The Sticklepath Strangler

by Michael Jecks

  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, half-heartedly 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.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Baldwin rose with the first light, and was up at the table before the host had woken or stirred the fire.

  He was more concerned than he could remember over the events of the previous evening. Never before in England had he witnessed that sort of crowd behaviour, with a whole vill joining together against the law, prepared to destroy a man from the worst motives, from bigotry and superstition. It was a hackneyed word, ‘superstition’, one which he had used too many times recently, but it was the only one which fitted the behaviour of the mob last night.

  The memory of that terrible anger, and of his own frustration, and worse, the image of that dagger rising and plunging again and again into the breast of the hapless Samson, made Baldwin feel physically sick. He was not squeamish, he had killed men himself: he had killed one already this summer, but that was different. This was the slaughter of a man whose only
crime at the time was that his own companions and neighbours had mistakenly thought him dead when in fact he was only wounded.

  At least his murder was less cruel than leaving him buried alive. Not that the reflection was itself particularly comforting. The man had been rescued, only to be struck down. No matter how brutal he had been in life, he didn’t deserve that end.

  The people had wished to burn him alive, believing him to be guilty of the murder of the vill’s children, and yet Samson was already buried when Emma died. The killer must be someone else.

  Baldwin leaned on his elbows, resting his chin on his hands. There had been six murders, if he was right. First Ansel de Hocsenham in 1315, the first year of the famine. That happened before Thomas and Nicky arrived, so they were innocent. From what the reeve had said, Denise died in 1316, so she too died before Thomas got here, and Athelhard was killed that same year; the other girl, Mary, was strangled a little while after his death, as though the true killer was cocking a snook at the vill. Aline died in 1318, and Emma now in 1322. There was no logic to these deaths in terms of the gaps between each one, no apparent sequence that Baldwin could detect.

  Surely all the deaths were committed by the same person. Peter was presumably innocent. One of the victims was his own child, and although parents did kill their offspring, Baldwin had never heard of any being tempted to cannibalism. Likewise, he was inclined to believe that Swetricus was not the murderer because of his daughter Aline’s death. And the reeve would always have had enough food. He wouldn’t have needed to kill.

  Baldwin was content with his earlier reasoning. He could imagine someone killing the purveyor and then taking the opportunity to fill his empty belly. But why should that person then turn to killing children? Presumably because they were easier to kill, less able to defend themselves.

  Baldwin frowned. He seemed to recall someone telling him that Ansel de Hocsenham had been a large, brawny fellow. That would mean that only a similarly large fellow would have been able to overwhelm him, surely, or a group. Perhaps the foresters had had a part in his death, for all their protestations of innocence.