From close to, the gates were enormous, and he stood before them with relief to know that here at last he would be able to sleep indoors. He marched in, and soon found where he could take a drink or two. After asking advice, he chose a place called the Suttonsysyn, which was only a very short distance from where he stood. And it was while he was there, looking about himself, that he saw him again.
It was a shock. He had been ready to relax, take a drink, and then retire to his cot, but now here was this fellow, one of those guaranteed to remember him – the king’s messenger from Coventry. There was nothing for it: he must leave the city, escape, run away again. Perhaps head straight for the coast, take a ship to Guyenne … Lord Mortimer had done just that, after all: he’d fled the land, and was now living with the French king, so they said.
But to run now might mean he could never achieve the destruction of the king and his favourites. The thought was unbearable. He had to stay.
It had taken him four days to march here. Four days of walking without halt except at night, avoiding people as far as possible, and now he had arrived here and already his safety was at risk. He sank onto a low wall, thinking desperately about his mission. It was enough to make a man weep, seeing an agent of his destruction so soon after arriving in a town where he had thought himself secure. Perhaps there was nowhere which was entirely safe. This, maybe, was to be the tenor of his life from this moment forth: to wander the lands, ever seeking safety, only to discover at every vill yet another familiar, and dangerous, face.
But he was not the man to accept defeat. Other churls might whine and complain at the way that fate would play hazard with their lives, but that was not for him! He was stronger than that: he made others change their situation to suit him! It was he who was in control. Events were so constructed by him that they guided others to obey his whims.
He would not be thwarted. Standing, wincing, he watched the man disappear down the street ahead of him, and squaring his shoulders he set off after him, his hand pulling at the little weighted cord under his tunic. With that, he could defend himself.
And then, as he stepped out, he saw another man follow him, a short, dark man who watched him closely with wide-set, dark and serious eyes.
John took a closer grip on his cord.
Tuesday, Feast Day of St Edmund4
Exeter City
It was Will Skinner, the watchman at the South Gate, who first noticed the body slumped just inside the alley on that Tuesday morning.
Will was one of the older night watchmen. When he first took over duties down here near the gate, he had been middle-aged, but that was six years ago now. Felt like a lot longer. At the time he had only recently lost his house and everything he loved.
Poor Margie had never recovered from that fire. Badly burned, seeing their bodies drawn from the house, she’d lost her mind. They’d both doted on the little mites, all three of them. They’d had seven children born, but they’d had to bury the other four only a short while after their births. Not many children lived to four years old.
Bob had been twelve, Joan eight, and Peg six when they died. That damned fire had rushed through the house like … like anything. Will had been speaking at a small meeting, telling his audience they should fight to reject the latest demands for extra taxes, when the woman came to get him. She was herself distraught, and he gaped at her, not really comprehending what she was saying. It was like a dreadful nightmare, hearing her talking about his children, his wife badly burned …
He had run to the house, but by the time he got there there was nothing. Just a smoking wreck.
It was a friend who had managed to get him this job. Others had told him not to take it, because his house had been around here, not far from the gate itself. That was why he liked it, though. He walked down there at every opportunity, past the alley where his children had died, where his wife had lived with him happily, before that dread evening. It was his daily pilgrimage.
The gap where his house had once stood remained, shut away behind a wooden paling fence. Now, as he wandered down the alley, he saw the broad gap where his family had once lived. It made him feel – not sadness exactly, more a sort of emptiness. He had long ago grown accustomed to the fact of their deaths; that was something any man must learn to cope with. But passing the space he was reminded again that it seemed out of place, as though he still almost expected his house to reappear.
This month was always hardest. It was at this time of year that his children had died, and the chill in the air, the naked trees denuded of leaves, the ice in the lanes, all reminded him of them.
He couldn’t help but stop and stare at where the house had been. Leaning on his staff, he gazed hungrily, as though the intensity of his regard could bring them back to life. But nothing could. Turning to continue on his way, he stumbled, and nearly fell headlong.
Over the body in the alley.
When the keeper of the gatehouse heard the pounding on his door, his immediate thought was that his blasted son had been on the sauce again, and he threw off his bedclothes with an angry curse at the thought of what the damned fool could have been up to this time.
Old Hal was not a particularly ill-tempered fellow. Certainly, many would agree that he tended towards a melancholy humour at the best of times, but more often than not he could be amusing, and good company when a group got together in the tavern. His jokes were risqué, his songs filthy, his mind invariably lewd, so men got along with him enormously well – provided that they never mentioned his good-for-nothing son Art.
Art. It was ironic that he and Mabel had named the little devil after Hal’s grandsire, for if ever a man was unlike his namesake, it was Art. Where old Art had been reliable, responsible, honourable and dedicated, young Art was the opposite. He wouldn’t wake on time, he was always late and blaming others for his failings, and when he did turn up of a morning, it was invariably with a headache and a pathetic, shaking demeanour. Twice in the last month Hal had been called to have him released from the gaol after drinking too much and fighting. He hated to think what else the little bastard had got up to without being discovered.
‘Why do you fight?’ Hal had demanded after the last escapade.
‘It’s not that I want to … when I’ve had too much ale, it just happens.’
‘You’d best stop now, before someone stands on your head too hard,’ Hal had said unsympathetically, looking at the wreckage that had been his son’s face. Now it was a mass of bruises and scabs. The trouble was, Art was born with more sense than he now had. He couldn’t assess odds, apparently. If he was drunk and his dander was up, he’d pick a fight with a man in armour.
Reaching the door, Hal threw aside the bar and pulled it wide. ‘What’s he done this … oh, Will? What is it? Christ alive, man, it’s hardly daylight yet!’
Will entered hurriedly, and from the look on his face Hal knew it wasn’t good news.
‘Murder – there’s been a murder!’
South Dartmoor
Simon Puttock’s journey to Tavistock was eased considerably by the memory of Stephen of Chard’s face the night before when he realised that Simon’s recommended inn was a place frequented by gamblers, sailors and whores.
Even this early, a little after dawn, his mood was sunny because he would soon be seeing his children and his lovely Meg. It seemed such a long time since he had last been with her. That was when he had first heard of the death of his friend and mentor, Abbot Robert. Even now the memory was depressing. Strange to think how close a man could grow to his master.
With uncanny timing, his own servant’s whining voice intruded on his thoughts. ‘Is it much farther, Bailiff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Many miles?’
‘Boy, be quiet! It is a long way, and the more you chatter, the longer it feels. Enjoy the views and the air, and hold your tongue.’
If it weren’t for Rob trailing along with him, he would have been enjoying this perfect morning. As it was, he was constantly
aware of the lad behind him, muttering and complaining under his breath as he stumbled along after Simon, the reins of the packhorse in his hands. Rob was little more than a lad, only some thirteen summers or so, but as hard and devious as only the illegitimate son of a sailor could be. He was sharp-eyed, with dark eyes set close together in a narrow, weaselly face. His accustomed expression of suspicious distrust reminded Simon of a small ferret who was forever seeking the next rabbit. He was clad in a simple tunic, a leather jerkin and a cowl, and barefooted like so many who live near the ships. Boots cost money, and when sailors disdained such wastefulness, many of their children had to learn to do without too.
In the middle of the summer the journey was an easy one. In winter even a man like the obnoxious Stephen could make the distance safely by keeping to the larger roads, but only slowly. Stephen had apparently taken two days to cover the thirty or more miles between Tavistock and Dartmouth. Simon was disinclined to take his time. He was keen to learn the reason for being called back, and still more so to see his wife. That was why he avoided the lower roads that encircled the moorland, and in preference made his way along the muddied trackways until he reached the open heights, and then took his way north and west until he met up with the Abbots’ Way, the great path marked by enormous stone crosses that guided a man safely across some of the most treacherous parts of the moors.
This was land where a man could breathe, Simon thought as he stopped his mount to wait for Rob to catch up and gazed about him. From this hill, he could see nothing but rolling countryside on all sides. He had joined the Abbots’ Way near Ter Hill, and westwards he could see the first of the three crosses that showed the safe route past the Aune Head’s mire. The path here wandered north of that, then curved to avoid the Fox Tor mire a short distance farther on. The bogs were deadly, and all too often the ghostly shrieks and wails of animals who had blundered into a mire would be heard as the terrible muddy waters gradually enfolded them and smothered them. No matter how often Simon crossed and recrossed the moors, he would never get used to those cries. They sounded like tortured souls screaming out from hell.
But Simon adored this landscape just as much as any lord would love his deer park. For Simon it was the picture of a modern working environment, with the smoke rising from the miners’ camps, great trenches dug to show where the peat was being harvested, and rubble all about where great hunks of moorstone had been dug up and roughly cut to size. All over the moors people worked the land. It might not be so fertile as some of the valleys nearby, but to Simon these open, rolling hills were as near perfection as anywhere in the country.
Not that he would ever admit to such thoughts in front of his old friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, of course. Baldwin would merely scoff at such views.
‘Where’s the nearest inn?’ Rob demanded, gazing about him with unconcealed disgust.
‘Probably about ten miles west.’
‘Christ’s ballocks, what a privy!’
Simon clenched his jaw and dismounted. He would lead his old horse for a while to rest him.
They had left Dartmouth as the sun rose. The night before, Simon had introduced his clerk to the new Keeper of the Port, and told Rob about his impending departure, and to his considerable surprise Rob had insisted on leaving with him. There was little chance of refusing him. The mere thought of trying to persuade Rob’s mother that it would be a good idea for her to keep him with her at Dartmouth was enough to persuade Simon that he might as well accept the lad’s company. She was not a greatly maternal woman, and as soon as she heard that her firstborn was leaving her she’d be out of her house and into the nearest tavern to meet another man. She had only ever looked on Rob as an unwelcome nuisance at the best of times. He got in the way of her search for a husband.
Besides, having an additional servant was always a good idea. Simon had no idea how his household was faring just now. It was always possible that one of the other servants had been taken ill or died. Yes, bringing Rob was almost certainly a good idea.
He had brought a skin of wine, some cheese and a loaf of bread for the journey. Others might look upon a ride of ten leagues across the moors as dangerous at best, and more probably near suicidal, but Simon had covered these moors regularly in the last eight or nine years, and he knew the different parts better than he knew his garden at Lydford.
They stopped in the lee of a hill and lunched together, drinking the wine and chewing lumps of cheese with the loaf, a harsh brown one which proved to have more fragments of grit from the millwheel than actual grain, judging from the foul crunching. Several times Simon had to search out shards of moorstone and discard them. Still, it was enough to fill their bellies, and once the horses were watered they set off once more, Rob muttering under his breath all the while.
‘Why did you ask to join me, if you are so bitter?’ Simon demanded at last, exasperated.
‘I didn’t know you were bringing me up here. Thought we’d be going on a real road, stopping off at a tavern for the night. Thought it would be a laugh.’
‘Now you know the truth,’ Simon said unkindly. ‘So shut up, or take yourself to the main road south of here and meet me in Tavistock tomorrow.’
‘I can’t go alone! I’ll get lost!’
‘Let me dream,’ Simon muttered.
Chapter Three
Exeter City
Master Richard de Langatre was a comfortably-off man. In his early thirties, he had the paunch of a man considerably older, and his cheery smile won the attentive gazes of many mothers of unmarried daughters who saw in him a potential son-in-law. After all, the man from Lincoln was fortunate enough to have a good business and a near-monopoly in Exeter.
He was not the most handsome man in the world. The round features and fleshy jowls showed his financial position, but did not add to his charm. However, the shock of mousy-coloured hair and his grey eyes offset the appearance of unbending probity and financial expertise. The eyes were too prone to laughter, and the hair would never submit to a comb or brush, always ending up unruly and discreditable no matter what the barber did to it. The first impression was that this man would be pleasant company for an evening in the tavern.
Today he had been shopping, a task which he viewed as essential not only to the efficacy of his mixtures, but also to his reputation. There were some hideous concoctions he had made in the past which now he recalled with fondness. The more foul the medicine, the more the patient valued it, he believed, and provided that he didn’t kill too many with his potions – and none had died as a direct result of taking his medicines, so far as he knew – he should find his reputation improving and his purse growing heavier.
This year, ah, this year had been a good one. First the consultation with the sheriff over the little matter with his woman, then some woman who had been nervous about her husband’s learning of her infidelity – she had paid well for the correct answer! – and finally the man who wanted to be abbot. He had been willing to pay well, thank the Lord! Yes, this year had been good to Master Richard. A good necromancer was always in demand, he reflected happily.
He was back at his room as the sun began to dip towards the west. After shopping he had betaken himself to Suttonsysyn near the Guildhall. In there, near the great fire, he had warmed his hands and feet from the chill outside, and partaken of a quart of good strong ale warmed and spiced and sweetened as he liked it with honey. Afterwards he bought himself a few honeyed thrushes from a stall, and chewed them standing at the street corner, watching the passers-by.
You could tell much by watching and observing how people walked and talked, he always thought. And just now, people were wary.
It was no surprise. He had been discussing it this morning at the inn. Michael Tanner had been there, and the two had sat together as they drank, as was their wont. Michael had a friend who was working in the cathedral close, and he was often one of the first to get news, but today everyone was alert to the latest gossip.
‘It is true, then?’ Richar
d had asked.
Michael nodded grimly and set his pot aside. He was a short, dark man with a square face and a thin salt and pepper beard. His eyes were sharp and grey, always darting about, watching to see if anyone was listening to them. ‘Absolutely. I heard it from the steward himself. He was there in the room when the king’s messenger arrived, and heard every word he spoke. The queen has had her household broken apart, her income is slashed, and even her dower has been taken from her. They leave her nothing. It is hard to believe, but my friend tells me that the messenger spoke of the king’s children.’
‘What of them?’
‘All taken from the queen. All being looked after by trusted maids – those trusted by the king, I mean.’
Master Richard whistled low. ‘He must hate her. Do you think he could suspect her of treason?’
It was a proof of their closeness that such a word could be used. Michael and Richard had grown to know each other because the latter rented his house from Michael, but they had soon developed a mutual regard. Richard appreciated that. It was not often that others would respect a man who was a dabbler in magic.
Michael pulled a face. ‘How could a man trust a woman like her? She has French blood, my friend. Her loyalties are split. It’s hardly fair to blame her – but if you were the king, how could you trust a woman who was sister to the French king just at the time that the French are threatening to steal King Edward’s remaining lands?’
Master Richard shook his head at the thought. Since the fight over the French attempt to build a fort at Saint Sardos, the French and the English had been at loggerheads. A truce had been agreed, but that would only last a number of months. And once it had expired, the French king Charles IV could all too easily take over all the remaining English lands in France. ‘It is a terrible thing when a man and a woman fall apart. The marriage vows should hold them together.’
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 4
