The Mad Monk of Gidleigh Read Online Free PDF Page B

There was something about Sampson that offended Sir Ralph. The imperfection of the imbecile, probably. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that such an awful affliction could only be the proof of an especial evil in his soul or in that of his father, which was demonstrated in this way, like a leper whose malady reflected the sexual sins of his parents. Whatever the reason, Sir Ralph detested him; indeed he had more than once thought about executing him, because a cretin like him was an embarrassment to the community, and probably wasn’t particularly happy in himself either. Assuredly no man could be content without a brain.
    That he had not killed Sampson was not the result of any foolish sentimentality. Glancing down at Sampson, he thought how easy it would be, to draw his sword and thrust it down into that skull. The bone was so thin, it would offer no resistance to a sharp blade like his. End of Sampson. Sir Ralph could not help but glance up and down the road. There were no witnesses, and he was sorely tempted. Sampson’s mind was that of a child. His cheap tunic, given to him by the last priest at the chapel, was faded and worn, and permanently smeared with mucus and dribble, for Sampson slobbered worse than a mastiff. The sooner he died, the better for everyone.
    His hand moved towards his sword hilt – and then he saw the figure up ahead, a spare, stooped man leaning on a staff, keen eyes peering ahead above a thick beard.
    ‘God’s blood, but there’s never any peace!’ Sir Ralph muttered. ‘Am I to be stopped by that damned hermit now?’
    As he watched, Surval appeared to nod to himself, then slowly turned and walked through a gate and into a field.
    It was better, Sir Ralph told himself as his ardour cooled again. He had given his oath and he wouldn’t be foresworn. Many years ago his father had made him promise that he would never harm Sampson. Father was long dead now, but that didn’t affect Sir Ralph’s oath. He had given his word and as an honourable man he couldn’t break it. A knight without honour was nothing.
    He shrugged. There it was: a noble had duties, and that was that. Sir Ralph pulled his rich red woollen cloak aside and reached for the whip that dangled from his saddle’s crupper. Idly, he slashed with it, twice, and the weighted leather cut through the thin tunic and flesh of Sampson like a razor.
    ‘Next time you block my way,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll take off one of your ears. You obviously don’t need them because you don’t deign to use them.’
    With a last short swipe he cut open Sampson’s forehead, and then patted his horse’s neck. ‘Come, Bayard, let’s get you home and fed.’
    Sampson lay in the road weeping, the blood trickling from the slashes in his back and brow, and it was only after some little while that he could raise himself and stare after the knight. The freezing mizzle had stopped for a while, but now it was coming down thicker. Sampson slowly rose to his feet, sobbing, and stood with his hands thrust under his armpits to protect them before setting off homewards, hobbling on his bad leg.
    ‘I hate you, Master. Hate you!’ he moaned pathetically. He had never hurt the master, never meant to upset him, but Sir Ralph treated him like a dog. All Sampson wanted was to be liked, and he did all he could to please people, but they hated him and whipped him or punched him for no reason. He couldn’t understand. It wasn’t fair.
    ‘I hate you,’ he repeated, but his voice was almost a sigh, without passion. No point being sad. People just didn’t like him. He was stupid. They could live normally, but no one trusted him. Others would marry and have children, but he was doomed to a life apart. Alone.
    The mizzle stopped and the clouds parted. Suddenly the land was warmed by a thin sun, pale and wintry, but better than the freezing rain. He could feel it on his back.
    Only one man was like him. The priest. He was lonely, too. That was why Sampson liked to watch