Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

But why should he do such a dreadful thing? And why eat them? Because he liked the flavour? Vin shuddered. He recalled meals with Drogo demanding bloody meat, remembered the man’s chin dripping in gore, and suddenly Vin felt queasy.

Swetricus had already dug down several feet with Henry’s help, and had just stepped down into the grave to dig out the rest when Baldwin pounded up. Behind him, the Coroner had caught sight of Swetricus’s work, and immediately his face reddened and he roared, hopping over to join Baldwin.

‘Just what is God’s name is going on here? Get out of that grave, you bastard. Parson, what the Hell is this?’

Gervase stepped forward, motioning with a hand to Swetricus to continue. ‘Coroner, this is Church land. Your jurisdiction ends there, at the wall.’

The Coroner was appalled. ‘What are you doing here, condoning this… this desecration! Why?’

‘Because–’

Before he could answer, Swetricus dropped his shovel, ashen-faced, and sprang from the hole as a hideous shriek erupted from it.

Simon felt his stomach churn and took a pace back. That scream sounded like it came from the bowels of the earth itself – and then he corrected himself: it came from Hell. There was nothing earthly about it.

All about him, the men of the vill had moved away from the graveside, muttering and shaking their heads, one or two sidling towards the gate that gave out onto the road. Only two men stood firm: Baldwin and Gervase, with Aylmer at their side.

Gervase was smiling. This was the proof! He had known he was right! Now the vampire’s cry showed it. Nobody could doubt the evidence of their own ears. Seeing Swetricus standing a yard or two away from the grave, the Parson indicated that he should continue. The peasant, his face showing his fear, wiped a forearm over his brow and stared down at the ground. Then he resolutely stepped forward, carefully lowered himself into the hole once more and picked up his shovel.

‘What was that?’ Coroner Roger exclaimed.

Baldwin spoke tightly. ‘The poor man’s not dead. He’s still alive.’

‘No, Sir Knight,’ Parson Gervase said. ‘He’s dead, but demons have taken him over.’

‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ Baldwin spat. ‘He must have been buried alive by mistake. It’s not surprising, seeing that he was knocked on the head. I’ve heard of men who have been buried alive before, when all they received was a bad knock. The poor devil–’

‘He is no poor devil, Sir Baldwin. Ask his wife. She told us before you got here. Samson was always molesting young girls, including their own daughter. This man deserves no sympathy. And if he was buried alive, as you say, how did he escape to kill Emma last night?’

‘He didn’t,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘Surely you can see that this is only superstition? You cannot be thinking of killing the man just because we made a mistake and buried him alive!’

‘You say I am thinking of killing him,’ Gervase said reprovingly. ‘I would do no such thing. I cannot: he is already dead. His soul has been taken over by demons because he died suddenly and couldn’t receive the Extreme Unction which would have forgiven all his sins. So I must put this paper on his chest.’ He opened his scrip and took out the sheet upon which he had so carefully scrawled. ‘And anoint him with oil.’

Of all the men of the vill, Henry Batyn was nearest. He peered over the Parson’s shoulder, his face falling. ‘You’re going to stick that on him and anoint him?’

‘It will show him how to gain salvation,’ the Parson smiled.

Peter atte Moor pushed his way through the crowd. Snatching at the paper, he stared. ‘You’ve written things on it.’

‘Yes, it tells him how to–’

‘He couldn’t read, Parson. What good’ll this do?’

‘His spirit can receive the message,’ Gervase said, but a note of doubt had entered his voice. He hadn’t heard that there was any need for a recipient to be able to read. Women in childbirth had prayers written down and laid against their inner thighs to help them cope with the pain whether they could read or not, didn’t they? And Gervase had heard of demonic possession of corpses where this was the correct procedure.

‘Ballocks!’ Peter scoffed. ‘This evil bastard couldn’t read when he was alive, and he won’t be able to if he’s dead. Anyway, he killed my Denise when he was alive, and Emma when he was dead. I’ll not see him reburied so he can murder any more.’

‘He’ll get out again,’ came a voice from the crowd, ‘and this time he may not kill a girl. It could be any one of us!’

‘That is nonsense!’ the Parson said. ‘He won’t be able to hurt anyone once I have put this on his chest and anointed him.’

‘So you say, Parson, but how can we know?’ Swetricus asked, clambering out again. ‘I’ve lost one daughter. I won’t risk another.’

‘Get back in the grave, Swetricus,’ Gervase commanded.

The peasant raised his arms. ‘Who else here will let the ghost kill their children?’

‘What else can we do?’ Peter atte Moor asked.

‘We know what to do!’ It was Drogo, who now shouldered his way through the press with Vin and Adam in his wake. They stood at the graveside and stared down into it, and then Drogo looked at the men all about. ‘Every household, bring faggots. We’ll burn him, like we did Athelhard, and scatter his ashes so he can’t come back and trouble us again.’

Baldwin felt his heart lurch. ‘No, you must not! This man is alive still. He was interred by accident. Just think of it: he has been in there for a day, in a tiny space, praying for someone to rescue him. You must not raise him, only to throw him onto a pyre.’

‘If you won’t help us, leave us,’ Drogo said curtly.

‘Watch your tongue, Forester. I have only just given you your freedom,’ Sir Roger growled.

‘And I am grateful, Coroner, but I won’t betray the trust these villagers have in me,’ Drogo stated uncompromisingly. ‘And I won’t see another girl killed by this evil shit.’

Gervase stamped his foot and bellowed that the men should ignore Drogo, but even as he spoke, he could see that most of them were disappearing, streaming away to the vill to obey the Forester’s command.

Baldwin saw them leave with growing anger and trepidation. There were so many. ‘Simon, we must stop this.’

‘How can we? Just look at them all!’

Men were running eagerly over to the mill’s sheds, seeking sticks and tinder, collecting whatever bits and pieces they could find which might burn. Others hung around, but all had the same expression: fear mingled with excitement, just like the crowds at any hanging.

No, Baldwin corrected himself, he was being unfair. They were not happy to see a man being hanged, because they did not believe that this was a man; to them he was a demon, a child-killer. They would be destroying an agent of the devil, a thing which could attack and kill men, which ate children.

It made him shiver with horror. He couldn’t face the idea that there should be a burning here, the burning of an innocent man whose only crime was that he had been buried alive by mistake. Baldwin had seen too many men die in the flames. The Knights Templar who refused to confess their guilt or, worse, who confessed under the tortures only to later recant, were bound to stakes and fired before massive crowds. From the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, to the lowest Sergeant, all had died, and the odour of their roasting flesh had mingled with the sweet wood-smoke of apple and oak branches, to create a cloying smell that would linger in his sinus for ever.

As the men drew near with their faggots, Simon put a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘You mustn’t interfere, Baldwin. They will kill you as well if you try to stop them.’