The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (10 page)

It struck Piers as odd, though, how badly Sir Ralph had taken the priest’s escape. Once he realised that he couldn’t catch Mark, he slumped in his saddle like a man who had lost everything. If he hadn’t been a knight, Piers might have thought he was weeping. And all, Piers thought cynically, because a priest had robbed him of his property. For now, though, as the sky darkened, there was no more they could do.

For now they must wait and see what news was brought to them.

That night Sampson huddled, arms wrapped about himself, staring into the fire smouldering and hissing on the floor before him. Every so often a log cracked and spat out a small flame, throwing sparks far. One landed on him. Sampson didn’t care. He flicked it away, his eyes bleared with tears as he thought of the girl: the lovely girl, her with the smiling face; her who radiated kindness when she spoke to him.

He hadn’t thought to see her. No. When he heard the steps he wanted to hide, but there was the sound of a man ploughing, the noise of chopping in a field, and they scared him. They might attack him. Men did. He didn’t know what to do. No, so he turned and limped unsteadily on his bad leg, until he was hidden around a bend. Out of sight. Safer.

There were thick roots in the hedge here. Clumsily, he pulled himself up until he could force his way through the hedge and topple onto the thick grasses of the pasture beyond. He rolled over and stared up at the grey clouds. He was safe. His head resting on the clean, cold grass, he panted.

Steps approached. Loud. A man’s. He turned over, keeping flat to the soil, as though by making it impossible to see the traveller, he would render himself invisible.

More steps. Lighter, softer. Must be a girl’s. Not like the heavy tread of the other.

‘Mark! I’ve been to find you.’

‘My dear.’

‘That’s a cool welcome for a lover.’

He didn’t want to hear. Sampson knew them. Both of them. A hollowness came to his throat. He felt tears filling his eyes, couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t run. They’d hear.

‘I am a priest, Mary. What do you expect from me?’

‘A little affection, Mark. Am I so repellent now? You didn’t think so before.’

‘That was before I realised what we had done.’

‘Your voice – you sound so cold!’

‘How else can I be? Do you realise what could happen to me?’

‘Would you like me to pretend nothing’s wrong, then? Pretend
this
isn’t real?’

‘Listen, I have heard that there are potions, drugs, which can help us. Just take a drink, and all the problems go away…’

‘I’ll have nothing to do with such a thing!’ she burst out. ‘What – you, a priest, want me to take something to murder our child?’

‘No! Not murder – simply make it never live. It’s not a real person until it’s born,’ Mark mumbled. He sounded like he knew he was lying.

Sampson understood all right. He had seen them, hadn’t he? Oh, yes. Almost a year ago, he’d seen them. They’d come out from Mark’s dwelling, laughing. And then she had said something and darted away even as his hand grabbed for her. He missed her, but caught her wimple, and it came away. When she turned, her long dark hair was glinting and gleaming in the sun, streaming away like a dark smoke over her shoulder. She was running now, towards the trees that bounded the path to the river, and Mark suddenly bellowed in raw pleasure, ducked his head and pelted after her.

Sampson was worried. Thought Mark might hurt her. He chewed his lip to see the priest running like a greyhound after a hare. Mary was giggling, darting left then right, as if careless of capture. She wasn’t evading Mark’s outstretched arms, but stringing out the inevitable.

Then Mark’s fingers snared her blouse and the material came away. Mary’s chest was exposed, her bare breasts bouncing, and Mark gaped, a trail of linen in his hand, crimson with embarrassment and Sampson felt the flood of relief. She was safe. The priest wouldn’t hurt her.

Mary had halted, and her hands rose as though to cover her breasts, but then her chin lifted and her hands fell away. She held her hands out, smiling. When Mark shamefacedly tried to pass her the material, she took him by the wrist and drew him towards her. Mark resisted, shaking his head, but she persisted and led him to the trees. There she leaned him back against an oak and softly put her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward to give him the kiss of peace.

At least, that was what Sampson had heard it called, the kiss of one mouth upon another. It was how monks and priests welcomed each other. Something here was different, though, and Sampson felt unsettled to see how there seemed little enough peace for them. He could feel his own blood coursing faster as, while he watched, their kissing grew more impassioned. There was a fumbling of hands, a lifting of habit and skirt, slow, sensuous stroking, followed by a more hurried and urgent fondling, before both fell to the ground and Sampson saw her spread her thighs wide, saw Mark fall between them, his bare buttocks lifting and falling.

Their voices broke in upon his thoughts.

She said, ‘I don’t care what ’tis called, I won’t do it. It’s against the law.’

‘So was what we did.’

‘That’s different. It’s natural.’

‘It’s wrong,’ Mark said miserably. ‘Think of me! It could ruin me. I might be left here for ever to rot if the Bishop heard.’

‘Don’t tell, then, if you hate it here so much. Go! Leave me and our babe, if we mean so little to you. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your shame, Father!’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘Do I? How do I know that?’

His tone was pleading. ‘Mary, you know I can’t wed you. What do you want me to say, that I’ll leave Holy Orders and run away with you? I have taken the vows, Mary, I can’t. If I tried to run away, they’d seek me out, no matter where I went.’

‘So deny us,’ she snapped.

‘Don’t be so cruel to me!’

‘You wanted me when your blood was up, when you were lonely and needed company.’

‘I know. My lo– Mary, I tried so hard to ignore you, so I could escape this torment, but it didn’t work. I was so despairing, and you were so beautiful… I couldn’t help but want you.’

‘And now you can’t face the consequence.’

‘It was impossible to reject you. When your blouse came away in my hand and I could see you… My God! A man would have had to have been made of stone to resist you.’

‘That was the first time. What of the others?’

‘Christ’s bones, but I was so tempted,’ Mark said, and there was a catch in his voice as though he was staring at Mary’s body and remembering.

Sampson’s brain whirled. After seeing them rutting by the river he’d known he could never have her. No, this priest had won her. But perhaps she could love him now. If her priest didn’t want her, Sampson could win her himself. She had been so kind. Surely she loved him? He would speak to her, soon as he could. Maybe tomorrow or the day after.

He heard a slap, then a great gasp. ‘What have I done?’ from Mark, and then nothing. Sampson lay still, and for a great while there was no sound, but then there was a retching, a loud hawking and a spit, and then there were the footsteps running away, as though all the devil’s hounds were already chasing after Mark’s soul.

A scant mile from Sampson, a second man lay huddled and weeping. Osbert was curled like an infant on his rough straw palliasse, while tears flooded his cheeks and he sobbed silently. There was nothing left for him. His life was ended. His Mary was gone.

Mary, his love; his life. The priest was said to have killed her after he got her with child. That was why Mary never wanted Os, even though he adored her, because she was sleeping with that skinny cleric. How could she fancy him, when he was so scrawny! Yet she did.

The only satisfaction was, it was not her brother who had killed her. When Os heard she was dead, that had been the first thing to cross his mind, that her brother had again tried to take her, and this time he had forced her to submit, or rather, had killed her when she refused. If that had been the case, Os would have killed him.

But it was the priest. Little Mark from the chapel.
He
had ended her life.

She had made Os swear not to tell anyone about Ben, and he wouldn’t. It couldn’t help her, so he’d keep it secret, as he had promised. Letting the secret out could only besmirch Mary’s memory.

Lady Annicia watched as her husband stalked out of the solar and into his hall. At this time of night, the hall was no place for a woman and he knew that she wouldn’t follow him there.

She hadn’t seen him like this before – reserved, distrait, all the while denying that there was anything wrong, and both of them knowing it was a lie. The escape of that priest had moved him oddly. Even though the girl had died, he would not usually have reacted so strongly. Mary was only a peasant.

Sir Ralph was badly affected: she could see it in his eyes, in his fidgeting, in the drumming of his fingers. It was ridiculous to try to deny it, his pain and anguish were so plain.

Perhaps he… No, she wouldn’t think of such a thing. Surely it was purely the anger that Mark had escaped which tormented him so, not rage at losing a lover.

She had never liked that little chapel-priest. The fellow was gormless-looking. Always stared at people with his mouth open, just like that poor mindless devil Sampson. The latter did the same whenever he came to the castle’s door, skulking like a rat, shunning the people who milled about, avoiding Sir Ralph like the devil, snatching at food from the alms-dish and then hurrying back up to the little shack on the hill above the castle where he lived. Nasty little cretinous boy that he was. Sampson gave Annicia a real feeling of sickness, as though merely having him in the same shire was enough to transfer his stupidity to her or her offspring.

There was a sudden burst of laughter from some of the men-at-arms out in the hall, and she heard the low rumble of her husband, deadened by the heavy tapestries that hung over the door. Such a racket was common now, since Esmon’s friends had come back with him.

It was impossible to like the men. It wasn’t only the flagrant manner of that man Brian of Doncaster, it was the way that they all shouted and sang, scuffling when they were drunk, jeering and abusive when they were sober. None of them seemed to care whether Lady Annicia was there or not; none of them understood the principles of chivalrous behaviour, they merely acted as they wanted. In older days, men in a hall would have shown respect to the master of the hall, and to his lady, too, but not now. Now they took money, and didn’t think that counted as the sale of a man’s honour and independence. There was no integrity with such people. They had not even bothered to ride out with Sir Ralph today to try to find that foul little priest.

No loyalty. That was the thing. She’d prefer one old-fashioned retainer for every ten of this breed – a man who would support and protect his master because he was one of the household, nothing to do with money. That was how things used to be.

She poured herself a small cup of wine and set it beside her favourite chair in front of the fire before walking up the stairs to her chamber. Here there was a garderobe set into the wall, a small chamber that projected outside, with a seat set into it. Below sat a box filled with wood ash which was regularly emptied and used as fertiliser. She settled, frowning.

The world was going mad. Girls like the miller’s daughter Mary enticing men like the priest. It was a great shame. Annicia could remember the girl. Tall and willowy, with lustrous eyes and a gentle smile constantly playing about her lips. Beautiful. No wonder that she might have tempted a priest from his oath of celibacy.

Oh dear. That nasty, disloyal thought was there again: what if she hadn’t only tempted the priest? What if she had tempted her master, too?

It was a relief to see that the weather had eased a little, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill thought, as he mounted his horse. Once in the saddle, he felt at his side for his short riding sword. It sat so comfortably against his thigh that he often forgot he was wearing it, but in these troubled times it was a foolhardy man who undertook any journey without carrying a weapon of some sort.

In his new crimson tunic, a present from his wife, who deemed, probably correctly, that his old one was too threadbare to reflect his authority as a Keeper of the King’s Peace, Baldwin felt slightly ill at ease. The rich embroidery at sleeve, neck and hem was too gaudy for a man who was used to the rigours of military life, and his green hose made his legs itch. Still, he would sooner cut off his own arm than hurt Jeanne’s feelings, so he could only hope that the clothes would grow more comfortable with the wearing.

The ride to Crediton was not arduous. From his home near Cadbury the road wandered gently about the hill to the westernmost edge of his demesne, and then climbed for a short distance before dropping towards Crediton, where he had his court. However, he was concerned these days that he might be attacked on the way. There were too many men-at-arms wandering the land without money, especially since the Scottish war last year. Before his marriage, he would have brought his steward, Edgar, with him on a journey like this, but not now. Baldwin preferred to know that a trained, professional and trusted warrior remained in the house while he was out.

It was ironic that he should have been created Keeper of the King’s Peace, with wide-ranging powers in this, his area. He often thought he should have refused the honour when it was first suggested to him by his friend Simon Puttock, the Bailiff of Lydford. With a wry grin, Baldwin could recall his shock, bordering on horror, when he realised that his friend, who was then a very recent acquaintance, had proposed him to fill the post. At the time Baldwin was effectively a newcomer to the district. Beforehand he had been a loyal member of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, until the arrest of the Order on 13 October 1307.