He picked up his firkin and drank a long draught of ale, setting it down and wiping his mouth.
After Athelhard, they had believed that the deaths would cease, but they hadn’t. Only two months later, the poor orphan Mary had died, her mutilated body found discarded like an apple core. Athelhard was dead. The vill knew that there was someone else, someone who had been living among them, and suspicion had fallen upon several, but the only obvious man was Samson. However, there was no proof. And no more deaths – until Aline disappeared two years later. Swet had his suspicions, but if he had appealed Samson, he would have been laughed out of the court. Where was the body? Aline could have fallen into a bog and drowned.
Now Emma was dead although Samson was already in his grave. Some might say that proved Samson’s innocence – but Swet knew better. He remembered the sermon which the parson had preached on the day they all went and killed Athelhard. He had said that vampires could become possessed, and the demons could make the body fly through the air. That was why, he said, Athelhard should be buried with a prayer written out on a piece of parchment, to explain to his soul how to find peace so that he wouldn’t haunt the vill afterwards. It was Alexander who had said that they should burn his body instead. If there was no body, he reasoned, there would be nothing for the demons to use.
Samson had died, but he had been buried. His body was there still, and Swet was sure that last night he had escaped from the earth and murdered Emma. Swet was sure, because the hounds were baying incessantly. Scruffy and mangy, they were, to be sure, but they knew as well as Swetricus did that tonight was no time for sleep. They had been bred to keep felons away, but now they howled to keep their dead master from them.
Gripping his staff more firmly, he tried to control the savage beating of his heart.
Evil was abroad tonight, but Swet would not lose another daughter.
Chapter Twenty-four
‘In God’s name, give me peace!’ Gervase shouted, walking about his room, his arms wrapped about his body so that he looked like a great raven in his dark habit. No matter how he struggled to hold down the panic that assailed him, it didn’t work. Nothing could keep away the horror.
He wanted to go to the chapel, but somehow he felt easier here, among his few possessions, and that knowledge gnawed at him: he should want to go to the altar and kneel penitently before Christ’s symbol, but he daren’t. That would take him nearer Samson’s grave.
The miller’s soul was abroad tonight: Gervase could almost hear a cacophony of demons calling to each other in the darkness. Pouring more wine into his mazer, his hand trembled so violently that he spilled a large amount on the table. Cursing, he lifted the mazer and drank, heedless of the flood that coursed at either side of his mouth and dribbled onto his breast. He let the cup fall, closing his eyes, his breath sobbing in his throat.
‘Please, God, just make it be silent! Bring peace to his poor soul and drive away his demons,’ he prayed, head bent.
He knew what was happening. This was his nemesis, his destruction. It was his own fault, all because he had accused the other fellow. Poor Athelhard. It was Gervase’s sin which had led to Athelhard’s death. He had learned from Meg of the pork which her brother had bought for them, and at first the parson had felt only jealousy. The famine was already biting, and the idea of rich, juicy meat made his saliva run. He had mentioned her good fortune to Reeve Alexander, in the hope that the latter might force Athelhard to share his bounty. Perhaps he would have, too, Gervase realised. He had been a decent fellow.
Then they had discovered little Denise up in the fields and Gervase realised quickly what that meant. The meat served to Meg, and the cruelly butchered body, pointed to the one conclusion.
It was Gervase’s drunken telling of the story to Samson which had sealed Athelhard’s fate. Samson went to see Drogo, and on the way he spoke to Peter atte Moor, and Peter was by then desperate for revenge. Who could blame him? His daughter was dead, throttled and cut about like a side of pork. And it made sense. Athelhard was a foreigner; it was only natural to believe that he was responsible.
Yet he wasn’t. That was the hideous truth. Gervase dropped to his knees again, his breath wheezing as he pulled at his robes and bared his breast, opening it like an offering to his all-seeing God. Spreading his arms wide, he wept as he stared up at the ceiling. ‘What else could I have done, Lord? I wanted to stop the murders! I did it in good faith, Lord, thinking that the man was possessed. Why did You let me be misled, Lord? Why did You let me think it was Athelhard?’
But there was no answer.
‘Jesus, You let me sentence an innocent man – why?’ he cried out. ‘He was destroyed like a lamb, like You’. How could You let that be done to someone else? Was it to punish me? Well, punish me now – take my life. I can’t live on knowing I caused a man’s murder. Don’t leave me here to poison others.’
He felt a sudden burst in his heart, like the onset of a marvellous dream, and for a moment he believed he was about to see a vision, perhaps even an angel, but then the lightheadedness passed away and he was left alone, a huddled, shrunken man kneeling fearfully on his floor. God wouldn’t listen.
Perhaps if he had himself gone to the reeve it would have been all right, but as soon as that fool Samson heard the tale, he fell into a drunken, roaring rage. He was the father of a girl too, and he’d be buggered with a red-hot poker if he’d let some foreign shit ballock about with his daughter. Fuck that! Some shite had eaten Denise? Samson would stop him; he’d cut the bastard’s throat, then he’d slice off his prick. That’d serve him out!
Thinking about it, it was strange that Samson hadn’t been so vociferous about the other girls who had died. It was as if Denise’s death had shocked him and he had seriously wanted to avenge her, but when Mary was found, and then Aline disappeared, Samson withdrew into himself. He didn’t help try to catch the killer, said little about the killings, and either changed the subject or stopped talking. It was almost as though he felt a guilt about the deaths, or a deep shame.
But on that other day, Samson was enraged as only a boneheaded fool could be. When Peter passed by, Samson bellowed at him that he was letting the foul murderer of his daughter go free. Wouldn’t he see the foreign git hang? Samson was insistent until all the men in the tavern had sworn to avenge Denise.
They left the inn and went to Alexander’s house; the reeve demanding to know what their rioting was about. Gervase found himself being thrust to the front of the men, and made to tell the story again, but this time he found that his audience was still more receptive. Only later did he wonder whether Alexander had known of another murder.
There was a sour taste in his mouth when he had finished and he could stand and listen to the men discussing Athelhard and the dead girl no longer. Suddenly he felt a pricking of conscience: this was wrong. They shouldn’t go and execute Athelhard like a felon. Even over the haze of alcohol and the demands of vengeance, a small, quiet voice seemed to warn him that this was an awful act. Athelhard would have no opportunity of defence. This crowd was a mob determined to destroy. They had decided that Athelhard was a vampire and that was sufficient for them. At that point, Gervase became aware of his own doubts.
Surely a man who was possessed would have hesitated to enter the church; he would have refused the Mass and Eucharist, wouldn’t he? And wouldn’t Gervase himself have felt something when in the presence of evil?
After the event, Gervase had done all he could to bring the men of the vill to a joint understanding of their shared guilt and he had prayed for Athelhard’s soul, lost though it was, since it had not received the last services, Extreme Unction or Sacrament. Yet although Gervase hoped that Athelhard’s innocent soul was safe, he had no such hopes for Samson’s.
Samson it was who had listened to the story of Meg’s meat; Samson it was who had roused Peter; Samson it was who had persuaded the mob to kill; Samson it was who had led the way to Athelhard’s assart. Samson it was who had fired the first arrow,
missing his mark as Athelhard bent to his bucket.
There was another long-drawn-out howl from across the way and Gervase felt it like a stab in his chest.
Now Gervase knew why Samson had been so keen to lead the attack against Athelhard. Since Gunilda’s visit, he knew everything. Oh, yes! He knew that Samson had molested his own daughter, and others. It was Samson who got Aline with child, and just as surely he had killed her and the others too. Samson atte Mill was the vampire.
It all made sense now. With a resolute air, the parson stood and picked up his mazer, then refilled it. Lifting it, he toasted God in an almost heretical manner, bitterly angry to have been forced to cause the death of a man like Athelhard for no reason. Then he opened his mouth and tipped in the wine. It was cheap and rough, but it was enough to strengthen his resolve. He was a failure as a priest, he had failed his congregation, he had failed Athelhard, and he had failed God. That was the cause of the noise at the cemetery: Samson’s unresting soul. His dogs knew, which was why they howled. And Gervase knew, which was why his spine tingled with fear.
Samson’s body was in thrall to demons. That was obvious, because he had killed Emma after his own death. Now Gervase must free Samson from the demons which possessed him. Throw them out and allow Samson to lie in peace… and protect the other folk of the vill.
The wine had given him courage and now he felt he could face Samson’s ghost. He knew what he must do. On his table was his scrip, and he opened it, studying the small piece of paper and the phial. Satisfied with both, he carefully tied the scrip by its two leather thongs to his belt and took up his staff.
With a deep breath, he threw open the door. Outside, the wind was blowing steadily from the moors, and the air was thick with mizzle. Tiny droplets of rain landed softly on his bared breast, but he didn’t care.
The hounds sounded more mournful out here in the open, their voices shuddering on the wind as though they were calling in desperation to their master, begging him to come back. Now that his decision had been made, Gervase felt calm. The indecision of the last couple of days had sapped his strength and now that he had chosen the route he must take, his soul was strengthened.
Squaring his shoulders, he set off to Swetricus’s house. He hammered on the door with his clenched fist, waiting for it to be opened. When it wasn’t, he struck the door with his staff and called out, ‘Swet, you miserable cur, open up! It’s me, Gervase, your parson.’
There was no reply, and then he heard the slow scrape of the wooden latch being lifted. The door opened a little and a suspicious eye peered out at him.
‘Swet, you’ve heard him too, haven’t you? Fetch a shovel. We have work to do.’
* * *
Felicia shivered as her mother paced back and forth in the mill. The hounds were still calling, as if they could sense the approach of some foul creature from the moors. Perhaps it was true, what she had been told when she was a child, that devils lived out on the moors, and that they would torment the men and women who lived on the fringes.
‘Mother, won’t you come to bed?’ she called again. She had already lost count of the number of times she had asked her mother to join her on their palliasse, but Gunilda didn’t seem to hear her. Dark shadows under cheekbones and eyes made her look gaunt, almost as though she was herself dead.
‘He’s coming. I can hear him,’ she said, and laughed.
It was a terrible sound, and Felicia gasped with horror. Her mother was going mad, and she felt that she must surely follow. This constant walking up and down, staring out through the open windows down at the cemetery, was petrifying.
‘We did our best, we did, but he’s coming back. I can hear him, just like the dogs can. Samson wants you again. We can’t let him have you, though. No, never again.’ Gunilda walked to the family’s chest. It was a rickety old thing, ancient and wormeaten, but it was the only secure container. Reaching inside, she brought out a long-handled knife. Then she went back to the door, chuckling to herself.
‘Yes, my lover. You hurt us, oh so often, and you want to hurt us again, but now you’ve gone I won’t let you back. I only have Felicia, and I won’t let you harm her again.’
* * *
Swetricus was breathing heavily as he pulled off his leather jerkin and hefted his great shovel. He was aware of a sick feeling in his belly, but it was no good. He had to go ahead. He had no choice, not if his girls were to be safe. Unless he helped the parson, his other daughters might be killed like Aline.
He gazed at the white features of the parson, then up towards the cemetery and the howling dogs, and as he did so, clouds passed over the moon. The mizzle stopped and a thin rain fell, and the cemetery was hidden. When the clear light shone out once more, the rain suddenly stopped, and he almost expected to see a ghostly figure standing there by Samson’s grave, wrapped in a white shroud. It was with enormous relief that he saw the place was deserted.
‘Come, my friend. We have to do this now,’ said Gervase. ‘When I’ve fetched Henry.’
‘There’s no time.’
‘I’m not leaving my girls alone,’ Swetricus said with blunt finality. Gervase could see the determination in his eyes, and nodded. Together they walked to Henry Batyn’s house.
Henry lived with Peter atte Moor since his own house had collapsed, and it was Peter who opened the door. ‘What do you want, Parson?’
‘Look after Swet’s girls. We’re going to destroy him.’
Peter blinked. ‘Who?’
Swetricus answered. ‘It was Samson. He killed Aline, and your Denise and Mary and Emma. We’re going to kill him.’
‘He won’t persecute us any longer,’ the parson said confidently. Peter gaped. Then, ‘Bring the girls here, Swet. Henry will guard them and I’ll come with you.’
‘Good,’ said Swetricus, and returned to his own little place. Soon they could hear him calling his daughters over the whistling of the wind.
‘First, I’m going to find Drogo,’ Peter continued, tugging on his jack.
‘No. We have to strike him while we can.’
Peter looked at the parson. ‘You’ll need torches,’ he said. ‘I know where to get some.’
‘Forget them. We don’t need them.’
‘If you’re right and he killed my Denise, I want to see his face,’ Peter hissed, leaning close, so that his own face was scant inches from Gervase’s. ‘This turd killed my daughter, Parson, and he ate her. I want to see him dance as we kill him.’
‘Oh, get the torches, then, but hurry!’ Gervase said reluctantly. Peter nodded, then set off purposefully for the vill. He passed Swetricus, who ushered his girls into Peter’s house. Henry stood with his wife and sat the girls at the fireside. ‘I’m coming too,’ he declared.
‘You should guard the girls,’ Swetricus growled.
‘If he can escape you, they’ll not be safe with me looking after them,’ Henry said simply. He reached behind the door and selected a shovel.
It was only a short walk, but even in the time that it took to get to the cemetery gate they could see other men gathering in the road by the inn. They gripped torches, the flickering yellow flames flattening and dancing in the gusting wind. Some stood nervous and uncertain, fearing to follow their parson, but then the crowd began to move towards the cemetery.
Gervase felt better than he had for a long time. The howling ceased to trouble him now that he was fixed upon a course of action; the wine he had drunk had left him feeling clear-headed and warmed, as though God had breathed determination into his very bones. In truth, he felt as though he was at last performing God’s will. After so many years of blaming himself for Athelhard’s death, he knew what he must do. It was so refreshing, he almost felt he could sing and dance in praise of God.
‘Give me strength, Lord, to do Your will,’ he breathed, and began to sing the Pater Noster.
Behind him, Swetricus and Henry strode silently, not exchanging a glance, only keeping their eyes fixed firmly on the graveyard. They passed through
the gate, and set off behind the parson, heading for Samson’s grave, and it was there that they saw her.
Dressed in tatters, the clothing ripped from her body, shreds flapping in the wind, she was recognisable as Gunilda only from her thickset body. She knelt at the grave of her husband, raking her hands through the sodden soil, then beating at it with her hands. As they approached, they could hear her.
‘Shut up! Shut up! You killed them all – aren’t you content? Can’t you leave us alone? You would have done it to Felicia again, wouldn’t you? But I won’t let you. You couldn’t keep away even when you were dead, could you? You had to come back and kill Emma. Why can’t the devil take you? Shut up!’
Swetricus glanced at the priest, but Gervase was standing and swaying as though to music only he could hear, a beatific expression on his face. Grunting, the peasant stabbed his shovel into the soil and took Gunilda’s arm. He lifted her to her feet, and she stood alarmed, cowering at the sight of the men converging on the grave.
‘It wasn’t my fault! He killed them, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t… I’m so sorry, so sorry! And now he’s coming back to take her from me! He wants Felicia!’
Gervase smiled, then stopped her mouth with his hand. ‘Child, it wasn’t your fault, nor was it mine. This is the devil’s work, and his minions are among us.’ He jabbed a finger down at the ground even as the vill’s men arrived, the torches casting a lurid light over them all. ‘Friends, listen to me! The man we knew as Samson was the killer of our children. He killed Denise, he killed Aline, he killed Mary, and last night he killed Emma!’
The Sticklepath Strangler Page 30