Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘This cannot be permitted.’

‘You’re right,’ said the Coroner, but his eyes went to Simon. ‘Only I cannot imagine how to prevent them. Simon is correct. These churls aren’t going to let you get in their way. They don’t see this as an illegal execution, it’s just turning off a devil. And if you were to save him, what then? He’d be sought out, especially if another girl were to die. Would you be able to hold that on your conscience?’

‘You believe that this poor fellow could break loose and climb up through the soil to kill Emma? No! So he didn’t kill Emma, which means he didn’t kill the others either. He’s innocent!’

There was a sudden roar, and the Coroner spun around. Two men were hauling on ropes, while Swetricus climbed from the hole. He walked to the ropes and threw his own weight behind them, more men pulling and groaning, until suddenly there was a harsh rending and scraping, and the timbers which had been set atop of Samson came away bringing a shower of soil with them.

From the crowd there came a great collective sigh, and Roger instantly glanced at Baldwin.

The knight had a pained expression on his face. He could hear a low wailing moan, and he knew that it must be Samson. It would be a miracle if the miller hadn’t lost his mind, left to suffocate and die under a ton of soil.

There was a general movement towards the grave, and Baldwin felt the men pushing him forward. At his side, he saw Simon being swept on, his eyes being drawn reluctantly downwards, although when he saw the winding sheet, he averted his face.

‘He’s fucking alive!’ a man wailed. ‘Oh, God! It’s true, he’s a demon!’

Even Simon couldn’t help but glance into the grave.

No one could have looked less like a demon. The miller lay back whimpering, his face covered with both forearms as though petrified, as though he was already in the pit of Hell and feared that he would find himself confronted by demons tormenting him. When a man sprang down into the grave and pulled his arms away, Samson’s eyes were wild, darting from side to side. As torches were brought nearer, Simon saw him wince and squeeze his eyes tight shut, then try to turn his face away into the dirt.

Until that moment, Simon would have been happy to see him burn, but that single childlike gesture of defence made all his fear melt away. Baldwin was right. This was a man who had been buried in a hole only slightly larger than his own body, without food or water, left to think that he would die slowly and horribly.

The men at the side of the grave were silent for several minutes, but then Gervase stepped forward, holding out his piece of paper and pot of oil. ‘Let me down,’ he instructed. ‘I have to anoint him.’

Simon glanced at Baldwin and saw that his friend was preparing to halt this obscene event.

‘Let me pass!’ Gervase demanded again, pushing at the men nearest him, his shoulder jostling into Baldwin.

‘No, Parson. Sorry, but no. He killed my daughter.’

That was Peter atte Moor, and Baldwin saw that he was backed up by Swetricus. Drogo was still nearby, but he looked as though he might be prey to the same doubts as Baldwin himself now that he had an opportunity to see Samson’s grave. Baldwin, acting on an impulse, strode to Drogo’s side and was about to speak, when suddenly Peter atte Moor shouted with a voice filled with horror.

‘Christ Jesus, look! He’s still covered in her blood!’

Baldwin turned, stared at Peter, and then down at Samson. Peter was holding out a torch, sending a lurid flickering light into the grave, and now he pointed, his finger shaking.

‘You say he’s no threat? Does any man here think he isn’t a danger to us all? Look at him!’

Baldwin pushed his pointing hand aside. In the folds of his winding sheet, he could see the stains. Much of the staining came from the sodden earth, some was soiling from Samson’s fear, but there were other marks on the cloth. ‘Rubbish! You fool, it is not Emma’s blood, it is his own.’

In his abject terror, Samson had tried to claw his way to freedom, and his fingernails had torn away as he scrabbled desperately at the timbers above his head. His head wound too was bleeding; not with a massive effusion, but enough to spatter his face with blood, making him look suspicious.

‘This is the man who killed my daughter,’ Peter said. His eyes were wild, and Baldwin could see the spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘He killed Denise, and Aline, and Mary, and Emma too! How many more must die? He’s possessed – we know that. We have to burn the demons from him.’

‘I said NO!’ Baldwin bellowed, but the crowd was already pressing forward. The pyre was almost complete, a large cone of faggots atop of sacking and straw, with a tree in the middle. People reached down to grab Samson, and he was lifted, screaming with an odd, shrill voice.

‘Leave him!’ Baldwin shouted again, but he was ignored. Filled with a rushing torrent of rage that washed over and through him, he put his hand to his sword’s hilt and pulled the blade free. The sword was a bright peacock blue that flashed and shone like a lightning bolt in the darkness. ‘STOP, I said!’

Simon heard his roar, saw the crowds begin to separate, saw the whirling of metal, and felt the blood course more swiftly through his veins. He couldn’t allow Baldwin to be overwhelmed by the mob. It was unthinkable; Baldwin had saved his life. Crying, ‘St George!’ he pulled his own sword free and shoved men from his path, striving to reach his friend. He heard the sudden snarl and savage bark of Aylmer, a cry, and a man leaped back. ‘’Ware the hound!’

‘Kill him as well!’ a man shouted, and a torch was thrust almost into Baldwin’s face. He felt the heat, heard the hairs of his beard fizzle, smelled the acrid burning, and snapped his sword up into a half-guard, cutting deep into the wood of the torch before the owner could remove it. The head of the torch fell away as Baldwin saw another figure at his side, and moved to avoid a blow as a fist holding a knife whistled past his shoulder. He thrust once and heard a scream.

Simon roared, kicked at the man before him, and was almost at Baldwin’s side when he saw her.

She came through the crowd like an avenging spirit, her face set into a vicious mask, her hands clenched into claws, and for a moment Simon thought she wished to attack Baldwin, but then she darted under Baldwin’s sword arm, ran past the Parson, and reached the edge of the grave as Samson was being raised. Simon saw her scratch at the face of Samson, her husband. He screamed again, lifted his hands in a futile gesture of defence, but then his voice altered. Suddenly it became a hideous bubbling sound, and as Simon watched, he saw that Gunilda’s hands were dark, and in them was a knife. It rose, yellow and evil in the torchlight, as though she was holding a flame in her fists, and then it flashed downwards, only to rise and gleam with a fresh, crimson fire, before plunging into Samson’s breast once more.

‘You were killed once. I can do it again, and again and again,’ she spat.

The Parson wailed; two men scurried away from her, and Samson’s cries became a hoarse coughing as he fell to his knees. Simon saw him tumble to his side, the obscene flap of skin from his head sliced away entirely as his wife flailed at him, striking him in the head and chest.

Then the shock which had made his feet leaden, left Simon. As others pulled away from her knife’s reach, the Bailiff ran behind her; the next time the knife rose, he caught her wrists and held them. Gripping her tightly, he forced his fingers under her own until she gave a sob and dropped the blade into the mud. Only then did Simon glance at Baldwin.

The knight had dropped to his knees at Samson’s side, and now he looked up and shook his head wearily. ‘He is truly dead this time, I fear.’