The Sticklepath Strangler aktm-12

by Michael Jecks

  ‘No. Your daughter. Found a body up the sticklepath. She’s not well. Needs you.’

  Nicole gaped, then rushed past him. Outside, she could see across the puddled soil of the roadway that there was a gathering crowd up on the sticklepath itself. Men and women were leaving the fields to go and gawp. There was a second, smaller group at the door to the tavern, and she guessed that her daughter must be there. Lifting her skirts, she ran, unheeding of the muddy water that splashed about her bare feet and ankles.

  ‘Joan? Joan, where are you?’

  Emma sat on the tavern’s only bench, sobbing and incapable of speech, a large pot of strong ale at her side, but Nicole could see no sign of her own daughter. She was about to go to Emma’s side and shake her, demanding where Joan was, when she felt a hand touching her arm. It was as if Swetricus understood her terror – as he would, she reminded herself.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘She’s with others – showing them where it was. Here she comes now.’

  Seeing Joan walking down the lane towards them, Nicole was tempted to run to her and gather her up in a hug. She should be as petrified as poor Emma, she was only young, only ten years old… but something held the woman back. It was the tall, rangy traveller walking at her daughter’s side. He had his hand on the girl’s shoulder in a way that made Nicole’s hackles rise.

  The stranger was of a heavier build than Thomas, with long, unkempt hair of a pale brown, and eyes that might have belonged to a cat; they were a peculiar shade of green, wide-set and intelligent. His mouth had full lips, and although he wore a solemn and respectful look, he was quick to smile at Nicole as he approached the tavern.

  In that smile there was something wrong. Nicole always judged people quickly, and this man, she felt sure, was false. There was a veneer of sympathy there, but no more than that. His sole interest was himself.

  Joan rushed to her mother, burying her face in Nicole’s skirt.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Nicole said, gently tousling her daughter’s hair.

  Joan looked up, and in her face there was a mature, fearless expression. ‘I wasn’t scared, Mother. Emma was, but I wasn’t.’

  ‘She’s telling the truth there, madame,’ said the stranger, hearing her accent. ‘She was more intrigued than fearful.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Swetricus demanded from behind her.

  ‘Miles Houndestail, master,’ the stranger said, bowing graciously. He was clad in simple hose, with a short tunic over a shirt, and a leather jack to keep out the wind. In his hand was a felt cap with several pilgrim badges pinned to it, and he wore a long-bladed knife in his belt, next to his horn. ‘I’m a simple Pardoner, here to assist those who seek God’s forgiveness.’

  ‘What was so scary?’ Nicole asked her daughter.

  ‘The skull. It rolled down past me and finished up with Emma. She became hysterical.’

  ‘Skull?’ Nicole repeated dully.

  ‘Yes. Drogo said he thinks it must be poor Aline.’

  Nicole gasped and turned to see whether Swetricus had heard. He must have, but he merely stood and watched the men huddled about the body up on the sticklepath with an unreadable expression, saying nothing.

  His daughter Aline had disappeared many years ago, but surely he would still show some reaction on hearing that at last her corpse had been found? Any father would – wouldn’t he?

  Chapter Two

  Only a matter of days after Joan and Emma’s discovery, Sir Baldwin Furnshill lay on a bench in his garden before his house, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face as he dozed, listening idly to the peasants in the fields. Overhead, larks sang in the sunshine and a pair of doves called to each other in his oak. They sounded delightful, and he decided that he would have a pair or two killed. His wife loved the taste of them roasted with honey.

  The sounds of laughter and birdsong were wonderfully soporific. Gradually he found himself slipping into sleep, but not into a happy daydream; this was a nightmare, the same he had endured many times before.

  He was in some woods – he did not know where or why. All he knew was that he was pursued by a nameless dread, and as he rushed forward, raising his arms to protect his face against brambles and twigs, he scarcely knew which to fear most – the pursuit or the horror which awaited him.

  Soon he could see it: a broad swathe of grass. The sun pierced the high canopy of leaves here, and he could detect an odour – of roasting meat – of human flesh. The smell was noisome, sickly sweet, and then he reached the clearing and could see the man bound to the tree, his body slumped forward, his legs consumed in the fire that raged about his feet. It was a Knight Templar, from the cross at his breast, and then Baldwin recognised him. He was one of Baldwin’s friends, a knight who had died in the mass burnings in Paris after the death of Jacques de Molay, the Templar Grand Master. Even in his dream, Baldwin knew that this man had died many years before, and yet as he stared in horror, the scene was horribly real.

  The knight was dead. No man could live with the flames licking upwards as they were now about his breast, but as Baldwin stopped and stared, he saw the head rise, saw the blackened skin about the eyes crack as the lids opened, and saw the mouth fall wide as though to call him…

  He came to with a start, a cold sweat all over his face and back, a shivering like the ague, his breath coming in short gasps. Aylmer rose and padded softly to his side. The glossy rache, Baldwin’s hunting dog, stood near him with his head set to one side, his tan eyebrows frowning and his forehead wrinkled with concern. Baldwin stroked the animal to reassure him.

  Above him the swallows called, whirling and spinning in the warm summer air. A pair of buzzards circled lazily high over the fields towards Cadbury, and when he gazed southwards, he could see a hundred rooks slowly rising into the air as one of his villeins’ sons threw stones or shouted at them. Looking about him, he could feel his heartbeat returning to normal, his breathing growing calmer. Feeling the sun on his face, he was aware of a curious sense of anti-climax. The world was unchanged. People strained and worked without fear, he could hear a woman singing, and cattle moaned gently as they chewed the cud.

  The dream regularly impinged upon his sleeping mind, not every night, but often enough to unsettle him. Its roots lay in the violence which had begun long ago when his comrades in the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, were burned at the stake. Baldwin felt a residual guilt for having survived the persecution, and the dreams were a reflection of that guilt.

  Resolutely non-superstitious he might be, but he was still prey to the prickings of conscience, he told himself as he wiped away the sweat that filmed his forehead.

  With that reflection, he broke wind and grinned to himself, glancing around to make sure that no one had heard him. It would not do for the Master of Furnshill, the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, to be overheard indulging in such shameful behaviour.

  Shaking off any lingering anxiety, he yawned, then stretched voluptuously. At once he had to stifle a curse. A pain shot from under his shoulderblade, a reminder of his recent joust at Oakhampton’s tournament. His wounds no longer healed as quickly as they had when he was a young man, not that he would admit as much to his wife. She was already ruining him with her solicitous nursing. Much more of it and he would be as round as a football. Detestable sport that it was, he thought grumpily. Always led to violence and death.

  Still, it was a glorious day. He could, in sunshine such as this, forget the horrors of his past and the annoyance of football. The reflection made him grin to himself, but when he cast a look over his shoulder, there was another stab in his neck, and the breath hissed softly between his teeth.

  Baldwin was a grey-haired man in his late forties with the strong shoulders and thick neck of a trained sword-fighter. Only one scar testified to his past as a warrior: it stretched from temple to jaw, a souvenir from the battles about Acre. The sole incongruity about him was the neatly trimmed and still dark beard,
which followed the line of his jaw. Not many men wore beards these days, especially among the knightly class.

  Only two years ago his features had reflected the anguish which he had endured after the destruction of his Order and the slaughter of his companions, but recently his face had lost much of the torment, although there were still deep tracks scored at either side of his mouth, creases at his forehead, and a lowering wariness in his dark eyes that sometimes alarmed people when he stared intently at them. It had been said that he could see beyond a man’s lies, through to a man’s soul. He only wished that were true.

  Since marrying he had found a new delight in life and had gladly thrown off the melancholy which had cloaked him for so long. As he must soon throw away this tunic, he told himself as he gazed down at his growing paunch. His wife had seen to it that his diet had subtly altered, and his frame was filling out. The proof of this was the way that his tunics fitted: tightly. It was partly due, too, to lack of exercise. Whenever he took his ease he found his weight increased alarmingly and he felt lethargic.

  That was certainly the case after last year’s Christmas celebrations in Exeter, and now, since recuperating for a week or two after the tournament at Oakhampton, he could feel his belly becoming uncomfortable once more. He needed a ride, a series of fast gallops and hunts to work off some of this weight. That would make him feel better. Not that there was much chance of that. Lady Jeanne would never let him take exercise until she was convinced that he was entirely cured.

  He glanced at his dog, Aylmer, who stood, his tail sweeping slowly from side to side.

  ‘So you want to go out too,’ Baldwin muttered. He put out a hand to stroke Aylmer’s head again, but the dog ducked away, springing back, ready to head for the stables, staring at Baldwin enquiringly.

  ‘It is tempting,’ Baldwin said, just as Jeanne, his wife, came through the doorway. Not hearing her, he had sat up and was about to throw off the thick woollen cloak that lay over his legs, when he caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye.

  ‘Bugger! Too late,’ he muttered ungraciously.

  Aylmer saw her too, and slunk away.

  ‘Coward!’ Baldwin hissed, and then turned to meet Jeanne’s steely gaze with an innocent smile.

  ‘Baldwin, where were you going?’

  He felt unaccountably like a mischievous urchin caught scrumping apples, and the sensation put him in a bad humour. ‘I was only going to fetch some wine,’ he grunted.

  ‘There is no need – I have brought drinks.’

  Baldwin looked up into the impassive features of his servant, Edgar. The steward gazed back without allowing his face to reflect his true feelings. ‘What are you staring at?’ Baldwin snapped.

  ‘Don’t be troublesome, my love,’ Jeanne said soothingly. ‘You know it is for your own good. Please sit back and rest.’

  He obeyed, but with a bad grace, scowling at the view. ‘A fine day like this, hounds bursting to be out, a destrier that needs exercise, and you have me hobbled like an old man. I can’t sleep properly…’

  ‘Have you had that dream again?’

  ‘I need exercise to be able to rest,’ he said quickly, recalling that Jeanne took dreams seriously, thinking them to be omens. ‘I just woke up with a start, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you had another nightmare?’

  ‘Superstitious maundering!’

  ‘Don’t mumble,’ Jeanne said imperturbably. ‘If you hadn’t submitted to trial by combat, you wouldn’t have hurt yourself so badly and I wouldn’t have to nurse you, so lie back like a good wounded knight and drink this.’

  ‘This’ was a warming strong wine sweetened with honey and flavoured with spices. She motioned to Edgar. He held the cup to Baldwin, who irritably took it and sipped.

  ‘There must be some magic in this,’ he growled reluctantly after a few moments.

  Jeanne sent Edgar away and smiled at her husband, her features pleasantly shaded and softened by the trees above. The gentle light emphasised the softness of her skin, making her blue eyes seem more sparkling and alive with humour. ‘Magic?’

  ‘What else can it be, my Lady? I was prepared to be angry, chafing at the silken fetters with which you have me bound here, yet one sip and I feel as though it is better to lie here for ever than get on with the thousands of little tasks which ought to occupy me.’

  Jeanne laughed aloud. She was a tall, slender woman of some thirty years, but her red-gold hair was as soft and bright as that of a young woman, and her mischievous expression gave her an impish charm. Her face was regular, if a little round; her nose short, perhaps too small; her mouth over-wide with a full upper lip that gave her a stubborn appearance; her forehead was maybe too broad – but to Baldwin she was perfection.

  ‘Well, my Lord, I am glad if my wine is so effective,’ she joked, then grew serious. ‘But I would rather you had not been so battered and had not needed my medicine.’

  ‘I have my duties, my Lady,’ he said sharply.

  ‘And right now your duty is to yourself, Baldwin. God’s blood! Will it help anyone if you work yourself into the grave? You must give yourself time to heal.’

  ‘Very well, and I will try to avoid battles in future,’ he said, only half mockingly. He had no intention of getting into any more fights, not at his age – although he was concerned about the current political situation, which could lead to an armed struggle.

  ‘Are you troubled, my love?’

  He smiled. ‘You recognise my moods too well.’

  ‘It is easy when you sigh like that. You are thinking of the King?’

  ‘Not him particularly, but his advisers: the Despensers.’

  News had filtered down to them gradually after the disaster of Boroughbridge. Earl Thomas of Lancaster had been caught there and executed by his nephew the King, and almost instantly King Edward II had reneged on the agreements won after so much strife. He had called a parliament in May and revoked the exile imposed on his friends the Despensers, but that was not all. Edward was still bitter about the way his powers had been curtailed. He had repealed the Ordinances which had been created to protect his realm from incompetent or corrupt advisers, and now, for the first time in his reign, he held supreme power.

  This absolute control meant that he could reward those whom he considered his friends, and he lavished lands, wealth and titles on the Despensers. Hugh the Elder was created Earl of Winchester, while his son received many of the estates of the Marcher Lords, the nobles from the Welsh borders who had dared to stand against Edward II and his friends in the brief Despenser Wars.

  ‘It will lead to disaster,’ Baldwin said grimly.

  ‘Perhaps we can look forward to a period of stability,’ Jeanne said. ‘The King’s enemies are dead or imprisoned, and he will surely wish for peace himself.’

  ‘I expect he will,’ Baldwin said, but added heavily, ‘It is not him whom I fear, though. The Despensers are dangerous, avaricious men. With the consent of the King they have acquired almost the whole of Wales over the claims of those who have remained loyal to Edward. And then there is the Queen. How must she feel, now that the King has his closest friend back with him?’ Baldwin did not need to spell it out. The whole kingdom knew about the allegations that Hugh Despenser the Younger was the King’s lover.

  Jeanne was aware of her husband’s tolerance for homosexuals. When he fought in the hell-hole of Acre, the last of the Crusader cities, until it fell, he had seen men who preferred other men to women. That he felt no disgust for such behaviour seemed peculiar in the extreme to her. Sodomy was sinful, and she agreed privately with Baldwin’s friend Simon Puttock, who had made his own opposition to such practices perfectly clear. Simon never minced his words.

  But she was sure that Baldwin was right to be thinking of the poor Queen. Isabella had recently given birth to another child, a daughter, while locked up in the Tower for her own protection during the King’s successful campaign against Lancaster. Rumours said that the poor woman had been forced to
give birth in a room with a leaking roof, and the rain spattered her even as the child was born. Jeanne shivered at the thought. It was an awful idea, as though the Queen was imprisoned so that the King might be free to enjoy his lover. ‘How will she react to the return of Despenser?’

  ‘I am sure she will tolerate her husband’s… um…’ Baldwin’s voice trailed off.

  Jeanne noticed he was staring at Aylmer, who frowned at a rider cantering along the road. As she watched, the rider reined in at the end of the track which led to Furnshill, then pulled his horse’s head around and aimed for them. Aylmer stood, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.

  Keeping an eye on him, Jeanne answered, ‘I can guess at her reaction. She is French, Husband, and herself the daughter of a King. I have lived among the French, as you know, and I think I know how a Frenchwoman would react to learning that her husband had little interest in her. She would not be patient for… Baldwin? Perhaps you would prefer me to demonstrate how a French wife would behave when she was being ignored?’

  Hearing the caustic edge to her voice, he tore his gaze from the approaching rider. ‘Sorry, my Lady?’

  ‘Nothing, Husband,’ Jeanne said with poisonous sweetness. ‘I am sure I was only talking nonsense. What interest could it be to you? Who is it on that horse?’

  Baldwin was squinting in his effort to recognise the rider. ‘I can’t quite see.’

  Jeanne cast a quick look over her shoulder, but she need not have worried. Edgar, who had been sergeant to Baldwin in the Order of the Templars, and who took seriously his duty to protect his master, was already approaching, a long staff in his hands. He stopped a short distance from Sir Baldwin, resting the staff on the ground, gripping it loosely in his right hand, ready to deflect an attack.

  The rider was a young man, probably not yet twenty, with sandy hair and the thin, pinched features of hunger. He reined in before the door, near to where Baldwin, Jeanne and Edgar waited, and ducked his head like a man used to being polite to officials. ‘My Lady, God’s blessing on you. I seek Sir Baldwin Furnshill – is he here?’