The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (15 page)

‘Very good, Sir Baldwin,’ Godwen said, ducking his head obsequiously, but then throwing an amused glance at Thomas.

It was that which irritated Baldwin. Godwen and Thomas had always been on edge in each other’s company. Once he had heard it was because of some slight or insult that went back several generations. He knew that their fathers hadn’t exchanged a word intentionally in twenty-odd years, and these two now continued the feud. In another country, he reflected as he kicked his mount onwards, they would have come to blows, or more likely, one would already be dead. In most of the lands which Baldwin had visited, enmity was not allowed to rest, and insults weren’t permitted to go without punishment. Luckily English peasants were a little better behaved.

‘We shall return this way. With luck, we should be back at Crediton before dark,’ he added. He had asked the groom to see that a messenger was sent to his home to warn Jeanne that he would be staying overnight in Crediton. ‘I hope that fool Jack has not fallen asleep again and forgotten.’

Godwen gave him a smile. ‘You trusted
him
with something?’

‘I needed a message taken home to my wife.’

‘Jack is a cretin – he’s always forgetting things,’ Godwen said dispassionately.

‘He’s a good man!’ Thomas asserted harshly. ‘Even the best may grow drowsy with all the work he does.’

Baldwin glanced at him. ‘What do you mean? He is a groom, is he not? What is so tiring about looking after a few horses?’

‘He’s a groom during the day, yes, but he still keeps his three cows, and has to look to them as well, and after all that is done, he helps in Paul’s inn. Poor bastard, it’s no wonder he gets tired.’

‘I did not know he had so many jobs,’ Baldwin mused. ‘Why does he do all that?’

‘Needs must. He has a family to support.’

‘True,’ Baldwin said.

‘And he’s been fleeced by his landlord. His rents have been put up. Every time he’s close to having enough to keep his wife and children in food and ale, his landlord takes more.’

‘He’s just lazy,’ Godwen said, languidly dismissive. ‘His family always was.’

Baldwin made a guess. ‘He is related to you, is he not, Thomas?’

‘Brother-in-law to my sister,’ the man grunted with a sidelong look at Godwen.

They rode in silence for a good mile or so, through one small barton and out the other side towards Coleford. There they met the first of Baldwin’s posse, two men whom he had sent to question the master of the seyney-house at the riverside. This was a resting place for monks who had become exhausted from their onerous duties. Baldwin sometimes wondered how tiring rising in the middle of the night and kneeling throughout long services actually was, but all monasteries had these small retreats so that brother monks could have their blood let, and then recover with less stress, better food and more sleep. No doubt if he had taken on the robes of a monk and was still serving an abbey or priory, he would occasionally feel the need of good food and more sleep, he admitted to himself.

He noticed that Thomas glared at the place. ‘What is the matter, Thomas? You look as though you feel that place is the haunt of demons!’

Thomas said nothing, merely pulled his horse’s head around and trotted away.

‘It’s the Brothers, Sir Baldwin,’ Godwen said with a chuckle at his side. ‘He never liked them, not since they started making Jack’s life harder. You see, the landlord who keeps Jack on his toes, he’s a Brother too.’

‘What is his name?’

‘He’s a tight-arse, so it’s appropriate, really. He’s called Roger Scut.’

He wanted to stay. Huward’s little angel had meant so much to him, he really wanted to remain there by her body all through the long night’s vigil, but he had others to think of. His wife would remain here in the church, as would little Flora and some of the other women from the vill, but he was finding the atmosphere stifling. The smell of the incense was getting into his throat and irritating his eyes. He could have coped with it, but there was nothing to be done here, while he had something he desperately needed to do, ideally alone.

If he could have, he would have gone after that priest. He would have torn the devil limb from limb, pulled out his entrails and scattered them, ripped open his breast and fed his beating heart to the crows! That puppy would have suffered so much, he’d have begged for death. Perhaps he would still have an opportunity to kill him, too. If he was caught, there was a good chance that he’d be returned to the place where he committed his crimes. A double murder, mother and child! Hideous.

The priest at Gidleigh hadn’t wanted to let them in at first. He’d said that he couldn’t deal with the bodies of people from the next parish, especially women who died in childbirth. And the baby itself was not baptised, so it couldn’t be allowed in the church. Huward had squared up to the skinny little streak of piss, and the other men of the vill were with him, muttering and cursing the priest so volubly that he retreated nervously, fingering his rosary. It was lucky Piers was there. Before Huward could set his daughter’s body down, Piers appeared at his side, speaking soothingly, but quickly. He pointed out that the priest was standing in the way of a young girl’s soul if he refused to bury her. In the end the priest agreed, but more because of the grim-faced men who watched him while Huward shoved him from his path and carried his daughter to the communal hearse, than because of the force of Piers’s arguments.

‘She lies here until she is buried by you, here in your graveyard, Priest,’ Huward said calmly. He was proud of that. He wasn’t angry, didn’t shout or scream, just stated what would happen. His daughter had made her last journey. And his grandchild.

He walked from the place and took a deep breath. Although he wanted to sob, he couldn’t. Maybe later. For now, it was hard to believe that his daughter had in truth been ripped from him. She was gone, for ever. He would only see her again on the day that all the dead were called to God. Perhaps even the priest who had killed her would be there… No. God couldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t make Mary have to see her murderer in Heaven, even if he swore his repentance.

Huward walked slowly from the church. There hung about him, ever so faint in the still air, the subtle odour of her. That buttery, sweet smell that he recognised so well. He had noticed it when she was suckling, and it had never left her. Not even now, in death. He sniffed at the shoulder of his jacket, then knelt, falling forward on one hand, the other covering his eyes while racking sobs convulsed his whole body, and yet still the tears wouldn’t fall. It was as though her death had removed some part of him, so that while he could feel his despair, he couldn’t fully appreciate the grief that she deserved. His angel, his little darling, was gone.

He remembered her life in a strange sequence. It was like a series of flashes, pulses of life bursting into his memory: the babe suckling; older, smiling and laughing as she gulped down meat already chewed and softened by her mother; a toddler who had taken a tumble, her knees all bloody, bravely trying to stop her sobbing; a child with her first illness, spewing and wailing with the pain and indignity of throwing up; a young woman proud of the new ribbon in her hair; a girl holding up her first blackened attempt at baking bread with the smile on her face that said she knew her father, if no one else in the world, would love it. She knew that if she were to hand him a crisp of charcoal, he would declare it delicious and swallow it, if it meant she would be pleased.

The scenes passed through his mind in an apparently endless procession. Mary helping at harvest, brushing the hair from her brow with a smile as she took a jug of cider from him; sitting and staring at her father as he told her ever more unlikely stories; that curious, still, serious expression she occasionally wore; the beaming smile; the bellow of laughter; the soft, gentle kindness of the perfect nurse.

Gone. All gone. His life was shredded in the face of his unbearable loss.

Wiping at his face, he stood, and now he set off with a fresh vigour and determination. He went north, down into the valley and through the ford at the bottom, then up to the chapel. He tested the door. It was unlocked.

Inside, he felt the anger rise until it seemed about to strangle him. It was like a thick fist in his throat that was slowly clenching, and as it did so, it cut off the air from his lungs. He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was return to his home. When he turned to shut the door, he almost did so. The urge to leave this place came upon him, and he nearly opened it again and fled.

It was the memory that stopped him – of that feeble, pimply youth the monk who had served the people here, and later served
her
, Huward’s daughter. And murdered her. That thought brought to his mind’s eye a recollection of Mary as he would always remember her, held up in his arms, smiling down at him; happy to see him, full of love. As he always had been whenever he saw her.

It was enough to stiffen his resolve. Although the altar stood at the far end of the room like a physical reproof and warning, he slammed the door and stared about him. There was little enough in here that looked as though it would serve his purpose, and he pursed his lips. Undaunted, he went to the chest at the back of the church and tested it. The lid was unlocked. When he threw it open, he saw that it was full of priestly garb. Even to touch Mark’s clothing made him feel sick, as though it was defiled and could pollute him; it was foul, just like the soul of the evil priest who had worn it. Rich cloth, designed to enhance the aura of he who wore it, with silken threads and expensive velvets, had served only to conceal his true nature. They were a sham, false stuff that Mark could don or doff as it suited him, so that when he wanted a counterfeit integrity or honour, he could throw it on with these vestments.

Huward pulled the stuff free, making a pile near him. Then he looked about and found a small cupboard. In it was a book, and he pulled at the leaves of parchment, tugging them free and throwing them onto the clothes before shoving the whole lot into the middle of the room.

There must be more things to burn, and he went across to the priest’s little home next door, finding just what he needed: the store of faggots and logs. Carrying them through to the church, he dropped the faggots on top of the small mound, and then he began the arduous task of striking sparks from his flint and his knife. Shreds of lint began to smoke, tiny wisps rising in the still evening air, and soon he had a small flame. Carefully he tended it, adding small pieces of material and parchment, before throwing the first of the faggots on. In Mark’s house he had found a little oil lamp too, and this he hurled at the fire together with the earthenware jug that held spare oil. There was a
whoosh!
and it all began to shimmer with the flames. Then there was a roaring noise, and Huward could feel his brows begin to contract in the enormous heat.

Only when he had seen to it that all Mark’s possessions, all his clothing, his bed, his stool, everything, all the little he owned, had been thrown onto the pyre, did he open the door and leave.

He looked back once, when he reached the ford. Even then the sight of the forked, reptilian tongues of fire licking upwards from windows and the door gave him no satisfaction. It was a job that had needed to be done, he considered. That was all. Just something that had to be done. He was getting rid of the evil that had lived there in the chapel.

Turning away, he set off homewards. It was going to be a cold, quiet night tonight, with his wife and daughter sitting vigil over Mary’s body.

The Reeve had seen him go, and wondered whether he should follow his neighbour, but the sight of Huward’s face was enough to put him off. It was undoubtedly the face of a man who sought, and needed, solitude. Companionship would not be welcome.

Instead Piers glanced at Elias. The ploughman was standing at the back of the room, frowning at everyone from beneath his brows as usual, but Piers was sure that his appearance was even more grim than normal. Elias’s expression was that of a man who has newly discovered misgivings about all his neighbours.

Glancing at him again, Piers saw that Elias’s eyes were now upon
him
, and the hostile expression remained.

With a grunt, Piers rose and crossed the floor to Elias’s side. ‘Come on, what’s the matter?’

‘Who’s asking – my friend of many years or the Lord of the Manor’s Reeve?’

‘What difference does that make?’ Piers asked with frank surprise.

Elias opened his mouth and investigated a loose tooth. He had lost two teeth over the last winter, and was worried that he would soon lose more. It was sometimes the way, he knew. When food was short, people lost their teeth. Soon he’d have to suck all his meals. Everything would have to be liquid. Nothing to chew. He spoke slowly. ‘When you’re my friend, you listen to me as a friend would. When you’re Sir Ralph’s Reeve, you listen to me like a tax-collector –
that’s
the difference.’

‘I always treat you the same, Elias.’

‘That answers that, then.’

‘What?’ Piers demanded as Elias made to walk away.

‘I need someone I can trust. I can’t trust you if you’ll run to Sir Ralph.’

‘I swear I won’t,’ Piers said, more quietly now. He placed his hand on his breast and gazed at Elias meaningfully. ‘What is this about? Is it Mary?’

‘’Course it is.’

‘Well? What of her?’

Elias looked away. ‘There was others down the lane that day. Osbert was working on the hedge. I saw that hermit, old Surval, too. And a rider.’

Piers felt his heart pounding with more gusto. ‘What of it? Surely the priest must have done it. Why else would he have run off like that?’

‘Why do you think? What if he thought the knight on whose land he lives was responsible for killing poor Mary?’

‘The knight on…’ Swallowing anxiously, Piers glanced about them to see if anyone else had heard Elias’s words. ‘You saw
him
there?’