Hill of Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  But why tell these simple people that? She might have days, months or, with luck, even longer. Why should the child and her grandmother live in fear and dread of something they could not prevent? And at least he could stop them adding to her misery with these purges that would only hasten her death. Besides, they believed he was a saint, didn’t they? They were expecting a miracle. He could not disappoint them.

  He looked round at the anxious faces. ‘The child is possessed. A demon dwells in her belly. It bites and torments her. I must expel it.’

  Father Jerome grabbed his arm. ‘I cannot allow this. Only those who are in holy orders—’

  William rose and stood towering over the little priest. ‘Have you forgotten the miracle of my saving, on this day of all days? Why do you think I was delivered to your shore? I told you I am the prophet. I have the gift of sight beyond the powers of mortal men and I tell you that if this poor child is not released, the demon will grow inside, tormenting her with pain beyond imagining, feeding on her and growing ever stronger, until it bursts forth to devour the souls of every man, woman and child in this village. Is that what you want, Father? Would you have me abandon her to this foul fiend?’

  Margaret was sobbing, trying to crawl across the floor as if she could get away from the creature inside her. Joan was wailing and even Father Jerome was trembling.

  ‘I must send word at once to the bishop for him to dispatch his exorcist to us.’

  Martin, the sexton’s youngest son, elbowed his way through the crowd. ‘And how long will it be afore he comes, Father? Weeks, maybe – that’s if he bothers to come at all. Besides, old Joan can’t afford what the likes of them would charge. Let William try. I reckon that’s why God sent him here.’

  The sexton grabbed his son by the arm, cuffing him vigorously several times around the head. ‘How dare you gainsay the priest? Think you know better than your elders and betters, do you?’ He struck the cowering lad again, and would have gone on doing so, had William not caught the sexton’s arm to prevent him.

  Father Jerome held up his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘Leave the boy. He means well.’

  Joan could bear it no longer. She fell at William’s feet, clutching at his knees and begging him to save her grandchild. Many in the crowd nodded eagerly, and when William turned an enquiring look upon Father Jerome, the little priest gave a resigned shrug. He’d lived long enough in this parish to know that even if he forbade it, the villagers would do it anyway behind his back, just as they stole holy water from the church for their heathen spells however often he denounced such things from the pulpit.

  William helped Joan to her feet and calmly bade the crowd to close the shutters of the church. He sent Martin to fetch a lighted candle, which he placed behind the child’s head. Then William commanded all to kneel. He crouched beside little Margaret and ordered her once more to look into his eyes.

  The strange words poured out of him again, rising in a crescendo so that his voice reverberated from the walls of the church. He laid his hands on Margaret’s belly, his eyes closed, his head thrown back and sweat bursting from his forehead as if he was wrestling with a ferocious monster. A shriek of unearthly laughter echoed through the church, like the cry of a thousand gulls. At that instant the candle blew out and the church was plunged into darkness.

  Father Jerome blundered to the door and, with trembling hands, flung it wide. Most of the villagers, dragging their children, charged out after him as if the devil himself was at their heels. But once safely out in the daylight their panic subsided. They huddled together, clutching their little ones and staring back at the church.

  Inside Joan was sobbing and hugging her granddaughter to her, but the child, though pale as the moon, was not crying any more.

  ‘It’s gone . . . it doesn’t hurt now,’ she whispered.

  William strolled to the church door and, calmly surveying the little crowd, announced, ‘All is well. I have expelled the demon from the child.’

  He held out something in his palm. There were gasps of wonder as everyone pressed forward. The creature was tiny to be sure, but they later learned this was because it was a mere infant, a baby demon that would have grown into a monster were it not for William’s skill. For there was no mistaking it was the most unearthly and satanic-looking beast they had ever seen in the flesh, and very like the demons painted on the wall of their own little church. It was grey and wizened. It had no discernible body, only a broad triangular head that tapered into a long arrow-shaped tail, two bulging black eyes and a wide curved mouth full of black needle-sharp teeth.

  When the tale was later told, as it was to be many times throughout the long winters in those parts, some of the villagers swore they had seen the demon twitching, others said that it was lashing in fury. But the truth was they barely had time to glimpse anything at all for just as deftly as William revealed it, so he slid it into a small stone flask and rammed the stopper home.

  ‘I will bury the demon in the bed of the next river I come to,’ William declared. ‘Evil spirits cannot escape from running water.’

  The villagers were no fools. They were as sharp as scythe blades when bargaining in the market place and were not the sort to waste their precious coins on betting which cup the pea was under, or buying elixirs from passing pedlars who promised immortality. But even the oldest among them had never heard tell of a man so strangely saved from a storm, and now they had seen with their own eyes one of their own children delivered from a demon, and by this same stranger.

  So William ate his fill that night, for the good people of Brean were determined to lavish whatever they had on this man from the sea. And as he ate, he talked. He was good at talking.

  The following morning William was rudely torn from his sleep by a malicious cockerel, which had perched itself right outside the small window above his bed, and was announcing the coming dawn with such raucous insistence that even a deaf man would have felt the vibration of it. William peered blearily over at Joan and her grandchildren who lay, wrapped together under the same blanket, by the embers of the fire, but none of them stirred. Thoroughly awake now, William pulled on his clothes and slipped from the cottage to relieve himself outside. If he could catch that wretched bird, he’d wring its scrawny neck, or at least drive it off where a fox might take it.

  Outside the tiny cottage it was as yet barely light enough to see where he was walking. If the sun had indeed struggled over the horizon, it was well concealed beneath a thick fleece of grey clouds scudding across the sky. The wind had a raw damp edge to it, as if rain were not far off. William shivered, suddenly grateful for a warm bed and stout walls.

  He hurried round to the midden heap, anxious to get back inside to the fire as quickly as he could. As he reached the back of the cottage, the cockerel, which seemed to sense William’s murderous intent, hopped onto the low thatched roof. William tried to grab the bird, but it fluttered sideways, stabbing at his hand with a beak as sharp as a dagger, before swaggering up to the top of the roof. William cursed soundly and sucked at a bleeding hole in his finger, but the bird was well out of reach and no amount of threatening had the slightest effect on it.

  With his bladder now empty, William was making his way back to the cottage again when he noticed something pinned to the door, flapping in the wind. He hadn’t seen it as he came out, if indeed it had been there then. As he came closer he saw that it was a small square of sailcloth. He reached up and held it flat against the door. Someone had used a piece of charcoal to fashion a careful little drawing on the cloth. The picture was simple enough, just a stick with a serpent twined around the length, its mouth wide open revealing sharp fangs and a long tongue.

  William stifled a cry of fear. For a moment he could do nothing except stare, his limbs frozen in shock. Then he forced himself to move. He tore the sailcloth from the door and whipped round, glancing fearfully up and down the length of the lane, but it was deserted. The shutters and doors of all the cottages were still firmly fastened
. None of the villagers was yet stirring, but someone was abroad, he was certain of that.

  His legs trembling, William staggered backwards, leaning on the wall of the cottage for support. He looked down again at the scrap of sail he was clutching. The snake’s forked tongue seemed to vibrate in William’s shaking hand as if it was scenting its prey and as he stared at it, three fat drops of scarlet blood from the wound on his finger fell onto the cloth and trickled into the serpent’s open mouth.

  The morning was already half done before William was finally on the track and striding out of the village. His first instinct had been to flee immediately, but once he had stopped shaking he was forced to see the sense in at least waiting to eat breakfast before he left. As Joan anxiously reminded him, he was already weak from the shipwreck; if he tried to walk for miles on an empty stomach he would more than likely faint on the road, and that was the last thing William could afford to do. The thought of lying helpless and unable to defend himself was too terrifying to contemplate.

  If that serpent was a sign, a sign that Edgar was still alive, then he needed to put as much distance between himself and this village as he could. Edgar had already been injured before the storm. Surely it would take a week or two before the man was fit enough to travel any great distance, and William intended to make good use of that time to cover as much ground as possible. If he got far enough ahead, Edgar would not be able to track him. But if Edgar found him again . . . William tried to fight off the icy flood of fear that engulfed him. That monster must not find him!

  Naturally, William had said nothing to Joan about the piece of sailcloth. She had been only too willing to accept his explanation that he had received a vision in the night telling him to set out at once for a place he would be led to, a place where the demons and angels fought each other for the souls of men. Joan had hurried out to beg bread and dried mutton from her neighbours, for she would not have it said that she sent a holy prophet out on the road without a bite of food in his scrip. Why, God would never forgive such an uncharitable act. She was gone so long that several times William nearly gave up waiting, for he was desperate to be miles away from Brean by nightfall. But Joan had finally returned with cheese and salt fish as well as bread and mutton. In addition she’d brought a battered old leather scrip to carry them in and a good stout staff, for which William was more grateful than he dared express.

  He struck out at first on the track that led around the bay to the south, as if he were making for the village of Berrow, but as soon as he thought he was not observed he turned off on a rough track heading inland towards the river Axe. The path wound its way along the edge of rough pasture and through a coppice where the villagers cut their wood.

  Though the trees were not yet in bud, they still afforded too much cover for William’s comfort. If Edgar had pinned the sign to the cottage door, then he had to be holed up somewhere nearby, perhaps in a seldom-used barn or byre, or even in a place like this. William took a firmer grip of the staff and glanced nervously around him, searching every shadow for signs of movement; in consequence he repeatedly stumbled over tree roots and only just managed to stop himself sprawling headlong. He paused to steady himself and catch his breath. When he was glancing once more over his shoulder, a movement caught his eye. He whirled round, the staff gripped tightly between both fists, but saw only some saplings whipping back and forth. Was it the wind that had sent them rocking, or something else?

  Even as he stood there, William heard the unmistakable crunch of boots on dried leaves. He slipped behind the trunk of a stout oak and waited as the footsteps came closer. He was gripping his upraised staff so tightly that his arms ached. The footsteps faltered, then stopped. He held his breath as he heard them start up again and come towards him. From his hiding place William glimpsed a hooded figure as it passed the oak tree.

  William sprang out, swinging the staff in both hands, aiming for the back of the hooded head. At the same instant the man in front of him heard William’s movement and twisted aside with a cry of shock and fear. Trying to avoid the blow, the man stumbled backwards and fell just as William brought his staff crashing down. It missed the man’s head by an inch. He lay, sprawled on his back, staring up in wide-eyed fear, and William found himself looking down, not into the face of Edgar, but of the sexton’s youngest son, Martin.

  ‘What the devil are you doing following me?’ William demanded, the staff still raised menacingly, for it occurred to him that this youth might yet be in the pay of Edgar.

  ‘M-Master, I came to join you . . . on your journey. I want to be your disciple.’

  ‘My disciple?’ William said incredulously, lowering his weapon.

  The youth bounced to his feet, and brushed his ginger hair out of his eyes. ‘Yes, master. I saw how you cast out that demon and how you were saved from the wreck on the cross. I know you are a holy man. I believe in you. I have the faith, Master. Take me with you.’

  ‘But why creep up on me like that?’

  ‘I wasn’t creeping,’ Martin protested. ‘I couldn’t join you openly. Not till we were away from the village. My father would thrash me black and blue if he thought I was running off. You too, if he could, for taking me away.’

  William, remembering the sexton’s blows in the church, knew the lad was probably not exaggerating.

  ‘How long before you’re missed?’ William asked. He had enough troubles already without some irate bull of a father lumbering after him as well.

  ‘He thinks I’ve gone out with one of the boats. He’ll not look for me till after he comes back from the alehouse tonight.’ Martin suddenly sank to his knees, his hands clasped and his eyes closed as if in prayer. ‘Bless me, Master; make me your disciple.’

  He looked so solemn that William almost laughed, until he saw the lad was in earnest.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to send the boy packing, but it occurred to William that a companion might be just what he needed. The lad was short but stocky, with a chest as broad as an ox and, judging by the way he’d dug those graves, he had the strength of a man twice his size. Martin would be another pair of eyes to keep watch, especially in the night, and if Edgar did attack, then it would be two against one. The lad would surely fight to the death to defend his master, if he really believed he was a prophet. Besides, disciples did all the cooking and tending to their master’s needs, didn’t they? It would be as good as having his own manservant again.

  Solsbury Hill, August 1453

  The horses’ flanks were soaked with sweat by the time they finally crested the steep slopes of the hill. Even the five young women who rode them were breathless with the effort of keeping their balance in the saddles on the steep incline. Their grooms, who had been forced to climb alongside the horses, almost dragging them upwards, were more exhausted than the beasts. Their faces were flushed to the colour of ripe plums and beads of perspiration burst out on their foreheads. The sun burned relentlessly down from a cloudless blue sky, baking the valleys below, but at least up on the flat table top of the hill there was the blessing of a breeze to ruffle the brown grass stalks and cool the air. With undisguised relief the grooms assisted their mistresses to dismount and led the palfreys away to a clump of gorse bushes where they might be safely tethered until they were wanted again.

  It was several minutes before the falconer and his lad managed to reach the party. The tiny merlins were not heavy to lift on the wooden frame, but they had to be carried smoothly. Any sudden jerking and they would start to flap or even throw themselves from their perches, breaking feathers, legs or even wings. The falconer could not afford to slip or stumble.

  For once, though, the merchants’ daughters were not impatiently demanding to begin their sport or stamping their pretty little shoes. They too were far too grateful for the breeze to make a fuss. Arm in arm, they strolled around on the flat top of the hill, listening to the trilling of a hundred larks as they flew for sheer joy up into the hot blue sky.

  Ursula, the youngest of th
e five friends, caught the distant glint of the river, and breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the sweet air after the foul stench of Bath. It was hard to know if the city was more unpleasant in the winter or summer. In winter the streets were ankle-deep in the mud and filth from the blocked and overflowing ditches and sewers. In summer the pigs snuffled among the rotting waste from houses and butchers’ shops, thrown haphazardly into the streets where it was left to stink beneath writhing heaps of bone-white maggots.

  Ursula had often begged to move out of the city at least for the summer months. As she repeatedly told her father, no one, by which she meant no marriageable nobleman, lived in Bath any more. Even the Bishop of Bath had sought a more comfortable abode in Wells. But as her doting but practical father told her, a good businessman keeps a constant eye on his livelihood, and since the wool and cloth trade was flourishing in Bath, he had no cause to move. And, he added, before she started turning her nose up at the stench of a good honest trade, she should remember that it was wool and cloth that put the food on her plate and the jewels in her hair.

  ‘Ursula, come and choose your bird,’ one of the girls sang out and Ursula sauntered across to join her friends as they clustered around the falconer.

  The girls donned their leather gloves and collected their favourite birds, laying wagers amongst themselves as to which would be the first to bring down the quarry. Then they released them. As the merlins took flight, the larks rose, still singing, higher and higher into the sky. The little birds of prey winged up after them, until they were almost invisible in the glare of the sun. Then the tiny songbirds dropped as if they had been pierced by an arrow, slipping sideways at the last moment before they hit the ground, as their pursuers swooped down after them. The merlins were forced to twist and turn as they reversed their dive and climbed back up after the soaring larks again. It could take as much as half an hour for a merlin to kill a lark, and the girls gasped, laughed and held their breath as a kill seemed inevitable only for the lark to escape by a mere feather’s breadth.