The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Read online

  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.

  Chapter Five

  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.

  For a long while after that date he had not believed that his friends and comrades would be sent to the stakes. All through the hideous testing of the men, while they were tortured, many to death, threatened, and some summarily executed, Baldwin had believed that the Pope must rescue them. The Pope had to recognise their innocence and proclaim that their arrest was all a hideous mistake. When it didn’t happen, he wondered whether there was some vestige of truth in the allegations, and it was only when his Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, denounced his executioners and declared his innocence and the innocence of the Order, that Baldwin realised the truth: the whole matter had been staged in order that the French King and the Pope could grasp the wealth of the Knights Templar for their own advantage. The most noble Order of Knights had been destroyed, the most devout Christians murdered, in order that two implacably avaricious men should satisfy their lust for wealth.

  It was that, so Simon had once said, which had forged Baldwin’s suitability for the task of weighing men’s innocence or guilt. Baldwin had seen how Justice could fail. He had lost faith in the Pope and secular rulers, for if the greatest Christian King and the Pope himself could be corrupt, how could a man trust those who worked beneath them?

  The injustice and horror of it all had left Baldwin a cynical and caustic man in the years immediately following the destruction of his Order, but that aspect of his character had mellowed; indeed, these days it was all but gone. He still bore the same wrinkles and marks of pain which had grown to decorate his features during that lengthy period of rough living when his life was in perpetual danger, but now they simply looked like the honourable marks of a man who was older than middle age. Since he had been fortunate enough to find and marry Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, his figure had filled out, and the expression in his eyes had lost some of the introspection of 1315. Today he was as likely to smile and laugh as to snarl.

  Not that Sir Baldwin himself would admit that he had changed. If asked, he would have declared that he was the same man who had set sail in 1290 to join the defenders of Acre against the hordes of pagan Saracens. Yet he secretly knew it wasn’t the case. He felt the same, held some of the same opinions and beliefs, but in the same way that his body would occasionally let him down with sharp aches and pains or grumbling muscles when he had taken too much exercise, his attitude to life had changed. He was cooler, calmer, and more fiercely protective of this land of his.

  It was probably the effect of the parlous state of the realm itself, the mutterings of dissatisfaction with the King, the open contempt for Edward’s two most trusted advisers, the Despensers, and of course the terrible disaster of the campaign against the Scots. There were certainly enough matters to cause an informed, intelligent man to pause and consider. Men muttered that it would be better to have open war and destroy the Despensers. That avaricious and murderous family ignored the law and robbed and imprisoned people without trial, purely to ransom them for whatever the Despensers wanted.

  One man had even suggested, in Baldwin’s hearing, that an assassin should be hired to kill the Despensers. There Baldwin drew the line. When he had lived in Acre, and afterwards on Cyprus, he had heard of the dreaded Hashishim of the Old Man of the Mountain. He was a terrifying mercenary who would point his drugged adherents at any man if he was paid enough, and his crazed killers invariably succeeded in their murders. To Baldwin, a Templar, the idea of a clandestine murderer of that sort was uniquely repellent. A man should stand and fight in the open, calling on his enemy to defend himself. How different from the single madman hiding beneath a bed or behind a tapestry, stabbing or poisoning. That was the act of a coward, an act which must lead to terror among all right-thinking men.

  Following the roadway as it curved around the last hill, Crediton was at last laid before him. Over the last few years the Canons of the great church had built many new houses for themselves, their servants and novices, and now the view that met Baldwin’s eye was one of bustle and confusion all the way out to the water meadow at the easternmost point of the town, especially near the church itself. There people milled about some more construction work. Craftsmen bawled orders to apprentices, smiths hammered, hawkers and tranters wandered shouting their wares. Over it all was the warm, light haze of the smoke from the fires.

  He had little enthusiasm for business today, and he idled up the road. The shops and houses on either side gleamed, damp from the night’s rain, while the ground beneath him was foul, spatted with excrement from the herd of cattle which he could still see being taken through the town and out to the pastures near the river.

  When he arrived at the church’s buildings, he made for the timber-framed hall in which he held his court. It was owned by the church, and there were stables behind where visitors could leave their mounts. Baldwin swung himself from his saddle and bellowed for the groom. The lad should look after horses for a few copper coins, but he was routinely late to observe a new client.

  ‘Jack? Jack! Get out here now, you lazy son of a–’

  The youth appeared in the alley that led behind the town’s hall, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Oh, Sir Baldwin, I didn’t hear you. I was… er, filling the…’

  ‘Do not lie to me, Jack. I can recognise a lie two miles distant.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of lying to you, Sir Baldwin,’ Jack said in a hurt tone.

  ‘You should leave cheap wine alone, boy. Save your money until you can afford a decent drink. Maybe then you would not fall asleep.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I haven’t been drinking. Not much, anyway.’

  ‘I can smell it from seven paces, Jack,’ Baldwin said grumpily and passed him the reins.

  ‘You are my favourite customer, sir. Out of all them who come here, it’s you I serve first and keenest.’

  ‘That says little for your treatment of other clients, since you are always asleep whenever I arrive! Now give my horse a good rubdown and rest. He has come far enough to warrant at least as much rest as you seem to think you deserve yourself.’

  ‘Sir Knight, that’s not fair.’

  ‘I often think I should take my custom to the inn’s ostlers. At least the men there seem interested to have my business,’ Baldwin grumbled.

  ‘Don’t do that, please, Sir Baldwin!’ Jack’s face had paled, and he hung his head, looking up at Baldwin with sorrowful eyes. ‘You know my wife and–’

  ‘And three children would suffer,’ Baldwin said testily. ‘Yes, I know. You tell me every time I come here. But I will go to them if you do not stay awake and listen for my arrival.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘So – see to my mount!’

  The youth nodded, ducked his head submissively, and led the horse away towards his stable.

  Baldwin watched him go with a glower fixed to his face. The trouble was, he knew that the lad was desperate for the money. If Baldwin stopped bringing his horse here, Jack probably wouldn’t have enough income to keep his wife and children. That wasn’t something Baldwin wanted on his conscience. He had seen enough suffering in the last few years.

  It wasn’t the fault of th
e groom that he was so sharp-tempered today. No, it was all to do with Roger Scut.

  This morning’s work was not difficult, but it involved much reading and agreeing of documents with one of Bishop Walter’s clerks. There was to be a court of Gaol Delivery in Exeter in a matter of days, and Baldwin must go through all his cases in which a man had been sent to Exeter Gaol from his court to make sure that none had been forgotten and that the relevant material was all there. Then, when each case came before the men nominated to try it, at least Baldwin himself should escape a fine. He would hope so, for he was to be one of the Gaol Delivery Justices, and setting a fine upon himself would be embarrassing.

  Never Baldwin’s favourite task, today he looked forward to reading through the records with less than his usual good-humoured tolerance. All because of Roger Scut, who was in the hall as Baldwin entered.

  The odious little man! Chubby and ingratiating, almost half a head shorter than Baldwin, Scut’s hands fluttered as he spoke, as though emphasising his every point. What Baldwin found most annoying was Scut’s habit, or perhaps it was a deliberate affectation, of tilting back his head and squinting along the length of his nose, as though it gave gravitas to his pronouncements. Not that his nose itself was particularly deserving of such attention, to Baldwin’s mind. It was a short, bloated appendage with red and purple blood vessels spread liberally over it. A cider drinker’s nose if Baldwin had ever seen one, which probably explained why the clerk’s voice was so nasal as well. But his habits and his nose were not his only unattractive features. He possessed many others. His eyes, for example.

  His eyes were like a ferret’s, always looking about for something, as though he believed that there was a secret to be teased out of the woodwork if he could only but find it. That was another thing that Baldwin disliked about Scut. The way he would not meet Baldwin’s eyes when they spoke. The knight had no doubt that the clerk was honest enough. Yet a man who would not or could not speak to you and meet your eyes was all too commonly concealing something. Baldwin did not trust Roger Scut, the oleaginous little shit.