On a whim, Sir Ralph took the lane from the ford up to the castle. It climbed up around a hillside smothered in trees, to join with the mud-filled track that led the short way down to the Castle of Gidleigh and the small church at its side. Usually he would have spurred his mount here past the castle gate, for he disliked Sir Richard, but today he ambled along the way and hesitated at the entrance before turning eastwards. It was that fleeting sight of Mary that had made him change his route. He would go to Huward’s mill.
Although he and all the villagers referred to it as ‘Huward’s’, in fact it was Ralph’s own. Every manor had at least one mill, and each of the villeins would pay the miller one tenth or a twelfth of their grain for the privilege of having it ground into usable flour. The miller must pay the lord to fleece the peasants, and all too often was tempted to take more than his agreed share, leading to disputes and fights, but Huward was too wise to try anything like that. He knew when he was on to a good thing and so far appeared to have been fair in his dealings. Either that, Sir Ralph told himself, or he was simply too clever to be caught. Sir Ralph liked to drop in occasionally, unannounced, to check on the place. It was the best way of seeing whether he should increase the miller’s rent, and it was always enjoyable to see his family.
Huward was a heavy-set man in his early forties, with a sparse reddish moustache and beard. His hair was pale brown, and was receding to expose an angled forehead that raked back sharply from his nose. His eyes were small and close-set, but kindly, and surrounded by cracks in his weatherbeaten face.
‘Huward.’
‘Godspeed, my Lord.’
Sir Ralph glanced about him, then dropped from his horse and threw the reins to the miller. Without speaking, the knight marched to Huward’s door and entered, ducking below the low doorway.
Inside, Huward’s youngest daughter, Flora, sat teasing lambswool out into a long, ragged snake while her mother, Gilda, spun it using a weight until it had become a long cord. Sir Ralph smiled at them, and Gilda glanced out through the door, nervously looking for her husband, who was peering in, still holding onto the horse, before giving him a sombre nod of her head.
Sir Ralph grinned to himself as he studied the workings of the mill. The woman was attractive still, even after six babies, three of which had survived. She was full-breasted, with a sturdy frame and long legs. Her eyes were green, a peculiar colour, and her dark hair had bright copper-coloured tints. She had a strange look to her. When she spoke or looked at a man, her oval face was turned to him entirely, as though giving him her full attention. Her slim eyebrows made her look almost severe, but the lie was told by her lips. The lower was quite narrow, the upper wider and more plump, which gave her the appearance of smiling. Sir Ralph had always liked that upper lip.
Her well-preserved looks were probably due to Sir Ralph’s own careful treatment of Huward. The miller had a better time of it than most others in the vill. This mill had been a part of Sir Ralph’s inheritance from his father.
Having taken note of the number of sacks waiting to be ground, Sir Ralph strode out and took his reins back. ‘It looks well. I’ll have the gather-reeve visit you to assess your rents.’
Huward said nothing, merely nodded solemnly and watched as the knight mounted, then, pulling his horse’s head about, raked his spurs down the animal’s flanks and cantered off.
‘What did he want?’
Flora had left her mother and now stood at Huward’s side. He put an arm about her shoulders and gave his youngest daughter a hug. ‘I don’t know, my love. He says he likes to keep a tab on us, but I wonder if there’s more to it. It’s always easy for a lord to get more money by seeing how much we grind.’
He shot a look inside as he spoke. His wife sat on her little stool as though she had not seen Sir Ralph’s arrival, but then she looked up as if she could feel her husband’s eyes upon her, and when she stared past him after the clattering hooves, he could see she was pale.
His little hut looked dilapidated, and as Surval stood outside, he nodded to himself in approval. For him, it was comfort and peace, but others saw only the ruination and wouldn’t bother him here. The place had nothing to offer anyone. It was only when he stepped inside that the heat blasted at him from the roaring fire. Surval hated the thought of dying from the cold, and the older he grew, the more he appreciated a good fire. It made him feel guilty, because with his sins, he should have allowed himself to suffer, but if he were to freeze himself to death, that would be no better than intentionally starving himself, a form of suicide. Far better that he should keep himself alive to pray and beg forgiveness.
He set his staff by the door and inspected his boots. They were worn and soggy, and he knew he would soon have to take them in to the cobbler’s in Chagford. In years gone by there had been a wandering cobbler who had mended his shoes on his way to the Chagford market, in exchange for a blessing from the Hermit of the Bridge, but he had apparently changed his route in order to avoid the expense of supporting the hermit. Many people did that, Surval knew. Strangers were happy to offer him alms – a bundle of firewood or a loaf of bread – but locals who passed him every day grew resentful and changed their routes.
No matter. Sitting on his old three-legged stool, he pulled his boots off and held his thick, horny feet towards the glowing embers, drawing a large horn of ale from the little barrel at his side. A farmer’s wife in Murchington gave him five gallons a week. It wasn’t much compared with a monk’s allocation of a gallon a day, but it sufficed.
At one end of his room was a cross, and he knelt on the damp soil before it, then lay face down, his arms widespread in imitation of Christ on the cross. This was his manner of praying, the old way, showing proper respect for Christ and His sufferings. When a man had committed such a foul and heinous sin as Surval, he must show all the respect he could. As a murderer should.
Later, when he had stacked logs on the hearth and set his tripod over them, his pot filled with peas and leaves, the water beginning to swirl as the heat got to it, he sat back and stared at the flames. He knew Sir Ralph of Wonson perfectly well. A nasty piece of work, in Surval’s view, although better than Sir Richard Prouse. He had wanted to evict Surval from here, just because he didn’t like the hermit.
Sir Ralph had been lord of the neighbouring manor of Wonson ever since inheriting it from his father fifteen years ago. He had grown up there, had learned the arts of warfare and had taken on his knighthood, all while living only a scant mile from Gidleigh. Easy enough for a man like him to ride about the countryside on a great charger, as Surval told himself, nodding.
There were many reasons for a knight to wander about the land, and few were honourable. Especially now, at a time of trouble. The famine was scarcely over, and many stooped to robbery to help fill their empty bellies; even knights.
He sipped his ale, stirring his potage. Many things worried him: Sampson, Sir Ralph and his foul son, Esmon. Surval knew what the knight and his son were guilty of, but Surval had no right to point out their evil. He was a sinner himself; he had killed. How could a miserable soul like him try to show a man of Sir Ralph’s stature the error of his ways? Surval was a sinner, yes, but he wasn’t a hypocrite.
In any case, what could a poor hermit do? He gave a cynical grin, but there was no humour in it, only self-knowledge and disgust. Looking over at the cross, he shook his head slowly, and then fell to the floor again, sobbing.
‘Oh, God! Please let me find peace!’
The banging on the door had stirred Mark from his delicious reverie about Mary, and he shot to the present with a start.