‘But others have died since his death, so it wasn’t him,’ Simon pointed out.
Drogo was silent, but the Reeve put his head in his hands again. ‘You are right. I know it, and I regret it. But what else could we have done?’
‘And who was the real guilty man?’ Simon asked, and then wondered for the first time whether it might not be a woman. Meg had plenty to avenge, after all.
Sir Laurence smiled. ‘This is all beyond me. All I know is, I have two men here who appear to be suspects.’
Sir Roger returned his smile. ‘Yes, you do. But I am the Coroner, and when I hold my inquest, I shall decide what to fine them for their misdemeanours as well as amercing them to be present at the next court.’
‘I think you’ll find you should have them thrown into gaol,’ Sir Laurence said, his amusement becoming more brittle. He weighed his war hammer in his hand again.
‘You think so? I disagree,’ the Coroner said cheerfully. ‘And right now, this meeting is concluded. Reeve, don’t try to leave the vill. Forester, get out of here and make sure that you don’t tempt me to regret my actions!’
In his room, Swetricus sat on his stool facing the door, a pole slotted into the handle of a sharpened billhook. It was his only weapon, but it was enough. Or so he prayed.
Thomas and Nicole had walked here to fetch their daughter, both so taken up with their own relief that Swetricus had not seen fit to remind them that their problems weren’t gone. While Reeve Alexander and Forester Drogo wished to blame someone, Thomas remained the ideal target. He may have survived this accusation, but there would be more.
His dog was agitated now, walking from one side of the room to the other, sniffing first at one door, then the other, constantly moving, as though to remain still was to die, but Swetricus was sure that it wasn’t only the row from Samson’s hounds.
‘What is it, Daddy?’
‘Shut up!’ he said gruffly. The girls had no idea about all this. They sat now, huddled on the family’s bed near the fire, which still roared with the faggots Swetricus had thrown on. At this time of night he would usually be there with them, snoring gently, all of them huddled together against the cold, the fire doused for safety, but not tonight. Not with Samson’s hounds howling like the souls in torment the Parson had told the vill about when Athelhard was thought to be the vampire.
He picked up his firkin and drank a long draught of ale, setting it down and wiping his mouth.
After Athelhard, they had believed that the deaths would cease, but they hadn’t. Only two months later, the poor orphan Mary had died, her mutilated body found discarded like an apple core. Athelhard was dead. The vill knew that there was someone else, someone who had been living among them, and suspicion had fallen upon several, but the only obvious man was Samson. However, there was no proof. And no more deaths – until Aline disappeared two years later. Swet had his suspicions, but if he had appealed Samson, he would have been laughed out of the court. Where was the body? Aline could have fallen into a bog and drowned.
Now Emma was dead although Samson was already in his grave. Some might say that proved Samson’s innocence – but Swet knew better. He remembered the sermon which the Parson had preached on the day they all went and killed Athelhard. He had said that vampires could become possessed, and the demons could make the body fly through the air. That was why, he said, Athelhard should be buried with a prayer written out on a piece of parchment, to explain to his soul how to find peace so that he wouldn’t haunt the vill afterwards. It was Alexander who had said that they should burn his body instead. If there was no body, he reasoned, there would be nothing for the demons to use.
Samson had died, but he had been buried. His body was there still, and Swet was sure that last night he had escaped from the earth and murdered Emma. Swet was sure, because the hounds were baying incessantly. Scruffy and mangy, they were, to be sure, but they knew as well as Swetricus did that tonight was no time for sleep. They had been bred to keep felons away, but now they howled to keep their dead master from them.
Gripping his staff more firmly, he tried to control the savage beating of his heart.
Evil was abroad tonight, but Swet would not lose another daughter.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘In God’s name, give me peace!’ Gervase shouted, walking about his room, his arms wrapped about his body so that he looked like a great raven in his dark habit. No matter how he struggled to hold down the panic that assailed him, it didn’t work. Nothing could keep away the horror.
He wanted to go to the chapel, but somehow he felt easier here, among his few possessions, and that knowledge gnawed at him: he should want to go to the altar and kneel penitently before Christ’s symbol, but he daren’t. That would take him nearer Samson’s grave.
The Miller’s soul was abroad tonight: Gervase could almost hear a cacophony of demons calling to each other in the darkness. Pouring more wine into his mazer, his hand trembled so violently that he spilled a large amount on the table. Cursing, he lifted the mazer and drank, heedless of the flood that coursed at either side of his mouth and dribbled onto his breast. He let the cup fall, closing his eyes, his breath sobbing in his throat.
‘Please, God, just make it be silent! Bring peace to his poor soul and drive away his demons,’ he prayed, head bent.
He knew what was happening. This was his nemesis, his destruction. It was his own fault, all because he had accused the other fellow. Poor Athelhard. It was Gervase’s sin which had led to Athelhard’s death. He had learned from Meg of the pork which her brother had bought for them, and at first the Parson had felt only jealousy. The famine was already biting, and the idea of rich, juicy meat made his saliva run. He had mentioned her good fortune to Reeve Alexander, in the hope that the latter might force Athelhard to share his bounty. Perhaps he would have, too, Gervase realised. He had been a decent fellow.
Then they had discovered little Denise up in the fields and Gervase realised quickly what that meant. The meat served to Meg, and the cruelly butchered body, pointed to the one conclusion.
It was Gervase’s drunken telling of the story to Samson which had sealed Athelhard’s fate. Samson went to see Drogo, and on the way he spoke to Peter atte Moor, and Peter was by then desperate for revenge. Who could blame him? His daughter was dead, throttled and cut about like a side of pork. And it made sense. Athelhard was a foreigner; it was only natural to believe that he was responsible.
Yet he wasn’t. That was the hideous truth. Gervase dropped to his knees again, his breath wheezing as he pulled at his robes and bared his breast, opening it like an offering to his all-seeing God. Spreading his arms wide, he wept as he stared up at the ceiling. ‘What else could I have done, Lord? I wanted to stop the murders! I did it in good faith, Lord, thinking that the man was possessed. Why did You let me be misled, Lord? Why did You let me think it was Athelhard?’
But there was no answer.
‘Jesus, You let me sentence an innocent man – why?’ he cried out. ‘He was destroyed like a lamb, like You! How could You let that be done to someone else? Was it to punish me? Well, punish me now – take my life. I can’t live on knowing I caused a man’s murder. Don’t leave me here to poison others.’
He felt a sudden burst in his heart, like the onset of a marvellous dream, and for a moment he believed he was about to see a vision, perhaps even an angel, but then the lightheadedness passed away and he was left alone, a huddled, shrunken man kneeling fearfully on his floor. God wouldn’t listen.