The Sticklepath Strangler (2001)

by Jecks, Michael

  So, for breaking the King’s Peace, Thomas had been imprisoned in the Reeve’s house and would be transported to Exeter as soon as a small guard could be mustered. There he would have to wait until he could be seen by the Justices, and all the time he was in gaol, he must pay for his own food and drink.

  Nicole would have to find some way of sending money to him, perhaps even leaving their home here and taking on work in Exeter. Any sort of work – although she knew that she was only qualified for the one profession, and her belly lurched at the thought of being forced to earn money by selling her body. It was one thing to consider allowing Ivo to make use of her, another entirely to think of drunken men pawing at her, fondling her breasts and reaching up under her skirts in a darkened alley. And what would happen to Joan?

  She gave a dry, hacking sob. While she was in Exeter, the farm and their house would fall apart. They wouldn’t be able to trust anyone to look after them, not if the whole vill thought that Thomas was a child-murderer.

  Joan looked up at her. ‘If I ever find out who killed Emma, I’ll kill him,’ she said passionately.

  ‘You mustn’t say that,’ Nicole said, but her heart was breaking.

  ‘What about Father?’

  Nicole stood and took a deep breath. In her wooden chest was her second tunic, and she fetched it now. Shaking it out, she noticed holes, but it was mostly undamaged. With hesitant fingers, she untied her apron, then doffed her tunic. Her shirt beneath was dirty and darned, but she couldn’t help that. She pulled the fresh tunic over her head, tying a clean apron about her waist. Then, before her resolve could leave her, she slipped her tippet over her shoulders, raised the hood over her head and strode out, leaving Joan alone.

  In some curious way she had always felt that Alexander de Belston’s house matched him. He was a large, rugged man, and the appearance of the place fitted him so perfectly that he might have been constructed of the same materials. The walls were of good moorstone, rendered with cob to fill all the cracks, and then limewashed. It was redone each year, and the brilliant white gleamed in the sunlight, looking pure and awesome, especially in comparison with the other dwellings, whose limewash was older, and flaked or smothered in green streaks. His thatch was patched each year, too, all the holes filled, the peak checked and recovered, the whole mass patted and combed into shape. It wouldn’t do for a man as important as the Reeve to let his standards slip. After all, Alexander de Belston was the Lord’s own representative. He was the law: both judge and gaoler.

  As was usual, his door stood open. There was nothing for a man of his position to fear from thieves or draw-latches. Nicole entered the gloomy interior, feeling the atmosphere within settle over her like a chill, damp cloak.

  Lighted by a large window high in the wall, the smoke from the fire in the middle of the floor rose up like a fine mist, with tiny gleaming motes dancing in it all the way up to the ceiling of dried thatch high overhead, which was blackened by the smoke of decades.

  Beyond the shafts of light from the window, Nicole could see the hulking figure of Alexander de Belston, sitting alone at his table on the dais, slowly twirling a cup of wine in his hand, one foot on the table, the other jiggling up and down with nervous energy.

  ‘I was expecting you,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re here for Thomas.’

  It was a statement, given with no apparent emotion, and all the woman could do was nod mutely.

  ‘You know why he’s in gaol?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you himself what he intended?’

  ‘Non. Reeve, he told me nothing. There can be nothing for him to tell – he is a good man. Honourable. He is no criminal. Someone has lied about him to make you arrest him.’

  ‘In truth?’ Alexander said, but now his eyes had moved from her towards the window. The sunlight was fading as a cloud passed by, and Nicole could see the smoke disappear, only to re-emerge from the gloom as the sun returned. ‘But I cannot let him free.’

  ‘We have little money, but I could pay a fine to—’

  ‘He had none this morning.’ His teeth showed in a humourless smile. ‘You think I want paying?’

  ‘Hold him in mercy.’

  ‘In mercy,’ he repeated. ‘You want him released in exchange for a surety he will turn up at the next court.’

  ‘There is so much work to be done, sir. We need him.’

  ‘He’s in prison because he has broken the King’s Peace, woman, and his brother’s nose.’

  She shivered, closed her eyes, and stepped forward slowly, her feet feeling as though they were made of lead. ‘I will submit to you.’

  ‘You will let me have you?’ He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Ah, my dear, you are tempting a man who has been lonely so long . . . My God, it would be good to lie with you. But you will expect me to release your husband afterwards. Well, I can’t, maid. He’s in gaol because he’s been accused of attempting to kill his brother Ivo. And while there’s a Coroner and a Keeper here, much though I would like to take you, I think it wouldn’t be safe.’

  Nicole gasped, her face reddening. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’ she asked, stepping forward, her hand reaching up to her laces and pulling. Her tunic fell away. She could see him watching her with sad interest while she let her shirt fall open.

  He stared at her breasts, then lower. His smile broadened, but there was no amusement in it, only sadness.

  ‘Cover yourself, please. I can’t take advantage of you. I am finished if I let him go, and I am ruined if I don’t. I don’t need your temptations to make my choices any more difficult.’ He motioned as if swatting a hand at a fly, and she slowly donned her clothes. With great dignity, she turned away from him and went into the road.

  Only there could she give herself over to her grief, leaning against a tree, her heart thundering with fear.

  Her nightmare had returned.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘This is it,’ Serlo said.

  Baldwin and Simon looked about them. There was no dwelling here so far as they could see. They had climbed a little way up the hill from the clearing towards the Cornwall road, higher into the woods, but there appeared to be no house nearby. As Baldwin stared about them, all he could see was trees and a low wall some distance farther up the slope. Aylmer went and sniffed at it.

  ‘She wouldn’t come to live with me, even though she knew I would have protected her,’ Serlo said gruffly. ‘I think her man gave her enough of a clue about what men would do. Not that it stopped her that once.’

  ‘You mean her daughter?’ Baldwin asked. He was still gazing about him, trying to see where Meg could be living.

  ‘Yeah. Poor child. She was a nice little thing, too. Chubby and cuddly, if you know what I mean. Never had an ill word for anyone, even though they shunned her. And why? All because her mother was looked on as mad, and probably a whore to boot.’

  ‘Her father was a Purveyor, I hear.’

  ‘That’s right. Ansel, he was named. Evil bastard, he was, too. Took Meg when she was young and hadn’t a clue. But men will take advantage in those circumstances. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Sorry, I was forgetting.’ Serlo walked to the wall where Aylmer stood, his head on one side. Where the wall met a tree, there was a thick growth of ivy, and the Warrener pushed it to one side. ‘I’ll fetch her.’

  Baldwin could see that the ivy concealed the entrance to what looked like a tunnel.

  Simon saw his enquiring gaze. ‘There’s plenty of tin and copper all over the moors. I expect this is the result of some man’s effort to find a new source.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Serlo said, reappearing. ‘This was a little attempt to see if there might be copper. It failed. So many of the mining attempts always do. This is Meg.’

  Behind him, he had pulled a woman. He held her by the forearm, as though she was unwilling to come out into the light, but also as though she was frail and needed his support.<
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  Baldwin smiled at her. ‘Meg? Is that your name?’

  She was wearing the same hood, the same grey shreds and tatters, remnants of an ancient robe, as when he had first seen her in the forest. And as her head lifted slightly so that she could glance at him from under her hood, as though it was a defence against him and all other adult men, he saw the wide-set eyes, the round face, the small tip-tilted nose, and realised how ridiculous had been his terror. He held out a hand to her, to the little half-witted mother of the dead Emma.

  Nicole was so overcome with misery that she didn’t notice Sir Laurence and the Foresters until they had stopped at Alexander’s house. It was only when Sir Laurence began to roar for a groom to tend his mount that she paid them attention, and seeing them at the Reeve’s door, she hurried away, towards her house.

  The first thing was food, she told herself. Her man would need food tonight, and then he’d need more to be able to travel all that way. He was viewed as a felon, so he’d be set in chains and forced to walk the whole way. No one would waste a steed on a man like him, so he’d have to make the best he could of it.

  He’d need money to buy things as soon as he arrived: bread, some cheese. A little dried meat. Even the water would cost him dearly in gaol, and he must be able to afford it, or he might starve to death! She couldn’t face the thought of life without him.

  ‘Oh God in Heaven, how could You do this?’ she murmured so quietly that no one could hear. ‘I suffered for my father’s sake in France, and now I must suffer for my husband’s. You do to my daughter what You once did to me! How much misery should one woman suffer in her life?’

  She had picked up her skirts now, and was hurtling headlong towards her house. Mud splashed from her bare feet, and she didn’t care about the dung she stepped in, nor the pools of urine puddled at the side of the road where the oxen had waited for a few moments before being led to their pasture. She was blind to the Coroner as he limped from the tavern’s door. He stood propped with his staff, one hand on a sapling, gazing down the road, and then he happened to glance in her direction. Seeing her coming straight at him, her head bent, he had time only to gape in horror before she pelted straight into him.

  ‘Oof !’ she exclaimed, and fell back to sit on her rump.

  ‘Christ’s ballocks!’ the Coroner roared, clutching at his upper belly, where her arm had caught him. Dropping his stick, he stumbled backwards, and his foot caught on a loose stone, wrenching his ankle for a second time. ‘God’s bones! You stupid bitch! Can’t you look where you’re going?’

  She gazed at him in horror. In her mind’s eye she saw herself chained alongside her husband as they were led from the vill and into captivity. In her terror she was mute.

  ‘Well?’ he bellowed roughly, gripping the wall to hoist himself upright. ‘Are you dumb, woman?’

  Jeanne had witnessed the scene, and she joined the Coroner, who was trying to reach his prop. She passed it to him, then crouched at Nicole’s side. ‘Are you all right? You fell with quite a thump.’

  ‘I . . . I am well, I thank you,’ Nicole stammered, rising and wiping her filthy hands on her apron, then remembering that it was her cleanest apron and her best tunic, she burst into loud, gulping tears.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ Coroner Roger sighed. He licked his lips and glanced guiltily at Jeanne.

  She saw his look, but she was already helping the other woman. Putting a compassionate arm about her shoulders, she led the weeping peasant into the tavern.

  Coroner Roger rubbed at his belly, shaking his head. The damn woman had almost winded him, he thought ruefully. He’d been going to speak to the Parson to see whether he could learn anything useful, not that he held out much hope. Priests were always tricky. Getting information from them was like getting a free meal out of a Winchester innkeeper. Now, however, he’d lost interest. The distance looked too great.

  He was standing before the inn rubbing at his ankle, when he heard a cheerful shout from the other side of the road.

  ‘Coroner Roger, as I live and breathe!’

  ‘Sir Laurence. It is good to meet with you once again,’ the Coroner said, less heartily. He did not in all honesty like Sir Laurence, because the job of Purveyor offended him: it was simple extortion, to his way of thinking, but he was prepared to accept that the Purveyor’s task was none the less necessary. After all, Roger didn’t much like executioners, but someone had to do the job.

  ‘I was told that I might find you here,’ Sir Laurence said. He was idly tossing his war hammer in the air and catching it. ‘A man called Houndestail said so. I have brought him back with me.’

  Behind him, Coroner Roger could see the anxious features of Alexander in the doorway, peering over the knight’s shoulder. As Sir Laurence spoke, Drogo and his three men pushed past Alexander and stood listening. The Coroner said, ‘You are here to prepare for the coming war?’

  ‘I think it will have already begun,’ Sir Laurence said easily. ‘No, I am simply collecting food and money to help support the effort.’

  ‘I see.’

  Sir Laurence smiled more broadly and he snuffed the air, taking a deep breath. ‘Smell that? Shit and piss all over this place, isn’t there?’ he said conversationally. ‘It’s a revolting little midden, this. Still, we can’t choose where we have to go, you and I, can we?’

  ‘No,’ Coroner Roger said. Behind Sir Laurence he could see that Alexander’s face was mottled with rage to hear his precious vill so described. ‘I suppose you have to come this way often enough? The road to Cornwall is paved with good manors, so I am told.’

  ‘There are plenty of wealthy enough demesnes in among Lord Hugh’s lands,’ the Purveyor agreed. ‘But this is my first trip so far south. Usually I deal with the northern pieces of the shire. There used to be another man down here – Ansel de Hocsenham. I don’t know if you ever met him?’

  Coroner Roger saw Drogo and Alexander exchange a glance. It was so fleeting that he could have mistaken it, but he was sure he was right. Ansel de Hocsenham, the man who had sired the girl whose body was found this morning; the man who Miles Houndestail thought had been murdered.

  He turned his attention back to Sir Laurence. ‘No, I never met him.’

  ‘So if he died here, you didn’t investigate his death?’

  ‘Not so far as I remember, but while there are only two Coroners for the whole of Devon, it’s not surprising. We have fifteen murders a year to cope with, and that doesn’t count all the other sudden deaths I have to investigate or the wrecks I have to inspect.’

  ‘Wrecks?’

  ‘A Coroner’s duty is to the King. If a ship is wrecked, the King owns any salvaged goods, so I am expected to rush to the coast at short notice to rescue any casks of wine or fine silks and have them sold for the King’s benefit. It’s not surprising that I didn’t meet your predecessor. When did he die?’

  ‘No one knows if he is truly dead, but he must be. He disappeared just about the time he was supposed to have arrived here in Sticklepath, oddly enough, but no one seems to know where he went or what happened to him.’

  ‘Surely nobody would fail to report a dead body, would they?’ Coroner Roger said, and shot a glance over Sir Laurence’s shoulder again. Alexander met the Coroner’s stare with an expression of despair, before turning his back and going into his hall.

  If Roger hadn’t seen him, he would never have believed that a man could suddenly appear so broken. Even Drogo looked sympathetic, and soon followed Alexander into the house, his men trailing after them.

  The knight smiled lazily and pointed his war hammer at them. ‘You could almost think he had a guilty conscience, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Surely not a Reeve like him,’ Roger said drily.

  Laurence de Bozon chuckled. ‘Could you join me while I speak to him?’

  ‘My leg, I . . .’

  ‘Not right now. Leave us a little while. Let us say, when the sun is dipping below that hill. That should give me time to prepare myself – and
leave the Reeve in a state of fright, wondering of which crime I intend to accuse him!’

  Jeanne took the woman through the tavern to her own room. There, while Petronilla and Edgar hastily rearranged their clothing, she persuaded Nicole to sit on a bench and sent Edgar (when he had retied his hose) to the buttery for a jug of wine. Petronilla she sent out to walk with the baby, for Richalda was awake now and demanding her mother’s attention.

  ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘I am called Nicole Garde, madame.’

  ‘You come from France?’ Jeanne asked in that tongue.

  Nicole started with delight on hearing her own language again. ‘Yes, but how do you speak it so well?’

  ‘I was raised in Bordeaux. Where were you from?’

  ‘A village called Montaillou, near to Pamiers in Arriège.’

  ‘And how did you come to be here, married to an Englishman?’ Jeanne asked. Edgar returned as she posed the question, and the two women waited while he poured them a cup each, and then quietly left them.

  ‘Madame, I was the daughter of the local headsman. The executioner. He was a good man to his family, but you know how people hate the headsman.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jeanne said. It was not only in France that the people loathed the man who represented the ultimate power of the Crown.

  ‘When my husband Thomas saw me being mistreated, he rescued me and brought me here to live with him. I was nothing loath, for it is a healthful place.’

  ‘Really?’ Jeanne asked. It said little, she reflected, for Montaillou.

  ‘But the people here have never accepted me. Nor, I think, do they wish my husband to remain.’ Suddenly her eyes were brimming once more. ‘Oh, madame, the Reeve, he has arrested my Thomas, and he says he will have him taken to Exeter to the gaol, to wait there for the next Justices to try. That could be a year . . . more. He will die there, and I shall be a widow, all for no reason.’