The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

As Martin scrambled back up the hillside, William pulled the knife from his belt and held it ready in his hand, peering at every clump of trees or hollow where his assassin might conceal himself. He staggered round the base of the hill with his burden, trying to make as much use of the cover of rocks and bushes as he could.

All the time his mind was racing feverishly. If Edgar could murder a poor mad woman just to let William know he had caught up with him, then what might he do to William when he finally moved in for the kill? This was his warning that he could strike at any time he pleased. William suspected he would not do it straight away. He would want him to suffer the torture of waiting first, but for how long – days, weeks? One thing was certain: nowhere in England was safe, not even this hill, as long as Edgar was out there.

He would have to find another ship, leave England for good, but to do that he needed money, a great deal of money, and where was he to get that? Plans formed and reformed in his mind like drifting smoke, but nothing solidified. He knew only one thing: he had to dispose of Letice’s body before her corpse was seen by anyone else.

Fear of discovery and terror of attack gave William a physical strength and stamina he did not normally possess and he had almost reached the place when loose stones clattered down, giving warning of Martin’s precipitous descent. Behind a clump of bushes, William found the hollow where he and Ursula had lain last night, and put Martin to work at once digging a pit. As soon as he had a spade in his hands the lad’s panic seemed to subside a little; digging graves was something he knew how to do.

William set about collecting dry bracken, gorse and kindling, thanking heaven that there had not been a drop of rain these past weeks. But when he returned, Martin was sweating and almost sobbing in frustration. At every turn of the spade he’d hit rock and stones, and though he worked feverishly he’d scarcely been able to dig a trench more than a foot deep in the bottom of the depression.

William wrenched the spade from the boy’s hands and threw it aside. He lined the pit with kindling and bracken. Then he stood back. ‘Help me to get her in there.’

‘But it’s not nearly deep enough,’ the lad wailed.

‘Don’t you think I don’t know that?’ he snapped. But seeing the fear on the lad’s face, he added gently, ‘Trust me, Martin. I am Serkan. There is nothing to fear. Now did you bring tallow?’

Martin fished in his scrip and pulled out a clay pot. ‘It’s the goose grease and turpentine that Alfred rubs on his chest to keep out the cold. I saw him use it once to get a stubborn fire going.’

William wiped the sack in the grease and laid it across Letice’s face, then heaped the rest of the dry gorse and bracken over the corpse.

‘Give me the fire pot. Now go on back to the others. If anyone should see the smoke from the fire, tell them it is a holy rite, tell them that I am purifying myself, and must not be disturbed.’

When the lad had gone, William set the fire. As the gorse began to crackle and burn, he stood with his back to the hill, and raised his arms as if he was praying, which indeed he was and more fervently than he had done for many weeks, though his prayers were not for purification. The fire blazed fiercely but it did not burn for long. He added more dried gorse, but dared not make the fire any bigger for fear that it would arouse the curiosity of some wayfarer or shepherd who would not so easily be convinced by holy rites.

When a third blaze had died down, he kneeled and, brushing away the soft grey ash, examined the pit, trying not to gag at the stench. Letice’s gown had burned away, no doubt helped by the cooking fat and grease that her grubby fingers had wiped on it over the years. The sacking had also burned, and the face beneath was charred black; the features, though clearly human, were now unrecognisable. Where the skin had cracked patches of raw red flesh showed through. But the body, though blackened, was still very much intact and unmistakably that of a woman. The fire had not been nearly hot enough to consume it. But William tried to console himself with the thought that if anyone did discover the body, not even Letice’s own mother could identify her now, nor say how she had met her death.

He began to shovel the heap of soil and stones, which Martin had dug out, over the remains. The lad was right, it was nowhere near deep enough, and to make matters worse the edges of the charred pit stood out black against the ground. He scraped at them, trying to make them blend in, but there was no way he could flatten the mound. He heaved what stones he could find over it to deter animals from digging at it, but even then he could not afford to heap them up for that would only make the mound bigger and easier to see. In desperation he hacked at some nearby bushes with his knife, dragging the branches over the grave to try to disguise it from anyone glancing down from above.

Then, seeing that there was nothing more he could do, he hurried away in the direction of the river to bathe. It wasn’t only the dirt and ash he needed to clean off, it was the stench of burned human flesh that clung to him like a noose round a felon’s neck.

The tavern maid leaned over Godfrey deliberately, or so it seemed to him, thrusting her plump breasts under his nose as she poured more wine into his goblet. He caught her by the waist and pulled her down onto his lap, nuzzling his face in her cleavage, before she good-naturedly pushed him away and rose to answer the raucous calls of her other customers.

Godfrey chuckled. He had every intention of bedding that wench later when he’d drunk his fill. He knew her sort. Slip her a few coins and she’d do whatever he asked, and willingly too; so much easier than having to woo, coax and flatter the noble ladies at Court for weeks before they’d even open the doors of their bedchambers.

Godfrey leaned across the rough wooden table and grinned at the stranger sitting opposite him in the dark corner of the inn. ‘See, now that’s what I mean. Nothing wrong with a comely woman showing what gifts the Good Lord gave her, for the pleasure of others. Brings a bit of joy into this world, but if my master had seen that he’d have had her covered up like a nun. At the Christmas feast last year, three pretty virgins dressed as nymphs were brought in to dance for his pleasure. And what did he do? Put his hands over his eyes and ran out of the hall like a frightened child, just ’cause their rosy little nipples were bare. He wore a hair shirt all night to punish himself for having seen them. I know, ’cause I had to help him into it.’

The stranger grimaced. ‘Riches are wasted on men like him. But then it’s only the wealthy who can afford to disdain good food and girls, the rest of us are only too grateful for any crumbs of pleasure that fall our way.’ He took a gulp of ale, rolling his tongue round his mouth as if even that had soured as soon as the liquid touched his lips.

If Godfrey had not been feeling so hard done by himself he might have enquired about the stranger’s troubles, but a man who feels aggrieved is interested in no one’s misery but his own. And Godfrey did feel sorely aggrieved. It was bad enough having to deal with the King’s black mood at court, but at least there he could moan with the other servants. But now that Henry had insisted on making this fool’s trip to Bath, Godfrey had no one to grumble with. For apart from himself, a groom and a couple of armed men, the King had insisted on travelling alone and in disguise. Not even the monks at the abbey knew who they were entertaining under their roof, not that entertaining was a word Godfrey would ever use to describe the misery of that squalid place.