The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

‘I will bury the demon in the bed of the next river I come to,’ William declared. ‘Evil spirits cannot escape from running water.’

The villagers were no fools. They were as sharp as scythe blades when bargaining in the market place and were not the sort to waste their precious coins on betting which cup the pea was under, or buying elixirs from passing pedlars who promised immortality. But even the oldest among them had never heard tell of a man so strangely saved from a storm, and now they had seen with their own eyes one of their own children delivered from a demon, and by this same stranger.

So William ate his fill that night, for the good people of Brean were determined to lavish whatever they had on this man from the sea. And as he ate, he talked. He was good at talking.

The following morning William was rudely torn from his sleep by a malicious cockerel, which had perched itself right outside the small window above his bed, and was announcing the coming dawn with such raucous insistence that even a deaf man would have felt the vibration of it. William peered blearily over at Joan and her grandchildren who lay, wrapped together under the same blanket, by the embers of the fire, but none of them stirred. Thoroughly awake now, William pulled on his clothes and slipped from the cottage to relieve himself outside. If he could catch that wretched bird, he’d wring its scrawny neck, or at least drive it off where a fox might take it.

Outside the tiny cottage it was as yet barely light enough to see where he was walking. If the sun had indeed struggled over the horizon, it was well concealed beneath a thick fleece of grey clouds scudding across the sky. The wind had a raw damp edge to it, as if rain were not far off. William shivered, suddenly grateful for a warm bed and stout walls.

He hurried round to the midden heap, anxious to get back inside to the fire as quickly as he could. As he reached the back of the cottage, the cockerel, which seemed to sense William’s murderous intent, hopped onto the low thatched roof. William tried to grab the bird, but it fluttered sideways, stabbing at his hand with a beak as sharp as a dagger, before swaggering up to the top of the roof. William cursed soundly and sucked at a bleeding hole in his finger, but the bird was well out of reach and no amount of threatening had the slightest effect on it.

With his bladder now empty, William was making his way back to the cottage again when he noticed something pinned to the door, flapping in the wind. He hadn’t seen it as he came out, if indeed it had been there then. As he came closer he saw that it was a small square of sailcloth. He reached up and held it flat against the door. Someone had used a piece of charcoal to fashion a careful little drawing on the cloth. The picture was simple enough, just a stick with a serpent twined around the length, its mouth wide open revealing sharp fangs and a long tongue.

William stifled a cry of fear. For a moment he could do nothing except stare, his limbs frozen in shock. Then he forced himself to move. He tore the sailcloth from the door and whipped round, glancing fearfully up and down the length of the lane, but it was deserted. The shutters and doors of all the cottages were still firmly fastened. None of the villagers was yet stirring, but someone was abroad, he was certain of that.

His legs trembling, William staggered backwards, leaning on the wall of the cottage for support. He looked down again at the scrap of sail he was clutching. The snake’s forked tongue seemed to vibrate in William’s shaking hand as if it was scenting its prey and as he stared at it, three fat drops of scarlet blood from the wound on his finger fell onto the cloth and trickled into the serpent’s open mouth.

The morning was already half done before William was finally on the track and striding out of the village. His first instinct had been to flee immediately, but once he had stopped shaking he was forced to see the sense in at least waiting to eat breakfast before he left. As Joan anxiously reminded him, he was already weak from the shipwreck; if he tried to walk for miles on an empty stomach he would more than likely faint on the road, and that was the last thing William could afford to do. The thought of lying helpless and unable to defend himself was too terrifying to contemplate.

If that serpent was a sign, a sign that Edgar was still alive, then he needed to put as much distance between himself and this village as he could. Edgar had already been injured before the storm. Surely it would take a week or two before the man was fit enough to travel any great distance, and William intended to make good use of that time to cover as much ground as possible. If he got far enough ahead, Edgar would not be able to track him. But if Edgar found him again… William tried to fight off the icy flood of fear that engulfed him. That monster must not find him!

Naturally, William had said nothing to Joan about the piece of sailcloth. She had been only too willing to accept his explanation that he had received a vision in the night telling him to set out at once for a place he would be led to, a place where the demons and angels fought each other for the souls of men. Joan had hurried out to beg bread and dried mutton from her neighbours, for she would not have it said that she sent a holy prophet out on the road without a bite of food in his scrip. Why, God would never forgive such an uncharitable act. She was gone so long that several times William nearly gave up waiting, for he was desperate to be miles away from Brean by nightfall. But Joan had finally returned with cheese and salt fish as well as bread and mutton. In addition she’d brought a battered old leather scrip to carry them in and a good stout staff, for which William was more grateful than he dared express.

He struck out at first on the track that led around the bay to the south, as if he were making for the village of Berrow, but as soon as he thought he was not observed he turned off on a rough track heading inland towards the river Axe. The path wound its way along the edge of rough pasture and through a coppice where the villagers cut their wood.

Though the trees were not yet in bud, they still afforded too much cover for William’s comfort. If Edgar had pinned the sign to the cottage door, then he had to be holed up somewhere nearby, perhaps in a seldom-used barn or byre, or even in a place like this. William took a firmer grip of the staff and glanced nervously around him, searching every shadow for signs of movement; in consequence he repeatedly stumbled over tree roots and only just managed to stop himself sprawling headlong. He paused to steady himself and catch his breath. When he was glancing once more over his shoulder, a movement caught his eye. He whirled round, the staff gripped tightly between both fists, but saw only some saplings whipping back and forth. Was it the wind that had sent them rocking, or something else?

Even as he stood there, William heard the unmistakable crunch of boots on dried leaves. He slipped behind the trunk of a stout oak and waited as the footsteps came closer. He was gripping his upraised staff so tightly that his arms ached. The footsteps faltered, then stopped. He held his breath as he heard them start up again and come towards him. From his hiding place William glimpsed a hooded figure as it passed the oak tree.

William sprang out, swinging the staff in both hands, aiming for the back of the hooded head. At the same instant the man in front of him heard William’s movement and twisted aside with a cry of shock and fear. Trying to avoid the blow, the man stumbled backwards and fell just as William brought his staff crashing down. It missed the man’s head by an inch. He lay, sprawled on his back, staring up in wide-eyed fear, and William found himself looking down, not into the face of Edgar, but of the sexton’s youngest son, Martin.