The Sticklepath Strangler

by Michael Jecks

  Thomas forgot his daughter as the angry flush coloured his cheeks. ‘You have never lain with my wife, you lying bastard!’

  ‘Ah, she didn’t want you to know. Perhaps the comparison did not favour you! But yes, I had her three times that first time I came through here after you returned from France. In the one day. You were out working, and – well, so was I in my own way. Ha! But she lacks a certain something, doesn’t she? In the bed. Enthusiastic, but not satisfying.’

  With a growl low in his throat, Thomas felt the rage wash over and smother him. It was enough. The taunts had served to flare his frustration and fear into flames of rage, and as he looked at Ivo, there was a red mist, as though there was a fine spray of blood between them. Thomas leaped for him, grabbing for Ivo’s long robe, even as his brother gave a short squeak of alarm and bolted up the road.

  Thomas didn’t hesitate. He gave chase, reaching with his long arms for the flapping material before him, and as they reached the reeve’s house, he caught it. Snatching it quickly, he stopped his brother in his tracks.

  Ivo scarcely knew what had happened to him. In an instant he had been halted by an immovable force that reached about his shoulders. He felt like a horse he had once seen, which had been pulling a heavy cart up a track, when a wheel had collapsed. The horse had been going along smartly, and the shock of suddenly halting had caused it to collapse in a heap on the track.

  He didn’t intend copying it. Thrusting an arm backwards, he let the cloth fall from him, then gripped his staff in that hand while letting the other sleeve loose. Before his brother could grab at him, he shot off again.

  Thomas was caught off balance. He gazed blankly at the stuff in his hands for a moment before balling it and hurling it from him with a snarl and setting off again after his brother.

  Ivo had a head start and made good use of it. He turned a corner past the inn and hared down into the pasture bounding the river. Ivo was already almost halfway along towards the river, and he cast a glance over his shoulder as Thomas started to catch up with him.

  Ivo had wanted to rouse his brother, but he hadn’t expected the mad bastard to take off so quickly. Thomas looked so slow, with his dim expression and dull eyes, Ivo had felt safe, but Thomas had managed to spring forward like some sort of cat as soon as his restraint was gone. Ivo had expected him to snap, but he had miscalculated, thinking he could lead Tom back up towards the reeve’s house where he could have him arrested for being a danger to all, but the speed of Tom’s attack had thrown him completely. Instead he had run straight past the reeve’s place not daring to pause, and now he was in the open land behind the tavern. There was no one here, no one to whom he could appeal for help. As he ran he cursed his decision to taunt and insult Tom, but the idea had seemed too good. Little brother Tom was always swift to rise to the bait and Ivo wanted to show him to be dangerous so that he would be imprisoned – and then he could have a free hand with little Nicky.

  Oh God, Nicky! She was so beautiful. A peach. She would grace any bed, with her calm eyes and rich, comfortable body. Her accent itself was enough to excite Ivo, with that soft, nasal French of hers. Ivo had fancied her with a chronic desire ever since that first time he had met her, when little brother Tom introduced them, and the desire hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t really slept with her, of course, that was a lie, but it seemed to have worked – rather too well.

  He glanced over his shoulder, only to see that his brother was gaining on him. With a squeak of panic, Ivo tried to force himself forwards with a little more speed, but at his belly was the early cramp of a stitch, and his chest felt ready to explode. Little sparks flared and glowed in front of his eyes, and he could feel his feet growing heavier, as though there was lead in them. In a vain attempt to speed his flight, he threw away his staff, the only defence he had.

  Perhaps it helped a little, but soon he could hear Thomas’s stertorous breath behind him again and knew he must be caught. Swiftly he darted right, back towards the chapel. He daren’t look over his shoulder, but an explosive grunt told him all he needed to know: Tom had grabbed for him and missed. In doing so, he’d continued onwards, unable to turn to follow Ivo.

  Ivo saw that there was a small group of men standing up near the cookshop by the tavern. He set his feet for them, praying that he might reach sanctuary with them.

  ‘Stop, you evil shit!’

  Tom’s voice sounded as ragged and worn as that of a man who had run a ten-mile course, and it lent Ivo a fresh spurt of energy. In a few moments, he had broken in among the waiting men. ‘He’s gone mad!’ he panted, gripping one man by the shoulder as he bent almost double. ‘He wants to kill me! Call for the reeve.’

  ‘He taunted me! Told me he’d slept with my wife!’ Thomas roared.

  ‘Is that true, Bel?’

  The flat, uncompromising tone was familiar. Ivo looked up into Henry Batyn’s unsympathetic face. William Taverner stood at his side with Edgar, and all eyed him coldly while Ivo tried to gather his breath. ‘Help me, save me!’ he managed.

  Batyn pushed Ivo from him, and watched Thomas approach, flexing his fists. ‘It’s not right for brothers to fight like this.’

  Thomas grated, ‘This is between us. If you don’t like it, don’t watch.’

  ‘He wants to kill me!’ Ivo squealed.

  ‘He said that three times he cuckolded me! Would you tolerate that? I warned him, but he wouldn’t shut up.’

  ‘You’ll be breaking the King’s Peace,’ Taverner said, but there was a tone of excitement in his voice.

  ‘Leave us alone. We won’t upset anyone else,’ Thomas promised, trying to grab his brother again.

  ‘Wait, both of you,’ Batyn said, and ran lightly to his house. He soon reappeared, carrying two long staves. Throwing one to each, he stood back. ‘If you’re serious, use these. At least you’re less likely to kill each other than you would be with knives.’

  Ivo clutched his staff desperately. He hadn’t used one in years and wasn’t sure he could remember how to – there was skill in using the stances and defences. Thomas looked as though he hadn’t used one for an age either. He stood holding it in one hand as though he was expecting to use it as a lance and was only waiting for a horse to carry him. Then, to Ivo’s faint surprise, he set it down and began to take off his shirt, pulling it from him and throwing it against the cookshop’s wall. Finally he picked up his staff and, holding it before him, he pointed it at Ivo and advanced slowly.

  He had no choice. Ivo grabbed his own staff and knocked away Thomas’s as it poked towards his face, then his belly, before swinging in low at his legs. Ivo retreated, but almost fell when his ankle turned on a loose stone.

  Immediately Thomas swung back at his legs and Ivo felt the material of his hose rip as a splinter caught. He roared as the blunt end of the pole thudded into his thigh and then scraped all the way down his leg, taking his woollen hose with it. It was all he could do to stay on his feet.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he whimpered.

  ‘He won’t save you,’ Thomas hissed.

  He thrust again, and Ivo felt the wood strike his breast. This time he was slammed down onto his back, the breath knocked from him, and he saw Edgar hold Thomas back until he was on his feet again. As soon as he was up, Edgar stood back again and Ivo saw the thick pole aiming at his face. He managed to block the main blow, but it came down and thudded into his shoulder and he cried out with the shock. Suddenly his hand felt weakened, and he couldn’t keep a firm hold of his own weapon.

  With the next attack, his staff was knocked aside with contemptuous ease, and Ivo felt the same raking pain as the point tore down his shirt, ruining it. He tried to retaliate, swinging his own heavy staff at Thomas’s head, but his blow was too puny and Thomas merely swept the stave away with a swing of his forearms, and then gripped it in his fist and pulled.

  Ivo’s arms were outstretched, his pole useless at his fullest reach, and he was unbalanced. When he saw his brother yank on his staff, he realised he was to
o late. Thomas slid his hands along his stave, gripping it like a quarterstaff, and brought the butt around. Ivo tried to bring his own pole back to parry, but he was already too late, and at the last moment, as he saw Thomas’s staff thrusting towards his nose, he closed his eyes.

  There was nothing else he could do.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Baldwin shivered as they walked along the path. It was cold and miserable down here, as though they had left the summer weather and found themselves in a moorland winter. He almost expected to see snow at his feet when he glanced at his boots, but although there was the sound of crunching, it came from the leaves and twigs which lay all about, not from ice. The only other sound was Aylmer’s panting.

  ‘Are you all right, Baldwin?’

  ‘Why should I not be?’ he snapped. ‘I am sorry, Simon. It is just that I have been here before.’

  ‘Oh?’ the bailiff said unemotionally.

  Baldwin didn’t answer the unspoken question. To speak of his dream would be embarrassing, and he was in no mood for a confession, especially one of superstition.

  They carried on down the lane. The woods were thick on their left, with the undergrowth making them appear impassable. Aylmer went and sniffed at various scents where animals had passed. Once more the dog appeared unconcerned.

  ‘You’re sure that she will be down here?’ Simon asked.

  Baldwin continued as though he hadn’t heard. He could remember every stage of this path, even though he had only come down here the once. It was as though it was ingrained upon his memory; he could almost smell the place where he had seen the figure at the tree, and his feet unconsciously slowed as they approached.

  ‘Wait!’ he whispered. It was there, a tang of woodsmoke on the air, with a faint scent of burning flesh: sweet and slightly gamey. It made Baldwin’s stomach turn, reminding him too distinctly of the time when the pyres were lit and the living Templars were bound to their posts, praying, weeping, cursing and choking in the fumes as the flames licked higher and higher about their legs. Later, when the men were dead, this same odour lingered about the place.

  Simon gave Baldwin a curious look. To his eyes, the knight was acting most peculiarly today, and never more so than now. Simon had never known his friend to give the slightest indication of nerves, especially when it came to his personal safety, so seeing him like this was unsettling, particularly when there was nothing for him to be anxious about. The place was clear.

  He looked past Baldwin to Mad Meg’s home. It looked much like any other assart, if more dilapidated and worn. There was a stone-walled cottage with new thatch on the roof sitting in its own clearing. In front was a fire with a trivet and pot standing over it, while chickens strolled and pecked at the dirt, one or two gazing at Aylmer with alarm.

  There was nothing for the knight to be worried about, and Simon wondered what could have driven his friend to this state of concern. For there was no doubting Baldwin’s anxiety as he stared at the scene.

  ‘This is stupid,’ he muttered.

  ‘What is it, Baldwin?’

  ‘I… When I walked here the other day, it reminded me of another time,’ he said evasively. ‘Yet now I can see nothing to make me feel panic.’

  He didn’t add that there was no sign of the figure he had seen standing at the tree. Instead he took a deep breath and climbed up over the wall, marching to the fire. ‘Hello? Meg? Are you here?’

  ‘No, she isn’t.’

  ‘Serlo!’ Baldwin breathed. ‘We thought to come and ask her a few questions.’

  Serlo had been at the edge of the assart. Now he stepped forward to tend the cooking fire. ‘Why can’t you leave her in peace?’

  ‘Because the priest suggested we should talk to her,’ Simon said.

  ‘That drunken fool! So what if he does?’

  Baldwin walked to Serlo’s side. ‘Have you heard about Emma?’

  Serlo paled. ‘Emma? What is it? My Christ! Is she dead?’

  ‘The same as the others,’ Baldwin said. ‘I am sorry.’

  Serlo stood. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  * * *

  Joan clapped her hands in delight as soon as her father bolted after Ivo, and she felt a cruel thrill to see how close he came to catching her uncle. She hated Ivo. She had heard his taunts, and the viciousness of his words had torn at her.

  Her mother would never have done such a thing. It was wicked even to suggest it. Ivo had just said it to be intentionally hurtful. As the men disappeared around the inn, she was tempted to follow and watch, but today it didn’t seem right. Not with Emma dead.

  It was hard to believe. Emma was such a part of her whole life, it was impossible to conceive of being without her. In one short year Joan had lost her worst enemy, old Ham when he drowned, and now she had lost her best friend. Poor Emma. Joan hoped she hadn’t been put through much pain. Who could have dropped her in the yard like that?

  She walked slowly along the road. It would have been fun to see her father pound Ivo into the ground, but not today. She was perpetually on the brink of tears, ready to weep at a moment’s notice. Serlo would want to hear from her, and she was tempted to go on up to the warrens to talk to him, because he always listened and treated the girls like adults, not silly children, but the thought of climbing all the way up to his hut was daunting on her own.

  Sitting on a rock at the side of the road, she felt the trickling of tears again. Poor Emma. She’d been a good friend.

  There was a pattering of feet, then harsh shouts, and a curious, nasal voice bellowing. Looking up, she saw Ivo, a bloody rag held to his nose, while two men laughed at his side. Behind was her father, walking stiffly with William Taverner and Swetricus beside him. The little procession passed over the roadway and went into the reeve’s house. Intrigued, Joan stood up and crossed the road. She was just in time to hear her father shouting something, then the low rumble of Alexander’s voice.

  ‘Stick him in the cellar and lock him in. Don’t let the murderous bastard escape.’

  * * *

  Jeanne’s nagging fear hadn’t left her, and hearing that Emma had died didn’t help. She had tried to busy herself with the mundane tasks of feeding and changing Richalda, helping Petronilla remove the bedclothes and beat the sheets and rugs outside to remove as many bedbugs and lice as possible. Returning to the room, they set down the bedclothes and carried out the palliasse itself to be beaten. When that was done, they found that a dog with an incessant scratch had taken up residence in their blankets, and Petronilla had to kick the thing from the room so that they could take the blankets back outside to beat them again.

  It wasn’t easy for Jeanne to concentrate. She could sense a breathlessness in her that didn’t come from the air outside. Rather it seemed to come from within her, a heaviness of spirit. She was convinced that there was some evil at work in the vill, and she looked down at her baby with a feeling of doom.

  She had to get out of the chamber, so she took a walk to the tavern’s hall. Edgar had returned after witnessing a small fight, he said, and he followed in her wake, ordering wine for her and standing nearby while she drank it.

  The place was deserted. Earlier, men had come in for thin ale to keep them going through the morning, but now all were out in the fields, and none would return until the sun had sunk low in the sky. Jeanne’s mood was not improved by the oppressive silence about her. Smoke from the damp logs in the fire made the place dingy and unwholesome, and she felt her spirits fall still further.

  This melancholy was a new experience for her. Even when she was younger and had been married to that jealous bully of a husband, Sir Ralph de Liddinstone, who had taken to insulting her before his friends and servants and then beating her because she could not bear him children, she had not felt this bad. She had been strong, and his treatment of her only raised in her a reciprocal contempt, then hatred. When he died she had felt some guilt, as though the strength of her own loathing could have contributed to his death, but that soon faded w
hen she met Baldwin at Tavistock Abbey.

  There were some ridiculous women who talked of love at first sight. Jeanne was not prepared to believe in such nonsense, for she was a modern woman, and knew that for all the chivalrous ideals, very few men or women behaved chastely, and the best excuse for drunken lechery was instant love. Jeanne was happier to call lust by its own name, but for all that when she had first met Sir Baldwin there had been something, a mutual attraction, as though both knew of the other’s sufferings in the previous few years, she with her abhorrent husband, he with the persecution that followed on from the end of the Templars. She had felt as though she had at last met a man who could understand her.

  It was this which made his cynicism about her impressions of danger all the more hurtful. She knew all too well that he was a resolutely logical man, but she would have hoped that he might have listened to her a little more closely.

  ‘Edgar, I shall walk in the air a while,’ she said. ‘This room is choking me!’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You can go back to Petronilla.’

  ‘I think I should remain with you, my Lady.’

  She smiled up at him, shaking her head. ‘There’s no need, and you’ve had no time together since we got here. Go to her.’

  He was reluctant, but after a little persuading, he agreed, provided that she promised not to wander far.

  It was an easy promise to make. The place was hardly welcoming, what with the mud and filth all about. Two dogs were fighting in a space between two cottages as she left the inn, although when they saw her, they slunk away into the shadows beneath a cart.