The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

The stranger took another gulp of ale. ‘So what brings your master to Bath? Business is it, the cloth trade?’

Godfrey snorted. ‘Nothing as frivolous as business. Would that it was. No, he thinks he’s going mad. He’s mistaken, of course, he’s not going mad, he is mad. But he’s come to the abbey in the hope of a cure, which just proves how insane he is.’

‘Why Bath, of all places? The abbey here is falling into ruin. Surely he’d be more comfortable at one of the wealthy ones.’

‘Well, I would, that’s for certain,’ Godfrey said bitterly. ‘The lodgings are as cold as a witch’s tit, and as for the food! A starving hound wouldn’t eat it. Why do you think I’ve escaped here for the evening? There’s nothing else to do in this stinking town. I’d thought to pass a few hours at the bear-baiting they hold outside the city walls, lay a few wagers on the dogs, but it seems they had only one bear and even that escaped last week. Probably couldn’t stand the stench of this place. But my master doesn’t want comfort and entertainment; he wants mortification and misery.

‘Apparently there’s one old monk at the abbey who claims some skill at easing melancholy and phantasms of the mind with healing water he draws from a hot spring. The water smells foul, but that suits my master; the more disgusting the remedy, the more he’s convinced it will cure him. If it was in any way pleasant, he’d shun it. It’s not doing him any good, though. He’s spending more time with his mirror than ever. Did I tell you, he thinks his mirror is talking to him? He’s terrified of the thing, yet he spends hours sitting in front of it just staring at it.’

The stranger shuffled on the bench, turning his face slightly so that the yellow light from the candle fell on his weather-beaten face. ‘So if it frightens him, why doesn’t he just destroy it?’

‘It’s worth a fortune. It’s decorated with rubies and pearls, not to mention some very costly enamel work.’ Godfrey drained his second goblet of wine and snapped his fingers at the tavern maid, holding his goblet upside down to indicate it was empty. She refilled it, this time managing to keep the table between herself and Godfrey, much to his disappointment.

The man leaned forward, the candle flame reflecting in the pupils of his green eyes. ‘You were saying that this mirror is very valuable.’

‘Yeh, but that’s not why my master won’t destroy it. Its value means nothing to him. But he says that the image on the back is holy. It shows St Thomas Becket being slain by the knights, a cheerful subject to meditate upon for any man. Stare at that for too long and it’s bound to have you jumping at your own shadow. If I have to gaze upon a saint let it be a fresh-faced virgin stripped for martyrdom. Now that is an image a man can linger on. There was one statue I saw in a church once – St Agatha just about to be put to the torture, she was. You should have seen the way the artist had moulded her bare breasts.’ Godfrey’s eyes glazed over as he pictured the statue; doubtless she been modelled on the local bishop’s mistress, which was usually the case.

The stranger nudged him with his foot. ‘So he won’t part with it because of the holy icon?’

Godfrey took another swig of his wine. ‘That’s what he says, but it’s my belief he’s too afraid of it to destroy it himself. Thinks if he does, it’ll call down a greater curse.’

For a while the stranger said nothing more, his brow creased in thought. Godfrey rested his chin in his hand and gazed around the inn. There were two wenches who took his fancy, the one who’d served him and a younger, prettier girl, a sister or cousin maybe. Innocence or experience – both had their attractions. He liked a well-fleshed woman, but on the other hand that young one’s lips were delectable. Why shouldn’t he have both? Maybe even the two together.

He had fallen into such a reverie that when the man finally spoke again, Godfrey jerked from his daydream so suddenly that the arm supporting his head shot off the table and he almost tumbled off the bench. A couple of men sitting a few benches along roared with laughter. Godfrey half rose to challenge them, but the stranger pulled him back down.

‘Leave them. This is more important. I think I have a way to help your master. Have you heard of a man named Serkan?’

‘I’ve heard vague rumours; some kind of preacher isn’t he? A miracle-worker? They’re always springing up. The gullible will believe anything.’

‘This one’s different,’ the man said earnestly. ‘They say he really can work miracles and exorcise the most stubborn of demons. As it happens he’s set up camp not far from here, a place called Solsbury Hill. If your master were to take this mirror to him, he would be able to exorcise it and cure your master of this madness.’

Godfrey waved a dismissive hand. ‘I tell you they’re all charlatans. Neither that foul spring-water the monks are dipping him in nor any miracle-worker is going to restore his sanity.’

‘What harm can it do to try?’ the man persisted.

‘It’s a waste of…’ Godfrey suddenly paused. It had taken a few moments for that little word ‘harm’ to penetrate the wine fumes fogging his brain, but now that it had, he fastened upon it. Harm, yes, just what harm could it do? Perhaps the harm in question could even prove to be lethal. Richard of York was a generous benefactor and would reward with wealth and position anyone who helped him to take his rightful place on the throne. Not even Richard would risk openly raising his hand against the King, but if the King’s death could be blamed on some vagabond miracle-worker, that might be very fortuitous. Richard could have the man hanged, drawn and quartered, or burned alive for treason, in a suitable display of grief and outrage that would gain him only favour with the populace. Of course, it would not be so fortuitous for this Serkan, whoever he was, but then prophets loved to be martyred. It’s what they dreamed of, wasn’t it?

Godfrey grinned. ‘Solsbury Hill, did you say? Can you tell me how to find it?’

‘Rouse yourself,’ William bellowed in Alfred’s ear. ‘Do you call this a faithful watch?’

The old man started violently and gazed bemusedly around him as if he couldn’t recall where he was. ‘I was only closing my eyes, Master, the better to listen.’

‘But you didn’t hear me coming, did you?’

Alfred shrugged sullenly. ‘Anyway, it’s near dawn. Them evil spirits has to return to the earth at cockcrow. They’ll not work mischief now.’ He shivered and held out the stump of his right arm towards the little fire, one of several fires William had ordered to be lit around the perimeter of the hill top.

‘Demons are at work night and day without ceasing, Alfred. We must constantly be vigilant.’

But as William watched the first streaks of red creeping into the eastern sky, he felt the tightness in his chest ease just a little. He was almost sure the demon who was hunting him would not risk attacking in daylight. The danger was over for another night.

He patted Alfred on the shoulder. ‘Go and rest awhile ’till it’s time to eat.’

Alfred painfully levered himself to his feet with his staff and glanced across the hill top towards the east. The sun was rising as a ball of blood into the fiery sky.

He grunted. ‘Don’t like the look of that. You know what they say – “A red sun has water in his eye.” I reckon we’re in for a soaking afore it rises again.’

For the last two nights since Letice had been murdered, William had posted men on watch through the night. The excuse was that the devil’s minions, angry that he was casting out demons, were massing, prowling around their fortress, trying to destroy them. He was vague about whether these dogs of the devil were human or spirit.