Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

There was a sour taste in his mouth when he had finished and he could stand and listen to the men discussing Athelhard and the dead girl no longer. Suddenly he felt a pricking of conscience: this was wrong. They shouldn’t go and execute Athelhard like a felon. Even over the haze of alcohol and the demands of vengeance, a small, quiet voice seemed to warn him that this was an awful act. Athelhard would have no opportunity of defence. This crowd was a mob determined to destroy. They had decided that Athelhard was a vampire and that was sufficient for them. At that point, Gervase became aware of his own doubts.

Surely a man who was possessed would have hesitated to enter the church; he would have refused the Mass and Eucharist, wouldn’t he? And wouldn’t Gervase himself have felt something when in the presence of evil?

After the event, Gervase had done all he could to bring the men of the vill to a joint understanding of their shared guilt and he had prayed for Athelhard’s soul, lost though it was, since it had not received the last services, Extreme Unction or Sacrament. Yet although Gervase hoped that Athelhard’s innocent soul was safe, he had no such hopes for Samson’s.

Samson it was who had listened to the story of Meg’s meat; Samson it was who had roused Peter; Samson it was who had persuaded the mob to kill; Samson it was who had led the way to Athelhard’s assart. Samson it was who had fired the first arrow, missing his mark as Athelhard bent to his bucket.

There was another long-drawn-out howl from across the way and Gervase felt it like a stab in his chest.

Now Gervase knew why Samson had been so keen to lead the attack against Athelhard. Since Gunilda’s visit, he knew everything. Oh, yes! He knew that Samson had molested his own daughter, and others. It was Samson who got Aline with child, and just as surely he had killed her and the others too. Samson atte Mill was the vampire.

It all made sense now. With a resolute air, the Parson stood and picked up his mazer, then refilled it. Lifting it, he toasted God in an almost heretical manner, bitterly angry to have been forced to cause the death of a man like Athelhard for no reason. Then he opened his mouth and tipped in the wine. It was cheap and rough, but it was enough to strengthen his resolve. He was a failure as a priest, he had failed his congregation, he had failed Athelhard, and he had failed God. That was the cause of the noise at the cemetery: Samson’s unresting soul. His dogs knew, which was why they howled. And Gervase knew, which was why his spine tingled with fear.

Samson’s body was in thrall to demons. That was obvious, because he had killed Emma after his own death. Now Gervase must free Samson from the demons which possessed him. Throw them out and allow Samson to lie in peace… and protect the other folk of the vill.

The wine had given him courage and now he felt he could face Samson’s ghost. He knew what he must do. On his table was his scrip, and he opened it, studying the small piece of paper and the phial. Satisfied with both, he carefully tied the scrip by its two leather thongs to his belt and took up his staff.

With a deep breath, he threw open the door. Outside, the wind was blowing steadily from the moors, and the air was thick with mizzle. Tiny droplets of rain landed softly on his bared breast, but he didn’t care.

The hounds sounded more mournful out here in the open, their voices shuddering on the wind as though they were calling in desperation to their master, begging him to come back. Now that his decision had been made, Gervase felt calm. The indecision of the last couple of days had sapped his strength and now that he had chosen the route he must take, his soul was strengthened.

Squaring his shoulders, he set off to Swetricus’s house. He hammered on the door with his clenched fist, waiting for it to be opened. When it wasn’t, he struck the door with his staff and called out, ‘Swet, you miserable cur, open up! It’s me, Gervase, your Parson.’

There was no reply, and then he heard the slow scrape of the wooden latch being lifted. The door opened a little and a suspicious eye peered out at him.

‘Swet, you’ve heard him too, haven’t you? Fetch a shovel. We have work to do.’

Felicia shivered as her mother paced back and forth in the mill. The hounds were still calling, as if they could sense the approach of some foul creature from the moors. Perhaps it was true, what she had been told when she was a child, that devils lived out on the moors, and that they would torment the men and women who lived on the fringes.

‘Mother, won’t you come to bed?’ she called again. She had already lost count of the number of times she had asked her mother to join her on their palliasse, but Gunilda didn’t seem to hear her. Dark shadows under cheekbones and eyes made her look gaunt, almost as though she was herself dead.

‘He’s coming. I can hear him,’ she said, and laughed.

It was a terrible sound, and Felicia gasped with horror. Her mother was going mad, and she felt that she must surely follow. This constant walking up and down, staring out through the open windows down at the cemetery, was petrifying.

‘We did our best, we did, but he’s coming back. I can hear him, just like the dogs can. Samson wants you again. We can’t let him have you, though. No, never again.’ Gunilda walked to the family’s chest. It was a rickety old thing, ancient and wormeaten, but it was the only secure container. Reaching inside, she brought out a long-handled knife. Then she went back to the door, chuckling to herself.

‘Yes, my lover. You hurt us, oh so often, and you want to hurt us again, but now you’ve gone I won’t let you back. I only have Felicia, and I won’t let you harm her again.’

Swetricus was breathing heavily as he pulled off his leather jerkin and hefted his great shovel. He was aware of a sick feeling in his belly, but it was no good. He had to go ahead. He had no choice, not if his girls were to be safe. Unless he helped the Parson, his other daughters might be killed like Aline.

He gazed at the white features of the Parson, then up towards the cemetery and the howling dogs, and as he did so, clouds passed over the moon. The mizzle stopped and a thin rain fell, and the cemetery was hidden. When the clear light shone out once more, the rain suddenly stopped, and he almost expected to see a ghostly figure standing there by Samson’s grave, wrapped in a white shroud. It was with enormous relief that he saw the place was deserted.

‘Come, my friend. We have to do this now,’ said Gervase.

‘When I’ve fetched Henry.’

‘There’s no time.’

‘I’m not leaving my girls alone,’ Swetricus said with blunt finality. Gervase could see the determination in his eyes, and nodded. Together they walked to Henry Batyn’s house.

Henry lived with Peter atte Moor since his own house had collapsed, and it was Peter who opened the door. ‘What do you want, Parson?’

‘Look after Swet’s girls. We’re going to destroy him.’

Peter blinked. ‘Who?’

Swetricus answered. ‘It was Samson. He killed Aline, and your Denise and Mary and Emma. We’re going to kill him.’

‘He won’t persecute us any longer,’ the Parson said confidently.

Peter gaped. Then, ‘Bring the girls here, Swet. Henry will guard them and I’ll come with you.’

‘Good,’ said Swetricus, and returned to his own little place. Soon they could hear him calling his daughters over the whistling of the wind.

‘First, I’m going to find Drogo,’ Peter continued, tugging on his jack.

‘No. We have to strike him while we can.’

Peter looked at the Parson. ‘You’ll need torches,’ he said. ‘I know where to get some.’

‘Forget them. We don’t need them.’