The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (5 page)

At first Joan thought nothing of it, but then Emma’s horrified scream made her head snap around. ‘What?’

To her astonishment, she saw that her friend had already turned tail, and was fleeing from the rock, screaming her way down the slope towards the vill. As Joan watched, her mouth gaping, Emma
hurtled past the traveller and his horse, alarming the beast and making it rear and snort. The man swore loudly, yanking at the leading rein and smacking the horse on the nose to calm him.

As he approached Joan, he glanced down and enquired, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ Joan was still staring after her friend, wondering what could have so scared her. She glanced down, at the rock which had rolled so oddly from the wall.

But it was no rock. It was a skull, and it seemed to be gazing up at her as though in sardonic amusement.

Nicole Garde felt a stab of fear when the figure appeared in her doorway.

She hadn’t been expecting anybody. At that time of day, before noon, in the last hour before the sun rose to the highest point in the sky, visitors were the last thing on her mind. She had
been preparing her family’s meal, squatting before the fire, teasing the embers into life with small quantities of wood chips and a lot of careful, steady blowing. Once she had the fire
burning brightly, she would throw her large flat stone into the midst of the flames, getting it good and hot, while above it the pottage in her prized iron bowl began to bubble. When it was almost
ready, she would drag out the stone, wipe it, and cook her bread.

But today the process was taking time; the fire was reluctant. She had already used up much of her store of tinder, and was worrying that she would never tempt the fire into roaring life. The
room was smoky, so she had opened the door wide to release the fumes, and the sunlight streamed in, making everywhere look bright and cheerful when for so long the room had been dull and gloomy.
That was how she knew someone had arrived, because the place was suddenly thrown into darkness again. Without even looking round, she felt the hairs on her neck rise, the breath catch in her
throat, knowing it was
him
.

Only one man merited such contempt, mingled with fear: her brother-in-law Ivo Bel, Manciple to the nuns of Canonsleigh. He lusted after her, had done so for years. Thank God he was not often
here at Sticklepath, and his nasty little eyes could not fix upon her with that unpleasing gleam, as though he had already undressed her in his mind and was mentally entering her. He wouldn’t
dare offer her an insult in front of her husband, of course. Thomas would avenge her honour without fear of the consequences. Ivo was here too often and if he attempted to rape her, she would be
hard put to defend herself. He was wiry and powerful and a dangerous man. She had not forgotten his offer to have her marriage declared illegal, because he had some power over the Reeve, so he
said. He had witnessd the Reeve killing a man.

Sitting up, she rallied her thoughts. Her knife was resting beside the dough, where she had been tearing up leaves of orach and good henry and chopping garlic. She grabbed it and whirled to face
him. If she had to kill him, she would; if she couldn’t, she would at least mark him. Only when she had risen into a crouch, the knife held out in front of her, did she see who stood in the
doorway: Swetricus.

He was a hulking great man, one of Lord Hugh’s serfs who worked the lands under Reeve Alexander, but he was no enemy of Nicole’s.
His
enemy, since his wife had died and his
daughter Aline had vanished, was the ale barrel.

‘Oh, Swet. I am so sorry!’ she gasped as she set the knife down again.

‘You thought I was the miller?’ He shrugged. Broad and heavily built, although not tall, he was bent with work and worry. At thirty-eight he was one of the older men in the vill and
his dark hair was already shot through with silver. Grey eyes, which in the right light could look blue, were turned watery since the death of his wife. Now he must look after their remaining three
daughters on his own, with a little help from the woman next door. It didn’t leave poor Swet much time to relax, but he tried to with his ale. Often he had to be asked to be quiet, when his
drunken shouting and weeping threatened the vill’s peace.

‘Yes,’ she said. Everyone knew that he suspected the miller of having had something to do with Aline’s disappearance.

‘He wouldn’t trouble you,’ Swetricus said.

She suddenly saw something in his eyes, something almost like sympathy. A cold hand gripped her throat and she blurted, ‘It’s not Thomas, is it?’

‘No. Your daughter. Found a body up the sticklepath. She’s not well. Needs you.’

Nicole gaped, then rushed past him. Outside, she could see across the puddled soil of the roadway that there was a gathering crowd up on the sticklepath itself. Men and women were leaving the
fields to go and gawp. There was a second, smaller group at the door to the tavern, and she guessed that her daughter must be there. Lifting her skirts, she ran, unheeding of the muddy water that
splashed about her bare feet and ankles.

‘Joan? Joan, where are you?’

Emma sat on the tavern’s only bench, sobbing and incapable of speech, a large pot of strong ale at her side, but Nicole could see no sign of her own daughter. She was about to go to
Emma’s side and shake her, demanding where Joan was, when she felt a hand touching her arm. It was as if Swetricus understood her terror – as he would, she reminded herself.

‘It’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘She’s with others – showing them where it was. Here she comes now.’

Seeing Joan walking down the lane towards them, Nicole was tempted to run to her and gather her up in a hug. She should be as petrified as poor Emma, she was only young, only ten years old . . .
but something held the woman back. It was the tall, rangy traveller walking at her daughter’s side. He had his hand on the girl’s shoulder in a way that made Nicole’s hackles
rise.

The stranger was of a heavier build than Thomas, with long, unkempt hair of a pale brown, and eyes that might have belonged to a cat; they were a peculiar shade of green, wide-set and
intelligent. His mouth had full lips, and although he wore a solemn and respectful look, he was quick to smile at Nicole as he approached the tavern.

In that smile there was something wrong. Nicole always judged people quickly, and this man, she felt sure, was false. There was a veneer of sympathy there, but no more than that. His sole
interest was himself.

Joan rushed to her mother, burying her face in Nicole’s skirt.

‘It’s all right,’ Nicole said, gently tousling her daughter’s hair.

Joan looked up, and in her face there was a mature, fearless expression. ‘I wasn’t scared, Mother. Emma was, but I wasn’t.’

‘She’s telling the truth there,
madame
,’ said the stranger, hearing her accent. ‘She was more intrigued than fearful.’

‘Who are you?’ Swetricus demanded from behind her.

‘Miles Houndestail, master,’ the stranger said, bowing graciously. He was clad in simple hose, with a short tunic over a shirt, and a leather jack to keep out the wind. In his hand
was a felt cap with several pilgrim badges pinned to it, and he wore a long-bladed knife in his belt, next to his horn. ‘I’m a simple Pardoner, here to assist those who seek God’s
forgiveness.’

‘What was so scary?’ Nicole asked her daughter.

‘The skull. It rolled down past me and finished up with Emma. She became hysterical.’

‘Skull?’ Nicole repeated dully.

‘Yes. Drogo said he thinks it must be poor Aline.’

Nicole gasped and turned to see whether Swetricus had heard. He must have, but he merely stood and watched the men huddled about the body up on the sticklepath with an unreadable expression,
saying nothing.

His daughter Aline had disappeared many years ago, but surely he would still show some reaction on hearing that at last her corpse had been found? Any father would – wouldn’t he?

Only a matter of days after Joan and Emma’s discovery, Sir Baldwin Furnshill lay on a bench in his garden before his house, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face as
he dozed, listening idly to the peasants in the fields. Overhead, larks sang in the sunshine and a pair of doves called to each other in his oak. They sounded delightful, and he decided that he
would have a pair or two killed. His wife loved the taste of them roasted with honey.

The sounds of laughter and birdsong were wonderfully soporific. Gradually he found himself slipping into sleep, but not into a happy daydream; this was a nightmare, the same he had endured many
times before.

He was in some woods – he did not know where or why. All he knew was that he was pursued by a nameless dread, and as he rushed forward, raising his arms to protect his face against
brambles and twigs, he scarcely knew which to fear most – the pursuit or the horror which awaited him.

Soon he could see it: a broad swathe of grass. The sun pierced the high canopy of leaves here, and he could detect an odour – of roasting meat –
of human flesh
. The smell
was noisome, sickly sweet, and then he reached the clearing and could see the man bound to the tree, his body slumped forward, his legs consumed in the fire that raged about his feet. It was a
Knight Templar, from the cross at his breast, and then Baldwin recognised him. He was one of Baldwin’s friends, a knight who had died in the mass burnings in Paris after the death of Jacques
de Molay, the Templar Grand Master. Even in his dream, Baldwin knew that this man had died many years before, and yet as he stared in horror, the scene was horribly real.

The knight was dead. No man could live with the flames licking upwards as they were now about his breast, but as Baldwin stopped and stared, he saw the head rise, saw the blackened skin about
the eyes crack as the lids opened, and saw the mouth fall wide as though to call him . . .

He came to with a start, a cold sweat all over his face and back, a shivering like the ague, his breath coming in short gasps. Aylmer rose and padded softly to his side. The glossy rache,
Baldwin’s hunting dog, stood near him with his head set to one side, his tan eyebrows frowning and his forehead wrinkled with concern. Baldwin stroked the animal to reassure him.

Above him the swallows called, whirling and spinning in the warm summer air. A pair of buzzards circled lazily high over the fields towards Cadbury, and when he gazed southwards, he could see a
hundred rooks slowly rising into the air as one of his villeins’ sons threw stones or shouted at them. Looking about him, he could feel his heartbeat returning to normal, his breathing
growing calmer. Feeling the sun on his face, he was aware of a curious sense of anti-climax. The world was unchanged. People strained and worked without fear, he could hear a woman singing, and
cattle moaned gently as they chewed the cud.

The dream regularly impinged upon his sleeping mind, not every night, but often enough to unsettle him. Its roots lay in the violence which had begun long ago when his comrades in the
Poor
Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon
, the Knights Templar, were burned at the stake. Baldwin felt a residual guilt for having survived the persecution, and the dreams were a
reflection of that guilt.

Resolutely non-superstitious he might be, but he was still prey to the prickings of conscience, he told himself as he wiped away the sweat that filmed his forehead.

With that reflection, he broke wind and grinned to himself, glancing around to make sure that no one had heard him. It would not do for the Master of Furnshill, the Keeper of the King’s
Peace in Crediton, to be overheard indulging in such shameful behaviour.

Shaking off any lingering anxiety, he yawned, then stretched voluptuously. At once he had to stifle a curse. A pain shot from under his shoulderblade, a reminder of his recent joust at
Oakhampton’s tournament. His wounds no longer healed as quickly as they had when he was a young man, not that he would admit as much to his wife. She was already ruining him with her
solicitous nursing. Much more of it and he would be as round as a football. Detestable sport that it was, he thought grumpily. Always led to violence and death.

Still, it was a glorious day. He could, in sunshine such as this, forget the horrors of his past and the annoyance of football. The reflection made him grin to himself, but when he cast a look
over his shoulder, there was another stab in his neck, and the breath hissed softly between his teeth.

Baldwin was a grey-haired man in his late forties with the strong shoulders and thick neck of a trained sword-fighter. Only one scar testified to his past as a warrior: it stretched from temple
to jaw, a souvenir from the battles about Acre. The sole incongruity about him was the neatly trimmed and still dark beard, which followed the line of his jaw. Not many men wore beards these days,
especially among the knightly class.

Only two years ago his features had reflected the anguish which he had endured after the destruction of his Order and the slaughter of his companions, but recently his face had lost much of the
torment, although there were still deep tracks scored at either side of his mouth, creases at his forehead, and a lowering wariness in his dark eyes that sometimes alarmed people when he stared
intently at them. It had been said that he could see beyond a man’s lies, through to a man’s soul. He only wished that were true.

Since marrying he had found a new delight in life and had gladly thrown off the melancholy which had cloaked him for so long. As he must soon throw away this tunic, he told himself as he gazed
down at his growing paunch. His wife had seen to it that his diet had subtly altered, and his frame was filling out. The proof of this was the way that his tunics fitted: tightly. It was partly
due, too, to lack of exercise. Whenever he took his ease he found his weight increased alarmingly and he felt lethargic.

That was certainly the case after last year’s Christmas celebrations in Exeter, and now, since recuperating for a week or two after the tournament at Oakhampton, he could feel his belly
becoming uncomfortable once more. He needed a ride, a series of fast gallops and hunts to work off some of this weight. That would make him feel better. Not that there was much chance of that. Lady
Jeanne would never let him take exercise until she was convinced that he was entirely cured.