Puffing and blowing, he shook his head, relishing the coolness, feeling the water trickling down his back. As he did so, he thought he heard something, an odd whirring noise which came from his left and disappeared to the right, but his ears were filled with water and he didn’t recognise it. Probably a bird, he told himself.
Then the missile slammed into his thigh.
The jolt itself was vicious, yet even through his shock he was conscious of every moment of the impact: he could feel the barbs pierce his flesh, slicing through muscle, tearing onwards until they jerked to a halt against his thigh-bone. Even as he collapsed, he was aware of the arrow quivering in his thigh.
And then he was on his arse, while water scattered from his upturned bucket, staring at his leg, scarcely able to believe his eyes. It was tempting to think it must be an accident, that someone had been aiming at a bird or a rabbit, and the arrow had missed or skittered up from the ground, like a spinning stone on water, only to find him, a fresh target, but as the idea occurred to him, he realised it was impossible. There were no rabbits here, and an arrow wouldn’t bounce upwards when it struck the ground; it would bury its entire length. Yet he had no enemies. Who could have deliberately aimed at him?
As the stinging grew more painful, he studied the arrow, seeking clues as to who might have fired at him. The fletchings were bright blue peacock feathers, moving lazily with the beating of his heart. Like most longbow arrows it was at least a yard long, a good missile over long range, he told himself, an ideal weapon for an assassin.
As the pain increased, he realised he must move. His attacker must still be there, perhaps drawing back the bowstring a third time. Athelhard stumbled to his feet and scurried around the tree’s trunk like a vole looking for a hedge, leaning back against it while the nausea washed over him.
His axe was around the other side of the tree, right in the line of another arrow and he daren’t reach for it, but somehow he must get away, and first he had to remove the arrow. Looking down at the slender stem protruding from his hose, the thought of what he must do made him retch. While a soldier he had seen others do the same often enough, but that didn’t make it any easier. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, he touched it gingerly. He couldn’t pull it out backwards, as the barbs would rend his flesh and do more damage. No, he must drive it forwards, so that the arrowhead cut through the thickness of his thigh and came out the other side.
It was firmly lodged at his bone, however, and he wept freely as he twisted and turned it, trying to move it away without harming himself more than he must. When he finally succeeded, he fainted as a gush of hot blood fountained from the wound, flooding his hands, but he came to only a moment or two later, shivering and nauseous deep in the pit of his stomach. At first he was fearful to see the bright crimson puddle, but he felt all right. No arteries had been broached.
It was done. He snapped off the remaining length with the fletchings, then tugged the splinter of wood which was left attached to the point through his leg, his face pulled into a mask of revulsion. Tearing off his hose, he fashioned a makeshift tourniquet which he bound as close to his groin as he could. He couldn’t touch the arrowhead again. Slick with his blood, he was repelled by it. Instead he took up the piece with the fletchings and shoved it into the cloth, twisting it until the ligature was tight and the blood ceased flowing. Then and only then did he turn his attention to the man who had ambushed him, who must still be there, waiting for him.
A good bowman could hit a butt at four or five hundred yards. Trying to get a moving man was more difficult, especially if he could dodge and sprint, but Athelhard wouldn’t be doing that, not with his leg in this state. He would only be able to hobble, presenting an easy target to the most incompetent archer.
There was the crack of a breaking twig and he knew that his attacker was edging forward. If he remained here, he would be killed. He climbed to his feet as quietly as he could, gritting his teeth as his ruined leg refused to support his weight.
With infinite caution he peered around the tree. That was when he felt his heart plunge. There was more than one man: he could count at least three at the edge of the nearest line of bushes. One held something in his hands – it must be a bow. Athelhard gripped his knife, frozen with indecision. Should he throw it now, kill one of his attackers, and then cry for help? The vill wasn’t far from here. Someone would be bound to hear his screams, and it was possible that the remaining two would bolt if they saw their companion fall.
He was calculating the likelihood of the men in the fields hearing him when he saw one of the figures move.
It was a shambling gait, as though he was dragging his left leg, and in that moment, Athelhard knew he would soon die. The man was from his own vill: Adam. That limp was caused by a badly mended leg after he was run over by a cart. It was as distinctive as a coat of arms. Then he recognised another man by his voice, and felt the blood freeze in his veins. These three stalkers were his neighbours, men with whom he had drunk, eaten, fasted, toiled and prayed. They were men he had called his friends. He glanced down at the fletchings on the arrow and now he recognised it, knew who had made it, who had fired it.
That decided him. He couldn’t get to his axe, so he must somehow make his way back inside his cottage and find another weapon. He had his own bow and arrows in there; with them he might yet be able to turn the tables on his attackers. If he could hit two of them, that might persuade the others to go, but even with God’s help, it would be hard: he’d be lucky to get to his house before being shot again.
From here he could just see his cottage through the trees. There was a cleared space between the edge of the trees and his door, and the thought of covering it in his current condition made his flesh creep. No, ballocks to that: he’d have to work his way round to the back of the cottage and hoist himself in through the rear window.
He retied the shreds of hose about his leg and twisted the shard of arrow until the pain almost made him cry out, before beginning to crawl forwards.
Fear of making a noise forced him to move with exceptional care. The wound in his leg was smarting now, and he shivered in shock. He made it to a bush and slumped down, loosening the tourniquet. Immediately, or so it seemed, his leg was afire with stabs of agony flashing up and down, from his toes to his cods. It felt as if someone had wrapped his entire leg in a blanket of tiny needles, and was progressively shoving them in deeper and deeper.
There was a shout behind him, and he felt his heart lurch.
‘Are you sure you hit the bugger, Drogo?’
‘’Course I am! I saw the arrow strike.’
‘Where is he then, eh?’
There came another cry from further up, a thrilled call like a huntsman’s. ‘Blood! Gouts of it! You bled him well enough, like a stuck pig!’
‘How do you kill them?’ the man called Adam asked. ‘Sanguisugae are dead already, aren’t they? How’d you kill someone who’s dead?’
‘You cut out his heart and burn it. That’s what I’ve heard. If not, he’ll keep coming back, keep attacking our little ones.’
‘Cut out his heart? Ugh!’ The voice came from dangerously close to Athelhard. He recognised it as the youthful tones of Vincent Yunghe, a hanger-on of Drogo’s. Instinctively he tensed, but the lad was walking away, going to join the other three. ‘I’m not doing that!’
‘I’ll do it, Vin. I’m not scared, and I want revenge after what he did to my little Denise, the devil!’ The angry, bitter voice of Peter atte Moor choked off and there was silence for a while.
Athelhard gritted his jaw and set off again, his leg dragging. The tingling meant he couldn’t stand on it for any time, nor could he bolt; all he could do was make for the uncertain sanctuary of his cottage. On he went, sticking to the line of low bushes he had planted to keep dogs from his hens, until he came to a gap.
The blundering of many feet was nearer now. Hell’s fires, there must be half the vill up here, he thought to himself. They sounded as though th
ey were congregating at the point where he’d pulled out the arrow, and he bit his lip when he heard someone shout. They were on his trail.
Ahead of him the window was a rough, square hole in the wall of his cottage. A matter of four feet from the ground, and ten yards from him, it looked almost impossible to reach without being seen and hit, but he had to try: inside was safety. He could string his bow, nock an arrow to it, and hold them off, at least until he learned why his neighbours had decided to kill him.
When he heard the command to follow the marks in the mud, he knew he must move fast or be killed like a beast at bay. Summoning up all his courage, he stood. There was a bellow, then a roared instruction, and he could have sworn he heard an arrow, but by then he was hurtling inelegantly forward, hobbling weakly on one leg, forcefully shoving himself on with the other.
One pace, two, and he was waiting for the arrow to pierce his unprotected back. Three paces, four, and his breath was wheezing in terror at being in the open. Five paces, six, and the window was so close he could almost reach it. Seven, and his hand caught the rough cob wall.
He crouched on his good leg, both hands on the ledge, then roared with pain and anger as he tried to leap upwards, wrenching with both arms, using all the muscles of his powerful shoulders. He was already halfway through when the second arrow struck him with a terrible, hollow, wet sound, like a stick striking a damped woollen cloak.
Not a sound broke from him as he thudded heavily to the ground, although the shaft struck the floor and wrenched the broad barbs of the arrowhead deeper into his back. It had found its mark. As he reached around tentatively and felt it, he knew that it would kill him: it had lodged in his liver. The pain was excruciating. Outside, the cries of glee showed that the success of the shot had been seen.
But he wasn’t dead yet. He could sting back, he promised himself. Climbing slowly up the wall, he pulled the shutter over the window and tied it in place. Then he could hop along the wall to his stool. Once he was sitting on that, he could snap the arrow-shaft in his back with both hands. It was less painful than the one in his leg, perhaps because he was already growing weak and he simply couldn’t cope with more pain; his frame had registered all it could. He didn’t care. Now all that mattered to him was killing as many of them as he could. His neighbours, his friends, he sneered to himself.
The bow hung from a beam, away from the damp. He could just touch it with his fingers at full reach, and that was enough to knock it down, falling across his head and then down his back, where it snagged on the broken arrow. A scream broke from his lips. Standing, he grabbed the bow and with slow determination he rested one end on the ground and leaned forward, pushing the bow and bending it, shoving the gut string up and over the curve until it could fit into the two slots at either side.
It was done. His back was soaked, and he knew he was losing a lot of blood, but he carried on. The small quiver with his arrows was near the door, and he plucked one and nocked it on the string before dropping back with a grunt to his stool to wait.
But now the rats were closer. He had husbanded all the energy he could, and he rose, shuffled to the doorway and peeped out from behind the leather curtain. He hoped that the men would not notice him there but if they did, the leather might serve as some protection.
Outside, the light was swiftly fading, and he could scarcely make out anything, save the great trees which towered all around. He could see none of his attackers in the gloom, but he could hear them moving about. He couldn’t be sure of hitting them, not aiming by sound alone.
When the man called to him, the sound of his voice was so unexpected that Athelhard caught his breath.
‘Athelhard, surrender to us.’
He made no answer. The voice was coming from the right of the beech tree, and he squinted, but he couldn’t be sure of a target in the gloom.
‘Come out and we’ll send you to Exeter to be tried by the justice of Gaol Delivery. Otherwise we will kill you. We have to.’ It almost sounded as though the man was pleading. ‘We’ve found her. We know what you did to her. We’ve heard of your . . . your meal!’
A shot of pain lanced his back, and the breath hissed through his teeth. He had no idea what the Reeve was talking about, didn’t care especially. A moment later he caught sight of the man, a tall, powerfully built figure standing a little distance from the beech tree, roughly where Athelhard had pulled the arrow from his thigh.
He could feel his strength ebbing, but he was determined, and lifted his bow. Every week he had practised with his bow since his youth, and now he had a clear picture of his enemy. Raising the bow until the point of his arrow was on the man’s face, Athelhard drew back the string.
Normally he could pull it back smoothly, the arrow resting on his knuckle while his hooked fingers drew the string back to reach his face, softly touching his nose, lips and chin, while he stared along the arrow itself, waiting for the moment to release it. Not today. He couldn’t hold it steady, even when the string was only halfway drawn. Hauling back on it, he kept his eye on the man, gasping with the effort, but before the arrow’s nock was six inches from his chin, his arm began vibrating madly. The bow wavered impossibly; his hands couldn’t control it. The pull was too strong for him in his weakened state. Blood flooded from his wound, slick on his skin, glueing his shirt to his back. He couldn’t aim, couldn’t even be sure he’d get the thing to fire through the doorway – it would be more likely to strike the wall at this rate. Slowly, he permitted the string to inch forward without firing, then sagged, silently weeping, his chin falling to his breast after the expenditure of so much effort. There was nothing left. He was done.
That was when he noticed the light playing about the doorway, saw the torches. Instinctively he glanced up at the thatching of his roof.
There was an odd noise, like a pheasant in flight, and he wondered for a moment what it might be. He realised when he heard it thud against his roof that it was a torch. After so much rain, it had little immediate effect, producing a loud spitting and fizzing, but then he heard another thump above him, and a third. Soon he could hear a loud hissing and crackling as the thatch began to ignite.
It was enough. As the flames took hold, the fight left him. He had no more energy. The vital force which had directed him was fading as his blood dripped steadily to pool on the floor. With it, his urgent need for revenge was dwindling and in its place an overwhelming lassitude settled upon him. He fell back onto his stool even as the first whiff of burning thatch reached his nostrils, as the first glowing strands fell at his feet.
Resigned to death, he preferred to be consumed in the flames that devoured his cottage. Rather that than give his enemies the satisfaction of seeing him bolt from his door like a rabbit chased by a ferret, only to be shot and killed. He would have been pleased to die fighting, but it was too late. As the smoke began to fill his room with a greenish, yellow vapour, he inhaled deeply, welcoming the light-headedness that proclaimed the onset of oblivion.
The scream stirred him: Margaret, his responsibility, his sister.
Her despair made him sit up, coughing painfully. In her voice he could hear her terror. She was too simple to comprehend what was happening, probably didn’t know her only brother was inside, but seeing her cottage in flames made her give shriek after shriek.
‘Go on! Throw her in with him!’ he heard someone shout, and that was enough to galvanise him.
‘NO!’ he roared, stumbling to his feet. She cried out again, and he felt the fury take him over. Gripping his useless bow in both hands and leaning heavily on it like a staff, he limped to the door, then lurched on outside shouting for his Meg. It was there, before his threshold, that the three arrows found their marks.
One smashed straight into his shoulder, the heavy arrowhead spinning him around, making him drop his bow and stumble to the ground. He had just propped himself up on his good arm to face his tormentors when the second arrow flashed into his neck and flew through it, thudding on into the cottage wa
ll. He coughed once, and even as he drew breath to cough again, the last arrow slammed into the left side of his breast, straight into his heart.
Just before he died, Athelhard used his remaining strength to scream one last defiant curse. All the men heard him; all would remember it for the rest of their lives.
‘Damn you! Damn you all! I’ll see the whole vill roast in hell! You are all accursed!’
Later, much later, Serlo the Warrener walked down into the clearing. He took in the smoking shell of the house and eyed the smouldering corpse which lay just inside the doorway where the departing men had thrown it, to be consumed by the flames.
A dead body was nothing to Serlo; he had handled enough of them in his time, although he had never burned one. That looked wrong. It was one thing to bury a man after listening to his confession, letting him answer the questions of the viaticum and giving him absolution, but to slaughter a man like this was repellent.
He shrugged and turned away; a man of few words has little need of contemplation, and for the present he had one pressing consideration.
The girl knelt not far from the wreck of her house, her eyes wild, her mouth dribbling. Her round face was enough to show that her mind was addled, and it was that which saved her, of course. Serlo knew that the superstitious folk of the vill wouldn’t harm a girl like her. She was touched.
He gently crouched before her, blocking her view of her brother’s corpse, and clasped her hands in his. It took a long time, much talking, a lot of reassuring and comforting, but at last, as the dawn lighted the eastern horizon, she complied with his gentle urging and went with him up to his house.
Chapter One
Seven years later
The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) Page 2
