Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  “There now, that’s much better,” he said, pressing her firmly back down to her seat. “And now that I have your attention, let us discuss those things that I require of you. I am afraid it is a rather long list, but I shall expect you to do it all. And do try not to disappoint me, my dear.” He squeezed Isabella’s shoulders hard, making her wince in discomfort. “You know what will happen should you do so.”

  He didn’t need to threaten her again. He knew full well she would do as he asked, and she hated him for it. If there was a demon in her mirror, Isabella imagined she would pray to it. She would strike a bargain and ask it to kill him. Him and her husband both. And she would not care if it damned her soul to hell.

  But there was no demon. There didn’t need to be. There were enough real monsters in the world.

  CHAPTER 7

  “So, there’s heresy afoot?”

  The village constable was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall, with roughly the girth of a bull. He spoke to Thomas in a dramatic rumbling whisper, about as loud as a normal man might talk. “Sorcery is it then? Necromancy?”

  “I did not say so,” Thomas replied.

  “Aye, maybe you didn’t, but I heard tell of it. They say as how a witch must have killed that poor old sod at the church. Murdered him,” the constable added with a sinister leer, “and then laid his body out on the high altar for some foul purpose.”

  The constable’s forehead creased up like a plowed field. “Or maybe it was a demon summoned by a witch as did the killing.” He shook his head as if the distinction was unimportant. “Anyway, all spread across the altar he was, arms and legs flung out like he’d been crucified. I saw it with my own eyes. And I heard the pope himself has declared it heresy and has sent one of his black priests here to investigate.”

  “Did you see a witch or a demon, John?” asked Thomas. “Did anyone?”

  Constable John scratched at his bulbous nose. “No. But if there weren’t some devilry, why would a black priest be here?”

  “He’s a friar, John—a Dominican friar.”

  “He’s not a priest then?”

  “Well, yes, I believe he has been ordained, but he is still a friar.”

  The constable considered that for a moment and then shrugged it off, deciding it was all a bit too complicated and not something he really needed to understand.

  “No, it’s heresy, all right,” he declared happily. “Magic. Sorcery. And I can’t say it surprises me none. You hear all sorts of things these days. Why, just the other day I heard there was some mumper walking around the country saying as how he was the real king. That he had been switched as a baby because he had been born with a crooked leg. He said Edward is nothing but a cesspit digger’s by-blow. Well, they took the mumper up and questioned him, and what do you know? It turned out he was being told what to do by the Devil himself, and the Devil had been talking to him through his black cat. A bloody cat, possessed by the Devil! Can you imagine it? Now tell me there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Thomas squinted up drily at the big man. He knew the story, of course. John Deydras was a young clerk in Oxford who turned up one day at Beaumont castle, claiming it as his birthright. According to Deydras, he had been playing in the castle courtyard as a child when a royal servant had allowed a sow or a dog to attack him and bite off his ear. Fearing punishment, the servant had switched the princeling with a carter’s child. Deydras was never lame, as the constable had suggested; he was just short an ear. It was an insane tale from a sick man, and a testament to how deeply unpopular King Edward had become. Naturally, the pretender was tried and hung for sedition, and just to be on the safe side, so was his cat.

  “It’s true, I tell you,” insisted the big man, sensing that his story was not being received with quite the seriousness it deserved. “I had it from a pack peddler passing through on his way to Melton. He swore to it. And that’s not all either. I also heard tell that there’s been strange goings on in Bristol at the crossroads where they hung the rebels. Aye, all sorts of strange things, they say. Evil things. Like a giant crow that flew down and alighted on the gallows, cawed three times three, flapped its wings up and down, and then shit and flew away. Everyone knows crows are an evil omen.”

  This last was a story Thomas had also heard, though in the tale he had been told, the strange happenings had been miracles and the crow had been an angel, and it had certainly not defecated on the gallows. He supposed which story you believed depended on who you had supported in the rebellion.

  “Tell me, John, have you done any actual investigation beyond listening to superstition.”

  The constable looked at him defensively. “Aye. Of course I have. I’ve looked all over for strangers and runaways.”

  He said strangers with the same sinister connotation he had reserved for sorcery.

  Villages were tight-knit communities. The villagers lived together, worked together, married each other, and looked to their lord for protection and comfort, rarely leaving home unless it was to go to the local market town after harvest. Most of them were villeins, feudal tenants who belonged to their lord and could not marry or leave without his permission. And by law, they were responsible for any of their people who did commit a crime, so it was always useful to find a stranger to pin the blame on. Even if no crime had been committed, it was not unusual in some places for the watch to round up any strangers wandering the streets at night and throw them in the stocks on general principle. And there they would stay until someone vouched for them, which was none too easy because, well, they were strangers. Unfortunately for John, the only stranger in Bottesford on the night of the murder had met his grisly end in Saint Mary’s Church.

  “I’ve been all the way over to Barrowby,” he added.

  Barrowby must have been all of a staggering five miles away. In his mind’s eye, Thomas could see the constable’s wife packing him up as if he were off to France.

  “His lordship sent word to the sheriff as well, though we are not likely to see him or his men.”

  That much was certainly true. Country justice was usually left to the lord of the manor, the royal assizes only swinging by a few times a year to dole out the king’s justice in the most serious cases. Thomas suspected that the sheriff would want little enough to do with the strange goings on at Bottesford. At least, not until it was time to collect the taxes.

  They crossed the village green, surrounded by several clusters of mostly single-room cottages, and walked past a set of empty stocks that were leaning to the side where they had sunk into the mud at some point over the last wet season. Young children were happily playing around them. The girls were taking turns to poke their heads and hands through slats, stick out their tongues, and blow giant raspberries at the boys, before scampering away, shrill voices shrieking with delight.

  Constable John coughed and walked by, pretending not to notice.

  “Alehouse is right there,” he said waving a hand to the far side of the green. Apparently, Roger Lacy had visited the alehouse the night he was murdered, a fact that Thomas found curious, as it sounded like Lacy was scarcely better off than a beggar, without a penny to spend.

  What passed for the village alehouse was really just a larger cottage with a bushel sign out front to let people know ale was brewed there. It would be a stretch to call it a tavern. The inside was not much more than a large pot room, with a straw-covered earthen floor and an odd assortment of tables, benches, stools, and barrels. It was a place where locals might gather to share a companionable drink or to hear the latest news from the occasional wandering peddler, or simply to gawk at travelers getting some refreshment while their horses were shod. The door and shutters were propped full open, letting some light and a welcome breath of fresh air into what might otherwise have been an ill-lit and musty little room.

  The place was empty, save for three men, all clustered around the same trestle table, drinking ale and eating rye bread and cheese. They were all of an age, perhaps in their mid-thirties.
Two of them, fresh from the fields, were dressed in the soiled smocks and clogs of the country so despised by Bishop Henry. One had a huge bushy beard that looked like he was trying to make up for his thinning hair. Another had an unfortunate face, all squashed and scrunched up, as though it had been smashed repeatedly against an anvil. The third, a stocky, bull-like fellow with almost no neck, was dressed in a shabby tunic, his woolen hose rolled down to display thick calves and a pair of hairy shins. He looked to be the leader of the group and was holding court, braying loudly, when they entered.

  A bored-looking pot girl flitted back and forth, trying to look busy. She seemed a little too young to be the alewife, so it was probably her mother who did the brewing. Her face broke into a welcoming smile at the prospect of two new customers.

  Talk at the table had ceased, and the three patrons eyed the newcomers distrustfully. Thomas could tell from their sullen expressions that they would not be inclined to be of much help.

  “Good morrow, friends,” he said cheerily, and three pairs of suspicious eyes followed him as he dragged a stool across the floor and sat down at the table with them. Bushy Beard’s beaker had paused halfway to his mouth, and he was now regarding Thomas over its rim.

  “Another jug for me and my friends here,” said Thomas, catching the girl’s eye and slapping the tabletop.

  She smiled widely and bustled off in a flurry of skirts. Thomas had not offered John a seat, and there was no room for him anyway, so he just stood awkwardly behind, looming over them all.

  The pot girl set down a fresh jug and filled a wooden mazer for Thomas, slopping ale liberally over the table. Thomas downed half his ale in one giant swig and smacked his lips appreciatively.

  “By God, that’s good stuff!”

  Actually, it was a bit too sweet for his liking, but decent enough. An honest brew and not one that was likely to risk the alewife being dragged to the manor court for selling watery ale. The girl rewarded him with another smile and refilled the bowl he held out to her. The others at the table sat motionless, watching him, beakers held in unmoving hands.

  Thomas gestured to the girl to leave the jug and watched her walk away, before turning his attention back to his companions.

  “We can buy our own drink.” It was No-Neck who broke the silence.

  “I don’t doubt it, friend. But why turn down free ale? I am Thomas Lester.”

  “We know who you are and why you’re here. And we don’t need no free ale.”

  The constable leaned down and whispered, comically loud, out of the side of his mouth: “The mouthy bugger who looks like he swallowed a bullock is Tom Attwood. He has a mill on the river off the north fields. The ugly one with the scabs is Adam, and that one hiding behind his beard is Will Peck.”

  Thomas paused and turned about. “Thank you, John.” The tone and stare were intended to convey to the constable in no uncertain terms that he should stay quiet.

  “Right you are,” said John. “I’ll just grab myself a beaker, then, and have a sip or two to wet the old whistle.” He looked longingly at the jug. “Just a sip or two. To wet the whistle, like.”

  Thomas took another mouthful. He had to admit the ale was growing on him. The alewife had managed to do something with the grains that gave it a surprisingly tasty apple flavor. It wasn’t too sweet at all. And it was fresh, probably brewed that day. He licked his lips and topped off his mazer, reminding himself not to be so quick to judge.

  “John says that the old man who was murdered at the church stopped by here for a drink the night he was killed. Were you here that night, Tom?” Thomas directed his question to the no-neck miller. “Did you see Roger Lacy?”

  “I don’t remember,” was the surly response.

  Thomas turned to one of his companions, the ugly one.

  “How about you? Adam, isn’t it? Do you remember him?”

  “He don’t remember nothing either,” growled No-Neck with a warning glance at his friend.

  John had ventured to pick up a mazer and was reaching for the jug when he decided that he had heard quite enough. He slapped the table loudly with a meaty hand.

  “By Christ and all that’s holy! The gentleman is here on business from his lordship. You’ll answer his questions or you’ll answer to me.”

  The pot girl was bringing over another jug and stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes flicked nervously from one to the other, and she backed away a few steps.

  “Now see here, John,” began No-Neck.

  The constable was having none of it, and Thomas just managed to pick up his mazer before the big hand came crashing down again.

  “Answer. The. Question,” he growled, each word punctuated with another mighty thump of the table that made all three men flinch and sent beakers rattling and bouncing about, one of them toppling over and rolling all the way across the table to fall on the floor with a loud thunk.

  Thomas smiled. The big man had his uses it seemed.

  “You’ll answer the damned question, Tom, or I swear to God I’ll be having you.”

  The threat was accompanied by a giant sausage of a finger jabbing the miller repeatedly in the chest, nearly knocking him off his stool. The miller was a big man, broad in the chest, but John was something else.

  “Now, John,” the miller started, squirming as far back on his stool as he could without actually falling off, “there’s no need to go threatening a man.”

  He cleared his throat nervously and turned back to Thomas. “Aye, he was here. Sat right over there.” He flicked his hand vaguely to a small table set in a shadowy corner. “He didn’t speak none. He just sat all alone, looking about him with those beady little eyes of his, every now and then sipping at his ale like it was Rhenish wine, still spilling most of it down his tunic. And he kept cackling away and talking to himself. It was making us all right uncomfortable, him sitting there watching us, listening in on our talk, acting funny. I told Sally to fetch John. I thought to have him thrashed for a vagabond and thrown in the stocks for the night. Daft old bugger, he was, and no mistake. A right bleeding nutcase.”

  He blinked and looked at Thomas’s hard face, suddenly realizing his comments might not sit too well, given the man had actually suffered a far grislier fate.

  “Er. Poor old sod, that is to say,” the miller added weakly, tucking his chin down into his chest.

  Bushy Beard had no such reservations.

  “No, you’re right, Tom. A right nutter, he was. Wouldn’t have surprised me none if he had dragged out a pittance bowl and gone a-begging table-to-table to scrounge up the coin to pay for his ale. Tom was all for tossing him into the street, and I had half a mind to do so myself. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he dragged out that fat coin purse of his and started throwing his money around like he was some sort of lord.”

  “He had money then?” asked Thomas, surprised at the unlikely revelation.

  “Aye, he had money—a right lot of it.” Ugly Adam had picked up the tale. “And he made sure to let us all know. Waving his purse about, acting all high and mighty. And him sitting there dressed like a vagabond and looking like a big dog’s leavings.”

  Thomas tried not to look too closely at Adam’s own filth-covered smock or the distinctly cowpat-looking material clinging to his clogs. “Tom said he was talking to himself. Did you hear anything he had to say?”

  “It was just a lot of nonsense,” Adam replied. “‘Fine as a lord! Lucky old Roger!’ And then a bunch of mumbling and cackling. Like Tom said, he was a daft old bugger, and that’s all there is to it.”

  The pot girl, who had been hovering about, pretending not to listen, decided to join the conversation. She had a round face flushed with color and a tangle of mousy brown hair under her linen cap. Thomas would not call her pretty, but she looked well enough and had a full, comely shape and the kind of cheeky sultriness that he imagined men drinking in the alehouse appreciated a little more than their wives might have liked.

  “Oh, you be quiet. Don�
��t you listen to them, sir,” she said, addressing Thomas. “He was a harmless old man. He wasn’t doing anything wrong—just sitting there having a drink, peaceful and quiet like.”

  “Was he staying here?” Thomas had noticed a couple of old mattresses piled against the far wall that travelers might rent for the night.

  She picked up the fallen beaker and set it down again on the table, tossing an accusing glare at the constable.

  “No. I did offer him a mattress, but he said he was staying at the priory guesthouse. I can’t say that I believed him. I half-think he might have been sleeping rough, under a hedge somewhere. I didn’t say anything, though. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.” Thomas nodded encouragingly. “He was sad. I felt sorry for him.”

  Bushy Beard snorted indelicately. “Of course you did, Sally. No doubt it helped that he gave you a shiny penny and waved a full bag of coin under your nose.”

  “No, that’s not it! And I don’t care how he was dressed neither. He had nice manners. Anyone could tell he was a gentleman. He had just come on hard times I guessed.”

  Bushy Beard huffed dismissively.

  “And it’s nice to have a man come in here who isn’t always pawing at me. And you with a wife and three young ones at home, Will Peck.”

  “Now see here!” Peck blurted angrily.

  They bickered back and forth until John’s big hand slammed the table again to quiet them, sending the selfsame beaker rolling back across the table and down onto the floor.

  Thomas gripped John’s wrist and lifted his hand casually from the tabletop.

  “And were you three the only other ones here that night?”

  They all nodded. Bushy Beard also threw in an added glare at the pot girl.

  “And you all left together?”

  The question was met with silence. Heads sunk into their beakers, faces became closed and guarded, and little furtive glances were cast in the miller’s direction. Sally suddenly realized she had other things to do, even though they were her only customers, and bustled off to the back room.