The Sticklepath Strangler
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Preface Sticklepath, 1315
Chapter One Seven years later
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Author’s Note
The Last Templar Mysteries
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
This book is for Shirley and Dartmoor Dave Denford, the blacksmith who ‘don’t do ’orses’.
Cast of Characters
Sir Baldwin de Furnshill: The Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, Baldwin has been marked by the injustice of the destruction of the Knights Templar. As a result he seeks justice for common folk.
Lady Jeanne: Baldwin’s wife, who was once widowed and now fears losing her second husband.
Edgar: Baldwin saved Edgar’s life in Acre, and since then Edgar swore loyalty to him for life. He is Baldwin’s most trusted servant.
Simon Puttock: Long a friend of Baldwin’s, and an official of the Stannaries, the tin miners of Dartmoor. Simon and Baldwin have often worked together on investigations.
Roger de Gidleigh: Coroner Roger is one of only two coroners who must investigate all sudden deaths and wrecks in Devonshire.
Nicole Garde: The French wife of Thomas Garde; mother of Joan.
Thomas Garde: Thomas is a freeman, who works his own little plots, but he is an incomer to the vill of Sticklepath and has never been fully accepted.
Joan: Daughter of Nicole and Thomas, Joan has found a corpse.
Ivo Bel: Brother of Thomas, and Manciple to the nuns of Canonsleigh. He lusts after Nicole, his sister-in-law.
Serlo Warrener: A gruff, hardy man, crippled years ago, who tends to the warren up on the moor.
Athelhard: Athelhard was killed by the vill when they thought him guilty of murder.
‘Mad’ Meg: Sister to Athelhard, and simple from birth, Meg avoids the vill since the death of her brother.
Ansel de Hocsenham: A purveyor to the King, Ansel last visited the vill during the 1315-16 famine.
Emma: Close friend of Joan who found the corpse with her.
Swetricus: A peasant of Sticklepath who lost Aline, his daughter, several years ago. Three daughters survive.
Samson atte Mill: The miller, known for brawling and drunkenness.
Gunilda: Samson’s wife, a downtrodden woman.
Felicia: Samson and Gunilda’s daughter.
Alexander de Belston: The cautious Reeve of Sticklepath who is determined to preserve the reputation of the vill and its people.
William Taverner: William is the master of the only inn.
Ham: Taverner’s son, who was killed in the recent floods.
Mary: Daughter to Taverner, who often serves visitors to the inn.
Gervase Colbrook: Parson to the little chantry chapel of Sticklepath.
Drogo le Criur: Leader of the foresters, charged with guarding the Forest of Dartmoor and travellers over it.
Peter atte Moor: A forester under Drogo, Peter lost his daughter Denise to the murderer some years ago.
Adam Thorne: Also a forester, Adam has a bad limp, but is known for his strength and integrity.
Vincent Yunghe: The youngest of the foresters, Vin is still learning his duties.
Miles Houndestail: A traveller who was first to see the corpse with the two girls.
Preface
Sticklepath, 1315
They were out there.
In the darkness about his cottage, as he sat inside, panting like a wounded dog, he knew they were silently gathering, like rats about carrion, and Athelhard shivered not only from the pain of his wounds, but from the knowledge that he was soon to be slaughtered and burned until nothing remained, nothing but the lie that he had killed the girl; that he had drunk her blood and eaten her flesh; that he was a sanguisuga – a vampire. It was that thought, more even than the pain, that made him snarl in defiance like a bear at bay in the pit.
His leg felt as if it had been savaged. The hole through his flesh was more painful than he could have imagined, a pulsing agony that produced a sort of deadening cramp in his groin. Not that it compared with the injury to his back. That was sharper, like a knife thrust. That was the one which would kill him, he knew. The arrowhead was lodged deeply, and he could feel his strength seeping away with his blood.
Why? he wondered again. Why attack him? Why think he could have done that to the girl?
* * *
The arrow in his leg heralded the attack.
He’d had no premonition all that long day he’d been at his holding, far on the western outskirts of the vill, peaceably chopping and storing logs in preparation for the winter. At the beech tree that marked the eastern edge of his plot, he set down his axe while he ducked his head in his old bucket and rubbed his hair. It had been hard work, and tiny chips and flakes of wood were lodged in his scalp, making the flea bites itch.
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 they 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.
The Sticklepath Strangler Page 1