In fact, Simon thought it was a pleasing view. The moonlight was almost as strong as the mid-day sun, or so it seemed, and all about, the land was bathed in a silvery light. Puddles sparkled and glittered, and even the river, which he could glimpse through the trees, shone like a ribbon of silk.
The dogs were held in a kennel between the mill and the cemetery, Aylmer standing before them wearing a puzzled expression. They did indeed remind Baldwin of his own great raches, but they were not guarding tonight; they had no interest in him or the others. Their concentration was devoted to the moon, Baldwin thought at first, but then he saw that they only howled upwards. Between each sobbing cry, they stared out over the cemetery.
‘What in God’s name is your trouble?’ Coroner Roger demanded, bending to the nearer of the two. He spoke with exasperation and bemusement. ‘Come on, you monsters, can’t you see that some people want to get back to their inn and find a meal?’
‘It’s something over there,’ Baldwin said.
‘Where?’
Simon saw Aylmer trot away towards the wall. ‘The cemetery?’
‘There is no need for you to come as well, but I shall take a quick look.’
‘You assume that I fear a cemetery at night?’ Simon said. His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. ‘I wouldn’t have it said that a mere Keeper dared to rush in where a Bailiff did not!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Baldwin gave a half grin, but there was a challenge in his eyes. ‘You seem alarmed, though. Why?’
Simon sighed. ‘The other night, I was walking along the road when I heard something.’
‘What sort of something?’
‘Like a voice from under the ground. Like a… ghost.’
Baldwin’s grin froze. ‘In the cemetery?’
‘It came from where Samson was buried.’
‘My Christ!’ Baldwin said, appalled. ‘Don’t you see? The poor devil must have been buried alive!’
‘Hoy, what are those men doing up there?’ the Coroner interrupted them. ‘Torches and all sorts.’
‘Come quickly!’ Baldwin said, leaping forward and springing over the low wall surrounding the cemetery. ‘We have to protect him from their madness!’
Coroner Roger stared after him. ‘This is all very well, but I don’t mind confessing that I feel as scared as though the devil were at my arse! Do you really mean to enter that place at this time of night?’
‘Not happily,’ Simon admitted. ‘But I daren’t leave him in there alone. It looks as though the whole vill is there!’
The Coroner glanced down at his leg with a grimace. ‘Come on, then. The sooner it’s done, the better.’ And he grasped his staff more firmly as he lifted his leg gingerly over the wall, and set off after Baldwin.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vin didn’t want to be here in the cemetery. The place was scary at this time of night. However, Drogo had insisted that he come. The Foresters’ leader seemed a bit nervous himself. Vin knew about him burying the body of the Purveyor with the Reeve, but what else could there be to concern him? There was the small matter that every one of the murders had occurred when Drogo was away from Vin. The latter couldn’t recall every one of those nights, but certainly Drogo had been out at his bailiwick when Emma was killed, or so he said. Perhaps he had come back to the vill and throttled her, then taken his pieces of flesh back up the hill to his camp fire?
But why should he do such a dreadful thing? And why eat them? Because he liked the flavour? Vin shuddered. He recalled meals with Drogo demanding bloody meat, remembered the man’s chin dripping in gore, and suddenly Vin felt queasy.
Swetricus had already dug down several feet with Henry’s help, and had just stepped down into the grave to dig out the rest when Baldwin pounded up. Behind him, the Coroner had caught sight of Swetricus’s work, and immediately his face reddened and he roared, hopping over to join Baldwin.
‘Just what is God’s name is going on here? Get out of that grave, you bastard. Parson, what the Hell is this?’
Gervase stepped forward, motioning with a hand to Swetricus to continue. ‘Coroner, this is Church land. Your jurisdiction ends there, at the wall.’
The Coroner was appalled. ‘What are you doing here, condoning this… this desecration! Why?’
‘Because–’
Before he could answer, Swetricus dropped his shovel, ashen-faced, and sprang from the hole as a hideous shriek erupted from it.
Simon felt his stomach churn and took a pace back. That scream sounded like it came from the bowels of the earth itself – and then he corrected himself: it came from Hell. There was nothing earthly about it.
All about him, the men of the vill had moved away from the graveside, muttering and shaking their heads, one or two sidling towards the gate that gave out onto the road. Only two men stood firm: Baldwin and Gervase, with Aylmer at their side.
Gervase was smiling. This was the proof! He had known he was right! Now the vampire’s cry showed it. Nobody could doubt the evidence of their own ears. Seeing Swetricus standing a yard or two away from the grave, the Parson indicated that he should continue. The peasant, his face showing his fear, wiped a forearm over his brow and stared down at the ground. Then he resolutely stepped forward, carefully lowered himself into the hole once more and picked up his shovel.
‘What was that?’ Coroner Roger exclaimed.
Baldwin spoke tightly. ‘The poor man’s not dead. He’s still alive.’
‘No, Sir Knight,’ Parson Gervase said. ‘He’s dead, but demons have taken him over.’
‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ Baldwin spat. ‘He must have been buried alive by mistake. It’s not surprising, seeing that he was knocked on the head. I’ve heard of men who have been buried alive before, when all they received was a bad knock. The poor devil–’
‘He is no poor devil, Sir Baldwin. Ask his wife. She told us before you got here. Samson was always molesting young girls, including their own daughter. This man deserves no sympathy. And if he was buried alive, as you say, how did he escape to kill Emma last night?’
‘He didn’t,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘Surely you can see that this is only superstition? You cannot be thinking of killing the man just because we made a mistake and buried him alive!’
‘You say I am thinking of killing him,’ Gervase said reprovingly. ‘I would do no such thing. I cannot: he is already dead. His soul has been taken over by demons because he died suddenly and couldn’t receive the Extreme Unction which would have forgiven all his sins. So I must put this paper on his chest.’ He opened his scrip and took out the sheet upon which he had so carefully scrawled. ‘And anoint him with oil.’
Of all the men of the vill, Henry Batyn was nearest. He peered over the Parson’s shoulder, his face falling. ‘You’re going to stick that on him and anoint him?’
‘It will show him how to gain salvation,’ the Parson smiled.
Peter atte Moor pushed his way through the crowd. Snatching at the paper, he stared. ‘You’ve written things on it.’
‘Yes, it tells him how to–’
‘He couldn’t read, Parson. What good’ll this do?’
‘His spirit can receive the message,’ Gervase said, but a note of doubt had entered his voice. He hadn’t heard that there was any need for a recipient to be able to read. Women in childbirth had prayers written down and laid against their inner thighs to help them cope with the pain whether they could read or not, didn’t they? And Gervase had heard of demonic possession of corpses where this was the correct procedure.
‘Ballocks!’ Peter scoffed. ‘This evil bastard couldn’t read when he was alive, and he won’t be able to if he’s dead. Anyway, he killed my Denise when he was alive, and Emma when he was dead. I’ll not see him reburied so he can murder any more.’
‘He’ll get out again,’ came a voice from the crowd, ‘and this time he may not kill a girl. It could be any one of us!’
‘That is nonsens
e!’ the Parson said. ‘He won’t be able to hurt anyone once I have put this on his chest and anointed him.’
‘So you say, Parson, but how can we know?’ Swetricus asked, clambering out again. ‘I’ve lost one daughter. I won’t risk another.’
‘Get back in the grave, Swetricus,’ Gervase commanded.
The peasant raised his arms. ‘Who else here will let the ghost kill their children?’
‘What else can we do?’ Peter atte Moor asked.
‘We know what to do!’ It was Drogo, who now shouldered his way through the press with Vin and Adam in his wake. They stood at the graveside and stared down into it, and then Drogo looked at the men all about. ‘Every household, bring faggots. We’ll burn him, like we did Athelhard, and scatter his ashes so he can’t come back and trouble us again.’
Baldwin felt his heart lurch. ‘No, you must not! This man is alive still. He was interred by accident. Just think of it: he has been in there for a day, in a tiny space, praying for someone to rescue him. You must not raise him, only to throw him onto a pyre.’
‘If you won’t help us, leave us,’ Drogo said curtly.
‘Watch your tongue, Forester. I have only just given you your freedom,’ Sir Roger growled.
‘And I am grateful, Coroner, but I won’t betray the trust these villagers have in me,’ Drogo stated uncompromisingly. ‘And I won’t see another girl killed by this evil shit.’
Gervase stamped his foot and bellowed that the men should ignore Drogo, but even as he spoke, he could see that most of them were disappearing, streaming away to the vill to obey the Forester’s command.
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.
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