Athelhard, the man accused of murder. Athelhard the innocent.
‘God forgive me,’ the priest whispered, grabbing his wineskin. ‘Please, God, forgive me!’
Chapter Three
Simon Puttock didn’t need a messenger to ask him to join Sir Roger. He was still at Oakhampton’s great castle, recently renovated and modernised by Hugh Courtenay, because he had helped Lord Hugh to stage the tournament at which Baldwin himself had been wounded.
Tall, dark-haired, with the ruddy complexion of a man who spent hours each week on the moors, Simon was shattered, worn down by the grinding efforts of the last few weeks. First it had been the trial of creating the field, setting up the grandstands, laying out the positions of the markets and agreeing where the tents and pavilions for the knights and their men should be erected, but then he’d been forced into the hectic post of field’s marshal, keeping the peace and ensuring the smooth running of the whole event.
If he’d succeeded, he might feel less emotionally drained, but he hadn’t. There had been a series of murders, now resolved to the satisfaction of all, but that didn’t hide the fact that people had died while he was there running the thing. The pageantry and festivities went off well enough, but Simon hadn’t been in a position to enjoy them. Instead he’d spent his time working doggedly at uncovering the murderer with his friend Baldwin and the local coroner.
All about him the roadway was filled with puddles. The detritus from the market and tented area had already been gathered up and burned or thieved by the poorer elements of the town, and all that was left was the inevitable mud after the rains. Sometimes Simon wondered whether he would ever see the predictable, seasonal weather he had known as a lad. It was all very well his wife laughing that he always hankered after better times from his youth when all was golden and wonderful, but things had been better. The winters had been cold and snowy, the summers drier and warmer.
He stopped and gazed about him, taking in the sodden grass, the dark, soaked soil ratted with cart-tracks and hoofprints, booted and bare feet, the marks of dogs and cats and children, and his lip curled. This was one of the worst summers he’d ever known. The famine years of 1315 and 1316 had been terrible, but this year of Our Lord 1322 was a continuation. It was as though there was some sort of blight on the country.
At least his wife and daughter were back home in Lydford. They would have hated being locked up in the castle during the rains. He missed them terribly. Margaret, his Meg, tall and slender as a willow, with her long fair hair and full breasts; his daughter Edith, the coltish young woman of fourteen or fifteen – it was hard to remember now – who at Oakhampton had proved that she was no longer merely his daughter, but was grown into an attractive woman.
He missed them, yes, but he was glad that they were gone. Edith was in so gloomy a temper since the end of the tournament… Simon pushed away the unpleasant memory, hoping that back in the happy, bustling town of Lydford, she would soon forget her misery. Her many admirers would see to that.
It was better than having them moping here. A castle filled with the retinue of a lord was a loud, exciting place, full of roaring, singing men, and wayward-looking women – not only whores: Simon had been surprised at the behaviour of some of the well born, married women. However, as the people faded away, Lord Hugh himself departing to visit Tavistock and then distant manors, taking his stewards, cooks, almoner, ostlers, ushers and bottlers and all the other men of his household with him, the place grew silent. All the local serfs commanded to serve Lord Hugh had cleared out, and only the small garrison remained. It was as though a burgh had been one day filled with people going about their business, and the next the place was dead: all the inhabitants struck down by God’s hand.
A shiver passed up his spine. It was scary to think such things, but he couldn’t help it. He was of a cheerful disposition generally, but he was also a Devonshire man, and that meant he was cursed with a powerful imagination. His friend Baldwin treated his wilder flights as the ravings of an irrational fool, although he usually mitigated the harshness of his words with an affectionate grin. Usually, anyway. Sometimes his irritation got the better of him.
No matter. Simon had been raised in Devon, meeting few strangers, only the occasional traveller, and was accustomed to hearing local stories about the strange things people had seen, the odd things they had heard. Baldwin could dismiss all this if he liked, but even the priests at Crediton’s canonical church knew of ghosts. When Simon had been a student there, he had heard them tell tales around the fire of an evening which had frozen the blood in his veins. Terrible stories of phantasms and ghouls, of ghosts which haunted the living, or even killed them. Simon had never seen one himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t believe in such things. He’d never seen an angel, but he didn’t need to in order to believe in them.
The end of the tournament had been a relief, but only now, with the stands pulled down, the castle all but closed, the lands cleared and all the guests gone, could Simon begin to relax. And it was a marvellous feeling, knowing that at last he could think about packing up his belongings and setting off for home.
He had reached this conclusion when he saw Sir Roger de Gidleigh cantering towards him. When the knight had drawn to a halt at his side, Simon put out a hand to pat the mount’s neck and looked up at him. ‘You only left two days ago. Did your wife chuck you out again?’
‘Her? She’s probably glad to see the back of me. Doesn’t like me mucking up the place,’ Sir Roger joked. He was a thickset man, strong in the arm and shoulder, but with a paunch that demonstrated his skill lay more with a knife and spoon than with a sword and spear. For all that, he rode his mount like a man bred to the saddle from an early age. His face was square and kindly, with warm brown eyes and a tightly cropped thatch of hair which was frosted about the temples – the only proof of his increasing years.
‘You mean you’ve come back here without even seeing her?’ Coroner Roger often derided his wife, but in reality Simon knew he was devoted to her. ‘What’s going on, man? Out with it. This is going to cost me money or time, I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Oh no, Bailiff, this won’t cost you. You and your friend have been requested to visit a delightful inn not far from here, that’s all.’
‘That sounds painless,’ Simon said suspiciously. ‘When you say “my friend”, do you mean yourself?’
‘I’ll be with you, Bailiff, but I meant Sir Baldwin.’
Simon eyed the grinning knight sourly. ‘Look here, I can’t just drop everything to come and view one of your corpses, Coroner.’
‘It’s already been discussed with Lord Hugh. He said, since the work here is finished, you’re free.’
Simon saw a loophole. ‘I don’t work for Lord Hugh. I’m a stannary bailiff and I report to the warden, Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock.’
‘Who has given his permission. Lord Hugh’s staying with him and has said all’s well. Come on, Bailiff! Wipe that grim expression from your face and join me in a jug of wine. I don’t have to see my wife for another week, and that’s enough excuse for a drink!’
Simon grimaced. In truth he was usually happy investigating crimes, but he had hoped to return home and take his rest. ‘Wine? Yes, a pint or two would be good.’
‘After all,’ Coroner Roger said conspiratorially, leaning down and winking at him, ‘this one’s better than most. I am informed that it’s the remains of a cannibal’s feast – and well ripened, too! Surely you wouldn’t want to miss a rarity like that, would you?’
Simon grunted, trying to instil an element of enthusiasm in the sound. He failed.
* * *
Approaching Sticklepath from the town of South Zeal, passing up the incline to the crossroads at the top, where he rested the horses and Aylmer, who sat and scratched with an intent expression on his face, Baldwin reflected that the view was attractive, with the vast rounded mass of Cosdon on his left and the rolling countryside of middle Devonshire ahead and to the right.
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‘Is it much farther now?’
Baldwin glanced across at his wife. She rode at his side on her white Arab, the gift he had given her on their wedding day. ‘I am sorry. If I could, I would have placed you in the wagon, because it would be more comfortable.’
‘The wagon would not have made it,’ she said. ‘The tracks are too steep, slippery and badly rutted. I’m more comfortable on horseback. Look at that hill. No wagon could climb that.’
He had to agree. The hill west of Sticklepath was a terrible climb. It was only a few weeks ago that Baldwin had travelled this route to the tournament at Oakhampton, but then he had not been considering the view, he had been contemplating the immediate future and the risk of being included in a joust. Now he looked at the trail, he could remember having heard that this must be one of the steepest sections of the road to Cornwall, and he could easily believe it was true.
The road curved away down the hill from Baldwin to become lost among trees and bushes. It reappeared on the far hill, but there it didn’t twist from side to side, but set off almost as straight as an arrow’s path upwards, defined by the moorstone walls at either side, which stood out clearly compared with the green tree-lined slopes.
‘It is not far,’ he said. ‘The vill is down in the valley.’
‘What is the vill like?’ she asked as they began the descent.
‘I cannot say that I noticed much. An inn, a mill… the normal things. When we got here, we rode through as quickly as we could, in our hurry to get to Oakhampton Castle. Do you recall anything, Edgar?’
‘Good pasture, plenty of wood for timber, and well-maintained field strips. And oh yes, it had been flooded. Apart from that, no, I didn’t see anything.’
Baldwin grinned. Edgar was a professional observer.
Their journey had not been as swift as he had hoped. They had set off the day before, but the clouds had opened and their journey from Crediton was hampered by thick mud on the roads. Twice Baldwin had been tempted to turn back, but each time the rains had seemed to lessen, and Petronilla, Edgar’s wife and Richalda’s nurse, was careful to keep the baby warm and dry beneath a thick woollen rug.
Although they now rode in bright sunshine, it was good to see that there were several fires roaring in the vill. That much was obvious from the smoke rising above the roofs. Baldwin felt clammy. His clothes needed drying and he knew that his wife and servants were just as damp.
Where the road met the river there was a shallow ford, and the horses splashed their way through it, leaving a dirty, streaming stain on the water as the soil was washed from their hooves. As soon as they left the pebbles that bounded the river, they were riding over an unmetalled roadway again, covered in glutinous, dark mud. The entire village was in this condition, and Baldwin wondered how anyone could remain clean for a moment.
As they rode towards the inn, a building on their left with a scrap of furze bush tied above the door to show that ale was on sale, Baldwin noticed some peasants watching him and his entourage. To his surprise, none looked at all welcoming: all were grim and suspicious, especially the four scruffily dressed men and one woman standing at the inn’s door. Baldwin was reminded of the stories he had heard of travellers becoming lost on a journey and finding themselves in strange surroundings. All too often the inhabitants of such vills would be wary, fearful of ‘foreigners’ from far distant places – which could mean someone from two villages away – and might hurl stones or worse at newcomers. There was a merchant recently who had complained to him about being pelted with dogshit, and another who was on the receiving end of sticks and clods of earth.
It was fortunate that this vill was on the Cornwall road, he told himself, because the people here should be well used to seeing strangers riding through. Otherwise, from the looks on their faces, he might have been tempted to bend low over his mount’s neck, rake his spurs along the beast’s flanks and ride hell for leather out of this place.
Perhaps the people here were just put out at the thought of the coroner’s arrival. That would mean fines for breaking the King’s Peace which would affect everybody in the vill, so it was no great surprise that they should eye strangers glumly.
At the inn he remained seated upon his horse while Edgar swung down from his saddle and strolled forward. There was a small group at the entrance, and Edgar stood a moment, waiting for them to part. Aylmer wandered along behind him and stood staring, head tilted.
Snatches of conversation wafted up to Baldwin even as the folk stared at him and his wife.
First he heard the woman. ‘She was pregnant. She told me so in confidence.’
‘Terrible if it’s true. Poor Aline!’
‘Would he kill her to silence her?’ the woman asked.
‘Who can tell?’ a man sighed.
To Baldwin’s surprise, the group did not give way to Edgar. Two men stood at the doorway, blocking it. A younger-looking man with startlingly fair hair planted himself next to them, while another, older man eyed Baldwin and curled his lip.
A broad fellow, with a rugged face and a badly broken nose, he looked the sort to have been involved in lots of fights, possibly the instigator of many of them. His gaze was unblinking, rather like a snake’s, and Baldwin half expected to see a forked tongue flicker from between the pale lips.
Not that he was entirely reptilian. Aged forty years old or so, he had the ruddy complexion of a moorman, and Baldwin would have put him down for a miner if his hands had been dirtier or more calloused, but although he had the appearance of a man who has laboured, his hands were not ingrained with dirt. Dressed in a good linen shirt under a crimson tunic, he was clearly no peasant. From his shoulder dangled a horn, while the dagger which hung from his belt looked well made, with a leather grip wired into place and an enamelled pommel; the sort of craftsmanship that a peasant could not afford. His clothes and knife spoke of money, and his manner showed he was of some rank, and probably power, since he dared show such studied insolence.
It was the first time Baldwin had seen Edgar’s swagger fail. Normally the controlled threat in his posture persuaded people to hurry from his path. Apparently folk here were less easily intimidated. Edgar stopped before the man, and Baldwin saw him rise on the balls of his feet, preparing for violence. Baldwin reached over his belly and felt for his sword, easing it in the sheath so that he could pull it free in a moment, but even as he shifted in his saddle, ready to kick his mount forward, the woman spoke up.
‘Drogo, you should not stop travellers from eating and drinking. They need sustenance.’ She had a pleasant, low voice, and Baldwin recognised her accent as French.
The man she called Drogo gently pushed her out of his way. ‘Quite so, Nicky, but I have a duty to keep an eye on people around here.’
‘Why is that your duty?’ Baldwin asked quietly. ‘Are you the reeve of this vill?’
That earned him a short laugh. ‘Do I look as stupid as Alexander? De Belston, he’s called, but only because his gut’s as great as a bell, the slug. No, I’m an official of the King, so you can begin by answering my questions and not by answering me back!’
‘Drogo, you shouldn’t.’
The fair, younger man, who wore faded brown hose and a much patched green tunic, stepped forward as though to persuade his companion not to intimidate Baldwin. He looked fit, maybe twenty-two years of age, and had a pleasant face, with weatherbeaten brown skin and calm grey eyes under thick, carelessly cropped hair that hadn’t seen a barber for some weeks. His eyebrows were delicately shaped arcs that sat high on his features, giving him an expression of perpetual astonishment, which Baldwin was sure would make him attractive to women.
Drogo shook his hand from his forearm. ‘Want to take my post, Vin?’ he sneered. ‘Is that it? You pathetic, poxed little turd. I lead this group, not you. That means I make the decisions about who I question and why.’
He stepped forward, carelessly allowing his shoulder to jostle Edgar as he passed. Edgar said nothing; he merely altered his
stance a little, placing his feet further apart, while Aylmer sat, gazing over his shoulder at Baldwin.
Baldwin was not concerned about his servant. Edgar had survived many fights, probably more than Baldwin himself, and yet bore no scars. He would be able to hold off the three men ranged before him on his own.
‘First of all, who are you, eh?’ The man was near Baldwin’s horse now, moving to the beast’s left side, where he would be safer from Baldwin’s sword arm. His eyes assessed the good leatherwork at saddle and bridle, the enamelled badges declaring Baldwin’s heredity. ‘Where are you from?’
‘By what authority do you ask?’
‘Just answer the question,’ Drogo snapped.
‘I am a traveller here, a stranger. Why should I answer your questions if you do not tell me the authority by which you ask?’
‘I told you I am a King’s man. Answer me!’
‘I, too, am a King’s official,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘So what rank are you?’
‘I have the rank of the man who demanded first, friend. I call you “friend” now, but soon I shall lose patience.’
He thrust his head forward, jaw jutting aggressively, but then he stopped. There was a low grumbling noise, and when he looked down, he met Aylmer’s face snarling up at him, right near his cods. He sprang back, his hand going to his knife. ‘Keep that brute away from me!’
Baldwin smiled, but there was no humour in his face. He was annoyed that this self-important bully should dare to delay him in his business. Edgar, he could see, was as ready as a cocked crossbow, waiting for the signal to attack.
Then his irritation left him. Drogo was a foolish man overcome with his authority in this, his own little sphere. It was ridiculous that he and Sir Baldwin should be standing up to each other like a pair of game cocks while men prepared to do battle on their behalf. If Baldwin pushed the matter, he might be forced to put the other to the sword, and Edgar would risk his life in battle against three. There was no point.
The Sticklepath Strangler Page 5
