Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘So, Reeve. I think I shall need to have most of your corn.’

His eyes twinkled with merriment as he spoke, the firelight giving him a cheerful aspect, but in Reeve Alexander’s eyes, his smile was that of a demon grinning at the miserable fate of another.

‘Sir Laurence, I am sure we would all like to do everything we can to assist the King’s efforts in Scotland–’

‘I am delighted to hear it. I assume that there is a “But”?’

‘We have so little here. The famine, then the murrains, and no travellers to speak of. We don’t have a market or fair like South Zeal. Couldn’t you seek what you need from a more prosperous town?’

‘I have already been to South Zeal. It is a pleasant place. All the burgage plots so well laid out, and the whole town prospering nicely. That, you see, is what happens when a place is run efficiently. But then you come here and what do you find? A midden! Look at it! The vill is falling apart, and it’s all the fault of the man at the top. Laziness, that’s what it is. I wouldn’t allow it on my own manor, I assure you.’

Alexander gritted his teeth. He detested hearing his vill so denigrated, but he knew he must swallow his pride. ‘These are difficult times for all the King’s subjects, but for a little place like this with so few resources, it is even worse,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Surely at South Zeal they would be able to afford a much larger stock of grain than we can?’

‘Yes, I arranged for a little grain from South Zeal, but I feel sure that you will have enough stored away here to support the King.’

‘We have nothing!’

‘That is very sad.’

‘My Lord, please! We have nothing to give, and we can’t even pay the King money instead. We could never afford to compensate him.’

‘Perhaps you could compensate someone who was of a lesser position?’ Laurence asked, gazing at his fingernails with an air of mild enquiry.

‘The last Purveyor used to find it served him to seek out the wealthier vills. They could afford to pay the King’s Procurers enough to satisfy the King, but smaller ones like this, well, we could only hope to pay enough to satisfy one man,’ Alexander said carefully.

‘I see. And how much would one man be satisfied with? Say a man like Ansel de Hocsenham?’

‘He would have been content with…’ Alexander did a quick calculation. There was always the risk that Ansel – rot him! – had managed to let this new man know how much he had routinely milked from places like Sticklepath. Honesty was safest, although the thought of so much cash going again was sorely painful to him. It was all the money he had left. There was nothing after this. He swallowed. ‘Three shillings and tenpence.’

‘So little?’ Sir Laurence yawned, but his eyes remained sharp. ‘And that was the last time he came here?’

‘There are so many felons and footpads on the roads,’ Alexander said nervously.

‘And some of them live in towns and vills like ordinary men. Like Reeves.’ Sir Laurence was staring out through the window as though finding the conversation unbearably tedious.

Alexander said, ‘He must have been set upon and robbed after he left here. Perhaps someone in Oakhampton will know of his passing through.’

‘Curiously enough, the people there deny ever seeing him. It’s most peculiar, but he never appeared there. But we know that he indeed left here, don’t we? I was told that by Drogo Forester when I asked him.’

Drogo cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. Alexander didn’t bother to look at him. Christ Jesus! It wasn’t as though Ansel hadn’t deserved his end. He was a leech in human form, demanding money from any Reeve who couldn’t afford the King’s Purvey, sucking their blood to within a few pennies of their conscience. Any more and most Reeves would have felt it worthwhile to tell the King that the Purveyor was corrupt, but Ansel knew how to gauge the amount to a nicety. He always left the people with just enough to live on: not enough to live comfortably, but enough for survival.

‘He had an unsavoury reputation, you know,’ Sir Laurence was saying, idly dipping a finger into his bowl of wine and licking it clean. He raised innocent eyes to study Alexander. ‘It has been said that he was bent as hell, that he’d take money to release people from the King’s demands.’

‘I am surprised,’ said Alexander with pointed sarcasm.

Sir Laurence didn’t appear to notice his irony. ‘Yes. And of course he’d force people to sell their grain at less than he was supposed to, and pocket the difference. Not a pleasant fellow, our Ansel, but still a King’s Officer, when all is said and done.’

‘Of course.’

Alexander wondered when all the play-acting would stop and they would arrest him. Peter atte Moor had left the place a while ago, gone off to get some sleep after the last two nights he had spent up on the moors walking about his bailiwick, but the others were still here. Drogo and two Foresters were behind him and it would take only a moment for them to bind him. One thing he was sure of – if he were to run, Drogo would have him dead in a moment; he would want Alexander to be silenced for good. However, the Reeve wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, nor that relief.

Alexander’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard the first dog begin to howl again. He hesitated, listening, but the dog continued, and he frowned. Forgetting Drogo for a moment, he rose to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Sir Laurence demanded harshly.

From the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Drogo make a sharp gesture with his hand and Vincent Yunghe appeared before him, an apologetic grimace on his face.

‘I want to see what that dog is making such a noise over. The damned thing spent much of last night howling.’

‘Wait here awhile instead,’ Sir Laurence said silkily. ‘We are having such a fine talk. It would be a shame to pause in the middle. Come, pray return to your seat, my good Reeve.’

Alexander slumped back into the chair, chewing at his lip. Outside he was sure that a second dog had begun to howl. They must be Samson’s two in their kennels.

‘That’s right!’ Sir Laurence said heartily. It was always pleasant to show that beneath his velvet glove there still remained a main de fer , a hand of iron. This man was cowed already, as he should be, but many a beaten man in the past had tried to escape by using a minor distraction like a howling dog or two.

It was an unsettling noise, true. There was a mournful quality about it that was rather eerie. There was also more than a little fear in those two voices, if he could hear them aright. It was odd, he’d never heard dogs howling like that before.

No matter, though. He eyed the pale and anxious features of the Reeve before him and told himself with satisfaction that there was more fun to be had in here, taunting this fellow, than in going out to investigate a pair of poxy, yapping curs.

Simon and Baldwin left Meg and Serlo soon afterwards. Serlo was comforting her as best he could, but Baldwin understood that the poor woman needed time to get over the first dreadful shock of hearing about her daughter’s death, and of reliving her traumatic experiences in that wood. It was curious to Baldwin that she should wish to live in Sticklepath at all. The destruction of her brother by their neighbours must surely mean that she would hate all of them? But then again she was simple. Perhaps it was impossible for her to conceive of removing herself from the place where she had grown up and lived with her brother, especially since Serlo had shown her kindness. Where else could she hope to find that? Sticklepath was not only a place of horror for her, but somewhere with pleasing memories, too.