The Mad Monk of Gidleigh (61 page)

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.

I should now confess that the whole of this story is based on the poor man who came to be known as ‘The Mad Monk’: Robert de Middelcote, who lived and served in the chapel not far from Gidleigh. Like Mark, he too had a girlfriend, he too had her conceive, and he too ran from the area. His crime was that he punched his woman in the belly and killed their child in her womb on 28 March 1328.

His tale then diverged from Mark’s, because he escaped all the way to the outskirts of Exeter, to Haldon Hill, where he was captured.

The records show that he was hauled off to the Bishop’s court, but sadly the result of the action has been lost.

We do know what happened to his chapel, though. It was demolished, the stones taken away, and a new chapel built nearer Gidleigh. This new one was consecrated in 1332.

We cannot be certain where the old chapel was, so I have made a guess for the purposes of this book. Some people do reckon to be able to point to the old one. If you want to find it, I suggest you try walking over the land from Gidleigh towards Moortown. It should be along that old footpath somewhere.

But I warn you, when I mention that Mark is disgusted by all the mud, I am not joking. This is about the wettest footpath on the eastern section of the moor!