Michael JECKS: The Sticklepath Strangler

Puffing and blowing, he shook his head, relishing the coolness, feeling the water trickling down his back. As he did so, he thought he heard something, an odd whirring noise which came from his left and disappeared to the right, but his ears were filled with water and he didn’t recognise it. Probably a bird, he told himself.

Then the missile slammed into his thigh.

The jolt itself was vicious, yet even through his shock he was conscious of every moment of the impact: he could feel the barbs pierce his flesh, slicing through muscle, tearing onwards until they jerked to a halt against his thigh-bone. Even as he collapsed, he was aware of the arrow quivering in his thigh.

And then he was on his arse, while water scattered from his upturned bucket, staring at his leg, scarcely able to believe his eyes. It was tempting to think it must be an accident, that someone had been aiming at a bird or a rabbit, and the arrow had missed or skittered up from the ground, like a spinning stone on water, only to find him, a fresh target, but as the idea occurred to him, he realised it was impossible. There were no rabbits here, and an arrow wouldn’t bounce upwards when it struck the ground; it would bury its entire length. Yet he had no enemies. Who could have deliberately aimed at him?

As the stinging grew more painful, he studied the arrow, seeking clues as to who might have fired at him. The fletchings were bright blue peacock feathers, moving lazily with the beating of his heart. Like most longbow arrows it was at least a yard long, a good missile over long range, he told himself, an ideal weapon for an assassin.

As the pain increased, he realised he must move. His attacker must still be there, perhaps drawing back the bowstring a third time. Athelhard stumbled to his feet and scurried around the tree’s trunk like a vole looking for a hedge, leaning back against it while the nausea washed over him.

His axe was around the other side of the tree, right in the line of another arrow and he daren’t reach for it, but somehow he must get away, and first he had to remove the arrow. Looking down at the slender stem protruding from his hose, the thought of what he must do made him retch. While a soldier he had seen others do the same often enough, but that didn’t make it any easier. Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, he touched it gingerly. He couldn’t pull it out backwards, as the barbs would rend his flesh and do more damage. No, he must drive it forwards, so that the arrowhead cut through the thickness of his thigh and came out the other side.

It was firmly lodged at his bone, however, and he wept freely as he twisted and turned it, trying to move it away without harming himself more than he must. When he finally succeeded, he fainted as a gush of hot blood fountained from the wound, flooding his hands, but he came to only a moment or two later, shivering and nauseous deep in the pit of his stomach. At first he was fearful to see the bright crimson puddle, but he felt all right. No arteries had been broached.

It was done. He snapped off the remaining length with the fletchings, then tugged the splinter of wood which was left attached to the point through his leg, his face pulled into a mask of revulsion. Tearing off his hose, he fashioned a makeshift tourniquet which he bound as close to his groin as he could. He couldn’t touch the arrowhead again. Slick with his blood, he was repelled by it. Instead he took up the piece with the fletchings and shoved it into the cloth, twisting it until the ligature was tight and the blood ceased flowing. Then and only then did he turn his attention to the man who had ambushed him, who must still be there, waiting for him.

A good bowman could hit a butt at four or five hundred yards. Trying to get a moving man was more difficult, especially if he could dodge and sprint, but Athelhard wouldn’t be doing that, not with his leg in this state. He would only be able to hobble, presenting an easy target to the most incompetent archer.

There was the crack of a breaking twig and he knew that his attacker was edging forward. If he remained here, he would be killed. He climbed to his feet as quietly as he could, gritting his teeth as his ruined leg refused to support his weight.

With infinite caution he peered around the tree. That was when he felt his heart plunge. There was more than one man: he could count at least three at the edge of the nearest line of bushes. One held something in his hands – it must be a bow. Athelhard gripped his knife, frozen with indecision. Should he throw it now, kill one of his attackers, and then cry for help? The vill wasn’t far from here. Someone would be bound to hear his screams, and it was possible that the remaining two would bolt if they saw their companion fall.

He was calculating the likelihood of the men in the fields hearing him when he saw one of the figures move.

It was a shambling gait, as though he was dragging his left leg, and in that moment, Athelhard knew he would soon die. The man was from his own vill: Adam. That limp was caused by a badly mended leg after he was run over by a cart. It was as distinctive as a coat of arms. Then he recognised another man by his voice, and felt the blood freeze in his veins. These three stalkers were his neighbours, men with whom he had drunk, eaten, fasted, toiled and prayed. They were men he had called his friends. He glanced down at the fletchings on the arrow and now he recognised it, knew who had made it, who had fired it.

That decided him. He couldn’t get to his axe, so he must somehow make his way back inside his cottage and find another weapon. He had his own bow and arrows in there; with them he might yet be able to turn the tables on his attackers. If he could hit two of them, that might persuade the others to go, but even with God’s help, it would be hard: he’d be lucky to get to his house before being shot again.

From here he could just see his cottage through the trees. There was a cleared space between the edge of the trees and his door, and the thought of covering it in his current condition made his flesh creep. No, ballocks to that: he’d have to work his way round to the back of the cottage and hoist himself in through the rear window.

He retied the shreds of hose about his leg and twisted the shard of arrow until the pain almost made him cry out, before beginning to crawl forwards.

Fear of making a noise forced him to move with exceptional care. The wound in his leg was smarting now, and he shivered in shock. He made it to a bush and slumped down, loosening the tourniquet. Immediately, or so it seemed, his leg was afire with stabs of agony flashing up and down, from his toes to his cods. It felt as if someone had wrapped his entire leg in a blanket of tiny needles, and was progressively shoving them in deeper and deeper.

There was a shout behind him, and he felt his heart lurch.

‘Are you sure you hit the bugger, Drogo?’

‘’Course I am! I saw the arrow strike.’

‘Where is he then, eh?’

There came another cry from further up, a thrilled call like a huntsman’s. ‘Blood! Gouts of it! You bled him well enough, like a stuck pig!’

‘How do you kill them?’ the man called Adam asked. ‘ Sanguisugae are dead already, aren’t they? How’d you kill someone who’s dead?’

‘You cut out his heart and burn it. That’s what I’ve heard. If not, he’ll keep coming back, keep attacking our little ones.’

‘Cut out his heart? Ugh!’ The voice came from dangerously close to Athelhard. He recognised it as the youthful tones of Vincent Yunghe, a hanger-on of Drogo’s. Instinctively he tensed, but the lad was walking away, going to join the other three. ‘I’m not doing that!’

‘I’ll do it, Vin. I’m not scared, and I want revenge after what he did to my little Denise, the devil!’ The angry, bitter voice of Peter atte Moor choked off and there was silence for a while.