When he finally led her down the hill she ran laughing ahead of him, unafraid of the perilous slope or the darkness. In a hollow near the bottom, screened by gorse and birch, she turned to face him, her hands clasped behind her back in the semblance of a demure child. But in the moonlight he could see she was trying to suppress a grin, and her eyes were dancing under the stars. And it was under the stars they lay together, naked as Adam and Eve before the fall.
He did not force her. He did not have to; she gave herself to him. Suddenly shy and hesitant, she lay quite still on top of his robe which he had spread on the ground for her. She made no move to touch him, but offered no resistance. Then as he gently caressed her, a passion seized her and she dug her fingers into his bare back, thrusting up at him, her head thrown back and her slender white throat arched like a bow.
Three times he had taken her, before rolling into an exhausted sleep in her arms. When he had awoken sometime before dawn she was gone. He had climbed back up the hill and lain down among his snoring disciples, and sunk once more into sleep.
William smiled to himself. Would she come again? He hoped she would. No, he knew she would.
He was startled by a sudden tugging on his sleeve.
‘Master, Master. You must come with me.’
He turned to see Martin standing behind him, panting and sweating as if he had been running.
‘Come where?’ William asked. Then seeing the fearful expression on the lad’s face, he added, ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Martin’s gaze darted nervously around at the other disciples, but all were occupied with the morning’s tasks of stoking the fires and preparing breakfast. Martin leaned in towards William, his voice low. ‘You must come. She’s . . . she’s dead.’
William felt an icy hand gripping his insides. ‘Who? Who’s dead?’ He made a grab for the lad, determined to shake the answer out of him, but Martin was already bounding over the lip of the hill and scrambling down the other side. William followed.
It was a miracle neither of them broke his neck in his haste to get down the hill. Martin reached the bottom first and stood aside, pointing towards a clump of bushes.
‘She’s behind there . . . I was going to fetch water from the river, when . . . I trod on something soft and when I looked down I saw . . .’
William swallowed hard, then, bracing himself, he strode towards the bushes. The body of a woman lay on the ground. He couldn’t see her face for a sack had been pulled over her head. But she lay as if she was already in a coffin, her legs neatly stretched out and her hands crossed over her chest.
William’s first emotion was one of profound relief, for even though he couldn’t see her face he could tell at once that this was not Ursula. The woman’s robe was old and torn. Her fingernails were broken and grimed with dirt, but beneath the dirt the fingertips were blue. William lightly touched her leg, hoping that there was still life in her, but the moment he felt the skin he knew there was not. Bracing himself, he kneeled behind the woman’s head and, grasping the corners of the sack, pulled it off. The jerk sent the woman’s head lolling sideways. William gave a stifled cry, scrambling away from the body in horror.
There was no mistaking who it was beneath the sack. Poor Letice lay there, her face frozen in a distorted mask of pain, her mouth open wide as if she had been gasping for breath. It wasn’t the sight of her face, though, that made William cry out, but what lay upon her throat. An adder was wound around her neck, with its head inside her open mouth. And the snake was as dead as the woman.
William’s legs gave way and he sank onto the grass. He knew exactly who had done this. Edgar had been here last night! That fiend, that devil, had finally caught up with him and this was his warning. William stared wildly about him. Had Edgar been hiding down here in the dark, or had he been standing up there on the hill among the people from Bath? William would surely have recognised him in the crowd . . . but he hadn’t last time, had he, not until it was too late?
He struggled to his feet. ‘Martin, did you see anyone here this morning? A man, did you see a man?’
Martin, still staring numbly at the body, slowly shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Was she trying to catch the viper in the sack and it bit her?’
‘Snake’s longer dead than she is,’ William said dully.
‘Then how did she die?’
William knew the moment he had uncovered her how she’d died. Letice’s lips were blue and he could smell the stench of vomit on her gown. He recognised the signs only too well. He shuddered.
‘Poison,’ he whispered. The word slid from his mouth before he had time to think. As soon as he saw the panic and fear on Martin’s face, he knew he should never have uttered it, but it was too late now.
Martin stared at him aghast. ‘That drink you gave her last night—’
‘No! I didn’t do this.’ William raised his hands as if warding off the very idea. ‘I didn’t harm her. I gave her nothing except water. It couldn’t have killed her.’
‘But everyone saw you give it to her and now she’s dead, poisoned . . . Master, I know you wouldn’t have harmed her, but the other disciples and the people who came out here from Bath, what will they think? How will you prove you had no hand in this?’ Martin suddenly pressed his fist to his mouth as an even more terrible thought occurred to him. ‘What about me? I fetched the water. What if they think—’
William’s fevered brain had reached the same conclusion even before the lad had finished speaking, and now it raced ahead.
‘She must not be discovered. Go back up and fetch the spade that is used to dig the fire pit and bring it back here. And fetch a fire pot and something that will burn well – tallow, pitch, anything you can find. But don’t let anyone know what you are doing.’
Martin looked bewildered. ‘What are you going to do with it, Master?’
‘Just go! No, wait, help me to lift her over my shoulder . . . Now go, and meet me at the bottom of the west side of the hill.’
William knew his followers would be gathered round the cooking fires at the southern end of the hill, just above where he was now standing. Although the bushes would screen the body from a casual glance, any movement he made might be enough to draw attention to it. He had to move the corpse to a place where he could dispose of it without being seen.
As Martin scrambled back up the hillside, William pulled the knife from his belt and held it ready in his hand, peering at every clump of trees or hollow where his assassin might conceal himself. He staggered round the base of the hill with his burden, trying to make as much use of the cover of rocks and bushes as he could.
All the time his mind was racing feverishly. If Edgar could murder a poor mad woman just to let William know he had caught up with him, then what might he do to William when he finally moved in for the kill? This was his warning that he could strike at any time he pleased. William suspected he would not do it straight away. He would want him to suffer the torture of waiting first, but for how long – days, weeks? One thing was certain: nowhere in England was safe, not even this hill, as long as Edgar was out there.
He would have to find another ship, leave England for good, but to do that he needed money, a great deal of money, and where was he to get that? Plans formed and reformed in his mind like drifting smoke, but nothing solidified. He knew only one thing: he had to dispose of Letice’s body before her corpse was seen by anyone else.
Fear of discovery and terror of attack gave William a physical strength and stamina he did not normally possess and he had almost reached the place when loose stones clattered down, giving warning of Martin’s precipitous descent. Behind a clump of bushes, William found the hollow where he and Ursula had lain last night, and put Martin to work at once digging a pit. As soon as he had a spade in his hands the lad’s panic seemed to subside a little; digging graves was something he knew how to do.
William set about collecting dry bracken, gorse and kindling, thanking heaven that there had not been a
drop of rain these past weeks. But when he returned, Martin was sweating and almost sobbing in frustration. At every turn of the spade he’d hit rock and stones, and though he worked feverishly he’d scarcely been able to dig a trench more than a foot deep in the bottom of the depression.
William wrenched the spade from the boy’s hands and threw it aside. He lined the pit with kindling and bracken. Then he stood back. ‘Help me to get her in there.’
‘But it’s not nearly deep enough,’ the lad wailed.
‘Don’t you think I don’t know that?’ he snapped. But seeing the fear on the lad’s face, he added gently, ‘Trust me, Martin. I am Serkan. There is nothing to fear. Now did you bring tallow?’
Martin fished in his scrip and pulled out a clay pot. ‘It’s the goose grease and turpentine that Alfred rubs on his chest to keep out the cold. I saw him use it once to get a stubborn fire going.’
William wiped the sack in the grease and laid it across Letice’s face, then heaped the rest of the dry gorse and bracken over the corpse.
‘Give me the fire pot. Now go on back to the others. If anyone should see the smoke from the fire, tell them it is a holy rite, tell them that I am purifying myself, and must not be disturbed.’
When the lad had gone, William set the fire. As the gorse began to crackle and burn, he stood with his back to the hill, and raised his arms as if he was praying, which indeed he was and more fervently than he had done for many weeks, though his prayers were not for purification. The fire blazed fiercely but it did not burn for long. He added more dried gorse, but dared not make the fire any bigger for fear that it would arouse the curiosity of some wayfarer or shepherd who would not so easily be convinced by holy rites.
When a third blaze had died down, he kneeled and, brushing away the soft grey ash, examined the pit, trying not to gag at the stench. Letice’s gown had burned away, no doubt helped by the cooking fat and grease that her grubby fingers had wiped on it over the years. The sacking had also burned, and the face beneath was charred black; the features, though clearly human, were now unrecognisable. Where the skin had cracked patches of raw red flesh showed through. But the body, though blackened, was still very much intact and unmistakably that of a woman. The fire had not been nearly hot enough to consume it. But William tried to console himself with the thought that if anyone did discover the body, not even Letice’s own mother could identify her now, nor say how she had met her death.
He began to shovel the heap of soil and stones, which Martin had dug out, over the remains. The lad was right, it was nowhere near deep enough, and to make matters worse the edges of the charred pit stood out black against the ground. He scraped at them, trying to make them blend in, but there was no way he could flatten the mound. He heaved what stones he could find over it to deter animals from digging at it, but even then he could not afford to heap them up for that would only make the mound bigger and easier to see. In desperation he hacked at some nearby bushes with his knife, dragging the branches over the grave to try to disguise it from anyone glancing down from above.
Then, seeing that there was nothing more he could do, he hurried away in the direction of the river to bathe. It wasn’t only the dirt and ash he needed to clean off, it was the stench of burned human flesh that clung to him like a noose round a felon’s neck.
The tavern maid leaned over Godfrey deliberately, or so it seemed to him, thrusting her plump breasts under his nose as she poured more wine into his goblet. He caught her by the waist and pulled her down onto his lap, nuzzling his face in her cleavage, before she good-naturedly pushed him away and rose to answer the raucous calls of her other customers.
Godfrey chuckled. He had every intention of bedding that wench later when he’d drunk his fill. He knew her sort. Slip her a few coins and she’d do whatever he asked, and willingly too; so much easier than having to woo, coax and flatter the noble ladies at Court for weeks before they’d even open the doors of their bedchambers.
Godfrey leaned across the rough wooden table and grinned at the stranger sitting opposite him in the dark corner of the inn. ‘See, now that’s what I mean. Nothing wrong with a comely woman showing what gifts the Good Lord gave her, for the pleasure of others. Brings a bit of joy into this world, but if my master had seen that he’d have had her covered up like a nun. At the Christmas feast last year, three pretty virgins dressed as nymphs were brought in to dance for his pleasure. And what did he do? Put his hands over his eyes and ran out of the hall like a frightened child, just ’cause their rosy little nipples were bare. He wore a hair shirt all night to punish himself for having seen them. I know, ’cause I had to help him into it.’
The stranger grimaced. ‘Riches are wasted on men like him. But then it’s only the wealthy who can afford to disdain good food and girls, the rest of us are only too grateful for any crumbs of pleasure that fall our way.’ He took a gulp of ale, rolling his tongue round his mouth as if even that had soured as soon as the liquid touched his lips.
If Godfrey had not been feeling so hard done by himself he might have enquired about the stranger’s troubles, but a man who feels aggrieved is interested in no one’s misery but his own. And Godfrey did feel sorely aggrieved. It was bad enough having to deal with the King’s black mood at court, but at least there he could moan with the other servants. But now that Henry had insisted on making this fool’s trip to Bath, Godfrey had no one to grumble with. For apart from himself, a groom and a couple of armed men, the King had insisted on travelling alone and in disguise. Not even the monks at the abbey knew who they were entertaining under their roof, not that entertaining was a word Godfrey would ever use to describe the misery of that squalid place.
The stranger took another gulp of ale. ‘So what brings your master to Bath? Business is it, the cloth trade?’
Godfrey snorted. ‘Nothing as frivolous as business. Would that it was. No, he thinks he’s going mad. He’s mistaken, of course, he’s not going mad, he is mad. But he’s come to the abbey in the hope of a cure, which just proves how insane he is.’
‘Why Bath, of all places? The abbey here is falling into ruin. Surely he’d be more comfortable at one of the wealthy ones.’
‘Well, I would, that’s for certain,’ Godfrey said bitterly. ‘The lodgings are as cold as a witch’s tit, and as for the food! A starving hound wouldn’t eat it. Why do you think I’ve escaped here for the evening? There’s nothing else to do in this stinking town. I’d thought to pass a few hours at the bear-baiting they hold outside the city walls, lay a few wagers on the dogs, but it seems they had only one bear and even that escaped last week. Probably couldn’t stand the stench of this place. But my master doesn’t want comfort and entertainment; he wants mortification and misery.
‘Apparently there’s one old monk at the abbey who claims some skill at easing melancholy and phantasms of the mind with healing water he draws from a hot spring. The water smells foul, but that suits my master; the more disgusting the remedy, the more he’s convinced it will cure him. If it was in any way pleasant, he’d shun it. It’s not doing him any good, though. He’s spending more time with his mirror than ever. Did I tell you, he thinks his mirror is talking to him? He’s terrified of the thing, yet he spends hours sitting in front of it just staring at it.’
The stranger shuffled on the bench, turning his face slightly so that the yellow light from the candle fell on his weather-beaten face. ‘So if it frightens him, why doesn’t he just destroy it?’
‘It’s worth a fortune. It’s decorated with rubies and pearls, not to mention some very costly enamel work.’ Godfrey drained his second goblet of wine and snapped his fingers at the tavern maid, holding his goblet upside down to indicate it was empty. She refilled it, this time managing to keep the table between herself and Godfrey, much to his disappointment.
The man leaned forward, the candle flame reflecting in the pupils of his green eyes. ‘You were saying that this mirror is very valuable.’
‘Yeh, but that’s not why my mast
er won’t destroy it. Its value means nothing to him. But he says that the image on the back is holy. It shows St Thomas Becket being slain by the knights, a cheerful subject to meditate upon for any man. Stare at that for too long and it’s bound to have you jumping at your own shadow. If I have to gaze upon a saint let it be a fresh-faced virgin stripped for martyrdom. Now that is an image a man can linger on. There was one statue I saw in a church once – St Agatha just about to be put to the torture, she was. You should have seen the way the artist had moulded her bare breasts.’ Godfrey’s eyes glazed over as he pictured the statue; doubtless she been modelled on the local bishop’s mistress, which was usually the case.
The stranger nudged him with his foot. ‘So he won’t part with it because of the holy icon?’
Godfrey took another swig of his wine. ‘That’s what he says, but it’s my belief he’s too afraid of it to destroy it himself. Thinks if he does, it’ll call down a greater curse.’
For a while the stranger said nothing more, his brow creased in thought. Godfrey rested his chin in his hand and gazed around the inn. There were two wenches who took his fancy, the one who’d served him and a younger, prettier girl, a sister or cousin maybe. Innocence or experience – both had their attractions. He liked a well-fleshed woman, but on the other hand that young one’s lips were delectable. Why shouldn’t he have both? Maybe even the two together.
He had fallen into such a reverie that when the man finally spoke again, Godfrey jerked from his daydream so suddenly that the arm supporting his head shot off the table and he almost tumbled off the bench. A couple of men sitting a few benches along roared with laughter. Godfrey half rose to challenge them, but the stranger pulled him back down.
Hill of Bones Page 21
