Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘She wouldn’t come to live with me, even though she knew I would have protected her,’ Serlo said gruffly. ‘I think her man gave her enough of a clue about what men would do. Not that it stopped her that once.’

‘You mean her daughter?’ Baldwin asked. He was still gazing about him, trying to see where Meg could be living.

‘Yeah. Poor child. She was a nice little thing, too. Chubby and cuddly, if you know what I mean. Never had an ill word for anyone, even though they shunned her. And why? All because her mother was looked on as mad, and probably a whore to boot.’

‘Her father was a Purveyor, I hear.’

‘That’s right. Ansel, he was named. Evil bastard, he was, too. Took Meg when she was young and hadn’t a clue. But men will take advantage in those circumstances. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.’

‘Where is she?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Sorry, I was forgetting.’ Serlo walked to the wall where Aylmer stood, his head on one side. Where the wall met a tree, there was a thick growth of ivy, and the Warrener pushed it to one side. ‘I’ll fetch her.’

Baldwin could see that the ivy concealed the entrance to what looked like a tunnel.

Simon saw his enquiring gaze. ‘There’s plenty of tin and copper all over the moors. I expect this is the result of some man’s effort to find a new source.’

‘You’re right,’ Serlo said, reappearing. ‘This was a little attempt to see if there might be copper. It failed. So many of the mining attempts always do. This is Meg.’

Behind him, he had pulled a woman. He held her by the forearm, as though she was unwilling to come out into the light, but also as though she was frail and needed his support.

Baldwin smiled at her. ‘Meg? Is that your name?’

She was wearing the same hood, the same grey shreds and tatters, remnants of an ancient robe, as when he had first seen her in the forest. And as her head lifted slightly so that she could glance at him from under her hood, as though it was a defence against him and all other adult men, he saw the wide-set eyes, the round face, the small tip-tilted nose, and realised how ridiculous had been his terror. He held out a hand to her, to the little half-witted mother of the dead Emma.

Nicole was so overcome with misery that she didn’t notice Sir Laurence and the Foresters until they had stopped at Alexander’s house. It was only when Sir Laurence began to roar for a groom to tend his mount that she paid them attention, and seeing them at the Reeve’s door, she hurried away, towards her house.

The first thing was food, she told herself. Her man would need food tonight, and then he’d need more to be able to travel all that way. He was viewed as a felon, so he’d be set in chains and forced to walk the whole way. No one would waste a steed on a man like him, so he’d have to make the best he could of it.

He’d need money to buy things as soon as he arrived: bread, some cheese. A little dried meat. Even the water would cost him dearly in gaol, and he must be able to afford it, or he might starve to death! She couldn’t face the thought of life without him.

‘Oh God in Heaven, how could You do this?’ she murmured so quietly that no one could hear. ‘I suffered for my father’s sake in France, and now I must suffer for my husband’s. You do to my daughter what You once did to me! How much misery should one woman suffer in her life?’

She had picked up her skirts now, and was hurtling headlong towards her house. Mud splashed from her bare feet, and she didn’t care about the dung she stepped in, nor the pools of urine puddled at the side of the road where the oxen had waited for a few moments before being led to their pasture. She was blind to the Coroner as he limped from the tavern’s door. He stood propped with his staff, one hand on a sapling, gazing down the road, and then he happened to glance in her direction. Seeing her coming straight at him, her head bent, he had time only to gape in horror before she pelted straight into him.

‘Oof!’ she exclaimed, and fell back to sit on her rump.

‘Christ’s ballocks!’ the Coroner roared, clutching at his upper belly, where her arm had caught him. Dropping his stick, he stumbled backwards, and his foot caught on a loose stone, wrenching his ankle for a second time. ‘God’s bones! You stupid bitch! Can’t you look where you’re going?’

She gazed at him in horror. In her mind’s eye she saw herself chained alongside her husband as they were led from the vill and into captivity. In her terror she was mute.

‘Well?’ he bellowed roughly, gripping the wall to hoist himself upright. ‘Are you dumb, woman?’

Jeanne had witnessed the scene, and she joined the Coroner, who was trying to reach his prop. She passed it to him, then crouched at Nicole’s side. ‘Are you all right? You fell with quite a thump.’

‘I… I am well, I thank you,’ Nicole stammered, rising and wiping her filthy hands on her apron, then remembering that it was her cleanest apron and her best tunic, she burst into loud, gulping tears.

‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ Coroner Roger sighed. He licked his lips and glanced guiltily at Jeanne.

She saw his look, but she was already helping the other woman. Putting a compassionate arm about her shoulders, she led the weeping peasant into the tavern.

Coroner Roger rubbed at his belly, shaking his head. The damn woman had almost winded him, he thought ruefully. He’d been going to speak to the Parson to see whether he could learn anything useful, not that he held out much hope. Priests were always tricky. Getting information from them was like getting a free meal out of a Winchester innkeeper. Now, however, he’d lost interest. The distance looked too great.

He was standing before the inn rubbing at his ankle, when he heard a cheerful shout from the other side of the road.

‘Coroner Roger, as I live and breathe!’

‘Sir Laurence. It is good to meet with you once again,’ the Coroner said, less heartily. He did not in all honesty like Sir Laurence, because the job of Purveyor offended him: it was simple extortion, to his way of thinking, but he was prepared to accept that the Purveyor’s task was none the less necessary. After all, Roger didn’t much like executioners, but someone had to do the job.

‘I was told that I might find you here,’ Sir Laurence said. He was idly tossing his war hammer in the air and catching it. ‘A man called Houndestail said so. I have brought him back with me.’

Behind him, Coroner Roger could see the anxious features of Alexander in the doorway, peering over the knight’s shoulder. As Sir Laurence spoke, Drogo and his three men pushed past Alexander and stood listening. The Coroner said, ‘You are here to prepare for the coming war?’

‘I think it will have already begun,’ Sir Laurence said easily. ‘No, I am simply collecting food and money to help support the effort.’

‘I see.’

Sir Laurence smiled more broadly and he snuffed the air, taking a deep breath. ‘Smell that? Shit and piss all over this place, isn’t there?’ he said conversationally. ‘It’s a revolting little midden, this. Still, we can’t choose where we have to go, you and I, can we?’

‘No,’ Coroner Roger said. Behind Sir Laurence he could see that Alexander’s face was mottled with rage to hear his precious vill so described. ‘I suppose you have to come this way often enough? The road to Cornwall is paved with good manors, so I am told.’

‘There are plenty of wealthy enough demesnes in among Lord Hugh’s lands,’ the Purveyor agreed. ‘But this is my first trip so far south. Usually I deal with the northern pieces of the shire. There used to be another man down here – Ansel de Hocsenham. I don’t know if you ever met him?’