The Malice of Unnatural Death: Read online

  Maurice had spent too much time running. His boots were almost worn through, his hosen frayed and ripped from crossing too much wild land through bracken and bramble, and his cloak was scarcely any use as protection from the weather. Although he still carried a small riding sword, it was concealed beneath his cloak where men would not see it so easily. A man of his condition should not carry a noble weapon like that. It attracted too much attention.

  He bit into a loaf of bread and ate it ravenously, his eyes going about all the men in the room. No one appeared to be taking too much notice of him, and he felt moderately sure that his sudden departure from Evesham had gone unnoticed. In any case, he had covered the distance quickly, and even mounted men would have taken longer. Riders had to bear in mind the condition of their horses.

  Finishing his meal, he rested his left hand at his thigh, feeling the comforting weight of the sword beneath. He had one thing to do here, and he would do it, no matter what.

  In the alley, Robinet was marching at a rapid pace. First thing was, to get out of the city. There were plenty of places where a man like him could hide, but the first thing was protection. While he remained here in the city, there was the danger that someone might have seen him with the dead man and report him. In his shabby clothing, he was scarcely conspicuous, but with his luck the man who saw him would be a fellow with a perfect memory for detail. Better by far to leave the city and put as many miles between it and him as possible.

  How could he have been so stupid! It was insane to kill the man. Yes, he had been a complete bastard to Robinet, and betrayed his trust entirely, but that was no excuse for such a mad act. He must have been beastly drunk to have done something like that. Anyway, he thought they’d been getting on fine by the third quart of strong ale. Had they argued late in the night?

  The memory of the blade at his belt, smothered in a slick coating of gore, was enough to make his belly clench, and he was close to heaving as he reached the end of the alley. His pack was made of his cloak, rolled and tied with thongs to keep everything inside, and now he slipped his arm through one and threw the parcel over his shoulder, gripped his staff, and let his head hang as he walked towards the southern gate.

  As always the way here was blocked with the crowds coming into the city. Exeter was so busy now, the four key gates were always hectic. Today the southern gate was blocked by what looked like a solid mass of people marching towards him, all carrying wares on their heads or yokes about their necks. A woman with a bucket of fish had dropped it and was wailing as she tried to gather up her merchandise; a short distance behind her a tranter on his cart was hurling abuse at her for holding up everyone else, and when she remained there in the road the man swore loudly, whipped up his old nag, and tried to ride around her. His wheel caught between a pair of loose cobbles, and although the horse tugged for all it was worth, the cart rocked but wouldn’t rise from the small gulley. In a fury, the carter jerked the reins, and the poor brute, trying to obey, twisted to pass across the road. One hoof caught the woman a slashing blow on her arm, and she screamed as the sharpened metal of the shoe tore down her upper arm and opened the flesh for six inches. The horse, panicked by her scream, reared and plunged, and terrified people screamed as they saw those metal-shod feet flailing.

  People were shouting and pushing, and the man’s hoarse bellowing helped little. Robinet stood gaping as the people hurried past him. Two barged into him, but he scarcely noticed. There was no point in joining the confusion. Rather, he fell back with the people, gradually slipping to the edge of them, so that he could gain the protection of a house’s wall, and wait there.

  By good fortune, from where he now stood, he could see the figure of the dead messenger in the roadway. A guard stood watchfully over the corpse, and Robinet could not help himself. He walked over to the body and stood peering at it while the guard leaned against the wall and watched the people running past. The urgency and terror was already abating, and there were already more people laughing than screaming. Children had arrived to see what was the cause of the uproar, and the watchman was chuckling at the antics of the tranter as he clambered down from his cart and tried to pull his nag forward, out of the little gulley.

  ‘This man. Has the coroner given his verdict on the death?’ Robinet asked.

  ‘Yes. He was throttled some time recently. Didn’t want us to take him away yet, said someone else had to see him. God knows why. Clear enough what happened.’

  ‘What, a robbery?’

  ‘Yeah. Course. Someone found him here drunk, and pulled him out from the road with a cord round his neck. Wouldn’t take long to kill him like that.’

  Robinet nodded, but his mind was far away. He wasn’t even looking at the body now. Instead he stared down towards his belly, at the knife that dangled there.

  So if he had been strangled, whose blood was it on his knife?

  Coroner Richard was loud, bullying and ferocious when he thought it necessary, but he was not a fool, and now, as he walked away from his brief investigation of the body, he wore a frown.

  The man had been murdered, that was plain. As had the other fellow. But the first had been robbed after having his throat cut – a simple theft by some scrote who happened by the dead man while hard up for money. It was a common enough event. The other was very different: he was a king’s messenger, and as such should have been safe from any kind of attack. The fact that someone dared to assault him was worrying.

  He entered a tavern and bawled for ale while he considered the matter. One thing was clear – he must report it as soon as he could. He would go to the sheriff and advise him of the messenger’s death.

  Chapter Six

  The Bishop’s Palace

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you once more. You are well, I hope?’

  The Bishop of Exeter sat coolly as Baldwin entered his chamber. Bishop Walter II was a tall man, with peering eyes, a stooped back, and all too often a frown on his face. Just now his expression was welcoming, but as Baldwin bent to kiss the episcopal ring, he was quite sure that before long that cheerful smile would fade.

  Their greetings over, the bishop sat back and toyed with his spectacles. Baldwin knew that Walter was very shortsighted. It was the natural effect of so many years studying religious books, and more recently keeping a close eye on the detailed reports of the nation’s finances. He was Lord High Treasurer, close adviser to the king, and recently he had become friend and ally of the Despenser family.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I was very sad to hear that you were unhappy with the idea of becoming a member of the king’s parliament. No!’ He held up a hand as Baldwin tried to interrupt him. ‘Please let me finish. My feeling was, and is, that you would be a perfect foil for some of the more foolish people who presently advise the king. There are many who would be better employed elsewhere. A man such as yourself would bring more experience and sense to many of the discussions.’

  ‘My Lord Bishop, I am very mindful of the honour you do me by suggesting me for this,’ Baldwin said with a smile, ‘but I am afraid I think that it is a step too far for me. I am at bottom a simple knight who is happy with my quiet life here in the country. I have no interest in lengthy journeys to London, York or Winchester to attend meetings with bishops, barons and lords. And the help I could give would be minimal. Look at me! I’m a rural knight with an interest in rural affairs, not those of great moment in the nation’s politics.’

  ‘That is precisely the point,’ the bishop said, pouring a goblet of strong red wine and passing it to Baldwin. ‘The parliament is there to bring to the fore all the views of all the king’s subjects. He is as interested in the affairs of the lowliest churl steeping a hedge as in the doings of a great lord.’

  Baldwin said nothing as to the peasant steeping a hedge. There were strong rumours that the king enjoyed such activities far too much. It was hardly the occupation of a man who would lead barons into battle. ‘You mean a great lord such as Thomas of Lancaster?’

  Bish
op Walter looked at him coldly. ‘Earl Thomas was a traitor. He spoke treason, and supported those who would have destroyed the king’s honour and dignity. If it were not for his influence, I doubt that the Lords Marcher would have dared to rise in rebellion.’

  In his heart Baldwin disagreed. The Lords Marcher had risen against the Despensers, the acquisitive and ruthless father and son who had enriched themselves by robbing others up and down the country, depriving widows of their estates, bearing false witness against those whom they considered their enemies, and preventing any from petitioning the king without paying them bribes. There was none who dared stand against them, not since the king had brutally executed his own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, in their support. Their hold on his affection was so strong that to murmur against the Despensers could be viewed as treason. And Baldwin hated himself for not saying as much to the bishop.

  ‘There has never been more need of cool, calm advice than now,’ the bishop continued. ‘The threat from the French king… if we were to lose Guyenne, the crown would be greatly damaged. We have to protect the king’s lands over there, but how? You are a man experienced in war. Your advice could be invaluable.’

  ‘My fighting days are long past,’ Baldwin said shortly.

  ‘I did not say you should fight, Sir Baldwin, but that you ought at least to be prepared to share your knowledge of battle. You were involved in the last great battle of Acre, I recall?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, my lord.’

  ‘Perhaps. Much has happened since then, naturally.’

  Baldwin felt his blood thicken. There was a sudden emptiness in his belly as he absorbed the bishop’s words. He had told Stapledon many years ago about his experiences in Acre, but surely he had never mentioned the fact that he used to be a Knight Templar? Yet there seemed to be an edge to Bishop Walter’s voice that implied he knew – and more, that if Baldwin didn’t acquiesce to being elected, the bishop might tell others of his position. To be known as a renegade Templar could cost him his life. Those who were found after escaping the original arrests were still potentially at risk of a pyre.

  His mind flashed with scenes of his life today: his daughter and pregnant wife at their home near Cadbury. Then came the memory of bodies burned and unrecognisable lying in the smouldering ashes of a large fire, and the sight of Jacques de Molay standing proudly before the Cathedral at Notre Dame and declaring that the accusations were baseless, unfounded, and malicious… He could see himself in a burst, his clothes on fire, his mouth wide in a scream of agony so intense it curdled the fluid in his veins just to think of it.

  And then the anger flooded him. ‘You say I should go to advise? And what good would that achieve when there are so many near the king who enjoy his trust and whose words he will accept over all others?’

  ‘We have a truce with France, but there is no guarantee that this time next month, or even next week, we shall not be at war again.’

  ‘The king is fortunate enough to have a ready-made ambassador. He married her,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps he ought to enquire of her what the best action would be?’

  ‘Come, now, sir knight!’ Bishop Stapledon snapped. ‘You think that the sister of the French king would be an impartial counsellor? She may well seek to return to her mother land. What better ally could the French hope for than a spy within the king’s own household? She is too dangerous.’

  ‘Who made her so?’ Baldwin demanded sharply. ‘Is it not true that her husband left her for others?’

  The Bishop stared at him for a long moment, and Baldwin wondered whether he had overstepped the bounds of his patience, but then Stapledon closed his eyes and held them shut for a few minutes. At last he opened them, and now his tone was simply weary.

  ‘In God’s name, Baldwin, I swear, I believe that the woman could be inimical to the security of the realm. I have myself argued for the sequestration of her lands and the reduction of her household so that the threat is reduced, but I did not enjoy it. Nor the other measures taken. But whatever the reasons for her behaviour, they are not justified. The king is king, and master of the whole kingdom, and whatever she feels about his actions, she should not be provoked.’

  ‘You think she has been?’

  ‘I know her. She is a woman of intelligence and spirit,’ the bishop answered. ‘And while the French challenge us at Guyenne, she must remain here – safe.’

  ‘You see, though, Bishop, that we do not agree on the issues here,’ Baldwin said. ‘What useful purpose could I serve in parliament? Leave me here to remain as a contented rural knight, raising my family in peace and without the interruptions of national affairs.’

  ‘I wish I could,’ the bishop replied. ‘But, Baldwin, I believe your intellect could help save the country from disaster. I am being frank with you, old friend.’

  ‘It is neither to my taste nor to my interest,’ Baldwin said with conviction.

  The bishop leaned forward and fixed Baldwin with a serious gaze before speaking both urgently and quietly, as though trying to conceal his words from any who may be listening. ‘Think of your duty, then, Sir Baldwin … if you do not go, will it not be only those who seek to flatter and promote the king who will be granted positions in the parliament?’

  There was a soft knocking at the door, and Baldwin saw the bishop’s expression alter, just slightly. It was a fleeting thing, a sudden sharpness in the eyes, as though this interruption was expected, but not anticipated quite so soon, and then the bishop was calling to the visitor to enter.

  ‘Oh, Sheriff. It is good to see you,’ he said.

  The tall, urbane figure who had just entered walked across the room and stood before the bishop, bending to kiss the episcopal ring. Only then did he acknowledge Baldwin. ‘Sir Baldwin – it is good to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Sir Matthew. All must say it is always a pleasure to see you.’

  Sir Matthew de Crowethorne smiled at that as he moved over the floor to a chair. Once seated, with a goblet of wine from the bishop’s steward, he shot a look at the bishop as though questioning whether he should begin. He was clad in rich velvet, a shimmering green with particoloured green and red hosen, and the cloak which he so carelessly tossed over a bench was trimmed with warm squirrel fur. He was, like so many sheriffs, keen on ostentation, and glanced at Baldwin’s faded and worn red tunic with amused contempt.

  Bishop Walter did not see his look. ‘The good sheriff has many duties here in Exeter, Sir Baldwin, as you know. But just now he is seeking to find the best knight to send to the next parliament. I have suggested to him that we need someone with some intellect, a man of honour. I have, in short, suggested you.’

  ‘It is very kind of you, but I would be most reluctant to accept any such position.’

  ‘Even though it would be for the good of the shire? And the state?’ Sheriff Matthew pressed.

  Baldwin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could there was a loud knocking at the door of the palace, and the sheriff and the bishop were both quiet, listening intently. For once, Baldwin felt relief at the interruption of that familiar voice.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, you cretinous little scrote? I asked if Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was here, man. Don’t hop from foot to foot, damn your arse. Just fetch him here, or tell me where to find him. Oh … and my compliments to your lord bishop, too.’

  Exeter City

  The morning in the city was less bright already. The sun was concealed behind clouds, and to add to the dimness, as soon as dawn reached the town, people were already gathering their faggots of twigs and thrusting them onto their fires. In less than a couple of hours after the sun’s light had first licked the tops of the cathedral’s towers, already there was a thick fume rising from the city: the proof of civilisation anywhere.

  It was a delightful sight and smell, Robinet thought to himself. Others might have different feelings, but to him as an experienced traveller there was little better than the view through a group of trees which
showed a rising plume of smoke. That held the promise of warm, dry beds and rooms with a fire inside for the weary. It was like a place he had seen many years before – at least fourteen – when he was in France. He had been sent by the king to visit Vienne, and he could well remember the feeling of relief to see that after so many miles on unfamiliar roads in a strange, hot land, there was a set of gibbets with fly-blown corpses hanging in chains. Those parcels of decaying flesh meant that at last there was a place nearby where law held sway. Outlaws were no more to be feared.

  Exeter was different, though. He knew how dangerous a city like this could be, and Robinet had no intention of being harmed. He needed to escape the place if he could. Walter would be able to help him as soon as he had got his belongings back.

  But if he did grab his things and run, he might never find out what had happened. James’s death might never be solved – a dreadful thought. The two men had been estranged for so long, and now he was thinking of bolting only the morning after they had sealed their renewed friendship. That was sad. No: worse than that: it was sick.

  The swelling over his ear was slightly crusted with blood, but the pain was reducing, thanks to Christ. He was sure now that someone had struck him down. He really should leave. Others were here to learn what had happened to the dead messenger. It was a city, it had its coroners and keepers. He could scarcely do anything that they couldn’t.

  Except he hated to leave the affair like this. James deserved a little loyalty. Was it James who had knocked him down? The whole of the evening after they had left the tavern was a haze … there were some images, but all indistinct, unclear… no matter how he tried to concentrate, he couldn’t bring anything back. Someone had struck him at some point, someone had helped him to the hay. And then James had been thrown into a rubbish heap, the foul stuff hauled over him to hide him. It was demeaning, disgraceful, to treat a man so.