The Sticklepath Strangler (2001)

by Jecks, Michael

  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 too 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 experi
ence 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 when 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.

  Sticklepath held nothing to attract her. The place was ugly and inhospitable. In fact, she regretted her decision to come here with Baldwin now. Although she would have hated to leave him to travel here alone, when he still hadn’t recovered from his injuries, she was terrified that whatever was here might affect her daughter. Richalda was too important for her to want to risk the baby’s life or well-being.

  She shivered slightly at the sight of the priest up at the edge of the vill. He was leaning against a tree, wiping at his face as though to clear away sweat. Rather than go and speak to him, Jeanne turned away and walked towards the ford.

  It was peaceful here. There was an old tree stump near the river itself, and she sat upon it, gazing into the water. Here at the boundary of the vill, she already felt a little happier, as though simply being on the road that would lead her homewards was itself enough to reassure her.

  In the distance she heard hooves in the clear, still air and wondered who would be travelling along here today. Probably a tranter or carter of some sort, carrying fish or wine to the monks of Tavistock or even the nuns at Belstone. With the sun on her back warming her and gleaming in bright sparks on the water, it was hard to maintain her fear, and she began to feel a comfortable languor overtaking her. Gradually the water’s sound and the light playing over its surface induced a pleasant drowsiness. The voice startled her when it spoke.

  ‘My Lady, I am pleased to meet you again.’

  Jolting to full wakefulness, her hand went to her breast as if to catch her heart before it could leap from her ribs. ‘Master Bel!’ she gasped.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. I worried you, didn’t I?’

  He was apparently attempting to soothe her, but his voice, now nasal and phlegmatic from the terribly broken nose that spread across his face like a flattened beetroot, failed to calm her.

  ‘What on earth has happened to you?’ Jeanne said faintly.

  Ivo gave a dry laugh, then winced as another bruise complained. ‘It’s that wretched brother of mine – he will lose his temper. I was talking to him, and he suddenly flew off the handle, grabbed a staff and set about me. The man’s completely mad! Not that he’ll do it again for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s being held by the Reeve. He’ll be lucky to get out before the Justices visit next, from what I hear. Reeve Alexander is to have him taken to Exeter to the gaol there. Then he’ll regret his lunacy. With luck the bastard will swing. I doubt he’ll have enough money to save himself – and I won’t fucking help him.’

  The last words were spat with virulent passion, and Jeanne shivered. Suddenly all her concerns returned to haunt her. If a man could attack his brother, surely it must be something to do with the place itself ? It was aberrant behaviour, as was Ivo’s apparent glee at Thomas’s plight. A desire for revenge was common enough, but such a passionate hatred for his own brother was hardly normal. No, it was Sticklepath. Making her excuses, Jeanne left him contemplating the waters and walked back to the vill.

  It was when she was halfway to the inn that she heard the hooves again.

  Turning, she was in time to catch a glimpse of a small cavalcade as it moved between the trees, coming towards the vill. It consisted of one man of rank on horseback and five men on foot, acting as his guards.

  They reappeared through the trees only moments later, and Jeanne got a better look at them. The man in the lead was a short, but powerfully built fellow with a round face and smiling eyes. He wore a hot-looking velvet tunic, a hood over his head against the sun, and rode a magnificent rounsey. He was clearly a knight, from his spurs to his finely decorated riding sword in its scabbard – the quality was demonstrated by the engraving and enamelling on the pommel. In his hand he dangled a war hammer, a vicious weapon with a two-inch-long spike behind the hammer head.

  Marching behind him, Jeanne recognised Drogo the Forester and his men, with Miles Houndestail bringing up the rear. He looked hot and tired.

  ‘My Lady,’ the knight said, taking in the quality of her dress, ‘do you live here?’

  ‘No, I come from Cadbury,’ she said. ‘I am wife to Sir Baldwin Furnshill.’

  ‘Ah, I have heard of him. I am Sir Laurence de Bozon, from Iddesleigh – I fear we have not met?’

  ‘I regret no,’ she said, smiling when he bowed gracefully to her, never an easy feat for a man on horseback. She inclined her head. ‘But I am sure that my husband will be pleased to meet you. We stay at the inn over there.’

  ‘I shall look forward to seeing you both there,’ Sir Laurence said courteously. ‘First, alas, I have business to attend to with the Reeve of this place. Forester, which is his house?’

  Drogo stepped forward, puffing a little. Jerking his chin, he said, ‘It is that one, the one opposite the tavern.’

  ‘I thank you. No hurry, then. My Lady, are you journeying far?’

  ‘No farther,’ Jeanne smiled. ‘We are here to help the Coroner with an inquest. My husband is a Keeper of the King’s Peace.’

  ‘There is more trouble here?’

  ‘There has been murder.’

  ‘Well, my Heavens. It is terrible that there could be another death in a little place like this, isn’t it, Forester? I trust there will be no more.’ Sir Laurence laughed, but his amusement didn’t strike Jeanne as genuine.

  The reaction of the men about him also struck her as interesting. Drogo’s features were bleak, Vincent Yunghe was sternly solemn, while Peter atte Moor was oddly excited, licking his lips and finding it difficult to keep still as though he was keen to get something done. Adam was the only one among them who looked unaffected by Sir Laurence’s presence. All appeared to think that the knight’s meeting with the Reeve would have dire consequences, although whether they were consequences only for the Reeve or for the whole vill she couldn’t tell.

  ‘I hope there will be no more violence too, my Lord,’ she said. ‘What are you here for,
may I ask? It is rare to see so many guards about a lone knight.’

  ‘Ah, these good Foresters are here to help me with my work and protect my body from attack, my Lady,’ Sir Laurence chuckled. ‘I am the King’s Purveyor and I’m here to collect money or grain to help provision the King’s host as he makes it ready to do battle in Scotland again. I sent for them from South Zeal.’

  Jeanne smiled politely, but she was aware that this elegant man in his sweat-stained suit wearing that easy smile would be one of the most loathed men who could have arrived in any vill, let alone one which had already been so scarred by famine, murrain and murder.

  ‘You think I could be in danger, my Lady?’ Sir Laurence said, seeing her face. He continued, overruling her protestations, ‘This is why I come with men. The last Purveyor for the King to come down this way disappeared, apparently.’ He stared at Miles thoughtfully. ‘At the time some thought he had robbed the King and run away with the money.’

  ‘But not now?’

  He smiled again. ‘I find it more sensible to keep an open mind, shall we say? And in the meantime, I suppose, I should be about my business.’

  ‘Collecting money for the King?’

  ‘Yes. Although,’ he glanced about him with his lip curled, ‘it is hard to imagine a place like this could afford much. What a miserable collection of hovels!’

  Jeanne didn’t admit to sharing his scorn, and when she saw Drogo’s hurt expression, she was glad. No man should insult another’s home without reason.

  Nicole Garde sat heavily on her stool and stared at her daughter, dazed. ‘Are you sure?’

  Joan burst into floods of tears and her mother gathered her up in her arms and cooed gently to her, rocking her.

  It felt as though her life had collapsed around her. Naturally, she had always known that the people of the vill resented her, that they distrusted her husband and shunned her daughter, but that they should suddenly move against her family was terrifying. It was worse, somehow, than the treatment she had received at home before her husband brought her here to this rural English backwater. At least she could comprehend the strange detestation she aroused in the breasts of the local peasants in the town where she was born. Here it was incomprehensible.