The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (12 page)

‘Please, Samson, don’t.’

He ignored her. He always did. The anger was a part of him, not a mood he brought on, but a permanent piece of his soul. In his eyes as he grabbed her wrist, there was a faraway look, almost of
lust. His face was flushed, his lips parted slightly, his eyes wider than usual, his breath coming in grunts, and as he lifted the rope, she felt him shudder as though in extreme sexual
excitement.

Later, she crawled to her palliasse on the floor. She was still lying there when her daughter returned from her work in their field.

‘Mother! Oh, God in Heaven!’

Gunilda wanted to speak, wanted to offer her daughter words which could make things better for her. Felicia was too young to have to suffer this life. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t
fair
! But the words couldn’t come. Gunilda knew that if she was to open her mouth, she would scream.

‘Mother, your back!’

Gunilda didn’t need to be told. He had stripped the tunic from her, yanking it from her neck and leaving her upper body naked. Then he had beaten her with the rope, each blow slashing at
her like a sword, all over her upper body. Felicia could only see her back, but her breasts and belly were scored with the same long, raw wounds. Even breathing was hideously painful.

Felicia left, returning a moment later with a bucket filled from the leat. Saying nothing, she used a scrap of cloth to wipe slowly and gently at the weeping stripes.

Gunilda cried silently. All her pain, all her fear, all her futile anger were bottled up. If she let them out, she must explode. The heat and intensity of her uselessness would sear Felicia as
well as Samson, and Gunilda couldn’t bear to think of the girl being hurt even more.

Her silence didn’t surprise her daughter, but Felicia’s quiet acceptance of her own suffering was a constant barb in Gunilda’s soul. Felicia was beaten as well, whenever Samson
was displeased. Not that she refused him often. She knew that when Samson was in the mood for rutting, he preferred Felicia to his wife. He always preferred younger girls.

Poor Felicia, she thought again, while the tears streamed down both cheeks.

‘Has he gone to the tavern?’ Felicia asked in a still, quiet voice.

Gunilda couldn’t nod. Yes, her father was gone to the inn to drink again, washing away the sweet taste of his victory over his wife. He would stand there and brag, tell stories to impress
his friends, and then he would return, filled with dark, amorous longings. Gunilda had no idea what went on in his head, maybe she never had, but she knew his routines. He would return drunk,
ignore her, move over her to lie behind her.

And while Gunilda cried, he would rape their daughter.

Simon was pleased to meet Jeanne again. She hadn’t been to the tournament, and it was six months since they had last met, thanks to her pregnancy and the safe delivery of
Baldwin’s first child, baby Richalda.

So far, Simon had avoided seeing the corpse. On hearing that the body was probably that of a young girl, he had grown still more unwilling to see the remains. He knew it amused Baldwin, and
sometimes exasperated him, that he displayed such squeamishness, but he couldn’t help it. Although Baldwin himself often expressed the wish that the victims of violence could have lived to a
contented old age, Simon felt that he declared it a little too regularly for it to be entirely frank. And the way that Baldwin would leap into action at the sight and smell of a corpse was,
frankly, repellent to his friend.

If there was one crime the Bailiff hated more than any other, it was the murder of children. To him, child-killing was the foulest crime imaginable. When his own son Peterkin had died some years
before, it had felt as though a candle providing warmth and light to his family had suddenly been snuffed out, and the thought that someone could willingly destroy a child was horrific.

Baldwin didn’t notice his quietness; he was more interested in the Coroner’s thoughtful mien. ‘What is it, Sir Roger? I do not remember you being so quiet before.’

Roger glanced at Simon before answering him. ‘There’s something wrong here, Sir Baldwin. Something very odd. The people . . . well, I’m used to being shunned in public,
it’s all a part of my job, because I can hand out more fines than anyone apart from the Sheriff, but this goes deeper.’

‘I had noticed people avoiding me, too,’ Baldwin mused. ‘I thought my rank, and yours, explained their attitude well enough.’

‘No. I have never seen a vill react in this way. There’s something behind it, you mark my words.’

Simon wondered if he was right. ‘They’re only peasants, and you know how gormless they can be. Some children in Lydford tried to stone a traveller three weeks ago because they
thought he looked dangerous. Scared the poor devil half to death. I had to put him up for the night just so he was safe.’

‘Why did they do that?’ the Coroner asked.

‘Who knows? He might have kicked a cat, or stepped on a dog’s tail, or muttered something under his breath about someone’s cottage. They’re all uneducated
fools.’

‘I don’t think Baldwin’s villeins are that foolish,’ Jeanne said defensively.

Baldwin grinned at her protective tone. ‘What of this suggestion of cannibalism?’

‘I’ve heard of such cases,’ Roger admitted. ‘The poor, the dimwitted and the drunk have all been known to eat men when they couldn’t afford food.’

‘I heard of cases during the famine,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but I have heard of others too, quite unconnected with starvation. Witches are rumoured to eat young flesh or use it to
achieve their aims by black magic.’

‘Absolute rubbish!’ the Coroner scoffed.

‘I know, but simpleminded peasants can get hold of these ideas and take them seriously.’

While Baldwin and the Coroner fell to discussing the inquest, Simon drained his pot. William the Taverner was working hard, and it was some time before he noticed Simon and nodded, going to
fetch a refill.

Baldwin took a long draught of his wine and leaned towards the Coroner again. ‘So you will hold the inquest tomorrow, Sir Roger?’

‘Yes. Whether the Reeve will be able to organise it is a different matter; he seems a complete fool. The child’s corpse has been left where it was found, apart from the skull, which
was taken to the Reeve’s house.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘The jury has been called?’

‘I told him to ensure that all the men over twelve years would be there, and to bring shovels.’

‘The body is buried?’

‘Up by the road, yes. That’s why I was in a hurry to get here,’ the Coroner said, ‘before the vill’s dogs could pull it apart. A man has been guarding the place,
apparently, so it’s safe from wild animals.’

‘You have little faith that the Reeve will have arranged all this?’

The Coroner grunted. ‘Like I say, he’s either useless or deliberately unhelpful. Still, it can wait till morning. If it’s not done, I’ll give him a ballocking.’

One word the Coroner had used sprang in upon Simon’s thoughts. ‘You said “skull”, not “head”.’

Sir Roger shot him a keen look. ‘The locals here told me that she died years ago.’

‘Thank God,’ Simon breathed, and gulped at his wine in relief.

‘I heard four years,’ Baldwin said, recalling Drogo’s taunt. ‘I am surprised that they have decided that the victim was cannibalised, since there can be no meat left on
her bones. Perhaps there is more to this than we realised.’

Simon shuddered. He had no wish to hear these details about the body. To him it seemed almost sacrilegious: the poor girl would have to be exposed to the sight of the whole vill tomorrow, an
appalling thought. He wondered how he would feel, if it were his own daughter, Edith. If this girl had lived, she might be the same age as Edith, not that her family would know. Peasants often
forgot the year of a birthday. It was difficult enough to keep track, because years were measured by the King’s reign, and trying to recall how long the present King had held power made
one’s brain ache. Edith was born in the first year of King Edward II’s reign, which made her age easy to work out, but as many peasants spent their whole life in ignorance even of the
King’s name there was little likelihood that they would be able to make use of such information.

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.’