Michael JECKS: The Sticklepath Strangler

Where the road met the river there was a shallow ford, and the horses splashed their way through it, leaving a dirty, streaming stain on the water as the soil was washed from their hooves. As soon as they left the pebbles that bounded the river, they were riding over an unmetalled roadway again, covered in glutinous, dark mud. The entire village was in this condition, and Baldwin wondered how anyone could remain clean for a moment.

As they rode towards the inn, a building on their left with a scrap of furze bush tied above the door to show that ale was on sale, Baldwin noticed some peasants watching him and his entourage. To his surprise, none looked at all welcoming: all were grim and suspicious, especially the four scruffily dressed men and one woman standing at the inn’s door. Baldwin was reminded of the stories he had heard of travellers becoming lost on a journey and finding themselves in strange surroundings. All too often the inhabitants of such vills would be wary, fearful of ‘foreigners’ from far distant places – which could mean someone from two villages away – and might hurl stones or worse at newcomers. There was a merchant recently who had complained to him about being pelted with dogshit, and another who was on the receiving end of sticks and clods of earth.

It was fortunate that this vill was on the Cornwall road, he told himself, because the people here should be well used to seeing strangers riding through. Otherwise, from the looks on their faces, he might have been tempted to bend low over his mount’s neck, rake his spurs along the beast’s flanks and ride hell for leather out of this place.

Perhaps the people here were just put out at the thought of the Coroner’s arrival. That would mean fines for breaking the King’s Peace which would affect everybody in the vill, so it was no great surprise that they should eye strangers glumly.

At the inn he remained seated upon his horse while Edgar swung down from his saddle and strolled forward. There was a small group at the entrance, and Edgar stood a moment, waiting for them to part. Aylmer wandered along behind him and stood staring, head tilted.

Snatches of conversation wafted up to Baldwin even as the folk stared at him and his wife.

First he heard the woman. ‘She was pregnant. She told me so in confidence.’

‘Terrible if it’s true. Poor Aline!’

‘Would he kill her to silence her?’ the woman asked.

‘Who can tell?’ a man sighed.

To Baldwin’s surprise, the group did not give way to Edgar. Two men stood at the doorway, blocking it. A younger-looking man with startlingly fair hair planted himself next to them, while another, older man eyed Baldwin and curled his lip.

A broad fellow, with a rugged face and a badly broken nose, he looked the sort to have been involved in lots of fights, possibly the instigator of many of them. His gaze was unblinking, rather like a snake’s, and Baldwin half expected to see a forked tongue flicker from between the pale lips.

Not that he was entirely reptilian. Aged forty years old or so, he had the ruddy complexion of a moorman, and Baldwin would have put him down for a miner if his hands had been dirtier or more calloused, but although he had the appearance of a man who has laboured, his hands were not ingrained with dirt. Dressed in a good linen shirt under a crimson tunic, he was clearly no peasant. From his shoulder dangled a horn, while the dagger which hung from his belt looked well made, with a leather grip wired into place and an enamelled pommel; the sort of craftsmanship that a peasant could not afford. His clothes and knife spoke of money, and his manner showed he was of some rank, and probably power, since he dared show such studied insolence.

It was the first time Baldwin had seen Edgar’s swagger fail. Normally the controlled threat in his posture persuaded people to hurry from his path. Apparently folk here were less easily intimidated. Edgar stopped before the man, and Baldwin saw him rise on the balls of his feet, preparing for violence. Baldwin reached over his belly and felt for his sword, easing it in the sheath so that he could pull it free in a moment, but even as he shifted in his saddle, ready to kick his mount forward, the woman spoke up.

‘Drogo, you should not stop travellers from eating and drinking. They need sustenance.’ She had a pleasant, low voice, and Baldwin recognised her accent as French.

The man she called Drogo gently pushed her out of his way. ‘Quite so, Nicky, but I have a duty to keep an eye on people around here.’

‘Why is that your duty?’ Baldwin asked quietly. ‘Are you the Reeve of this vill?’

That earned him a short laugh. ‘Do I look as stupid as Alexander? De Belston, he’s called, but only because his gut’s as great as a bell, the slug. No, I’m an official of the King, so you can begin by answering my questions and not by answering me back!’

‘Drogo, you shouldn’t.’

The fair, younger man, who wore faded brown hose and a much patched green tunic, stepped forward as though to persuade his companion not to intimidate Baldwin. He looked fit, maybe twenty-two years of age, and had a pleasant face, with weather-beaten brown skin and calm grey eyes under thick, carelessly cropped hair that hadn’t seen a barber for some weeks. His eyebrows were delicately shaped arcs that sat high on his features, giving him an expression of perpetual astonishment, which Baldwin was sure would make him attractive to women.

Drogo shook his hand from his forearm. ‘Want to take my post, Vin?’ he sneered. ‘Is that it? You pathetic, poxed little turd. I lead this group, not you. That means I make the decisions about who I question and why.’

He stepped forward, carelessly allowing his shoulder to jostle Edgar as he passed. Edgar said nothing; he merely altered his stance a little, placing his feet further apart, while Aylmer sat, gazing over his shoulder at Baldwin.

Baldwin was not concerned about his servant. Edgar had survived many fights, probably more than Baldwin himself, and yet bore no scars. He would be able to hold off the three men ranged before him on his own.

‘First of all, who are you, eh?’ The man was near Baldwin’s horse now, moving to the beast’s left side, where he would be safer from Baldwin’s sword arm. His eyes assessed the good leatherwork at saddle and bridle, the enamelled badges declaring Baldwin’s heredity. ‘Where are you from?’

‘By what authority do you ask?’

‘Just answer the question,’ Drogo snapped.

‘I am a traveller here, a stranger. Why should I answer your questions if you do not tell me the authority by which you ask?’

‘I told you I am a King’s man. Answer me!’

‘I, too, am a King’s official,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘So what rank are you?’

‘I have the rank of the man who demanded first, friend. I call you “friend” now, but soon I shall lose patience.’

He thrust his head forward, jaw jutting aggressively, but then he stopped. There was a low grumbling noise, and when he looked down, he met Aylmer’s face snarling up at him, right near his cods. He sprang back, his hand going to his knife. ‘Keep that brute away from me!’

Baldwin smiled, but there was no humour in his face. He was annoyed that this self-important bully should dare to delay him in his business. Edgar, he could see, was as ready as a cocked crossbow, waiting for the signal to attack.

Then his irritation left him. Drogo was a foolish man overcome with his authority in this, his own little sphere. It was ridiculous that he and Sir Baldwin should be standing up to each other like a pair of game cocks while men prepared to do battle on their behalf. If Baldwin pushed the matter, he might be forced to put the other to the sword, and Edgar would risk his life in battle against three. There was no point.