaded my son to kill him.’

Of course, she now knew that Wylkyn was innocent of the crime. But that was not her fault. It was the only obvious conclusion at the time.

She was sorry that an innocent man was dead, but she felt no remorse, only sadness for the two men she had loved and lost: her lover, Sir Richard Prouse, and her son by him, Esmon. They were all that mattered to her.