‘Just because there was one murder there–’ Baldwin began, but she cut through his emollient speech.
‘Not just one murder. You haven’t forgotten Belstone?’
‘Ah, that was different,’ he said, and gazed at her with suspicion. ‘I never told you about that.’
‘You didn’t have to, Husband. A hundred little clues can tell a wife what she needs to know. Besides, I bribed Bishop Stapledon’s messenger with several pots of ale when he came to thank you for your help. The simple fact is that the moors are dangerous – and for you particularly. Why, when you were at Belstone you were almost killed.’
‘I survived,’ he murmured.
‘Yes. To go to Oakhampton and be all but ruined there instead,’ she said acidly. She went to his side and crouched, holding his hand. ‘I fear losing you, my love. And I feel you treat the dangers of the moors with scant regard.’
‘I will wear thick clothing when I go, I swear.’
‘See? You make light of my anxiety even now!’ she said bitterly.
He saw that she was growing angry, and in an attempt to mollify her, took both her hands in his, looking attentively into her eyes. ‘Come, now. What need I fear on the moors? There are bogs and pools in which a man may drown, but I can make sure that a guide shows me the safest roads.’
‘Baldwin, it’s not that. It’s the spirits and ghosts I fear. If they have taken against you and choose to make you their plaything, there is nothing you can do to protect yourself.’
He smiled. ‘Ghosts are things to petrify peasants. There is nothing in them for me to fear.’
She saw she had lost him. Her concerns had overwhelmed her to the extent that she had lost her powers of persuasion. He would listen to no more. She knew him too well, and the slight smile that played about his eyes told her that this particular conversation was at an end.
Yet for her the dangers were very real. The Church taught that souls could return to haunt the living, and sometimes, walking into a new house, or passing by a gibbet, or merely riding along a quiet road, she had the oddest sensations, as if someone else was nearby, although nobody ever was. Baldwin laughed at what he called her ‘superstition’, but the thrill of fear which shivered up her spine on these occasions felt very real.
He continued, ‘No, do not fear for me, my love. There may be ghosts which the eyes can see, perhaps, but just because the eyes can accept them does not mean that they are real. They are illusions, no more. We need not fear them.’
‘The priests tell us of ghosts which can take on violent forms! Ghosts which can kill, which can give birth to children and–’
‘You have been listening to too many wandering friars. Once the body dies, the spirit flees to Heaven or to Purgatory. And now I must plan my journey to Sticklepath.’
She turned away, staring out over the many miles to the south, to where, dark and sullen on the far horizon, she could see the cloud-covered hills of the moor.
‘I shall come with you and bring Richalda.’
‘There is no need. I made the same journey returning here from Oakhampton Castle without your nursing,’ he pointed out. ‘And my wounds were fresher then. Surely now it will be much easier.’
‘Baldwin, you know I fear that you may be injured and die and that I should be widowed again – this time with our baby daughter to bring up on my own. Can you not understand my concern? Can you not remain here a while longer, just until you have fully recovered?’
‘You need not worry. I shall be perfectly safe. It is a journey of a little over a day and a half from here if the weather holds, no more. And by the time I arrive there, I am sure that the good Coroner will have arrested the culprit. After all,’ he added with a chuckle, ‘the vill of Sticklepath is only very small. Not above about ten households all told. There can’t be too many suspects if Coroner Roger is correct and the crime is that of one man eating another!’
Father Gervase walked to the door of his tiny cottage and leaned against the post a while, waiting till he could force his feet over the threshold. He was physically exhausted, his rounded features grey after a day spent labouring in his little field. It was the same feeling that people had so often early in the year, when there were fewer vegetables and the meat was heavily salted, sometimes even rotten in the barrels. It was an all-but-unbearable lassitude, as though he was suffering from a malaise, one from which there could be no recovery.
Another death. Somehow, through all the intervening years, Gervase had hoped that she lived, poor little Aline; that her disappearance was caused by her running away, or perhaps drowning and being swept away. He had hoped that this was not merely further proof of his guilt. Yet she had been found.
They had thought years ago that this horror was ended, that when they slaughtered Athelhard in front of his hut, this evil would end. Instead it had enveloped the whole vill in a miasma so foul it infected everyone. Gervase could do nothing about it. It had been he who had caused the murder of Athelhard. His guilt was worse than all the others’; his crime had led to the curse which now lay on the vill.
This cottage was no sanctuary. It was here, in the room where he ate and slept that the memories flooded back, where the horror attacked him each night. His only comforts were the crucifix resting on his table and the wineskin. He knew he was drinking too much now; he was rarely sober even when conducting the Chantry for the chapel’s patrons. That was no way to carry on, but he couldn’t help it. Without the wine his every moment was bound up with thoughts of the murder and the innocent victims.
He was so tired. His muscles ached from his work in the fields, but that wasn’t it, he could cope with that. No, it was the lack of sleep. He daren’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the hideous vision again – that poor idiot girl’s screaming face, her terror and pain as she watched her brother die, saw the men pick up his broken body, swing it once, twice, thrice and then let it fly back into the smouldering remains of their cottage.
Athelhard, the man accused of murder. Athelhard the innocent.
‘God forgive me,’ the priest whispered, grabbing his wineskin. ‘Please, God, forgive me!’
Chapter Three
Simon Puttock didn’t need a messenger to ask him to join Sir Roger. He was still at Oakhampton’s great castle, recently renovated and modernised by Hugh Courtenay, because he had helped Lord Hugh to stage the tournament at which Baldwin himself had been wounded.
Tall, dark-haired, with the ruddy complexion of a man who spent hours each week on the moors, Simon was shattered, worn down by the grinding efforts of the last few weeks. First it had been the trial of creating the field, setting up the grandstands, laying out the positions of the markets and agreeing where the tents and pavilions for the knights and their men should be erected, but then he’d been forced into the hectic post of field’s marshal, keeping the peace and ensuring the smooth running of the whole event.
If he’d succeeded, he might feel less emotionally drained, but he hadn’t. There had been a series of murders, now resolved to the satisfaction of all, but that didn’t hide the fact that people had died while he was there running the thing. The pageantry and festivities went off well enough, but Simon hadn’t been in a position to enjoy them. Instead he’d spent his time working doggedly at uncovering the murderer with his friend Baldwin and the local Coroner.
All about him the roadway was filled with puddles. The detritus from the market and tented area had already been gathered up and burned or thieved by the poorer elements of the town, and all that was left was the inevitable mud after the rains. Sometimes Simon wondered whether he would ever see the predictable, seasonal weather he had known as a lad. It was all very well his wife laughing that he always hankered after better times from his youth when all was golden and wonderful, but things had been better. The winters had been cold and snowy, the summers drier and warmer.