Some had been fearful, and had thought that the abbot might recover at any time. They had drawn up terrifying pictures of him in their minds, a grim-faced old man leaning on a heavy staff as he always had, with great white eyebrows that scowled so a man might be frozen from thirty paces. Many a newly tonsured brother had cause to dread his chastisement; they had all experienced the rough edge of his tongue when they had fallen short of his high expectation. The abbot was a strong-willed man, and punished any transgression that might affect his monastery with ruthless determination.
John de Courtenay had held no such terror of Abbot Robert. The man was, when all was said and done, only a monk; while he, John de Courtenay, was the son of Baron Hugh of Okehampton and Tiverton. Yes, he owed the abbot his obedience and respect, but that was all.
And with any fortune, the election for the next abbot would be uncontested. Who could hope to stand in the path of the son of Baron Hugh de Courtenay?
Evesham Abbey
And in the guest room of the great abbey devoted to St Ecgwine, the man who slept on the floor as far from the door as possible turned over and was still, listening raptly to the heavy breathing and snoring of the others in the room. He closed his eyes, his breast rising and falling gently, but even as he teetered on the brink of sleep his fist remained clenched firmly about the dagger’s hilt.
There were too many men who wanted him dead for him to dare to give himself up entirely to the sleep he so desperately craved.
It was the problem he had been trying to avoid, but he couldn’t any longer. The abbot here knew his secret and wouldn’t betray him, but unless he was prepared to take the tonsure he could not stay. And he was not going to become a celibate.
There was only one place in the country where he could be safe. Perhaps he ought to go there …
To Exeter.
Chapter One
Thursday before St Edmund’s Day in the eighteenth year of the reign of King Edward II2
Exeter City
Some months after John de Courtenay and Robert le Mareschal contemplated deaths which must affect them dramatically, the former glad to hear of one demise and the latter actively pursuing another, a man whom both knew was himself contemplating murder.
Standing in the gloom of the alleyway, close by the Fissand Gate to the cathedral close in Exeter, he smiled to himself without humour as he watched his quarry. Leaning against the dark walls, he was just a blur in the twilight. There was no torch or brazier here to touch his hooded face with flickering beams. Positioned in the angle of a projection in the wall, even his outline was concealed.
When the object of his attention moved farther away and joined the crowds in the main street, he pushed himself away from his place of concealment and followed on his long legs, his thick woollen cloak snapping at his shins.
Over the years Robinet of Newington, known as Newt by his friends, had covered many leagues with that determined lope, his narrow features squinting into the middle distance as he strode over the old greenways. The smaller paths of this area, the great roads that led over downs, the pilgrim routes over to Canterbury – he had seen them all. His cloak showed the effects of a hundred rainstorms and had faded in the sun; his boots were made of good Cordovan leather, but their paint was scratched and worn away from great use, and although when new they had been identical, neither designed for left nor right, over time they had moulded themselves to fit his feet. Once he would have bought new ones sooner. Once, aye, he could have replaced all his clothing twice a year at the expense of his master.
Reaching the top of the street, he peered round the corner. The crowds were thinning now as the sun sank in the west and the cold of the November evening persuaded all those with a room to go to it and huddle by the fire.
Newington pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and gazed after the man. If Newt knew him at all, he should be entering the stables. Yes, even as Newt gazed frowningly, he saw the man dart in.
After so much time there was a desire to hurry after him and shove his knife into the faithless bastard’s throat, but Newt was too wily a man to do so, he told himself. Others would have impetuously followed their enemy, but Newt knew he was craftier. He hadn’t survived so many years in the royal household by being unaware of the dangers of precipitate action. No, he waited, running through all the tasks his quarry would have to see to. It was possible, of course, that he was returning to collect his horse to ride from the city and continue on his urgent round – but Newt knew in his heart that it was deeply unlikely. When night fell it was hazardous to travel. He knew that. James of Wanetynch was no fool, whatever else he was, and he also knew it made no sense to travel in the dark.
Of course he did. Robinet had taught the godless whoreson everything he knew.
Monday, Vigil of St Edmund’s Day3
Dartmouth
When the summons came, Simon Puttock, bailiff and representative of the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, was first aware only of a huge relief.
The port was a pleasant little town stuck out on the western shore of the River Dart, with a large natural haven for shipping. Simon could not complain about his position there, or the goodwill of his abbot, who had installed him here as a proof of his trust, but nonetheless Simon had not enjoyed his time here. He had left his moors behind, the lands where he had been happiest in his life, and, worse, he had been forced to leave his family too. Now, if he was being called back to Tavistock, at least he would have a chance to see them again. It had been too long.
When Abbot Robert had given him this job, that kind-hearted gentleman had been attempting to reward Simon’s years of loyal service to the abbey. Since the famine years, Simon had been working on Dartmoor as one of the stannary bailiffs responsible for protecting the king’s tin-mining ventures and trying to negotiate between the landowners and the miners, never an easy task. At the time he had thought that he would never have another position, so he had brought his wife and young family to Lydford, where they had made their home, and he had never asked more than to be left to his job.
But he had been too successful at the work for his own good, and the abbot had sought to reward him, and ensure the success of his new investments in Dartmouth, by giving him this post. It was intended as recognition of Simon’s efforts, but it felt like a punishment.
He eyed the man who had brought the summons, trying to contain the thrill of relief that was washing through him. This fellow was no ordinary messenger: he had the look about him of a man who felt himself superior to the recipient. He was a full three inches taller than Simon, and he had an arrogant air about him. Clearly one of the newer men who was less enamoured than his older colleagues with Abbot Robert and had allied himself with one of the monks who wanted to take over the abbot’s responsibilities. There were enough of them, God Himself knew.
‘You say this is urgent?’
‘You should leave today.’
Simon shrugged. ‘I will go in the morning. It’ll make little enough difference in time. If I leave now I’ll scarcely quit the vill’s boundaries before seeking an inn.’
‘You should leave at dawn, then.’
‘What can be so urgent?’
‘No doubt you will be told when you reach Tavistock,’ the man said in a haughty tone.
‘If I go tomorrow, I’ll have time to clear up some business.’
‘You needn’t worry about that. It can be sorted later.’
‘You will pay my debts with the baker and butcher, will you?’ A thought struck Simon. ‘Do you mean to say that I am not coming back here?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘If that is so, who is to take my place? Ah, I see!’
The stranger languidly reached out to touch the limewashed wall with a lip curled in disdain. ‘I have been asked to assume responsibilities during your absence.’
Simon frowned at the parchment in his hands. Looking away from the insufferable man was the only way to keep his temper under control. The tiny wri
ting was little help. It was difficult to read in the gloom of his chamber. ‘Stephen? You are Stephen of Chard?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you are to be in charge here when I am gone. Have I been accused of something?’
‘I am sure you will already know that, won’t you? After all, if you are guilty, you will know what you have done. And if you are not, you have nothing to fear, do you?’ Stephen didn’t bother to smile at Simon. Plainly, to his mind, Simon was an irrelevance already, and the sooner he was gone and Stephen could take over his duties the better.
Simon was torn: there was a sense of enormous delight at the thought that he might soon be able to get home to Lydford and see his family, but that was presently being swamped by his rising anger at this insignificant little puppy’s manner. ‘I will leave in the morning. If you want me to let you know …’
‘Oh, I don’t think I need trouble you. More important that you get off, Master Puttock. That message does require your urgent attention.’
Simon smiled, and this time his pleasure was unfeigned. ‘And I am sure that you will be able to cope with the job admirably, Master Stephen.’
‘I shall need to look through all your records, naturally. You will instruct your clerk to assist me.’
‘It will be a pleasure,’ Simon said, and stood to leave.
‘Wait! First, if you please, I would like any keys you have to this place.’
Simon smiled thinly. ‘You want to take my house? I fear not. Until I know what the affair is that demands my presence at Tavistock, you will have to find your own accommodation.’
‘I do not think that the new abbot would be pleased to hear that you slighted me in this manner.’
Simon’s smile broadened at the sly note in his voice. ‘My friend, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’ll be doing here, but you’ve no right to anything of mine. And just now I’m not in the mood to help you at all. So I should find another place to stay. There’s an inn along the roadway here. I’m sure they can help you there.’
‘It is a quiet enough place?’ Stephen of Chard looked mildly concerned at the thought of staying in a rowdy hostelry.
‘Why, of course,’ Simon assured him with his enthusiasm driving any note of dishonesty from his voice.
Exeter Castle
There was no mistaking it! Holy Mother Mary, but she couldn’t have mistaken that. There was a look in his eye that showed her he loved her, and the way that he held on to the bowl when passing it to her, keeping hold just for that moment too long, as though worried she might drop it, but really only trying to keep her close … it was a miracle others didn’t see it as well!
Jen placed the bowl gently on the tray with the other bits and pieces from the meal, and walked carefully from the hall.
This was the best thing that could ever have happened to her. She had been raised, like Sarra, on a small farm at Silverton, and she’d never thought she’d ever have a job like this one. The opportunity to come and work in the city, when Sarra’s message came to her, was exciting, but only because it was such a wonderful place to live and work. She’d never dreamed that she might fall in love as well.
He was so handsome, so tall and straight, and he had that wonderful confidence that came from his position in the world. It was marvellous to see him sitting there so languidly, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Whereas after seven months, now Jen knew he suffered, really. It was that poisonous bitch of a wife of his. Everyone knew it: the woman tried to do all she might to ruin his self-esteem, carping on about this or that, making his life a misery. He’d be quite within his rights to bind her to a post and beat her unmercifully. If Jen was his wife, she’d just want to sit and gaze at him adoringly all day long … and make his life a pleasure by being on hand to fetch his drinks or foods. She would make him sweetmeats and bring them to him at his table so he could enjoy them without rising. She would make his bed such a place of joy as he could never have imagined. She would adore him.
And now, now she knew that he loved her too. It was in his eyes.
Sir Matthew de Crowethorne sat back in his chair and looked about him with that sense of satisfaction mingled with fear that was so much a part of his life recently.
His climb to success had hardly been meteoric, but if all went poorly his fall would be infinitely swifter.
When he had been made sheriff, this hall had been like the rest of the castle, dilapidated, decaying rapidly, the paint fallen off the walls, the ceiling rotten … he had been forced to spend much of his treasure to put it into some sort of order. Now that it was complete, he was forced to contemplate losing all.
Sir Matthew had been a loyal supporter of Despenser for many years. Their fathers had known each other, and as the Despenser star rose after the death of Gaveston, so too had Sir Matthew’s. Despenser had looked after those whom he trusted – for so long as they had nothing of value which he coveted, anyway. Those who had trinkets or lands he desired could all too easily discover that their possession was fleeting. Whether they chose to give them away, or waited until Despenser had contrived to force them to give them up, was all one. Despenser was the most powerful man in the realm after the king. Some thought he was more powerful even than the king himself.
His greed had become known to all. Even the peasants spoke of him in hushed tones. It was no surprise that men wished to remove him. The writs spoke of a necromancer who had intended to kill the king, Despenser and five others. James of Wanetynch, the messenger, had brought them together with the other notes, including those from his peers. At first Matthew had been appalled, but then, as he began to consider the idea, it became apparent that he should act.
In Exeter, as he knew, there was one man who had the experience and expertise to help with matters of this kind. Walter had been used before, when the king had needed to clip the wings of a merchant, and he had succeeded so magnificently that a threatened mutiny between the city and the king had been averted. The agent was still here, and Matthew wondered whether he could be used again.
He had a fertile brain for planning. Now he sat back in his chair and bent his mind to the question of how he might best use the killer for the greater good, and by degrees a scheme occurred to him, one in which he could protect himself from risk while also ensuring that others would receive the full weight of any danger.
And he began to smile to himself – until there came a crash of metal from outside.
‘What the devil …?’
A red-faced man-at-arms peered in apologetically from the screens passage. ‘Sorry, Sir Matthew – I dropped my bill.’
‘Be more careful!’ Matthew snapped, and then returned to his contemplation. Gradually his annoyance dissipated, to be replaced by a certainty that his plan was not only workable, it was perfect.
Chapter Two
Exeter City
It was late afternoon when John of Nottingham at last reached the city. From the wide flood plain, he could see it from far away as a smudge in the sky. He had to stop and rest, his sore feet aching and blistered from his hastening march.
His had been an arduous journey. Thanks to Christ that he had learned of his danger and escaped quickly, because otherwise he’d be dead already. It was only the speed with which he had made his escape that had saved him.
In part it was the example of his master that had given him the spur. When Lord Mortimer of Wigmore had been captured, he had little opportunity to resist; to have defended himself would have meant instant conviction for treachery to his liege-lord, the king. All through the war, Mortimer had been careful to avoid raising his own standard against the king’s, but instead he’d held up the king’s standard while razing the Despenser lands so that when he explained himself later as only having the king’s interests at heart, none would find it easy to reject his assertion.
He had been forced to surrender when the long hoped for support from Thomas of Lancaster never arrived. That cowardly son of a diseased sow stayed in his castle and
refused to make the leap to defend his own comrades – with the result that the king destroyed Mortimer’s armies, and then turned on Lancaster himself. And when Lancaster was caught, he was condemned out of hand with no opportunity to defend himself against the charges, and executed – the first of hundreds to be slaughtered by that vengeful, vicious king. The man didn’t deserve his throne. He didn’t deserve his life.
To remove him had been the most precious desire of so many, and yet only so few could have achieved it. And it had been so close. But when the assassination plot had been discovered, all were taken. All but John of Nottingham.
He eased the staff over his shoulder, his pack an almost unbearable weight. Few enough possessions: mostly it was his one heavy book. That was all, wrapped up together with some clothes in his blanket, but they had rubbed the flesh in a broad swathe, and now he spent much of his time trying to forget the pain. Still, better to be foot and shoulder-sore than dead, or held and tortured.
Exeter was a new town to him. He had never been here before, which was itself an advantage, but it had the additional merit of being far enough away from all central sources of power in the realm for him to be perfectly secure. And there was a port, which meant that if he needed, he could escape over the water, too. For now, though, all he sought was a warm fire, a bed, and some hot wine to ease his chilled bones.
The smudge in the distance began to acquire definition as he followed the old roadway and found himself skirting a high plateau. Now he could see that it was composed of many fires throwing their fumes up into the air. And then, as he continued, he found himself face to face with a broad city wall, all red stone, with ditches raised before it as additional defences. There were houses lining the route now, some well built with little garden plots before them where straggling plants grew in the chill: spindly stems of rocket with the last few tiny leaves, and some harsh-looking cabbages. Not much still grew at this time of year.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 3
