He turned, thinking to engage Jeanne in conversation, but as he did so he caught the eye of a man standing in the doorway.
Simon had not seen Drogo before, but he could tell that Jeanne had, from the way that she sat a little straighter on her bench. Baldwin and Jeanne had not told Simon of their brush with Drogo and his men, but he could tell that something was making Jeanne unhappy. He watched as Drogo sauntered across the room to take a table at the far end, his companions joining him as he loudly dragged a chair out and bellowed for ale. The men already sitting there gave up their table to the four.
There was nothing to distinguish the newcomers from other men. Apart from Drogo himself in his crimson tunic, they were all clad in worn and faded clothes like any of the locals. Ochres and greens made up their colours; they carried small horns at their sides, and all had daggers and heavy staffs – just like any other franklin.
There was an aura about them, though: an intimidating presence. They clearly knew that they were all-powerful in this area. In fact, they looked as though they were not truly a part of the vill, but were superior to it, like men who were above the law. Or who were themselves the law.
That impression was reinforced when the taverner’s daughter appeared in the doorway. She carried a tray, filled with pots and jugs of ale, and was walking slowly and carefully towards a table at the far side of the room. A man stood there, smiling. ‘Over here, Martha, love,’ he called.
Simon had to smile at the sight of her. Young, probably not more than fifteen years old, she had wavy, raven hair pulled back and bound with a piece of coloured cloth. Strands had strayed and now dangled at either side of her face, and she concentrated hard, the tip of her tongue protruding as she crossed the floor. She was pretty, in a sulky sort of way.
And then the man in the red tunic stood, snatched the tray from her, and set it down at his table.
There was a moment’s stunned silence, and Simon edged his stool slightly away from the table in case a fight should begin, but before he could warn Baldwin, Drogo had reseated himself, staring at the deprived drinkers, who scowled but turned away, waiting while the girl hurried back to the buttery to fetch more.
‘They feel themselves superior to other inhabitants,’ Baldwin observed.
Simon nodded. While he watched them, the man in red glanced up and caught his eye. He stared at Simon for several moments, meeting his gaze unblinkingly, as though it was a test, a trial of strength. Simon held the man’s stare until someone else walked between the two tables and broke their locked concentration.
There were several men in the room now, and the ones between Simon and the foresters consisted of a powerful-looking man with the curious cough and pallor which Simon associated with millers the world over, and another, taller man, who stood listening quietly.
Edgar leaned over to Baldwin. ‘That is Ivo Bel.’
Simon hadn’t heard of him, but thought he was worth watching. Although Bel looked educated and well-travelled, Simon could see that he was uneasy, his attention flying to the doorway whenever anyone entered. He was talking loudly, complaining about a man called Tom Garde.
William was soon with Simon, pouring from a great jug, and when Simon nodded towards the miller, the tavernkeeper said gruffly, ‘That’s Samson atte Mill.’
Simon soon saw why the tavernkeeper seemed upset: Samson appeared uninterested in listening to this Ivo Bel. His gaze was fixed on the innkeeper’s daughter, a wolfish smile on his face. His attention was distracted only when William stood in front of him, deliberately blocking his view. Suddenly the place went silent, as though a blanket had smothered all noise.
‘Do you want a drink, Samson?’
‘I’ve got plenty here, Bill.’
‘I think you ought to finish up and go.’
Samson smiled, but in his face there was no humour. Simon nudged Baldwin, and made ready to stand should Samson attack the tavernkeeper, but before he could put his hand to his sword, Drogo had stood.
‘Time you were off home, Samson.’
‘I want more ale.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Drogo contradicted with conviction. He had his legs a short way apart, his hands hanging loosely at his side, in the stance of a fighter at his ease, but there was no mistaking the threat.
Samson stood as though fixed, and then he slowly emptied his bowl of ale onto the ground. Suddenly he laughed, tossed the empty bowl to William’s daughter and walked out, still chuckling to himself.
Baldwin motioned to William, who approached their table still visibly shaking.
‘What was that about?’
The innkeeper glanced about him. No one was paying any heed, and he felt secure enough to whisper quickly, ‘That man, Samson the miller, there’s talk that he’s raped young girls. Orphans. They say he got his own daughter in foal. He’s dangerous. If anyone killed the girl up the road, he did, God rot his guts!’
‘Then why is he still alive?’ Simon asked. In his experience a vill would quickly dispose of a child-murderer.
‘No proof. Just suspicion, but if you saw how he looked at my daughter just now, you wouldn’t doubt my words,’ William said, and in a flash he was gone.
‘There, I think, you have one suspect,’ Baldwin murmured to Coroner Roger.
The room was quieter a few moments later when the smiling face of Miles Houndestail appeared in the doorway. He remained there a short while, his gaze passing over the people in the tavern, and then he walked towards Baldwin.
‘Are you the coroner, sir?’
‘I am,’ Coroner Roger rumbled, displeased that Baldwin could have been mistaken for him. ‘What do you want?’
‘My name is Miles Houndestail, the first finder of the body. Well, the skull, anyway.’
‘Ah! Would a pot of ale suit you?’
‘Greatly, I thank you.’
When his drink had arrived, Coroner Roger watched him gulp at it, and when Miles set it down, the coroner began, ‘You don’t live here?’
‘Oh, no. I am a pardoner. I was on my way to Tavistock and then to Plymouth.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘I hale from Bristol, but I have been down this way two other times. Once before the famine, once during it. In fact it was then, in 1315, that I met the Royal Purveyor here on his rounds. We stayed together at this inn.’ He frowned at the memory. ‘It was odd. He was going to meet me at Oakhampton a couple of days later, but he never arrived.’
‘Probably got diverted.’
‘I don’t think so. He told me his plans, and we had a wager on the weather, which he won – and he didn’t seem to me the sort of man to leave money behind.’
‘Interesting, but what has this to do with me?’
Houndestail smiled mildly. ‘There is something very strange going on here, Coroner. This purveyor disappeared, and I believe he hasn’t been seen since.’
‘One traveller disappearing is hardly news.’
‘Yet Ansel de Hocsenham was a man of stature and importance. He was huge – brawny and muscular. Most robbers would have steered well clear of him. His disappearance is a mystery that has never been solved, and I for one feel it has a connection with this ill-begotten place.’
‘Is that your only objection to Sticklepath, sir?’ the coroner asked rather sarcastically, but his expression changed when the pardoner answered him.
‘No, it isn’t. When I reported the appearance of the skull, the vill went quiet and I heard someone mutter, “Oh God! Not another one sucked dry and eaten.” And then someone else said: “It’s Athelhard. Dear God, it’s Athelhard! Another child eaten!”’
‘Who is Athelhard?’ Baldwin asked, bemused.
‘I don’t know.’
‘So you can tell us nothing conclusive,’ Baldwin said. He eyed Houndestail keenly. The man was like an old gossip relating a tasty morsel of vill history, and Baldwin was sure he was withholding something.
‘There was a feeling about the place even then,’ the pardoner persisted. �
�Haven’t you felt it? There’s something wrong here. Something unwholesome.’
‘You’re dreaming, man!’ the coroner rasped. ‘If you mean there’s been murder or somesuch, say so, but if that was true, the reeve would have stopped you from spreading rumours.’
‘He tried, and he was most persuasive. Almost scared, I would have said. But I sent a man for you because I heard talk in the vill that this body was another one “eaten”, as they said. I hadn’t heard of cannibals in this area before.’
‘So you sent for me,’ Coroner Roger said heavily.
‘I met a fellow who was travelling through and gave him a coin to find you.’
‘Very public-spirited of you,’ the coroner said suspiciously.
Houndestail’s face hardened. ‘I have a daughter.’
‘There is more, isn’t there?’ Baldwin said quietly.
‘Yes,’ Houndestail said, meeting his gaze. ‘It was the other thing I heard the reeve say. I heard him mutter, “It’s Athelhard’s curse again!”’
Chapter Seven
Vin stared over at the strangers in the tavern with a premonition of disaster. Every so often their eyes would move towards him and the other foresters, and each time Vin flinched, wishing he had never joined Drogo’s men.
At the time it had seemed the best thing to do. Vin had been lonely and terrified after his father’s death, and Drogo, his father’s only real friend, had been the one person he could go to, even though he found the man fearsome. Living alone as he did, after the death of his wife and daughter, he seemed still more daunting to the teenaged boy, but there was no one else to turn to.
That was years ago now. Since then, Vin had come to know Drogo’s real nature. The forester, quite simply, hated everyone. When he saw someone being happy, Drogo wanted to spoil their pleasure. It wasn’t only the travellers passing by; Drogo wanted to hurt and offend the very people he had grown up with. He hated them all. And most of all Vin was sure Drogo hated him.
It was the sullen, measuring looks he gave him. There was contempt in those looks, and hatred, and although Adam had tried to explain to Vin that they were emotions directed at Drogo himself, the young man was unconvinced. Drogo despised him. He had done nothing which could have led to such loathing. Still, at least Drogo did not treat him particularly harshly, compared with the other foresters. If anything he treated Vin with scrupulous fairness, as though he recognised his hatred.
Vin watched Miles Houndestail, and wished the pardoner would clear off. He was a foreigner, a stranger to the vill, and he had found that grave. Vin glanced at Drogo, remembering that time when he had seen Drogo and the reeve up there at that field, the reeve carrying a shovel.
It had been a strange night, that; the night Vin’s life was to change. Only a short while before, his father had died during the famine, and Vin was already starving. They all were. Desperate for food, everyone, and then that bastard purveyor arrived and demanded their stores. It was no surprise that he’d ‘disappeared’.
Felicia had met Vin the previous evening as he walked home, and she had teased him, flirting. They had kissed and cuddled a few times before, as friends do who have grown up together in the same vill, but this was more serious. Perhaps it was because both feared they might soon die. They knew that without food they wouldn’t survive long. She had taken his hand and led him along the river towards Belstone, then, at a clearing, she threw her arms about him and kissed him again, before standing back and untying her belt, then her tunic, tempting him with her woman’s eyes. They were both young, but suddenly both were adult.
Later he would remember the keen thrusting of her hips, the sweet melting explosion that stilled both, and the calmness, the overwhelming lassitude. They lay there for what seemed like hours, cradled in each other’s arms, until they heard a hoarse bellow, her father Samson roaring with fury, then calling for Felicia. Hurriedly Vin had risen, pulling up his hose while Felicia watched, her face sad as she smoothed her tatty skirts.
‘Will you come here again tomorrow?’ she asked, but he hadn’t answered. He was too scared of Samson. Everyone was. He had hurried away, darting into the bushes before Samson could see him, and hurrying back towards the ford behind the inn. There he floundered through the water before making his way to the roadway again.
And it was there that he saw them the next night, on his way to see her again: Drogo and Reeve Alexander pulling the heavy weight of a body from near the mill, Drogo shouldering it and making his slow way up the sticklepath while Alexander followed, carrying a shovel. The two made their way silently into the field beside the road, then stumbled cursing up the hill. There, Alexander began digging.
Vin hid and watched them from the road, tiptoeing near to where the rocks had fallen and had only recently been replaced, and there he saw the two men take turns to dig a hasty grave and roll in the body of the purveyor.
That was why Houndestail was an embarrassment. The place where the pardoner had found Aline’s skull was dangerously near the spot where Drogo had buried the body of the purveyor all those years ago – and Drogo wasn’t one whit happy about it.
* * *
It was late when all the other drinkers had left and Simon and Baldwin could unroll their cloaks and blankets, taking up places to sleep on benches and tables away from the floor and the scurrying creatures that moved in among the noisome rushes.
Houndestail went to the stable, he said in order to protect his horse and his goods, but Simon thought he preferred to sleep in peace away from the coroner and keeper. Not many people would want to sleep in the same room as two senior officials. Even Ivo Bel declared himself too warm in the tavern and said that he would seek the cool of the hayloft.
Simon dragged a bench to the fireside while the coroner was draining his last jug of wine. Stripping naked, he bundled up his clothes into a thick pillow, then spread his cloak over the bench, lay down and draped a pair of heavy blankets over himself.
‘What did you think?’ he asked the coroner.
Coroner Roger was pulling his hose off and he grunted, pausing while he considered. ‘Houndestail seems a reliable enough man. I wonder how many others he thinks might have been killed?’
‘An excellent question. And why should they immediately think of cannibals?’ Baldwin wondered from the other side of the fire.
‘Or a curse,’ Simon added.
‘Ridiculous! Only a foreigner would think of such a thing,’ the coroner said with disdain. He recalled the innkeeper’s words. ‘And if Samson is a rapist, that isn’t the same as a cannibal.’
Stroking Aylmer’s head, Baldwin recalled his horror in the lane. ‘Perhaps there is a popular superstition here.’
The coroner was pulling rugs and a thick sheepskin over him. He yawned and cast a sour eye at the knight. ‘Oh yes? What are you speculating about now, Baldwin?’
The knight smiled weakly. ‘It is that time of night, is it not, when men should tell tall tales to freeze the blood of others.’
‘Not me!’ Simon declared firmly. ‘All I want is sleep.’
‘What story were you thinking of, Baldwin?’ asked the coroner, ignoring him.
‘Have you ever heard of William of Newburgh?’
‘No,’ said the coroner. ‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t want to hear this,’ Simon said determinedly. ‘Shut up and go to sleep.’
‘Was would be more accurate,’ Baldwin said, putting his arms behind his head and staring up at the blackened thatch that comprised the ceiling, ‘for he is long dead now. He wrote a history of England, in which there were stories of ghosts in Buckinghamshire and the north… I think in Yorkshire near the Scottish March.’
‘Do we have to hear this?’ Simon growled.
‘Oh, I merely thought there could be some bearing on the case,’ Baldwin said innocently.
‘I believe you,’ Simon said with heavy irony. ‘After all, it would never occur to you to try to ruin my night’s sleep by telling me of hideous things that I could not
possibly imagine on my own, would it?’
‘Oh well, if you don’t wish to know,’ Baldwin said with a certain petulance. ‘I should hate to bore you with a tedious story.’
‘Good. Now will you just go to sleep?’
‘What was this story, Baldwin?’ the coroner chuckled. Baldwin sat up and swung his legs down, frowning at the fire. The flames lighted his face with a yellow glow and left his eyes in shadow. Simon thought it made him look solemn – and alarming. His eyes gleamed, and Simon shivered in anticipation. He knew he would regret hearing this, whatever it was.
‘William told of many fantastic things,’ Baldwin said as Aylmer walked to sit at his feet. He stroked the dog’s head as he spoke. ‘There were miracles and wonderful omens. I read his book many years ago, in the last century, and most of the tales have slipped from my mind, but some were so intriguing that they have remained with me.
‘Those which caught my attention most of all were the tales of the men who had died and been buried, but continued to live. There have been many accounts of such things. I remember one story of a man who returned from burying his wife, only to see her dancing with other women at his vill. He caught hold of her, and took her to his bed, and fathered three sons by her. The boys remained, so this story must be held to be true.
‘But there are others, men and women who died, but who were apparently still alive when their graves were opened. These beings would walk about the world at night, victimising an area, killing people and eating them, drinking their blood. William called them by a special name: he called them sanguisuga – vampire.’
Simon growled, ‘I suppose there is a reason for this tale, other than to give me nightmares?’
Baldwin continued, ‘The people who found these strange beings asked the parson what they should do, and in almost all the cases he referred the matter to higher ecclesiastical authorities. They told the people to break open the tomb or grave and place a piece of paper on the breast of the dead man, with instructions to the soul explaining how to find absolution and free their spirits.’
The Sticklepath Strangler Page 9