The Sticklepath Strangler aktm-12

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Shut up, will you, Vin,’ he said sharply. It was difficult to concentrate. Drogo knew nothing at all about this Keeper. Fleetingly he wondered whether Baldwin was as corrupt as other men in official positions, but he knew he couldn’t count on it. Bribing a King’s Officer was a risky business.

  The Coroner was the same. Drogo had met him briefly when he came to the vill earlier, a big, powerful man with the glowering mien that showed he was used to finding liars wherever he looked. With him was another fellow, tall and rangy, with an open expression that hinted at integrity. He, Drogo heard, was one of the Tavistock Abbot’s men, a Stannary Bailiff charged with maintaining the law among the tin miners on the moors.

  Three officials, all important men, none of them known to Drogo for corruption. He was convinced that he would be found out, and the thought made his belly turn to liquid. If the identity of his son’s mother was discovered, he knew his life would be in danger; if the truth of his involvement seven years ago in the death of Royal Purveyor Ansel de Hocsenham became known, he would be executed. No doubt about that. The King couldn’t allow someone who had offended his authority to live. Drogo would be hanged, his chattels forfeit to the Crown, his body left hanging to be picked at by crows and ravens. Not alone: he’d take Reeve Alexander with him.

  The Purveyor would never have died if the King hadn’t decided to send him here. A Purveyor was only a spy, a thief, a bent, niggardly whoreson dog’s shit who would take the food from a starving family’s mouth without caring, and Ansel de Hocsenham was one of the worst. Always looking to see how he could enrich himself, and to hell with anyone else. He would have seen the whole population die. Bastard! Drogo knew the importance of power to control people, for without that power, people would run amok. Any King’s Officer knew how vital it was to keep the King’s Peace. Still, if Ansel hadn’t died, Sticklepath would be a shadow now, a place filled with ghosts and nothing more. Drogo had been to Hound Tor, and had seen how a vill could be destroyed.

  Hound Tor was a ghost-town all right. The famine had ruined the place; gradually families had given up, leaving their dwellings and taking their few remaining animals with them as they made their way down into the valleys seeking better soil in which to grow their crops, and better pastures for their cattle and the few sheep which had survived the successive murrains.

  The place was desolate now. Only two years before he visited it, seven families had lived there, and their noise and chatter, the contented sounds of their animals, created a healthy row. The stream, dammed further up the hill, provided all their water, and the hillside was enough for their meagre crops of rye and oats.

  That was then. When Drogo went that last time, just after the floods had washed away the crops for the second year, the place was empty. Two dogs scavenged among the weeds that grew in the Reeve’s old house, searching for scraps, but the people were gone. As Drogo walked between the houses, looking in at the little ovens used to try to dry the sodden grain, he had encountered only bats and the odd rat. The roofs were sagging, the hurdles and fencing on the point of collapse. It was a depressing experience.

  If that evil bastard had succeeded, Sticklepath would have ended the same way. It was one thing to take from a community in a time of plenty, but to try to steal from people when they had insufficient to tide them over to the next harvest was unforgivable.

  At least the Purveyor’s body had never been found. They had hidden it well enough up on the hill. Not like those little bitches killed over the last few years. Drogo had heard the complaints of the parents, their grief as the bodies were discovered, but he had no sympathy for them. His own little lass Isabelle had died during the famine, and he didn’t remember anyone giving him much support. After his wife’s death, he had not married again – it would have been an insult to his dead woman – so he had never sired another daughter. At least the fathers who mourned their children hadn’t been forced to watch them starve to death.

  ‘Drogo? You all right?’

  It was Adam Thorne who spoke, a short, wiry man with the dark hair and features of a moorman. He was one of Drogo’s oldest serving men. He had been a Forester for nine years now, and knew the moor like the back of his own hairy hands. His shambling limp tired him quickly, the pain from the badly mended leg a constant reminder of the cart which had run over it. Drogo had only seen him lose his temper once. Adam had picked up a farmer who was twice his weight and punched him twice in the face while the man was in the air, before hurling him through a door into the street. Drogo had made a mental note on the spot never to upset Adam.

  At Adam’s side was Peter atte Moor, who stood eyeing his leader anxiously. Slim, with ferret-like features, the man had never got over the death of Denise, his young daughter. Pale, with bright eyes, he always looked feverish. The only time he looked contented was when he saw felons paying for their crimes. There had been a hanging last year, and Drogo saw him lose his haunted look. Instead he became calm, serene, almost like a man in a sleep. As the condemned man’s body twitched and jerked, Peter relaxed, as though the sight was soothing.

  ‘I’m fine. Fine. I just don’t like having strangers in my vill,’ Drogo said.

  ‘Do you think they’ll be here for long?’ asked Vincent. ‘I’d have thought they’d soon go.’

  Vincent Yunghe had the expression of a dog desperately eager to please, Drogo thought contemptuously. The youngest of the Foresters, Vin was only in the group because Jack Yunghe had asked Drogo to look after him when he was dying. Vin’s mother was long dead by then, and Jack had been desperate to see his son under the protection of his old friend Drogo, but although Jack died pleased to know that his son was under the wing of a powerful Forester, he had not realised how much Drogo loathed the lad.

  Vin was weakly and insipid, a pathetic fool. Drogo detested him – and yet was bound to him. It was a bloody nuisance.

  Drogo hawked and spat. ‘There isn’t the Keeper born who can scare me. Nor Coroner, neither.’

  ‘What, even if they find out about the Pur–’

  He got no further. Drogo thrust him back against a wall, his fists gripping handfuls of the young man’s tunic. ‘So you think they might find something out, eh? I reckon they’d only do that if someone told them. Now who’d do a stupid thing like that, Vin?’

  As he released Vin with a snort, Drogo noticed the faint twitch at Peter’s cheek, and knew that if he gave the order, Peter would punch, kick, stab or batter puny Vincent to death.

  ‘Now you listen to me, lad,’ Drogo hissed. ‘You forget everything you’ve heard about deaths in this vill. If I learn that someone has been blabbing to the Coroner or his friends, I’ll come and find you, and when I do, I’ll tear out your entrails with my bare hands and feed them to the dogs! Got that?’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘That goes for you others as well. If anyone opens their trap, I’ll make sure they suffer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell, Drogo,’ Vin whispered. ‘I’m your man, you know that.’

  ‘You?’ Drogo sneered. ‘You serve me from fear, and that’s good. Don’t lose that fear, boy, because if you do, I’ll ruin you.’

  Adam Thorne watched without interest. As Drogo turned away, Vin stood with his head hanging. ‘Better get a move on, boy,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘You don’t want to upset the man.’

  There was spirit in Vin’s retort. ‘Don’t call me boy!’

  Even with his misshapen leg, Adam was taller than Vin and now he pulled the lad up until Vincent’s resentful face was on a level with his own. Adam wore a faint smile, as though he was amused by some joke that only he could understand.

  ‘Boy, I’ll call you anything I like. Anything at all.’

  ‘Let go of me!’

  Adam’s face held only an expression of mild regret, almost sadness as he gazed at Vin. ‘Don’t ever raise your voice to me again, boy. Show respect for those who know more than you.’

  ‘Enough!’ Drogo said. He was staring back at Baldwin. The knight was at
the far end of the vill now, walking towards the steep hill, and Drogo tried to put him and the Coroner from his mind. ‘We have work to do. There’s no point in fighting among ourselves when there are plenty of thugs out on the moors to keep us busy. Come on, back to work! And afterwards I’ll buy you all ale in the tavern.’

  After the long journey, Baldwin was relieved to be able to wander about the vill and stretch his muscles, Aylmer trailing behind, sniffing at every bush, corner and post.

  Baldwin was aware of eyes watching him at every step, but now he knew that the Coroner was here, he was less bothered. Roger must have been throwing his weight about.

  The road was a swathe of mud, and he took a straight line past the chapel and cemetery, which had a row of pollarded trees and a fence of hurdles to keep dogs from digging up the bones of the dead. At the far side, where the mill lay, there was a low stone wall. Baldwin circled around the cemetery and headed towards the mill. It had a great overshot wheel, and he stood watching it turn slowly as the water poured into the wooden compartments, some splashing over the sides, and listening to the dull rumbling of the massive stones grinding against each other inside. It was always good to see how mechanisation made life easier for people, he thought. The mill would help feed the place, saving men and women from the drudgery of grinding grain themselves, and earning Lord Hugh a little revenue from the miller’s profit.

  Baldwin passed the mill and found himself at the foot of the hill. This, he knew, was the road out to the west, towards Cornwall. He started up it, thinking that it might be interesting to see the vill from a different angle, and soon he found it rising steeply, but after a short way it levelled off and he could breathe more easily. Quite a way ahead, he saw two men standing close to a broken wall. One was a tallish fellow, clad in a faded blue tunic of some coarse-looking material, and gripping a polearm in his hand. However, it was the guard’s companion who caught Baldwin’s attention.

  He was a thickset little man, not a dwarf, but only marginally taller than one. If he had been a child, Baldwin would have said he was some ten or eleven years old, but he was plainly much older than that. His face sprouted a thick dark beard, and there was only a small area between his wide-brimmed hat and moustache for his eyes to peer through, like a suspicious peasant watching a stranger approach his house through a crack in a wall. Although he was short, Baldwin had the impression of great power in his frame. His shoulders were broad, his hands the size of an adult man’s, and his legs were planted widely apart like a fighter’s.

  While Baldwin watched, the guard let his weapon slip into the crook of his arm and lifted the front of his tunic to direct a stream of urine at the roots of a nearby tree. His companion nodded down the lane, pointing at Baldwin with his chin, and both eyed Baldwin with what looked like suspicion. Baldwin, who was growing heartily bored with being the object of so much silent observation, met the guard’s stare with one that showed his authority. He would not knuckle under to some peasant.

  Aylmer noticed the men too, and Baldwin heard him rumbling deep in his throat. The dog padded past Baldwin, his head dropping as his pace slowed to a more menacing stalk. Hackles up, it seemed as though he had a stripe of darker fur running from his nose to his tail, but then he looked sheepish when Baldwin called him back.

  There was nothing strange about finding a man watching over the body; the law demanded that when a body was found, it was the duty of the local vill to protect it from predators, and Baldwin was pleased that the locals here took their responsibilities seriously. Not all did. There were many stories told by Coroner Roger of vills which, when they discovered a suspicious death, kept the fact secret, later arranging for the body to be carried away to another hamlet so as to avoid incurring fines at an inquest. There were other people who sought to avoid taxes by simply burying a newly discovered body without calling in the Coroner. They were always fined heavily for their attempt at evasion.

  Not that it was always villagers who were guilty. Coroner Roger had once mentioned a corrupt Coroner who sought to line his pocket by charging to attend inquests. One village was shocked to learn that he demanded a whole shilling just to view the corpse, and the villagers were forced to argue with him, desperate to avoid yet another fine on top of all the legitimate costs they could scarcely afford. While they negotiated, they set bushes about the body to protect it from the dogs and wild animals. By the time the argument was concluded and the Coroner visited, the hedge had taken root and had to be hacked back to allow him to view the now putrefied corpse.

  It was tempting to continue up the road, but Baldwin decided against it. His flank was still aching badly after his long ride, and he had no wish to be involved in another argument like the one at the tavern, so he began his descent to the vill. A short way down the hill, there was a track to his left and Aylmer stood at it hopefully.

  ‘I should have thought you would be tired,’ Baldwin chuckled, but he set off down the path, driven by no more than an idle whim. New paths always intrigued him.

  He found himself being taken downhill through a dark section of woodland, away from the main part of the vill. On his right he could see the vill’s buildings every so often, but for the most part the lane was deeply sunken and the only view was ahead, while the path continued ever gloomier and murkier in among the trees.

  At gaps he caught glimpses of the system of strip fields running perpendicular to the main road itself. Men, women and their children were working there, bent double as they pulled at the weeds, the long lines of crops stretching away, each strip owned by a different person. It was a natural, peaceful picture, and Baldwin smiled as he took it all in, watching one man stand and walk many yards to another strip, presumably another of his own, for each man would hold chunks of each field so that if any field were to fail the vill, no single family would starve, but all would suffer a diminution of their crop. God’s plenty was to be shared fairly, as the priests said.

  Gradually, as he carried on, Baldwin became aware of the silence growing about him. It was as though the farther he went from the Cornwall road and the vill itself, the farther too he travelled from civilisation and security. The low growths at either side, which were obviously regularly harvested for firewood and building materials, began to look stunted and unhealthful. At their feet the grasses were yellowed, strangled by the vigorous brambles all about, and although the nearer bushes were short and scrubby-looking, there were enough taller trees beyond to send out great boughs overhead which effectively cut off the light, so that he felt as though he was walking along a dimly lit tunnel.

  It was the lack of noise which he found most unsettling. The only thing he could hear was the padding of Aylmer’s paws and the mud sucking at his boots. It made a liquid belching noise, almost as though it were alive – an oddly disturbing reflection. He found himself stepping more carefully in order to prevent that unpleasant sound.

  Baldwin was used to peacefulness in the country, but this lack of noise was different. As he reminded himself, he was not superstitious, yet the very air seemed to hold something which was utterly antagonistic to mankind; something evil. His steps faltered. High overhead there was a dry rustle as a breeze caught the leaves, a quiet creaking as one branch moved against another, but apart from that there was nothing, or not at first.

  From somewhere on his left he heard a sharp crackle, a sound so fleeting that he could almost have thought he had imagined it, but his senses were too well honed. After the destruction of the Templars he had often been forced to evade capture, and a man who has once been hunted learns to trust his eyes and ears. At this moment Baldwin’s ears told him that there was a man in the woods: not close, but not far either. Baldwin was sure that the man was listening for him even as he himself waited, listening intently.

  Aylmer cocked his head as if suspecting that his master had addled his brains, then padded onwards unconcernedly.

  Baldwin followed after him, occasionally glancing back towards the source of that sound, but could see
nothing. Then, as he turned his attention to the road ahead, he thought he glimpsed movement. Peering around a tree trunk, he caught sight of a clearing through the trees. Then, as he took in the scene, he felt the hairs on his back, on his arms, on his neck and head beginning to rise and his heart pounded with a fierce energy that left him breathless.

  There, at a tree, was a figure, standing with head bowed. The face was concealed in the shadow of a hood which dropped down over the head almost as far as the chest. Slim, short, and clad in grey tatters and shreds, it was eerily similar to the figure he had so often seen in his dreams. He couldn’t see the apparition’s feet, for they were concealed by brambles, but even as he stared in horror, the hooded head began to lift, as though to meet Baldwin’s gaze.

  Later, he was not proud of his instant reaction. As the head rose and he could see the outline of a round, pale chin, his courage left him and he bolted. When he saw Aylmer disappearing around a bend in the lane ahead, unconcernedly trotting on, Baldwin felt a sudden panic at the thought that he should be left here alone, and bellowed to his dog. Aylmer faced him, his head on one side, an expression of mild enquiry on his face, and when Baldwin summoned his courage and looked back into the clearing, there was nothing there.

  Only the certainty that he was being watched.

  Chapter Five

  Edgar helped the tavernkeeper carry his master’s belongings to the room at the back of the inn, then removed the previous occupants’ things.

  ‘They won’t be happy,’ Taverner said morosely.

  Edgar made no comment. His master required the room, so whoever had been there first must move. Lady Jeanne and Edgar’s own wife Petronilla needed protection from the gaze of strangers. Here in the room there was a bed for them both with its own mattress. Petronilla went to it and sniffed at the bedclothes, pulling a face. It was normal enough to have to share a bed, to sleep between sheets which had not been washed for weeks and which had been used by all the travellers who had stayed at the inn, but that didn’t mean Petronilla had to accept it. She was not content to sleep among the odours of another’s sweat or worse.