The Sticklepath Strangler

Chapter Twenty-Five

Vin didn’t want to be here in the cemetery. The place was scary at this time of night. However, Drogo had insisted that he come. The Foresters’ leader seemed a bit nervous himself. Vin knew about him burying the body of the Purveyor with the Reeve, but what else could there be to concern him? There was the small matter that every one of the murders had occurred when Drogo was away from Vin. The latter couldn’t recall every one of those nights, but certainly Drogo had been out at his bailiwick when Emma was killed, or so he said. Perhaps he had come back to the vill and throttled her, then taken his pieces of flesh back up the hill to his camp fire?

But why should he do such a dreadful thing? And why eat them? Because he liked the flavour? Vin shuddered. He recalled meals with Drogo demanding bloody meat, remembered the man’s chin dripping in gore, and suddenly Vin felt queasy.

Swetricus had already dug down several feet with Henry’s help, and had just stepped down into the grave to dig out the rest when Baldwin pounded up. Behind him, the Coroner had caught sight of Swetricus’s work, and immediately his face reddened and he roared, hopping over to join Baldwin.

‘Just what is God’s name is going on here? Get out of that grave, you bastard. Parson, what the Hell is this?’

Gervase stepped forward, motioning with a hand to Swetricus to continue. ‘Coroner, this is Church land. Your jurisdiction ends there, at the wall.’

The Coroner was appalled. ‘What are you doing here, condoning this… this desecration! Why?’

‘Because–’

Before he could answer, Swetricus dropped his shovel, ashen-faced, and sprang from the hole as a hideous shriek erupted from it.

Simon felt his stomach churn and took a pace back. That scream sounded like it came from the bowels of the earth itself – and then he corrected himself: it came from Hell. There was nothing earthly about it.

All about him, the men of the vill had moved away from the graveside, muttering and shaking their heads, one or two sidling towards the gate that gave out onto the road. Only two men stood firm: Baldwin and Gervase, with Aylmer at their side.

Gervase was smiling. This was the proof! He had known he was right! Now the vampire’s cry showed it. Nobody could doubt the evidence of their own ears. Seeing Swetricus standing a yard or two away from the grave, the Parson indicated that he should continue. The peasant, his face showing his fear, wiped a forearm over his brow and stared down at the ground. Then he resolutely stepped forward, carefully lowered himself into the hole once more and picked up his shovel.

‘What was that?’ Coroner Roger exclaimed.

Baldwin spoke tightly. ‘The poor man’s not dead. He’s still alive.’

‘No, Sir Knight,’ Parson Gervase said. ‘He’s dead, but demons have taken him over.’

‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ Baldwin spat. ‘He must have been buried alive by mistake. It’s not surprising, seeing that he was knocked on the head. I’ve heard of men who have been buried alive before, when all they received was a bad knock. The poor devil–’

‘He is no poor devil, Sir Baldwin. Ask his wife. She told us before you got here. Samson was always molesting young girls, including their own daughter. This man deserves no sympathy. And if he was buried alive, as you say, how did he escape to kill Emma last night?’

‘He didn’t,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘Surely you can see that this is only superstition? You cannot be thinking of killing the man just because we made a mistake and buried him alive!’

‘You say I am thinking of killing him,’ Gervase said reprovingly. ‘I would do no such thing. I cannot: he is already dead. His soul has been taken over by demons because he died suddenly and couldn’t receive the Extreme Unction which would have forgiven all his sins. So I must put this paper on his chest.’ He opened his scrip and took out the sheet upon which he had so carefully scrawled. ‘And anoint him with oil.’

Of all the men of the vill, Henry Batyn was nearest. He peered over the Parson’s shoulder, his face falling. ‘You’re going to stick that on him and anoint him?’

‘It will show him how to gain salvation,’ the Parson smiled.

Peter atte Moor pushed his way through the crowd. Snatching at the paper, he stared. ‘You’ve written things on it.’

‘Yes, it tells him how to–’

‘He couldn’t read, Parson. What good’ll this do?’

‘His spirit can receive the message,’ Gervase said, but a note of doubt had entered his voice. He hadn’t heard that there was any need for a recipient to be able to read. Women in childbirth had prayers written down and laid against their inner thighs to help them cope with the pain whether they could read or not, didn’t they? And Gervase had heard of demonic possession of corpses where this was the correct procedure.

‘Ballocks!’ Peter scoffed. ‘This evil bastard couldn’t read when he was alive, and he won’t be able to if he’s dead. Anyway, he killed my Denise when he was alive, and Emma when he was dead. I’ll not see him reburied so he can murder any more.’

‘He’ll get out again,’ came a voice from the crowd, ‘and this time he may not kill a girl. It could be any one of us!’

‘That is nonsense!’ the Parson said. ‘He won’t be able to hurt anyone once I have put this on his chest and anointed him.’

‘So you say, Parson, but how can we know?’ Swetricus asked, clambering out again. ‘I’ve lost one daughter. I won’t risk another.’

‘Get back in the grave, Swetricus,’ Gervase commanded.

The peasant raised his arms. ‘Who else here will let the ghost kill their children?’

‘What else can we do?’ Peter atte Moor asked.

‘We know what to do!’ It was Drogo, who now shouldered his way through the press with Vin and Adam in his wake. They stood at the graveside and stared down into it, and then Drogo looked at the men all about. ‘Every household, bring faggots. We’ll burn him, like we did Athelhard, and scatter his ashes so he can’t come back and trouble us again.’

Baldwin felt his heart lurch. ‘No, you must not! This man is alive still. He was interred by accident. Just think of it: he has been in there for a day, in a tiny space, praying for someone to rescue him. You must not raise him, only to throw him onto a pyre.’

‘If you won’t help us, leave us,’ Drogo said curtly.

‘Watch your tongue, Forester. I have only just given you your freedom,’ Sir Roger growled.

‘And I am grateful, Coroner, but I won’t betray the trust these villagers have in me,’ Drogo stated uncompromisingly. ‘And I won’t see another girl killed by this evil shit.’

Gervase stamped his foot and bellowed that the men should ignore Drogo, but even as he spoke, he could see that most of them were disappearing, streaming away to the vill to obey the Forester’s command.

Baldwin saw them leave with growing anger and trepidation. There were so many. ‘Simon, we must stop this.’

‘How can we? Just look at them all!’

Men were running eagerly over to the mill’s sheds, seeking sticks and tinder, collecting whatever bits and pieces they could find which might burn. Others hung around, but all had the same expression: fear mingled with excitement, just like the crowds at any hanging.

No, Baldwin corrected himself, he was being unfair. They were not happy to see a man being hanged, because they did not believe that this was a man; to them he was a demon, a child-killer. They would be destroying an agent of the devil, a thing which could attack and kill men, which ate children.

It made him shiver with horror. He couldn’t face the idea that there should be a burning here, the burning of an innocent man whose only crime was that he had been buried alive by mistake. Baldwin had seen too many men die in the flames. The Knights Templar who refused to confess their guilt or, worse, who confessed under the tortures only to later recant, were bound to stakes and fired before massive crowds. From the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, to the lowest Sergeant, all had died, and the odour of their roasting flesh had mingled with the sweet wood-smoke of apple and oak branches, to create a cloying smell that would linger in his sinus for ever.

As the men drew near with their faggots, Simon put a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘You mustn’t interfere, Baldwin. They will kill you as well if you try to stop them.’

‘This cannot be permitted.’

‘You’re right,’ said the Coroner, but his eyes went to Simon. ‘Only I cannot imagine how to prevent them. Simon is correct. These churls aren’t going to let you get in their way. They don’t see this as an illegal execution, it’s just turning off a devil. And if you were to save him, what then? He’d be sought out, especially if another girl were to die. Would you be able to hold that on your conscience?’

‘You believe that this poor fellow could break loose and climb up through the soil to kill Emma? No! So he didn’t kill Emma, which means he didn’t kill the others either. He’s innocent!’

There was a sudden roar, and the Coroner spun around. Two men were hauling on ropes, while Swetricus climbed from the hole. He walked to the ropes and threw his own weight behind them, more men pulling and groaning, until suddenly there was a harsh rending and scraping, and the timbers which had been set atop of Samson came away bringing a shower of soil with them.

From the crowd there came a great collective sigh, and Roger instantly glanced at Baldwin.

The knight had a pained expression on his face. He could hear a low wailing moan, and he knew that it must be Samson. It would be a miracle if the miller hadn’t lost his mind, left to suffocate and die under a ton of soil.

There was a general movement towards the grave, and Baldwin felt the men pushing him forward. At his side, he saw Simon being swept on, his eyes being drawn reluctantly downwards, although when he saw the winding sheet, he averted his face.

‘He’s fucking alive!’ a man wailed. ‘Oh, God! It’s true, he’s a demon!’

Even Simon couldn’t help but glance into the grave.

No one could have looked less like a demon. The miller lay back whimpering, his face covered with both forearms as though petrified, as though he was already in the pit of Hell and feared that he would find himself confronted by demons tormenting him. When a man sprang down into the grave and pulled his arms away, Samson’s eyes were wild, darting from side to side. As torches were brought nearer, Simon saw him wince and squeeze his eyes tight shut, then try to turn his face away into the dirt.

Until that moment, Simon would have been happy to see him burn, but that single childlike gesture of defence made all his fear melt away. Baldwin was right. This was a man who had been buried in a hole only slightly larger than his own body, without food or water, left to think that he would die slowly and horribly.

The men at the side of the grave were silent for several minutes, but then Gervase stepped forward, holding out his piece of paper and pot of oil. ‘Let me down,’ he instructed. ‘I have to anoint him.’

Simon glanced at Baldwin and saw that his friend was preparing to halt this obscene event.

‘Let me pass!’ Gervase demanded again, pushing at the men nearest him, his shoulder jostling into Baldwin.

‘No, Parson. Sorry, but no. He killed my daughter.’

That was Peter atte Moor, and Baldwin saw that he was backed up by Swetricus. Drogo was still nearby, but he looked as though he might be prey to the same doubts as Baldwin himself now that he had an opportunity to see Samson’s grave. Baldwin, acting on an impulse, strode to Drogo’s side and was about to speak, when suddenly Peter atte Moor shouted with a voice filled with horror.

‘Christ Jesus, look! He’s still covered in her blood!’

Baldwin turned, stared at Peter, and then down at Samson. Peter was holding out a torch, sending a lurid flickering light into the grave, and now he pointed, his finger shaking.

‘You say he’s no threat? Does any man here think he isn’t a danger to us all? Look at him!’

Baldwin pushed his pointing hand aside. In the folds of his winding sheet, he could see the stains. Much of the staining came from the sodden earth, some was soiling from Samson’s fear, but there were other marks on the cloth. ‘Rubbish! You fool, it is not Emma’s blood, it is his own.’

In his abject terror, Samson had tried to claw his way to freedom, and his fingernails had torn away as he scrabbled desperately at the timbers above his head. His head wound too was bleeding; not with a massive effusion, but enough to spatter his face with blood, making him look suspicious.

‘This is the man who killed my daughter,’ Peter said. His eyes were wild, and Baldwin could see the spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘He killed Denise, and Aline, and Mary, and Emma too! How many more must die? He’s possessed – we know that. We have to burn the demons from him.’

‘I said NO!’ Baldwin bellowed, but the crowd was already pressing forward. The pyre was almost complete, a large cone of faggots atop of sacking and straw, with a tree in the middle. People reached down to grab Samson, and he was lifted, screaming with an odd, shrill voice.

‘Leave him!’ Baldwin shouted again, but he was ignored. Filled with a rushing torrent of rage that washed over and through him, he put his hand to his sword’s hilt and pulled the blade free. The sword was a bright peacock blue that flashed and shone like a lightning bolt in the darkness. ‘STOP, I said!’

Simon heard his roar, saw the crowds begin to separate, saw the whirling of metal, and felt the blood course more swiftly through his veins. He couldn’t allow Baldwin to be overwhelmed by the mob. It was unthinkable; Baldwin had saved his life. Crying, ‘St George!’ he pulled his own sword free and shoved men from his path, striving to reach his friend. He heard the sudden snarl and savage bark of Aylmer, a cry, and a man leaped back. ‘’Ware the hound!’

‘Kill him as well!’ a man shouted, and a torch was thrust almost into Baldwin’s face. He felt the heat, heard the hairs of his beard fizzle, smelled the acrid burning, and snapped his sword up into a half-guard, cutting deep into the wood of the torch before the owner could remove it. The head of the torch fell away as Baldwin saw another figure at his side, and moved to avoid a blow as a fist holding a knife whistled past his shoulder. He thrust once and heard a scream.

Simon roared, kicked at the man before him, and was almost at Baldwin’s side when he saw her.

She came through the crowd like an avenging spirit, her face set into a vicious mask, her hands clenched into claws, and for a moment Simon thought she wished to attack Baldwin, but then she darted under Baldwin’s sword arm, ran past the Parson, and reached the edge of the grave as Samson was being raised. Simon saw her scratch at the face of Samson, her husband. He screamed again, lifted his hands in a futile gesture of defence, but then his voice altered. Suddenly it became a hideous bubbling sound, and as Simon watched, he saw that Gunilda’s hands were dark, and in them was a knife. It rose, yellow and evil in the torchlight, as though she was holding a flame in her fists, and then it flashed downwards, only to rise and gleam with a fresh, crimson fire, before plunging into Samson’s breast once more.

‘You were killed once. I can do it again, and again and again,’ she spat.

The Parson wailed; two men scurried away from her, and Samson’s cries became a hoarse coughing as he fell to his knees. Simon saw him tumble to his side, the obscene flap of skin from his head sliced away entirely as his wife flailed at him, striking him in the head and chest.

Then the shock which had made his feet leaden, left Simon. As others pulled away from her knife’s reach, the Bailiff ran behind her; the next time the knife rose, he caught her wrists and held them. Gripping her tightly, he forced his fingers under her own until she gave a sob and dropped the blade into the mud. Only then did Simon glance at Baldwin.

The knight had dropped to his knees at Samson’s side, and now he looked up and shook his head wearily. ‘He is truly dead this time, I fear.’

Felicia was relieved. It was done now. Even the hounds appeared to have realised and both had stopped their howling. When they had stopped, she didn’t know, for she had been watching the events at the graveside, but now that she turned back, she noticed that they were both silent in their kennel.

She left them and walked through the crowd, pushing her way onwards until she came to her father’s body. All about him were the men of the vill, standing and staring down sombrely, while Gunilda knelt weeping nearby. Felicia looked at her, feeling a curious detachment.

There was an almost total absence of feeling for her mother. It was strange, but now, as she looked at Gunilda, she felt only a vague sympathy for her. Gunilda had tried to protect her from Samson, but she had failed.

Then the knight was in front of her, turning her slightly so that her attention couldn’t focus on the dead body of her father.

‘Are you all right?’ Baldwin asked softly. ‘This is a terrible place for you to be, child.’

‘I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

Baldwin studied her for a moment. She stood quietly, her eyes steady. If he had to bet, he would gamble that she was less affected by the dreadful scene than he was himself.

‘I have come to fetch Mother,’ Felicia said.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, standing aside. He saw the Coroner glowering, and walked to him. ‘Don’t worry, Roger. There’s nothing to concern you here.’

‘Nothing? I just witnessed a murder!’

‘Maybe you saw a woman stab an already dead man. I don’t know, we shall have to discuss the matter with the Church authorities. I may be able to talk to the Bishop. Essentially, it is an ecclesiastical affair. Nothing to do with us.’

‘I can just see the King’s Sheriff taking that view,’ Coroner Roger scoffed, but then he nodded. ‘Whatever happens, though, I’ll be able to consider it more rationally tomorrow morning after a good night’s sleep and a meal.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, but he was troubled as he watched Felicia go to Gunilda’s side. She bent, taking her mother’s arm, and Gunilda gazed up at her with alarm, as though she could not remember her own daughter’s face. A young lad walked over to them, and Baldwin recognised Vincent. He took Gunilda’s other arm, and she allowed herself to be led away between the two youngsters.

Baldwin could not help but think that he would himself prefer death to life, rather than see such a lack of sorrow on his own daughter’s face. Felicia had witnessed her father’s murder, but she looked as triumphant as a woman who has seen her husband’s murderer executed.

Felicia opened the door and thrust it wide with her hip. Carefully she pulled her mother inside, and Vin trailed in their wake, halfheartedly holding Gunilda’s hand.

‘I’ll leave you, then,’ he said.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Felicia said, settling her mother on a stool and wiping Gunilda’s brow.

Vin looked away with embarrassment. He thought there was every chance that Gunilda would be taken for the murder of her husband, although there was the claim of homicide while her mind was unbalanced. Anyone could believe that, having witnessed the scene. Perhaps she was fortunate that the Coroner and Keeper were there to see the whole terrible affair.

Felicia was silent. Passing him a jug, she drank deeply from a cup, then said, ‘You remember that day by the river? You ran away then. Why?’

He couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I was scared of your father.’

‘You’re safe from him now, Vin.’

‘I know,’ he said with a half grin. ‘That was why I came back last night.’ Her hand touched his, gripping it and lifting it to her heart, where she held it gently cupping the swelling of her breast. Leaving his hand there, she tugged at the laces of her dress. Both hands now, pulling the material apart so that he could glimpse the rounded flesh beneath, and then the cloth of her tunic came away and he could see her flat belly, the rising dark hairs at the base, her thighs.

‘Do you want me again?’ she murmured, shuffling out of her clothes and reaching up to kiss him.

He responded eagerly. ‘I thought last night proved that well enough.’

‘You seem to like my body,’ she smiled, chuckling throatily, the hard points of her nipples almost brushing his chest. He had the fleeting impression that they could stab him to the heart.

‘Your father… I was scared. He’d have killed me,’ he said as she picked up her clothes unselfconsciously, bundling them into a ball and throwing them into a corner next to a little torn apron.

She took his hand and lifted it to her breast, feeling how he trembled. ‘He’d never have known, Vin.’

‘Bitch!’

They had both forgotten Gunilda, who had remained seated on her stool, and who now stood and hurled herself at her daughter, flailing with her fists.

‘Get away from him! What are you, a she-devil? You would whore in my own house? Get out, you fool, leave this place!’ she shrieked at Vin, and he retreated from her.

‘You call me a bitch?’ Felicia bawled. ‘You dare call me that after lying back and letting him rape me every night? And you know what he did with those girls, don’t you? When they batted their eyelashes at him, he went with them! And you let him, you old cow!’

‘Get out, boy! Have nothing to do with her!’ Gunilda shouted at Vin.

All he could do was flee, and he pelted from the place, out to the yard. He could remember every curve and swell of her body as though it was there before him, and the thought of lying with her tore at him, making him wonder whether he should go back, ask her to walk out with him, away from the house, back to their riverbank, but as he reached the main roadway, he paused and leaned against a pollarded tree, resting his brow on the bark. A thin mizzle was falling, kissing his face with a touch as light as a fairy’s, gentle little kisses that began to soothe him.

Then, listening to the river, he realised that he now knew what had happened. And he couldn’t tell anyone.