The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

One swift thrust of the dagger, a hard shove over the edge, was all it would take to change the fate of England. And when the crumpled body was found tomorrow at the bottom of the hill, why, who would be blamed but the vagabond prophet who had stolen the valuable mirror?

‘Come to me, my liege,’ Godfrey whispered into the roaring wind. ‘Just a little further, just a few more steps and it will all be over.’

A crack of blue lightning split the sky, and at once rain began to pour down in fat heavy drops. Godfrey was distracted for only a moment, but for Henry this new omen from the sky was more than his battered mind could cope with. He threw himself, face down, on the ground, his arms stretched out in the form of a cross, as if he was a monk doing penance before the altar.

Godfrey dashed the water from his eyes and swiftly glanced around. The disciples were fleeing in all directions. The wild man had slipped on the wet grass and was floundering around trying to regain his footing under the cumbersome costume, and Serkan seemed to have vanished. Henry lay motionless on the ground, as if waiting for the mercy of the executioner’s knife that would put an end to his nightmare.

Godfrey crept forward as silently as he could, not that any stealth was needed, for the beating of the rain and crash of thunder would have masked the sound of an army. As he reached the King’s feet he hesitated. It is much easier to stab a standing man in the back than one who is prone. He’d have to kneel and strike in one fluid movement before Henry could sense the presence of someone beside him and turn his head.

He braced himself, choosing the spot, raising the dagger in both fists ready to plunge it in. If he hadn’t been so intent on his mark, he might have seen the wild man throw up his hands in horror. He might have heard the actor cry out a warning, but he didn’t.

He had taken but a single step towards the prone body of the King when he heard the savage roar behind him; he half turned to glimpse something huge and dark rearing up behind him, the red mouth open in a snarl, the long white fangs bared. As another crack of lightning illuminated the full savagery of the great beast towering over him, Godfrey tried to strike out with the dagger he held, but he was too late, far too late. A huge paw struck him on the side of his head. The curved claws tore the flesh from his face, and with a single agonised scream, Godfrey tumbled over the side of the hill and vanished into the darkness below.

The bear flopped heavily down onto all four paws. As the rain pounded down, he sniffed at the prone body of the King, then turned away. For a long moment, the bear stood alone on the top of Solsbury Hill, its great head lifted as if it was looking out over the darkened valley, out over England, out over time itself.

As the thunder rumbled once more around the hill, more distant now, Henry finally came to and began to stir. The great bear looked down at him one last time before it turned and lumbered off down the hill, vanishing into the cavernous night.

A pale primrose light was creeping into the sky. The air had the sharp, fresh scent of wet earth and grass. It had rained all night, washing stones down the hillside in muddy torrents, but with the coming of dawn the clouds had finally rolled away. William, resting heavily on his staff, limped painfully across the sodden grass, his progress made even slower by his soaking robe, which twisted itself around his legs. His ankle had swollen to twice its size from his wrenching it in the hole. It was going to be agony getting down that hill, with the grass so slippery after the storm. But it had to be done; up here alone and injured he may as well have been staked out like a lamb for a wolf.

There was no sign of any of his disciples, not even Martin. The traitors had fled, leaving him completely alone and unprotected. He had lain all night, curled tightly in a ball against the pounding rain, his limbs numb with cold and his brain frozen with fear that the devil he had conjured would return.

He had not for one moment believed that the spell would really bring forth a demon, but when that monster had lumbered towards him, rattling the chains of hell, he had thought that Satan himself had risen out of the earth to take him. He had, he supposed, fainted, for when he came to he could see nothing in the blinding rain, hear nothing except the wind raging. He’d crawled away and hidden in a clump of bushes, reciting every prayer and charm he’d ever learned or even half learned, until it was light enough for him to dare to move.

Now the only thought in his head was to get off this accursed hill as quickly as possible. Nothing would induce him to spend another night here. But first there was something he had to retrieve. It was his only hope of getting so far away from here that he’d never have to lay eyes on England again.

He limped painfully towards the fire pit. The pots and the jar of sulphur still lay where he had left them. The pit had filled with black water on which the dust and ashes of last night’s fire floated. He struggled down onto his knees, and began frantically groping around until his fingers touched the edge of a heavy disc. Almost sobbing with relief, he pulled the mirror out and carefully wiped it on the hem of his sodden robe. The silver was blackened and fragments of the red enamel on the back had cracked and fallen off.

For a moment he felt the crushing weight of disappointment, but he consoled himself. Had the rain not extinguished the fire so quickly, the damage could have been far worse. Besides, he would not have been able to sell it as a mirror, for it would be far too easily identified, and who in these parts could possibly afford to pay the kind of sum that the complete mirror was worth? No, far better to break it apart, sell a ruby here, some pearls there and melt the silver down into smaller pieces.

Hastily he drew his knife, and set about prising a single ruby from its setting. He must have something ready to barter with at the first village he came to, for he was in desperate need of food, new clothes and, most importantly, a strong horse. He wouldn’t get very far on foot with his injured ankle.

Without warning he felt a sharp pain stabbing into his back. He jerked upwards, dropping the mirror for the second time into the black puddle of the fire pit.

‘Throw your knife away,’ a voice growled behind him, ‘or I’ll push this dagger so far into you it’ll cut your navel out.’

Sick with fear, William did as he was bid and heard his staff being kicked out of his reach.

‘Don’t stand up. Just turn around, nice and slowly. I want to see your face, you bastard.’

William couldn’t have stood, even if he’d tried. Wincing in pain he twisted around and looked up into the face of the one man he prayed he’d never see again.

‘So, William, or should I call you Serkan? Oh, where are my manners? I should address you as “Master” now, shouldn’t I?’

The man, towering over him, was smiling coldly. His dark hair was streaked with grey. His scarred face was gaunt and as tanned as old leather, and several of his teeth were missing. But his eyes were the same emerald green as William’s own.

William tried to force his mouth into a smile, but failed miserably. ‘Edgar. Thank God, you… you live. I was so afraid you’d perished in the wreck.’

Edgar gave a bitter laugh. ‘So afraid I’d survived, you mean. But you knew I was still alive, didn’t you? You got the little message I pinned to the cottage door. I thought you’d recognise the sign – the staff of Asclepius with a serpent entwined about it – the emblem of a physician. But then the serpent has another meaning too, doesn’t it, William? One you’d know all about – treachery .’