The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 12

  ‘What is all this?’ she asked a woman nearby.

  ‘Mistress, the man here was attacked and almost killed.’

  Lady Alice’s eyes widened. ‘You are sure of this?’

  There was no need to respond. The only reason for a crowd this size was an attempted murder, or, better, an actual one.

  ‘My lady, we ought to get back,’ Sarra said nervously.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Lady Alice said with some irritation. It was so hard to get time away from the castle just now, and she was desperate for any help she could get.

  Matthew had never said as much, but she knew that he felt the lack of children as sorely as she herself. They had tried – God knew all too well how hard! – but she could not conceive for some reason. And then she had had the idea of enlisting the help of this man Langatre.

  It meant lots of foul potions, which she did her best to apply as he suggested, rubbing them in about her body, but, as he explained, the trouble with these kinds of problem was the womb itself. It was a strange organ, which could move about the body. Only when it was positioned firmly could a man pierce her with hopes of success. And in her case, it was rarely fixed.

  She would have to pray that he made a swift recovery so that she might see him again soon.

  And just then she felt her heart seem to stop. Time ceased as she stared at the man with the black eyes, the scruffy stubble at his chin, the deep creases like knife-slashes at either side of his mouth, and there was a moment’s confusion in her mind as she felt her belly roil.

  ‘Mary Mother of God!’

  Sarra saw her confusion and paleness. ‘Mistress? My lady? What is it?’

  ‘Sarra, go to the tavern up on the corner and fetch me a pint of strong ale. Go! Now! I shall wait here.’

  And as soon as her maid had left her, she sank down onto a moorstone trough that sat nearby and waited, not daring to look as he approached her grimly, his hand ready on his knife.

  Chapter Twelve

  North-East Dartmoor

  Simon was growing concerned. He had been out on the moors of an evening often enough, but today the weather was rapidly growing chillier, and the clouds looked threatening. It might rain, but more likely they were going to be attacked by a blizzard.

  ‘Rob, can’t you hurry a little faster?’ he called over his shoulder. The boy was a nuisance at the best of times, but today he had excelled himself, whining about crossing a small area of boggy land when he had already seen the horses walk through easily enough, and then falling flat on his face and refusing to get up for some little while, complaining that he had broken his toe on a rock. Now he was some yards behind them again, his face set in a lowering black mask of fury at the indignity of hurrying after the others.

  ‘I’m the one who’s not on a horse, master Bailiff,’ Rob responded with some asperity. ‘What do you expect me to do? Run the whole way?’

  Simon grunted his answer. It was only the truth. The worst delays had been caused by Busse. He had insisted on regular halts, supposedly to pray at the requisite hours of the day, and also to rest his horse, but Simon felt sure that it was more to do with his own sore buttocks. The last time, he had begged Simon to light a fire to warm his hands. True enough, Simon could see that Busse’s face was turning a little blue with the cold, but that was no excuse to use up their meagre supply of firewood and tinder. Simon was painfully aware that they would need both tonight, and he was not going to risk the main supply of good tinder to light a fire when they might have need of it all later.

  His attention was on the clouds forming to the north. It was plain enough that the weather was settling in for a cold blow. Simon was deeply unhappy to think that they could all be stuck out here on the moors for an extended period, but if the snow fell hard, that was exactly the risk.

  It was growing dark as he stared about him, and he cursed the short winter days. ‘Right. We won’t make it off the moor before nightfall. We have to find a shelter. I won’t continue in the dark, not with the moon hidden. It would be too dangerous.’

  ‘Surely we are almost at the end of the moors, Bailiff,’ Busse said, hearing his words. ‘There are plenty of farms out there.’

  ‘There are some, but I can see no sign of smoke yet,’ Simon said shortly. ‘Even all the miners seem to be hidden away. With this weather, I would expect them to be hidden away in a tavern. Probably up in Chagford, most of them. That’d be the nearest to us here, I think.’

  He remained still, staring about him for a long time, making sure of his bearings, and then pointed ahead and slightly left to a large outcrop of rock. ‘If we make for that, I think we’ll be close to the Grey Wethers. That’ll give me my bearings.’

  ‘You mean to say that you are lost,’ Busse said.

  ‘No. But look about you – if we were a mile behind us right now, would you know the difference? All is rolling hills, with occasional rocks at their summits. It is easy to become confused, and always best to make sure of your bearings. However, once we hit the Grey Wethers, I will be happier.’

  ‘Why, are they safe?’ Rob asked innocently.

  Simon shot him a look, then glanced at the monk beside him. Busse, he saw, was nervous. Good! Well he might be, Simon reflected.

  ‘No, but their spirits may lead us to safety,’ he said at last, and kicked his horse to greater speed.

  Exeter City

  Baldwin and the coroner had to stop a while for refreshment, for, said Coroner Richard, his belly was so empty, they would soon hear it rumbling in Cornwall. After some persuasion, Baldwin agreed to visit a pie shop on Cooks’ Row, and then the two could head down to Stepecote Street, where there was a man, so the watchman said, who practised magic.

  It was hard to curb his impatience as the coroner prodded at all the pies on sale, before settling on a pair of matched pastry coffins filled with beef in gravy. Richard de Welles munched happily as they walked. If he had had his way, they would have been ensconced in a tavern by now, and eating and drinking their fill. Although that was by no means Baldwin’s plan, he was fully aware of the dangers of an investigation with the coroner. He had witnessed the hung-over anguish on Simon’s face every morning only recently when the coroner had stayed with the bailiff in Dartmouth. Baldwin was extremely keen to avoid such pain.

  Stepecote Street was the main thoroughfare to the west of the city. It took all the traffic from the city out to the great bridge of which Exeter was so proud, so was well metalled. As in all the streets, the centre held the kennel, the great gutter which took all the rainwater away from the houses before they could be flooded in severe weather. However, the kennel here stood out more, because the street was so steep that the tracks on either side were flagged as a series of shallow steps. It meant that little traffic other than pack-horses could come this way, but that held the advantage to Baldwin and the coroner as they walked down that there were no wagons or carts to be avoided.

  Richard de Langatre’s house was halfway down the street on the southern side. Baldwin had stopped a priest on their way, and he had confirmed where the man lived, although he cast an eye over Baldwin as he spoke. He seemed of the opinion that men should not consort with a necromancer.

  Seeing his look, the coroner had smiled broadly. ‘Don’t worry, Father. We’re only going to consult him about a murder.’

  The priest’s smile fled his face, and he hurried on his way up the hill.

  ‘Coroner, please,’ Baldwin moaned.

  ‘What? What did I say? Eh?’

  ‘What is going on down there?’ Baldwin wondered, seeing a small crowd. ‘Do you think that is the house?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ the coroner said. He took a massive bite from his remaining pie, then threw away the crust. ‘Let’s go and find out,’ he continued, showering Baldwin and the road in crumbs.

  There was a pair of young urchins, perhaps ten years old, standing on a cart’s wheel to peer over the heads to the door. As the coroner moved forward, trying to force his way through, Baldwi
n asked one of the boys what was happening.

  The lad, a scrawny, Celtic-looking fellow with black eyes and a shock of unruly brown hair, looked down at him with a speculative gaze, but his companion, a mousy-haired fellow with a pale and unhealthy complexion under the filth on his flesh, snarled a curse. Only when the first noticed that Baldwin was weighing a penny in his hand did the two become more interested. Brown hair nodded towards the house.

  ‘There’s a man in there, they reckon he’s been summoning the devil. And now his servant’s been killed, and they’re taking him up to the castle. Serves him right, too.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘This servant – what was her name?’

  The boy curled his lip in disgust. ‘Girl? It was a lad called Hick.’

  ‘Oh? Was he about your age?’

  It was the second who answered this time, with a dismissive contempt for all knights. ‘No. He was younger. Poor little shit!’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I think he was strangled. They heard his screams from over the road, so I heard.’

  ‘I thank you,’ Baldwin said. He flipped the coin and the first lad caught it quickly, holding it in his fist and watching Baldwin as though half expecting to be deprived of this unexpected largesse.

  Moving to the edge of the crowd, Baldwin leaned against the wall of a house and waited. He could see – and hear – the coroner a short way away, bellowing at the top of his voice, but this small group was formed of interested Exeter folk, and they would not give up their places here at the ringside for any stranger with a loud voice. No matter how much the coroner tried to force his way on, the people hemmed him in so securely that he could make but little headway until at last there was a shout and the people began to swear and curse, one or two flinging stones or rotten fruit. It was clear to Baldwin that the man who lived here was being pulled out to be taken to the gaol.

  Baldwin waited a short while, but when he judged that the noise of the people was growing a little dangerous, he took a deep breath and shouted, ‘’Ware the sheriff’s men! ’Ware! The sheriff’s men are coming!’

  A few heads turned, some anxious at the thought of being arrested for rioting, but others saw him and glowered, one beginning to move towards him. Baldwin took hold of his sword hilt and drew his riding sword slowly. It flashed from the scabbard with a sibilant rush, and when he held it out the bright blue of the blade caught the dull light, the edge flickering grey and deadly.

  Now the crowd was thinning as the small party was pushing through from the house, and soon Baldwin was face to face with a beadle and three nervous-looking watchmen.

  ‘Who are you?’ the beadle demanded, his attention fixed on Baldwin’s sword.

  ‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, friend,’ Baldwin said calmly. ‘And this is the coroner of Lifton, Sir Richard de Welles. Who are you?’

  The rather red face of the coroner loomed over the beadle, glaring with irritation from being thwarted, and the beadle tried to square up to him, but one freezing look from Sir Richard made him appear to shrivel like a salted slug.

  ‘I am Elias, sir knight.’

  ‘Come, friend Elias, let us find a place to talk a while,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Got to take this man to the gaol. He’s killed his servant,’ the beadle said.

  ‘Let us speak to him first, eh?’ Baldwin said with a calm smile.

  Robinet had seen them at the house, and he was tempted to speak to them, but an in-built reluctance came to the fore even as he considered it. The two had looked reasonable men when he saw them, first out by the body of poor James, and now at the necromancer’s house. But there was a conviction in his heart that told him that he would have to be cautious. There were many who would be keen to believe that he might have killed James.

  Christ knew, there were plenty of times he’d have been glad to kill the bastard. Every time he’d thought of those days incarcerated at the king’s pleasure, he’d dreamed of doing it. The man he’d trusted for all those years, and the one who betrayed him.

  Flashes of the previous evening were returning to him now. He’d met James first two days ago, when he was walking about the city. James had been walking up from Cooks’ Row towards the guildhall, and Robinet had just left the little church of St Petrock, and was outside in the grim, cold morning, feeling the chill and considering returning to his room for a drink of warmed, spiced wine, when he felt himself jostled, and the clumsy tarse walked straight into him – literally walked straight into him.

  ‘Can’t you look where …’

  ‘Newt? Is it you?’

  It was some satisfaction to see how James’s face fell at the sight of his old mentor. His face, which had been frowning in deep thought, blackened as he barged into Newt, but then there was a glimmer of appalled recognition before his face crumpled into utter horror.

  Newt noted the transformation from arrogance to terror with secret delight. There was a delicious aspect to this – revenge was so close! His hand was already at the hem of his cloak as he tried to pull it tight over his breast, but the temptation to whip his hand down to the hilt of his dagger and draw and stab … But even as the hatred bubbled like acid in his veins, his natural caution made him still the manoeuvre. There was something … pitiful in the sight of this young man suddenly shrunken with abject fear. To kill him would be no challenge, and would serve what purpose? It would make Newt a marked man for as long as he evaded capture. Which, at his age, could hardly be for long.

  It made him consider the fellow again, and the longer he stared at James, the less he saw the ambitious nuncius regis who had betrayed him, and the more he saw a scared, rather pathetic young man entering his middle age, who had been faced with a ghost from his past that terrified him. It was not worth even pulling his knife to scare him further.

  Newt gave him a slow stare, starting at his boots, passing up his body, pausing at the pouch on his hip that held the king’s own arms, and then travelling on up to meet his eyes. With an expression which he fondly hoped reflected withering scorn, Newt turned on his heel, and would have been long gone, except he heard steps following him in a hurry, and then felt the hand at his arm.

  ‘Newt! Come on, old man. Let me buy you a beer!’

  Exeter Castle

  ‘Wife? You were away a long time,’ Sheriff Matthew said. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Yes, dear. I went to look at the shops.’

  ‘What have you bought?’

  Alice looked at her husband and for a moment she was at a loss. She rallied quickly, though. ‘My dearest sweeting, nothing! I looked at all the cloths on display, and they were poor indeed compared to what I wished to buy for you. Why? Are you anxious that I may spend too much? You know I am a good, thrifty woman!’

  He laughed with her as she left the room, but when she had gone he took on a more serious demeanour. Seeing Sarra, he summoned her with a jerk of his head.

  ‘Right, maid, tell me where you have been with your mistress.’

  ‘Nowhere, my lord. But …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She was taken a little dizzy, so I fetched her some drink, and she asked me to leave her to rest a short while so she could recover.’

  ‘She was alone?’

  Sarra looked up at him with perplexity. ‘Of course, my lord.’

  She could hardly tell him he was being cuckolded.

  Exeter City

  In the street not far from the castle, the man stood looking at the place with a professional’s eye.

  It was not in good repair. Tumbledown would be a better way to describe it. Two towers were disintegrating, and the gatehouse itself would scarcely survive a puff of wind, from the look of it. No, it was no great shakes as a fortress. Not like Berkeley.

  This city had seemed a quiet little shire town, more or less a little market town, really, and to see it like this, a hotbed of political unrest and sudden violence, was curious.

  Alice was quite right to seek an
y help she could, but he wasn’t so convinced that a sorcerer was the kind of man to give useful advice. In his own experience, fortune-tellers and future-seers were the worst kind of charlatans. They took money and preyed on the innocent. He disliked the whole breed.

  And just now he had little else to do. Perhaps in the morning the man Langatre would be back again. Ready to prey on others.

  It was disgusting. Yet there was little he could do about it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  North-East Dartmoor

  Simon was anxious now. The weather was closing in as the sun sank behind them. Although he didn’t slow to peer over his shoulder, he could gauge the sun’s position by his shadow, and now that it was reaching out for yards before him he knew that they must seek shelter for the night, and that right soon.

  Busse had grown more quiet as they continued, and his face was strangely drawn. When Simon glanced over at him, he was reminded of de Courtenay’s words, how this man had apparently gone to one of the dreaded necromancers and sought, by means of some sort of foul spell, to have his election guaranteed. It turned Simon’s stomach to think that a man – especially a man of God – could attempt such a thing. Simon’s was a simple faith, reinforced at every opportunity by the canons at Crediton church, where he had gained an education. Their exhortations, often delivered at the end of a switch to make the lesson more instructive, had rejected absolutely the idea of conjuring demons to help with any worldly acts. It was heretical to believe that an agent of the devil could assist a true Christian.

  Perhaps it would be better if Simon and Rob could leave Busse out here to die … and yet Simon had always rather enjoyed his companionship before. It was odd that he should have fallen so far that he could have sought the help of the black arts … he was a bloody monk, for Christ’s sake! In God’s name, how could he have done such a thing?