The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Read Online Free PDF

awoke shivering, huddled into a ball, arms wrapped about his breast and legs drawn up to his chin against the overwhelming chill.
    Now, as the storm broke outside, he kicked his fire into life, poking the embers with a stick and then throwing a faggot on top. Almost instantly there was a crackling, a thin wisping of smoke, and then a sharp sound, like ripping cloth, as the dried twigs caught fire. He stood for a moment, holding his hands to the warmth and wincing as the first tingling began in his fingers. It was blissful, and he offered up a prayer of thanks to God.
    He must put more logs on while the faggot burned. At the side of his door was a stack of thick branches which he had collected during the summer. He went to them and dragged the nearest over. At the door a projection caught on the doorframe, and he grimaced at a shooting twinge in his lower back as he pulled. It was like having a bowstring fail, a sudden explosion in his muscle, then a tearing upwards. He bit at his lip, but grunted and carried on, and dropped the bundle onto the fire. Nobody could come to help him. More logs he hauled slowly across the floor and set near his fire. One he positioned carefully over the flames where it might take light. It was over this that he would warm his supper.
    Sitting on his stool, he shivered as the flames licked upwards, then grabbed his trivet and set it over the heat to warm some milk. He must have something to take away the chill from his bones. As the milk began to steam in his old pot, there came a knocking at his door. He rose stiffly and opened it with a scowl on his face. Interruptions always happened when a man was about to eat, he found.
    Later, when he sat in irons in Sir Ralph’s gaol and had time to reflect, he realised that this was the moment when the whole future course of his life was decided.
     
    As Mark had entered his home, Sampson had wriggled back along the edge of the trees, giggling. He pushed his way though the cold leaves and twigs until he came to the hole in the hedge. Made by a fox, it smelled rank, but bad smells didn’t worry Sammy, never had.
    He stuck his head out and rolled his eyes from side to side. Someone might be there, might see him. Didn’t want that, no. Better to look, better to see them before they saw you. You see someone, you hide quick. Don’t let them find you, that was best. Don’t show yourself. Don’t give them something to throw stones at. Everyone throws stones at him. It’s hard. Sad.
    No noise. No people. He glanced both ways. Safe. With a great shove, he squeezed out, shooting down the muddy slide and landing on his hands on the icy stones and frozen mud, grazing both palms.
    ‘Poor Sammy!’ he whimpered, his mood changing instantly. Sniffing at them, he licked at the blood like a hound, wincing at the stinging. He cradled his scraped flesh against his breast. ‘It hurts, it does. It hurts…’
    He was so engrossed in his misery that he didn’t hear the horse walking towards him from the west.
    ‘Sampson, fool, get out of the road.’
    The voice cut into his thoughts like a hatchet through an apple. Glancing up, he saw the great dappled palfrey approaching and threw himself from its path, kneeling, his hands clasped before him, keeping his eyes from the rider.
    ‘You contemptible little whore’s whelp. I’ve told you before about blocking my path, haven’t I?’
    Sampson shivered. ‘Please, Master, don’t hit ’un! I hurt my hands, Master, hurt bad. I’ll not be in your way again, Master. Not again.’
    Sir Ralph listened to him with his head cocked. His clear grey eyes were slightly narrowed as though he was listening to Sampson’s pleas, but in reality Sir Ralph de Wonson didn’t care what the lad might say. Sampson was the vill’s idiot. He had been born stupid so many years ago, it seemed as though he had always been there in Sir Ralph’s memory, a drooling figure on the edge of all the vill’s events. Always near, but never a part.