The Sticklepath Strangler

Chapter Seven

Vin stared over at the strangers in the tavern with a premonition of disaster. Every so often their eyes would move towards him and the other Foresters, and each time Vin flinched, wishing he had never joined Drogo’s men.

At the time it had seemed the best thing to do. Vin had been lonely and terrified after his father’s death, and Drogo, his father’s only real friend, had been the one person he could go to, even though he found the man fearsome. Living alone as he did, after the death of his wife and daughter, he seemed still more daunting to the teenaged boy, but there was no one else to turn to.

That was years ago now. Since then, Vin had come to know Drogo’s real nature. The Forester, quite simply, hated everyone. When he saw someone being happy, Drogo wanted to spoil their pleasure. It wasn’t only the travellers passing by; Drogo wanted to hurt and offend the very people he had grown up with. He hated them all. And most of all Vin was sure Drogo hated him.

It was the sullen, measuring looks he gave him. There was contempt in those looks, and hatred, and although Adam had tried to explain to Vin that they were emotions directed at Drogo himself, the young man was unconvinced. Drogo despised him. He had done nothing which could have led to such loathing. Still, at least Drogo did not treat him particularly harshly, compared with the other Foresters. If anything he treated Vin with scrupulous fairness, as though he recognised his hatred.

Vin watched Miles Houndestail, and wished the Pardoner would clear off. He was a foreigner, a stranger to the vill, and he had found that grave. Vin glanced at Drogo, remembering that time when he had seen Drogo and the Reeve up there at that field, the Reeve carrying a shovel.

It had been a strange night, that; the night Vin’s life was to change. Only a short while before, his father had died during the famine, and Vin was already starving. They all were. Desperate for food, everyone, and then that bastard Purveyor arrived and demanded their stores. It was no surprise that he’d ‘disappeared’.

Felicia had met Vin the previous evening as he walked home, and she had teased him, flirting. They had kissed and cuddled a few times before, as friends do who have grown up together in the same vill, but this was more serious. Perhaps it was because both feared they might soon die. They knew that without food they wouldn’t survive long. She had taken his hand and led him along the river towards Belstone, then, at a clearing, she threw her arms about him and kissed him again, before standing back and untying her belt, then her tunic, tempting him with her woman’s eyes. They were both young, but suddenly both were adult.

Later he would remember the keen thrusting of her hips, the sweet melting explosion that stilled both, and the calmness, the overwhelming lassitude. They lay there for what seemed like hours, cradled in each other’s arms, until they heard a hoarse bellow, her father Samson roaring with fury, then calling for Felicia. Hurriedly Vin had risen, pulling up his hose while Felicia watched, her face sad as she smoothed her tatty skirts.

‘Will you come here again tomorrow?’ she asked, but he hadn’t answered. He was too scared of Samson. Everyone was. He had hurried away, darting into the bushes before Samson could see him, and hurrying back towards the ford behind the inn. There he floundered through the water before making his way to the roadway again.

And it was there that he saw them the next night, on his way to see her again: Drogo and Reeve Alexander pulling the heavy weight of a body from near the mill, Drogo shouldering it and making his slow way up the sticklepath while Alexander followed, carrying a shovel. The two made their way silently into the field beside the road, then stumbled cursing up the hill. There, Alexander began digging.

Vin hid and watched them from the road, tiptoeing near to where the rocks had fallen and had only recently been replaced, and there he saw the two men take turns to dig a hasty grave and roll in the body of the Purveyor.

That was why Houndestail was an embarrassment. The place where the Pardoner had found Aline’s skull was dangerously near the spot where Drogo had buried the body of the Purveyor all those years ago – and Drogo wasn’t one whit happy about it.

It was late when all the other drinkers had left and Simon and Baldwin could unroll their cloaks and blankets, taking up places to sleep on benches and tables away from the floor and the scurrying creatures that moved in among the noisome rushes.

Houndestail went to the stable, he said in order to protect his horse and his goods, but Simon thought he preferred to sleep in peace away from the Coroner and Keeper. Not many people would want to sleep in the same room as two senior officials. Even Ivo Bel declared himself too warm in the tavern and said that he would seek the cool of the hayloft.

Simon dragged a bench to the fireside while the Coroner was draining his last jug of wine. Stripping naked, he bundled up his clothes into a thick pillow, then spread his cloak over the bench, lay down and draped a pair of heavy blankets over himself.

‘What did you think?’ he asked the Coroner.

Coroner Roger was pulling his hose off and he grunted, pausing while he considered. ‘Houndestail seems a reliable enough man. I wonder how many others he thinks might have been killed?’

‘An excellent question. And why should they immediately think of cannibals?’ Baldwin wondered from the other side of the fire.

‘Or a curse,’ Simon added.

‘Ridiculous! Only a foreigner would think of such a thing,’ the Coroner said with disdain. He recalled the innkeeper’s words. ‘And if Samson is a rapist, that isn’t the same as a cannibal.’

Stroking Aylmer’s head, Baldwin recalled his horror in the lane. ‘Perhaps there is a popular superstition here.’

The Coroner was pulling rugs and a thick sheepskin over him. He yawned and cast a sour eye at the knight. ‘Oh yes? What are you speculating about now, Baldwin?’

The knight smiled weakly. ‘It is that time of night, is it not, when men should tell tall tales to freeze the blood of others.’

‘Not me!’ Simon declared firmly. ‘All I want is sleep.’

‘What story were you thinking of, Baldwin?’ asked the Coroner, ignoring him.

‘Have you ever heard of William of Newburgh?’

‘No,’ said the Coroner. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t want to hear this,’ Simon said determinedly. ‘Shut up and go to sleep.’

‘Was would be more accurate,’ Baldwin said, putting his arms behind his head and staring up at the blackened thatch that comprised the ceiling, ‘for he is long dead now. He wrote a history of England, in which there were stories of ghosts in Buckinghamshire and the north… I think in Yorkshire near the Scottish March.’

‘Do we have to hear this?’ Simon growled.

‘Oh, I merely thought there could be some bearing on the case,’ Baldwin said innocently.

‘I believe you,’ Simon said with heavy irony. ‘After all, it would never occur to you to try to ruin my night’s sleep by telling me of hideous things that I could not possibly imagine on my own, would it?’

‘Oh well, if you don’t wish to know,’ Baldwin said with a certain petulance. ‘I should hate to bore you with a tedious story.’

‘Good. Now will you just go to sleep?’

‘What was this story, Baldwin?’ the Coroner chuckled.

Baldwin sat up and swung his legs down, frowning at the fire. The flames lighted his face with a yellow glow and left his eyes in shadow. Simon thought it made him look solemn – and alarming. His eyes gleamed, and Simon shivered in anticipation. He knew he would regret hearing this, whatever it was.

‘William told of many fantastic things,’ Baldwin said as Aylmer walked to sit at his feet. He stroked the dog’s head as he spoke. ‘There were miracles and wonderful omens. I read his book many years ago, in the last century, and most of the tales have slipped from my mind, but some were so intriguing that they have remained with me.

‘Those which caught my attention most of all were the tales of the men who had died and been buried, but continued to live. There have been many accounts of such things. I remember one story of a man who returned from burying his wife, only to see her dancing with other women at his vill. He caught hold of her, and took her to his bed, and fathered three sons by her. The boys remained, so this story must be held to be true.

‘But there are others, men and women who died, but who were apparently still alive when their graves were opened. These beings would walk about the world at night, victimising an area, killing people and eating them, drinking their blood. William called them by a special name: he called them sanguisuga – vampire.’

Simon growled, ‘I suppose there is a reason for this tale, other than to give me nightmares?’

Baldwin continued, ‘The people who found these strange beings asked the parson what they should do, and in almost all the cases he referred the matter to higher ecclesiastical authorities. They told the people to break open the tomb or grave and place a piece of paper on the breast of the dead man, with instructions to the soul explaining how to find absolution and free their spirits.’

‘Did it work?’ asked Coroner Roger.

‘It was not attempted,’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘Do you really think a vill which suffered from pestilential creatures like that would be so merciful? No. The graves were opened, the poor fellows inside were removed, their hearts were cut out, and they were flung onto pyres.’

‘Why cut out the heart?’ Simon asked, horrified.

‘Otherwise the body would not burn, apparently. William said little about it. In fact, he made practically no comment of any sort; I gained the impression that he thought it not unnatural. Certainly he mentioned that all unpleasantness stopped. The air was cleaner, the noises which had been heard in the night ceased, and dogs which were wont to howl at night suddenly were calm. The burnings were successful, by all accounts.’

Simon stared at him across the fire. ‘You made that up, didn’t you?’

‘No, Simon. I assure you, I got it all from William’s book.’

Simon’s face was bleak. Then he sighed, ‘You miserable poxed bastard. I’ll never bloody sleep now.’

He was right. Simon tossed and turned all night, and it was only in the early morning that he finally dropped off, dreaming of funeral pyres with bloody bodies tied to stakes, and although all had hideous wounds in their chests where their hearts had once beaten, they were all alive and stared at Simon with bitter hatred.

Eventually he was woken by the taverner, whistling cheerfully while he walked about, and crouching at Simon’s side to stir the fire into life. The Bailiff was forced to rasp, ‘Get out, you heathen bugger, or I’ll have the Coroner amerce you for violence to my ears and breaking the King’s Peace!’

The man left with amused unconcern, but by then Simon’s rest was ruined; especially because his hoarse voice and the innkeeper’s whistling had been sufficient to wake the other two.

Edgar had slept at the door to Jeanne and Petronilla’s room to protect them from intruders, but by the time Simon sat up, blearily gazing about him, his mind muzzy from lack of sleep, his belly rumbling and acrid from the mixture of rough wine and thin ale, Edgar was already at Baldwin’s side with a jug of water.

Christ’s bones, the place stank! Simon thought. The odours of vomit and urine made him feel queasy. It was always the trouble with cheaper inns; few tavernkeepers would bother to keep the place clean. At least there were no other people staying here. A big city inn might have real beds to sleep in, but the casual visitor had no choice of bedmate. A man could climb naked between his sheets to find that on one side his companion for the night was a grubby merchant who reeked of fish and whose breath wasn’t cleansed by chewing spices, while on the other was a tanner who stank of ammonia, or worse. Perhaps that was why Houndestail was not unhappy to have lost his bed with Ivo Bel.

He shouted to the tavernkeeper to bring him weak ale, before gradually climbing to his feet, standing and stretching, feeling the cool morning air wash over his bare body. He dragged his cloak about him like a robe, pulling it tight over his chest. Although there was a fine wisping of smoke up in the eaves, the room was brighter than on the previous afternoon because the window in the eastern wall caught the early sun. It made the room appear less foreboding than it had during the night.

He shivered again at the memory of Baldwin’s words. ‘Vampires!’ he muttered. ‘Stuff to scare children!’

Glancing at his friend, Simon saw to his surprise that Baldwin was not yet up. He lay on his bench, idly stroking Aylmer’s head, staring up at the ceiling.

Breaking into his thoughts, Simon asked, ‘Did you sleep all right?’

Baldwin turned his head just a little so that he could see his friend, and a faint smile eased the solemnity of his appearance. ‘Not too badly,’ he said. ‘I was troubled by a dream, but no matter. It is daylight now. Soon we shall have helped the good Coroner with his inquest and be on our way.’

‘Quite right!’ Coroner Roger agreed, standing naked in front of the feeble fire and warming his hands. ‘Ah good, it looks as though we have pleasant clear weather for it, too. What would you say to a jug of wine and some good bread and pottage, Sir Baldwin?’

Trying to prevent his nausea showing at the thought of food, Simon threw off his cloak and stood, shivering as he pulled on hose, shirt and tunic. By the time he was done, Baldwin and Coroner Roger were both sitting waiting for their meal, chatting happily about the weather, Baldwin sipping water while the Coroner slurped at a jug of ale. Simon winced, not only from the thought of eating food before viewing a corpse, but also from the noise. It was unnerving to see a man like the Coroner who, albeit some years older than him, was as full of bounce and energy as a youngster.

Simon took his pot of ale to the door, leaning on the jamb. ‘What do you think about this story of a Purveyor going missing?’

Coroner Roger cocked an eye at him. ‘You think there’s anything new in that? The man who can tax an area and take their food is always unpopular.’

‘No body was presented,’ Baldwin said.

‘True, so I’ll have to see whether I can arrange a suitable fine.’ Coroner Roger was quiet for a short while, thinking. ‘What do you suggest, Sir Baldwin? I can see you’re not happy.’

‘I would recommend that you send someone to find the new Purveyor. Perhaps he has some record to show that Houndestail was mistaken. It is possible that the last Purveyor became ill and resigned his post.’

‘Aye, and perhaps there’s no record,’ the Coroner growled. ‘Which might indicate that the man died around here. It’s a shame: if it weren’t a King’s Officer, I’d just forget about it. A murder committed maybe seven years ago – what chance is there of finding out anything useful?’

‘Perhaps none,’ Baldwin admitted, ‘but we may find that there is a dead Purveyor as well. If more people have been killed here, we should be aware. It could have a bearing on this girl’s death.’

‘Very well,’ the Coroner said.

‘And what of this so-called curse?’ Simon wanted to know.

‘Forget it,’ Coroner Roger said with conviction. ‘Like you said last night, Bailiff, peasants will swallow the most stupid of stories.’

Their debate was cut short by the entrance of Jeanne and Petronilla, and soon afterwards food arrived. There was a large loaf of bread which the Coroner tore apart with his bare hands, and a platter of cold roasted meats. Waving the flies from it, Coroner Roger cut off a thick slice of cold pork and shoved it into his mouth. Simon watched him for a moment or two, but when the Coroner went on to spear a large yellow slab of fat, licking his lips, Simon felt his belly rebel. Muttering that he was going outside to clear his head, he left the others to break their fast.

All was bright and clear. Northwards he heard people in the fields, the rattling of tools, animals complaining as they were harnessed, chickens clucking and calling. He inhaled deeply, noticing the clean scent of cow’s muck, the grassy odours of horse dung, the fresh tang of cut grass. It was a glorious morning, and his head was already beginning to feel a little better.

And yet something was missing. His mind was working slowly today, but he was sure that in and among the smells and noises of the little vill as it began to prepare for the new day, one specific sound was lacking. It took him some time to work out what it was. In fact, he had meandered around the huge patch of mud in the road outside the cemetery, and was up at the spring, drinking, before light dawned.

He stood up, shaking the water from his hands, and gazed about him with astonishment. To the north he could see labourers in the strip fields, bent over as they tugged tiny weeds from the rows of wheat and oats, or hoeing between rows of peas and beans in the gardens; he saw a girl methodically scattering grain for chickens in a yard; he saw a woman sitting at her door with a knife, cutting leaves for a pottage; he saw peasants heading for the door of the chapel to attend the first Mass. People everywhere, yet not one spoke.

It was incredible. The place could have been under anathema, despairing because their souls would be lost under the papal ban. Their demeanour would certainly have suited such a terrible fate, he thought as he watched them going about their business. No one chatted or laughed. All walked as though bent under an intolerable weight, and that was particularly the case when they caught sight of him. The women averted their faces, or raised their hands to hide themselves from him.

He remembered Houndestail’s words: ‘It’s Athelhard’s curse again!’ and he gave a convulsive shudder.