The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Read online

  These towns were all administrative centres. Each Stannary town controlled its own territory from the perspective of collecting tolls and taxes. However, the Warden of the Stannaries was in overall charge, and it was his duty to present any criminals who had committed felonies before the King’s Justices.

  The Warden delegated his responsibilities widely, especially during the wardenship of Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock, because the good Abbot had far too many other things on his plate to be able to watch over every transaction. Thus many tasks were given to his bailiffs. We know that in the 1300s his bailiff was fined for failing to arrest suspects and bring them to Lydford to the castle purpose-built as the Stannary Gaol. The bailiff would have been a man used to working on his own, a negotiator, someone capable of calming fights between miners or disputes between landowners and miners; he himself sometimes had to resort to violence. He would have been a local man, someone who knew the moors reasonably well, but who understood men and could assess them swiftly.

  This is the sort of man Simon was – rugged, determined, sure of his own authority in the name of the Abbot, and committed to serving his master.

  For more information on the Stannaries, look at H.P.R. Finberg’s Tavistock Abbey (Cambridge University Press) and Sandy Gerrard’s The Early British Tin Industry (Tempus Publishing).

  Michael Jecks

  Northern Dartmoor

  April 2002

  Prologue

  In the darkened room, the man’s shattered body gave a final convulsive jerk. A curious reflex caused his good arm to fly skywards as his body tensed, his back arching like a bow. The weird posture was emphasised by the guttering candles. Their thick, yellow flames gave off a greasy, black smoke that rose to the rafters, giving the chamber a grim, lowering atmosphere, as though the ceiling itself was moving closer to witness this last act in a life which had been so filled with pain and despair. As he died his shadow seemed to blacken, as though his entire soul was transformed into a larger figure looking down on the people in there, especially upon his hated neighbour, Sir Ralph de Wonson.

  Sir Richard had never liked him or his brother, Sir Ralph thought to himself. At least Surval the hermit had gone after sitting up and praying for Sir Richard all night – not that it would have given the poor sick knight much comfort to see him there. Involuntarily, Sir Ralph’s eyes went to the shadow’s hand, showing in stark relief against the painted wall, raised high over Sir Ralph’s head, the fingers curled like talons about to strike him down.

  Over the muttered prayers of the monk, Brother Mark, Sir Ralph could hear the rattling breath as Sir Richard’s soul fled. And then, as the arm collapsed and Sir Richard’s oldest servant, Wylkyn, sprang forward with a concerned frown on his face, Sir Ralph smiled with the relief of the winner in a long race.

  ‘Rest in peace, Sir Richard,’ he murmured, crossing himself and standing a moment.

  This was the one man who could have become a brake on his ambitions: Sir Richard Prouse, lately the master of Gidleigh in the Hundred of South Tawton, once a powerful, handsome knight, tall, muscular and with a mind as keen as his sword; now a mere shell. A bad fall at a tournament in 1316 had devastated his body, leaving him lame and crooked, needing a stick to walk even a small distance, unable to mount a horse or wield a weapon. He had been only twenty-four when he was wounded; he was thirty the day he died.

  However, a man didn’t need the strength and power of a Hector to stand in another man’s way. Sir Richard Prouse had successfully managed to thwart Sir Ralph’s every ambition. Now he was gone – and it was Sir Ralph’s time. He could do all he desired.

  That was the thought that filled him as he left that foul little room in the castle’s gatehouse. He felt his contemplative mood falling away even as he stepped under the lintel and found himself out in the open air again. He glanced about him at the castle’s fine walls, at the good-sized stables and huge hall, and smiled to himself. Gidleigh Castle was a prize worth winning. It was all he could do not to shout his delight aloud.

  He pulled up his belt and wriggled: his heavy tunic of bright green wool was a little too tightly cut about his shoulders. Any other day, this would have put him in a bad mood, but not today. His boots leaked, his shoulders were pinched, and he had noticed a stain on his hose, but he didn’t care because the castle was his at last.

  A horse whinnied, but he took no notice. Nothing mattered, today of all days. He was freed, he was come into his new wealth. This fine Tuesday in the early summer of 1322 was the first day of Sir Ralph’s new life.

  The horse neighed again, more loudly this time, and Sir Ralph looked at the gateway in time to see a glistening black stallion pelt in, skidding to a halt on the cobbles as the laughing rider hauled on the reins, only to stand panting and blowing, shaking his great head. Froth marked his flanks, and sweat, but the rider looked as fresh as when he had set off an hour earlier. Now he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and sprang down, a young man wearing a grey tunic and parti-coloured hose of red and blue. Simply dressed, he nonetheless gave the impression of money.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s dead, Esmon,’ Sir Ralph said with quiet satisfaction.

  His son gave a harsh laugh. ‘About time! I feared the clod was going to drag it out another week!’

  A haggard-faced servant was walking past the court, and Sir Ralph called to him. ‘You! Fetch us wine and bring it to the hall.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And hurry!’

  Sir Ralph, a tall, trim figure, with a strong, square face and dimpled chin, turned and marched to his new home. Although his fair hair had faded a little, he was in the prime of his life; he had been tested in many combats, and had never been the loser. That knowledge gave him the confident swagger, but it was his position in the world that gave his grey eyes their steadiness. He was Lord of Gidleigh now, the owner of this land, the ruler of his villeins and all their families, the unopposed master of all the farms and moors about here, from Throwleigh all the way to Chagford.

  ‘You’re sure there’s nothing can take it from us?’ his son asked.

  A momentary irritation crossed Sir Ralph’s features. ‘What could happen?’

  Esmon’s face was longer than his father’s, but he had the same light hair. Barely seventeen years old, his occasional lack of confidence was displayed by either belligerence or a propensity to redden when he was unsure or embarrassed. Now he made an effort to shrug as though unconcerned. ‘The law… a clerk might find a reason.’

  ‘Not with us, not with our Lord Hugh Despenser returned to the country and in power. They say that no one can be presented to the King without his approval – nor without paying him! You think anyone would dare to say a word against us? Nay, boy. We have our wealth now. We’ve increased our demesne to double its previous size.’

  ‘All because a usurer was murdered.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Ralph chuckled.

  It had been so easy, he told himself, marching into the hall and sitting in Sir Richard’s own chair. The damn thing was uncomfortable, he discovered: he’d have cushions made, or get the chair destroyed and order a new one. That might be better – a proof that the old lord was gone and the new one installed. It would do for now, though.

  The wine arrived, and he noticed the peasant bringing it cast a look at him sitting in the chair. So! The villeins here weren’t happy that he had their manor, eh? They would just have to learn to accept it, or suffer the consequences!

  Sir Ralph took up a mazer of wine and watched the man’s departing back. There were rumours of dissatisfaction. It was lucky that they had Esmon’s friends here, a group of men-at-arms who had served the Despensers with Esmon during the brief rebellion in Wales the previous year, 1321. Having Brian of Doncaster with his men meant a little additional security, and that was all to the good. Sir Ralph had even heard someone mutter that it was suspicious, the way Sir Richard had suddenly fallen victim to illness after six years of moderate health – but Ralph himself had know
n strong men collapse suddenly after a tiny pinprick, their limbs swelling appallingly until they expired. True, there was no obvious mark on Sir Richard, but he had been feeble in body since the tournament, with one side crippled, a badly dragging leg, a thin and weakly arm that must be tied into his belt, and only one eye. The other had been cut out and blinded.

  It was the gout had made him take to his bed, but then delirium and fever had set in. Sir Ralph shrugged. It was common enough for men to contract diseases which took them away quickly. There was no mystery as far as he was concerned, and no doubt the rumours would soon fade.

  ‘It’s good land, Father. I’ve been over the whole estate,’ Esmon said.

  ‘What is the mood of the peasants?’

  ‘Surly, but they’ll obey. They are scared.’

  ‘Good.’

  It was ironic that he should have won this castle. In the past he had learned to win money and land in battles, but this, his most prized possession, had been won by his political contacts. Sir Richard had been in debt to a banker who had died and whose possessions had subsequently reverted to the Crown. There all the unpaid debts would have been foreclosed instantly, the King demanding immediate repayment, if things had run their normal course. Sir Richard would have been forced to take on a new loan or leave his castle, and the estate would have been absorbed by the King if it hadn’t been for my Lord Hugh Despenser, who wanted to reward Sir Ralph for past favours, especially his support during the Despenser Wars.

  When Lord Hugh realised that Sir Ralph coveted this little manor, he spoke to the King and the property was conveyed to Sir Ralph, in exchange for oaths of loyalty to death. Sir Ralph lost no time in advising his neighbour that he expected to take possession of his new property.

  Sir Richard had fought, of course, and tried to have the King listen to his pleas, but soon after beginning his actions, he sickened and took to his bed. It was the last straw, people said. His feeble constitution couldn’t bear the prospect of losing his home and lands. So instead of being evicted, he would leave the place in a winding-sheet. Ah well. No matter. It was all Sir Ralph’s now.

  All the land, all the rents, all the taxes. And all the villeins, he reminded himself with a wolfish grin, thinking of the girl with the sunny smile and long dark hair who lived at the mill.

  Wylkyn was struck by a faint odour as he stood over the body of his master, but it didn’t register immediately. All his attention was taken up by the ravaged corpse before him, by the twisted body and the lunatic smile that showed the agony of his last contortions. Wylkyn sniffed back the tears as he washed his master and laid him out. He had been the loyal servant of this man for many years, and this last service was his way of respecting Sir Richard. Smoothing away the signs of pain and distress, he wondered what could have caused the death. Gout was the reason why Sir Richard had been installed here in his bed, because his one good foot had grown so painful that even to touch the base of the big toe caused the knight to cry out. Even having a blanket over it was intolerable. And then he had begun to complain that his sight was disordered – a curious affliction that made him feel giddy and nauseous. That was a matter of two or three days ago now, and suddenly he was gone!

  His had been a miserable existence, Wylkyn knew, and he sighed as he gently manipulated the body, easing the tortured features into a more relaxed expression, closing the staring eyes and crossing Sir Richard’s arms over his breast.

  As he worked, the priest murmured his doggerel in the corner in that low, sing-song voice that he always used, as though it added to the significance of words which Wylkyn couldn’t understand anyway. The servant felt his sadness increasing as he acknowledged each wound and mark on his dead master. There was the appalling group of scars at the base of his neck, stretching over his shoulders, where the mace that had taken away the use of his right arm and leg had struck him, leaving Sir Richard a cripple and figure of fun among the less honourable nobles in the area. Although those were the wounds that did him the most harm, it was the other scar that people noticed first, the one on his face.

  It stretched from above his temple, past the ruined eye-socket, and down to his jaw, where the blade had sliced cleanly through. The bones had healed, but Sir Richard never again saw from that eye, and the hideous mark had made him hide away, fearful of the attention it always attracted. Pretty women shuddered and turned from him, children sometimes screamed and bolted.

  There were other problems. Some, like the gout, were as painful as anything Sir Richard had sustained in the tournament. Thanks to Wylkyn’s fascination with herbs and potions, the knight had made good progress, for Wylkyn had learned how to treat Sir Richard as a patient as well as a master.

  When he had finished setting out his master’s body, Wylkyn collected the cup and jug of wine from beside the bed, and made his way back to his little room beside the gatehouse. It was only a lean-to affair, two thin walls making a room in the angle between the gatehouse itself and the castle’s outer wall, which here was stone, unlike the fencing at the rear. Sir Richard had never had enough money to complete the defences of his home.

  It was sad that he’d gone. Especially now, Wylkyn reckoned, looking out at the men in the yard. Sir Ralph of Wonson had brought his own guards with him, as though seeking to stake his claim to the place. Everyone knew he had always wanted Gidleigh for his own. With its fertile land and abundance of farms, it was a good place for a lord who wanted to fleece more peasants.

  Wylkyn was a free man and had been since 1318, when Sir Richard had given him a signed letter of manumission, in grateful thanks for his medical knowledge, and on the express understanding that Wylkyn would not leave him. With the death of his master, Wylkyn felt his debt had been fully repaid. He had done all he could to ease Sir Richard’s pain, but now he had no patient, he could leave at any time he wanted.

  From the look of the new master and his men, the time to go was soon. He didn’t want to remain here and see the place converted into the home of brigands and bullies.

  Setting the jug and cup neatly on their shelf, he gave a deep sigh. He was exhausted after four days and nights spent sitting up and tending his master. Poor Sir Richard! His passing had been every bit as painful as his life. He’d started fading, but then suddenly he had become delirious, which was when the priest had been called; however, he had stayed less than a day, saying that his own congregation needed him more. He and Sir Richard had never been very friendly. That was why Mark, the monk, had been summoned instead. His little chapel had no congregation, so he could come and sit with the dying man.

  Sir Richard had complained, in his lucid moments, of losing his sight. It was the one thing which terrified him, losing the sight in his one good eye. Wylkyn did all he could, but nothing worked; Wylkyn knew his poor master was dying.

  Wylkyn considered his future. His brother lived on Dartmoor, and he could always go up there to live for a while. With his stock of potions and salves, he might even be able to earn some sort of a living from the miners.

  At the thought, his eyes went to his pots and jars, lined up neatly on the shelves where he had left them. All bar one. With a slight frown, he stared at his second highest shelf, where the potions were out of alignment.

  Wylkyn was careful, always, to obey the instructions of his tutor and keep all pots in their place, precisely positioned. A clean and tidy room showed a clean and tidy mind, his tutor always said, and Wylkyn believed he was correct. That one particular pot had been moved, he had no doubt, and now he understood why his master had suddenly failed and died.

  Reaching up, he took down the jar. The lid was loose. Some apothecaries and physicians might be careless, but not Wylkyn. His tutor had explained that the vitality of many herbs lay in their freshness. All jars should be properly sealed after use. Someone had jammed this one on in a hurry.

  Wylkyn had bought this herb only recently in order to prepare some salves and medicines for Sir Richard’s gout. Failing eyesight, giddiness, sleepiness and deliri
um, he reminded himself. The very same symptoms that this herb would produce in excess.

  He went to the cup and jug he had brought from the gatehouse and sniffed. Now he could smell it – an unmistakable narcotic odour, sweet and heavy, slightly acrid. He tasted the wine gingerly. The bitterness seemed to almost bite through the flesh of his tongue. This wine had been adulterated with poison. And he knew which one: henbane.

  Mark, priest of the nearby chapel of Gidleigh, remained kneeling in the death chamber, his head bowed, running the beads of his rosary through his fingers as he prayed. He felt a genuine sadness to be present at the passing of this soul. Others who had witnessed the death gradually slipped away, following Sir Ralph’s lead, leaving Mark to maintain the vigil on his own.

  The cleric was a young man, scarcely twenty, with clear, large, dark eyes. His face was pleasingly proportioned, with high cheeks and a wide brow, and his chin bore a small dimple. Women liked his slim build and narrow, delicate hands, and if he had not worn the cloth, he would have been snatched up as a husband long ago.

  Now, although he tried to keep his mind focused on Sir Richard, he found his concentration wandering. Even a monk could only keep his mind on one topic for so long, and he had been here for more than three days.

  Sir Richard had never been a generous or particularly friendly man. Piers, one of the local peasants and the Reeve of the vill, had once joked to Mark that the knight was so mean, he’d sell the steam off his piss if he could, but that mattered little to the priest. All he knew was that the knight had shown him some grudging respect, and in any case, a man who died deserved prayers, even if he was a miserable devil most of the year. Not that Mark could criticise a man for that. He had often felt low in spirits himself, since he was moved here to this wet, miserable land, and he was hale and healthy. How much worse it would be if you were born here and tied to the land, or if you were crippled and in constant pain, like Sir Richard.