Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Drogo le Criur was dressed in older green clothes today, with a stout leather jerkin to protect his torso from brambles and thorns, and his knife and horn at his belt.

Vincent swallowed uneasily. It would serve Drogo right if he told everyone the truth – that Drogo was never at his bailiwick when he was supposed to be on duty, that he was jealous of all the fathers who had little girls of eleven or so, the age at which Drogo’s daughter Isabelle had died, but the words wouldn’t come.

It was true. Drogo was rarely at his post when he should be. Hadn’t anyone else noticed? He was always making the excuse that he had to go and walk about to see that no cutpurse or felon was robbing someone, but Vin doubted that. He was away too often.

His eyes met Drogo’s again, and he felt his spirit quail. The man was his friend. He had taken him under his wing when Vin’s father had died, when no one else wanted to know. How could he betray that loyalty and friendship? He couldn’t.

This time it was Drogo who looked away, and Vin blinked. He suddenly wondered whether the Forester held the same doubts about him . After all, Drogo knew that he wasn’t with him when the girls had died. Still, he had always demonstrated that curious, twisted loyalty towards him, much more than even the son of a friend deserved.

Drogo knocked back the last of his drink and stood. Adam rose with him, slapping Vin’s shoulder. ‘Come on, boy! We have work to do.’ He gazed about him at the villagers drinking and eating. ‘Look at them,’ he grunted. ‘Now Samson’s dead, they feel free to eat and drink and be happy because the ogre from the mill’s gone for good. So many thought he was the murderer, but not one dared accuse him. Not a single one. Fucking peasants! I’ve pissed stronger streaks than this lot. None of them realise that Samson’s soul hasn’t gone, though, do they?’ He came to with a visible shiver. ‘What are you gawping at, boy?’ he snapped. ‘Get moving before Drogo loses his patience with you.’

He rolled away, the crippled leg impeding his progress, and Vincent spat angrily. Adam knew well that he hated being called ‘boy’. He was no mean, feeble youth, he was a man, in every sense.

Walking away, he found himself meeting the sad gaze of Felicia. She sat at the back of the tavern with her mother, and as she caught his look, she gave a weak smile.

Vin felt as though she had stabbed his heart. He had grown up with her, made love with her, and then deserted her immediately afterwards from terror of her father. That was hardly the action of an adult. If he had the courage of his conviction, he would have returned to her later, maybe even offered to marry her. At least he could have rattled her again.

There was still time. Samson was gone, rot his soul! But Felicia was still here, and maybe even more lonely than before. It should be easy to persuade her to see him. If he could get close to her, surely she’d submit to him again, as she had that day by the river, the day Ansel had died.

Gervase was in his cottage when Simon strode past, and the priest looked about him blearily as the splashing of the Bailiff’s feet in puddles disappeared up towards the village. He had never forgotten his roots, Gervase hadn’t. No, he could still bring to mind the tatty little vill where he’d been born, the great barn owned by the Bishop just outside, where the cathedral’s crops were stored after harvest, dwarfing the peasants’ own meagre supplies.

Gervase had been born into a poor family, but that didn’t mean they weren’t proud. His father was never so pleased with him as on that day when the Bishop’s man had claimed him. All because Gervase had been blessed with a pretty voice as a youngster, and the ability to memorise songs. That was all they wanted in those days. They didn’t expect a chorister to be able to learn Latin and French, only to sing in tune with other boys and behave in the cloister. And for that, he was to have a new life at the age of six, taken away from his home and dropped down into the midst of the great bustling city of Exeter.

If he had worked more assiduously, perhaps he would have been able to make more of a mark, he thought as he poured a fresh beaker of ale. The wine was all gone. More and more often lately he had been prone to thinking of what might have been possible, now he was approaching forty years, especially when he was in his cups. Not that he was often dry since the discovery of Aline’s grave. Poor little lass.

It hurt. God’s body, but it hurt! He hadn’t wanted to harm anyone, had never wished to see a man cut down and burned without being shriven, but he had. It was him, him and his damned stupidity, which had sealed the execution, and he had given up the man’s soul to the devil. All he had to do was take the confession and give him Absolution, but he hadn’t.

Sniffing, he finished his beaker and set it down on the table, then he pulled his robe about him. A Parson had duties to his flock. Gervase walked out into the warm evening air and set off towards the chapel. Hearing the dogs howling, he reflected that it was good to witness creatures demonstrating loyalty to their fallen master.

Sticklepath was a nice little place. If it hadn’t been stained with blood, he would have been very happy here. After his years in Exeter, it was a shock to be dumped in so squalid a mud-filled parish, but he was glad of a post of any sort. So many of his friends were doomed to be forced out of Holy Orders, luckier ones taking clerical posts, others reduced to menial chores about the city’s churches, that he knew he was fortunate.

For a Parson, Sticklepath was better than places like Belstone. Folk were odd up there, he thought and burped. After all, Belstone was cut off from civilisation. No road to speak of. Whenever it snowed, no one could get up there. And the wind, God’s teeth, how it howled up there! Like the hounds of hell.

Hang on, he thought, Alexander came from Belstone. But there was nothing to suggest that the Reeve was mad. Not like Samson. Parson Gervase had heard his confession.

‘An evil, evil man,’ he said to himself.

The ale was making itself felt. At the cemetery’s wall, Gervase lifted his robe and pissed against one of the pollarded trees. Resettling his hose and tunic, he suddenly stopped. He was sure he could taste the change on the wind. More rain, he told himself gloomily. Always more rain. Unless it was snow.

He reached the chapel’s door and gave an elaborate reverence. It was hard to remember which day of the week it was, and if he weren’t reminded by travellers, he would have the day wrong more often than he already did, often missing fast days. He was fallible.

At the altar he prostrated himself, arms outstretched in imitation of the crucifixion. The position was looked upon as an affectation or, worse, proof of ill-education, but he didn’t care. He was before God, and other men didn’t matter.

‘Glad you deigned to drop in, Gervey.’

He didn’t need to turn his head. ‘What are you doing in here? You pollute the air of my chapel.’

Drogo laughed quietly. ‘More than your drunken breath, you mean? Be fair, old shriver, and look to yourself before you insult me. What is it – pull the plank out of your own eye before seeking the splinter in mine?’

‘What do you want? I am here to perform my holy ritual, and you offend God by delaying me.’

‘Gervase, there is a Coroner here in the vill. I don’t want him reopening old wounds that he can’t possibly do anything about. There’s no point in getting him involved.’

‘You threaten me? You come to God’s house and threaten one of His own priests? You are a blasphemous dog, Drogo.’

‘Aye, I dare say you’ve the right of it.’ The Forester nodded agreeably.