Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘Edgar, I shall walk in the air a while,’ she said. ‘This room is choking me!’

‘Very well.’

‘You can go back to Petronilla.’

‘I think I should remain with you, my Lady.’

She smiled up at him, shaking her head. ‘There’s no need, and you’ve had no time together since we got here. Go to her.’

He was reluctant, but after a little persuading, he agreed, provided that she promised not to wander far.

It was an easy promise to make. The place was hardly welcoming, what with the mud and filth all about. Two dogs were fighting in a space between two cottages as she left the inn, although when they saw her, they slunk away into the shadows beneath a cart.

Sticklepath held nothing to attract her. The place was ugly and inhospitable. In fact, she regretted her decision to come here with Baldwin now. Although she would have hated to leave him to travel here alone, when he still hadn’t recovered from his injuries, she was terrified that whatever was here might affect her daughter. Richalda was too important for her to want to risk the baby’s life or well-being.

She shivered slightly at the sight of the priest up at the edge of the vill. He was leaning against a tree, wiping at his face as though to clear away sweat. Rather than go and speak to him, Jeanne turned away and walked towards the ford.

It was peaceful here. There was an old tree stump near the river itself, and she sat upon it, gazing into the water. Here at the boundary of the vill, she already felt a little happier, as though simply being on the road that would lead her homewards was itself enough to reassure her.

In the distance she heard hooves in the clear, still air and wondered who would be travelling along here today. Probably a tranter or carter of some sort, carrying fish or wine to the monks of Tavistock or even the nuns at Belstone. With the sun on her back warming her and gleaming in bright sparks on the water, it was hard to maintain her fear, and she began to feel a comfortable languor overtaking her. Gradually the water’s sound and the light playing over its surface induced a pleasant drowsiness. The voice startled her when it spoke.

‘My Lady, I am pleased to meet you again.’

Jolting to full wakefulness, her hand went to her breast as if to catch her heart before it could leap from her ribs. ‘Master Bel!’ she gasped.

‘Oh, I am sorry. I worried you, didn’t I?’

He was apparently attempting to soothe her, but his voice, now nasal and phlegmatic from the terribly broken nose that spread across his face like a flattened beetroot, failed to calm her.

‘What on earth has happened to you?’ Jeanne said faintly.

Ivo gave a dry laugh, then winced as another bruise complained. ‘It’s that wretched brother of mine – he will lose his temper. I was talking to him, and he suddenly flew off the handle, grabbed a staff and set about me. The man’s completely mad! Not that he’ll do it again for a while.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s being held by the Reeve. He’ll be lucky to get out before the Justices visit next, from what I hear. Reeve Alexander is to have him taken to Exeter to the gaol there. Then he’ll regret his lunacy. With luck the bastard will swing. I doubt he’ll have enough money to save himself – and I won’t fucking help him .’

The last words were spat with virulent passion, and Jeanne shivered. Suddenly all her concerns returned to haunt her. If a man could attack his brother, surely it must be something to do with the place itself? It was aberrant behaviour, as was Ivo’s apparent glee at Thomas’s plight. A desire for revenge was common enough, but such a passionate hatred for his own brother was hardly normal. No, it was Sticklepath. Making her excuses, Jeanne left him contemplating the waters and walked back to the vill.

It was when she was halfway to the inn that she heard the hooves again.

Turning, she was in time to catch a glimpse of a small cavalcade as it moved between the trees, coming towards the vill. It consisted of one man of rank on horseback and five men on foot, acting as his guards.

They reappeared through the trees only moments later, and Jeanne got a better look at them. The man in the lead was a short, but powerfully built fellow with a round face and smiling eyes. He wore a hot-looking velvet tunic, a hood over his head against the sun, and rode a magnificent rounsey. He was clearly a knight, from his spurs to his finely decorated riding sword in its scabbard – the quality was demonstrated by the engraving and enamelling on the pommel. In his hand he dangled a war hammer, a vicious weapon with a two-inch-long spike behind the hammer head.

Marching behind him, Jeanne recognised Drogo the Forester and his men, with Miles Houndestail bringing up the rear. He looked hot and tired.

‘My Lady,’ the knight said, taking in the quality of her dress, ‘do you live here?’

‘No, I come from Cadbury,’ she said. ‘I am wife to Sir Baldwin Furnshill.’

‘Ah, I have heard of him. I am Sir Laurence de Bozon, from Iddesleigh – I fear we have not met?’

‘I regret no,’ she said, smiling when he bowed gracefully to her, never an easy feat for a man on horseback. She inclined her head. ‘But I am sure that my husband will be pleased to meet you. We stay at the inn over there.’

‘I shall look forward to seeing you both there,’ Sir Laurence said courteously. ‘First, alas, I have business to attend to with the Reeve of this place. Forester, which is his house?’

Drogo stepped forward, puffing a little. Jerking his chin, he said, ‘It is that one, the one opposite the tavern.’

‘I thank you. No hurry, then. My Lady, are you journeying far?’

‘No farther,’ Jeanne smiled. ‘We are here to help the Coroner with an inquest. My husband is a Keeper of the King’s Peace.’

‘There is more trouble here?’

‘There has been murder.’

‘Well, my Heavens. It is terrible that there could be another death in a little place like this, isn’t it, Forester? I trust there will be no more.’ Sir Laurence laughed, but his amusement didn’t strike Jeanne as genuine.

The reaction of the men about him also struck her as interesting. Drogo’s features were bleak, Vincent Yunghe was sternly solemn, while Peter atte Moor was oddly excited, licking his lips and finding it difficult to keep still as though he was keen to get something done. Adam was the only one among them who looked unaffected by Sir Laurence’s presence. All appeared to think that the knight’s meeting with the Reeve would have dire consequences, although whether they were consequences only for the Reeve or for the whole vill she couldn’t tell.

‘I hope there will be no more violence too, my Lord,’ she said. ‘What are you here for, may I ask? It is rare to see so many guards about a lone knight.’

‘Ah, these good Foresters are here to help me with my work and protect my body from attack, my Lady,’ Sir Laurence chuckled. ‘I am the King’s Purveyor and I’m here to collect money or grain to help provision the King’s host as he makes it ready to do battle in Scotland again. I sent for them from South Zeal.’

Jeanne smiled politely, but she was aware that this elegant man in his sweat-stained suit wearing that easy smile would be one of the most loathed men who could have arrived in any vill, let alone one which had already been so scarred by famine, murrain and murder.

‘You think I could be in danger, my Lady?’ Sir Laurence said, seeing her face. He continued, overruling her protestations, ‘This is why I come with men. The last Purveyor for the King to come down this way disappeared, apparently.’ He stared at Miles thoughtfully. ‘At the time some thought he had robbed the King and run away with the money.’