The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

Talk had naturally turned to where William was bound and, before he could prevent it, Martin had launched into an account of his master’s miraculous deliverance and his exorcism of the girl, both of which lost nothing in the telling. There were, of course, jeers from the more cynical beggars; after all, these men spent their lives persuading the gullible that miracles would follow if they gave generously. But others in the band, who genuinely believed in their own holy calling, were more willing to accept that William too had seen visions. And it wasn’t long therefore before William was challenged to demonstrate his powers. He obliged: plucking a stone from the head of one man who suffered headaches; convincing another that his falling sickness was caused by the menstrual blood of the Lilith, queen of demons, falling into a well from which he had drunk. And the beggar was full of gratitude when William carved on a piece of wood the names of the three angels that would henceforth protect him.

By the time they parted company the next day, three of the holy beggars had become William’s new disciples. One was a devout young man, who might have made a good life for himself in a monastery were it not for a restlessness that always drove him onwards. The second, an old man called Alfred, claimed to be a soldier who’d lost his right hand in battle, though since both his ears had been severed too, William rather suspected he’d been mutilated for some crime. The third was Letice, a crone so filthy and bedraggled it was hard to tell her age. Like a craggy outcrop of rock, it seemed as if she had looked that way for countless generations and would remain so for countless more to come.

Letice was something of an irritation. She would stare fixedly at you for hours at a time, but never meet your gaze. She talked constantly to herself about the people around her as if they couldn’t hear her, and saw doom-laden omens in everything, from the number of birds in a flock to the way twigs burned on the fire. But even William had to admit she was useful. As soon as they entered a town or village, she would stand on the street corner and shout about the new prophet come among them, with a boldness that not even the ardent Martin could muster.

It was Letice who had revealed that William’s holy name was Serkan. The voices in her head had told her this. Martin had sulked for days that he had not been the one to discover the master’s hidden name, but he used it along with the others. And William couldn’t deny it had a certain grandeur to it.

He gazed around at the motley group of followers he had assembled in the last few months. Most were hunched around the campfires, ravenously devouring the spit-roasted birds and rabbits they had caught, and hiding any food that remained. They’d no wish to be forced to share with those townsfolk who were making their way here. There were a few more women among them now, mostly those that other men had no use for: the maimed and disfigured; the ex-whore too old and scarred by pox to earn a living on her back now; the bruised and battered scrap of a girl on the run from her master. They were grateful for the company and protection, and threw themselves willingly into cooking and mending, glad for any kind word and gentle touch he might offer them.

But why were there no voluptuous beauties among his disciples, no fallen angels, no flame-haired Mary Magdalenes to whom he could offer intimate consolation? He groaned. It had been months since he’d bedded a woman, and he ached for it so much that sometimes he could hardly concentrate on anything else.

‘Master, they are here.’ Martin pointed to where the torches were appearing over the edge of the hill. Sighing, William rose and prepared for his performance.

Ursula positioned herself a little way from the crowd, who sat or kneeled on the short springy turf before the fire. She had deliberately selected a gown of white, impractical for riding, but she knew it would make her stand out in the dark, and she wanted to be noticed.

Her parents were away for the night at the house of an old friend of her father, a wealthy farmer, and would not return until midday tomorrow, after her father’s business was concluded. Normally she would have welcomed any chance to get out of Bath. The farmer and his stolid daughters were as dull as her own parents, but there were usually some farmhands to flirt with when her father’s back was turned. But now that she’d seen Serkan, these farmhands seemed nothing more than clumsy little boys.

So she had feigned a sick stomach and her parents had reluctantly left her at home under the care of her childhood nurse. But the old woman was now as deaf as a blacksmith’s dog, and could be relied upon to fall asleep straight after supper, especially if she was helped to a more than generous measure of her favourite wine. The groom had travelled with Ursula’s parents, but the stable boy, who constantly followed her around like an unweaned calf, was easily persuaded to saddle up her palfrey and lead it up the hill, if it meant he could spend the evening gazing at her. Even now she supposed he was somewhere in the shadows watching her, but she didn’t look. Her gaze never left Serkan’s face.

He stood behind the fire, so that it looked as if he was speaking out of it. His white robe took on a rich ruby glow in the light of the flames and the twin fires burned deep in those emerald-green eyes. His voice rang out with thunder, and his words cascaded over the lip of the hill like some great waterfall.

‘… the city of sin and corruption, of squalor and filth, that city you call Bath, which now lies under the power of darkness, shall be changed, transformed into a city of light, it shall be filled with sweet perfumes and the song of angels. Great men shall flock to it.’

A few of the crowd who had come out from Bath jeered in disbelief, but his disciples fervently shouted ‘Praise be’ and ‘Amen’ to the night sky.

A woman who seemed to be one of Serkan’s disciples tottered out from the crowd. She stood in front of the fire and began to turn, her arms flung out, singing some wordless ditty in a cracked voice, punctuated with sudden whoops and barks. Her dance became wilder and more abandoned. Then, as if she had been struck down, she fell onto the ground. Her body arched, shaking violently, and her heels drummed against the turf. A cry of alarm went up from the visitors, but Serkan, raising his hand for silence, stepped swiftly between her and the crowd.

‘Bring me water and a scrap of leather or parchment.’

The ape-boy ran off and just as swiftly returned with a pot of water and a torn piece of parchment. Serkan pulled a stick from the fire, extinguished the burned end, then using the charred stick as a quill, he drew something upon the parchment and held it up to the crowd. Ursula vaguely recognised the two letters – alpha and omega – like the ones over the altar of the church she attended. Serkan stretched out his arms over the prone woman and began to speak fervently in a strange, guttural language. The orange glow of the fire haloed Serkan’s head and the very darkness seemed to vibrate with those unearthly sounds that were pouring from his lips. The hairs on the back of Ursula’s neck prickled.

As the words died away, he dropped the parchment into the jar of water. Then, dipping his fingers in the jar, he flung water at the woman’s face. She stopped jerking and lay still. He kneeled and, cradling her head in the crook of his arm, helped her to drink. Then he laid the jar aside and extended his hand. ‘Rise now.’

The crowd uttered soft little sighs as Serkan pulled the woman to her feet. She stood there in the firelight, swaying a little as if she was half asleep, but her face had a calmness about it that was almost beautiful.