Read Online The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Jecks
Tags: Medieval/Mystery
Ads: Link
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.
He stopped and gazed about him, taking in the sodden grass, the dark, soaked soil rutted with cart-tracks and hoofprints, booted and bare feet, the marks of dogs and cats and children, and his
lip curled. This was one of the worst summers he’d ever known. The famine years of 1315 and 1316 had been terrible, but this year of Our Lord 1322 was a continuation. It was as though there
was some sort of blight on the country.
At least his wife and daughter were back home in Lydford. They would have hated being locked up in the castle during the rains. He missed them terribly. Margaret, his Meg, tall and slender as a
willow, with her long fair hair and full breasts; his daughter Edith, the coltish young woman of fourteen or fifteen – it was hard to remember now – who at Oakhampton had proved that
she was no longer merely his daughter, but was grown
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.
He stopped and gazed about him, taking in the sodden grass, the dark, soaked soil rutted with cart-tracks and hoofprints, booted and bare feet, the marks of dogs and cats and children, and his
lip curled. This was one of the worst summers he’d ever known. The famine years of 1315 and 1316 had been terrible, but this year of Our Lord 1322 was a continuation. It was as though there
was some sort of blight on the country.
At least his wife and daughter were back home in Lydford. They would have hated being locked up in the castle during the rains. He missed them terribly. Margaret, his Meg, tall and slender as a
willow, with her long fair hair and full breasts; his daughter Edith, the coltish young woman of fourteen or fifteen – it was hard to remember now – who at Oakhampton had proved that
she was no longer merely his daughter, but was grown
Similar Books
