‘You can’t expect an Englishman to cleave to a flighty French wench,’ Michael said harshly. He finished his drink and bade Master Richard farewell. Then he leaned down quickly and whispered in Master Richard’s ear. ‘You know, there’s talk that she paid a man like you to remove her enemy and her husband. That would make a husband think carefully about her, wouldn’t it?’ He winked and was gone, leaving Master Richard with a full pint remaining in his pot, and a delicious rumour to absorb.
The uppermost thought in his mind as he walked homewards was that he would dearly love to meet the queen and see what he could learn from her … it was never likely to happen, but she must be a fascinating woman. Especially when she was being dispossessed like this. Could she really have hired someone to kill off her own husband? If she had been involved in an act like that, it was no surprise that she should be considered a malign influence on her children. A woman who plotted her husband’s murder was surely inadequate as a mother. She might raise them to hate her husband as much as she did herself.
It said much about her, though, if she was prepared to hire a necromancer like him to remove a king, he thought. Then, as he opened his door to enter, he was shocked from his reflections by the hand at his shoulder.
‘Master? Are you Master Richard of Langatre?’
Stilling his anger, he smiled. ‘Yes, mistress. Can I be of service?’ After all, it wasn’t so often that the sheriff’s wife came to see him.
Tavistock Abbey
Simon reached the abbey in good time, with at least an hour of daylight remaining. Overall, a pleasing journey, apart from the whining behind him. The only cure for that was to ride on a little faster, so that the lad’s legs couldn’t keep up.
‘Are we there now?’ Rob was staring at the great moorstone walls with trepidation, eyes wide like a rabbit watching a hunter.
‘Yes. This is it.’
‘Oh, thank Christ for …’
Simon winced. Rob had been raised in Dartmouth, and his language was designed more for the tavern than an abbey. ‘Try to be careful with your words, Rob. The monks in here expect respect. If you use language like that, you could be thrown into their gaol and left there for a week. I won’t pay to get you out if you are guilty of embarrassing a monk.’
‘God’s teeth.’
‘That’s enough!’
There was a lay brother at the gate who volunteered to take Rob and the horses to the stable. Simon was happy to pass over the reins, taking his pair of bags from the saddle before he bade the beast farewell. It was not his own, but one of those rounseys which the abbey purchased and kept for the use of its workers. When Simon left tomorrow to see his wife, he hoped to be able to borrow another horse and packhorse for the journey. For now, though, there was more urgent business, if Stephen of Chard was to be believed.
Rob was somewhat pathetic, staring at Simon like a boy bidding farewell to his father before going to sea. Simon waved him off irritably, then turned on his heel and made his way across the main court to a door which had been pointed out to him. A novice opened it for him, beckoning him to enter.
Over the years Simon had come here many times to meet his abbot, but those encounters had always been held in the abbot’s own house overlooking the gardens and the river. Many were the pleasant meals and drinks Simon had enjoyed there while supposedly briefing the abbot on matters pertaining to troubles on the moors, or more recently the affairs of Dartmouth. However, the last few meetings they had had were more sombre. It was clear to Simon that the abbot had known he was dying. The death was long and slow, but the good man endured it with equanimity. He was glad to be leaving the world, Simon was convinced. Abbot Robert had done all he could to serve God and the abbey, and he knew he deserved his final rest.
‘Bailiff. Good. Come in here.’ It was John de Courtenay, the son of Baron Hugh de Courtenay. He was standing in a narrow passage, and he opened a door as Simon approached, motioning him inside. Seeing the novice, he jerked his head. ‘You! Fetch us wine, and be quick!’
The room had clearly been used for some while as a working area. It was not large, but there were two tables set up inside, with a series of rolls of parchment set out on them. A few were weighted flat with stones, and it looked as though John de Courtenay had been studying them. He walked in behind Simon and stared down at the nearest parchment with distaste, before removing some of the stones and allowing the skin to roll itself up again gently as he seated himself on a stool beside it.
Between the tables stood a large brazier half filled with glowing coals. Simon walked to it and held his hands to it while he wondered why he had been called here to see the baron’s son. It was only after a short period that he suddenly felt a sinking sensation in his bowels.
There were many in the abbey whom Simon would have been delighted to see take over: the cellarer was a kindly, well-intentioned man; the sacristan was astute, worldly wise and effective; even the salsarius was more than capable – but this man was the very last whom Simon would wish to see in charge of the place.
John was no fool, it was true, but that only added to Simon’s concern now as he turned and warmed his backside. Once, while he was discussing fathers and sons with his friend Sir Baldwin, the knight had observed that it was a general rule that if a strong-willed man sired a son, the son would be as feckless as his father was brilliant. Not always, of course, but there were many examples of weakly sons who followed potent parents. At the time, Simon recalled, they had been alluding to the king himself. No man would have thought that so jealous, foolish and incompetent a man could have followed Edward I.
No, he didn’t think that this John de Courtenay was a fool, but that did not make Simon feel any better. When Simon was a boy, his father had been steward to the de Courtenays, and Simon had grown to know John moderately well. Where his father was cautious and aware of the machinations necessary to protect his estates and treasure in the confusing modern world of politics, John was devious to a fault, determined, frivolous, vain and a spendthrift. It was no surprise that Hugh had supported his eldest son in his ambition to go into the church rather than take over the vast family estates. God forbid that he should ever grab the reins of power of the abbey.
‘Where is that wine?’ de Courtenay grumbled. He was a powerfully built man, with a square face and thinning fair hair about his tonsure. That he kept himself moderately fit was entirely due to his passion for hunting, which was not actually permitted, although he didn’t allow that to stop him. Recently, though, his belly had started to grow, and Simon noticed that since he had last seen him his posture had changed. Whereas before he had always stood dignified and erect, now he was beginning to bend his back to support his growing paunch, and he sat with his neck thrust forward in a vain attempt to conceal the growing pouch of flesh beneath his chin.
Simon waited silently. He was anxious. Whatever had occasioned his recall to Tavistock, he felt sure it would not be to his benefit.
At last the novice returned with a thin, old monk who entered, nodded kindly to Simon, and then glowered at his brother. ‘Perhaps you forget, John, that you should not command the novices to fetch and carry for you? You may do that if you ever win the abbot’s seat, but until then you should leave the boys alone. And if you want wine, come and ask me to provide it for you. Since we are lucky enough to have a guest in our midst, I suppose this once it will be all right.’
‘We have matters to discuss here, Reginald,’ de Courtenay said sharply. ‘You may leave us.’
‘Oho!’ Reginald said, and passed Simon a jug of wine, winking as he did so. He handed a second to de Courtenay, who took it suspiciously. Then the old monk gave them both goblets, and Simon tasted his wine with pleasure. An excellent vintage, strong and fruity; meanwhile de Courtenay peered into his own goblet with an expression of doubt.
As soon as they were alone again, de Courtenay shook his head. ‘I am sorry about that old fool. The churl has little in his head any more. I am sure the vindictive old brute
watered this wine. It’s like piss!’
Simon hurriedly agreed, pulling a face, before de Courtenay could think of taking a taste of his own jug. ‘Why did you ask me to come here?’
De Courtenay looked at him for a long period without speaking. Then he set his goblet on the table beside him and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. Motioning towards another stool, he waited until Simon was seated.
‘Since poor Abbot Robert has gone to a happier place, it will be up to the brothers here to elect a new abbot. There must be a vote early in the new year. Now when that happens, naturally I shall be selected. There is no one else who can lead our little community. And yet there are one or two misguided fellows here who might seek to prevent my taking my proper place in the abbey. They could try to put another in my stead, if you can believe it!’
Simon could very easily believe it. ‘That has nothing to do with me, though.’
‘Not directly, no. But I remember you from when we were lads. You always followed your father, and he was a good, loyal servant. How is he?’
‘Dead these last nine years,’ Simon said shortly.
‘Amazing. Still, you’d want to continue in his footsteps, wouldn’t you?’
‘How exactly do you expect me to do that?’ Simon asked warily.
‘There is one brother here who could be a threat to me … the fool Busse. Robert Busse. He is not a serious contender, of course. I mean, I’m the son of a baron, and he?’ He gave a dismissive shrug and wave of his hand. ‘No. No one in their right mind would vote for him. And yet he’s a crafty old devil. Perhaps he might threaten some, or bribe others. You never can be sure with that devious old … anyway, I want someone to keep an eye on him.’
‘Wait! You are asking me to spy on a brother of yours? I cannot wander about the abbey trailing after this fellow. I am no brother.’
‘Calm yourself. I merely want you to go with him when he leaves to visit Bishop Stapledon. All it will involve is travelling with him to protect him on his way, and then ensuring that no danger comes to him – or me – when he reaches the city.’
‘No. Now, if you do not object, I shall leave and visit my wife. I haven’t seen her in some weeks.’
‘Wait one moment, Bailiff.’ John de Courtenay’s voice was as smooth as a moleskin. ‘Before you decide to rush off in a sanguine humour because I have requested that you help me in this matter, you should be aware of something.’
‘What?’
‘You do not like me, Master Bailiff. I know that. You and I have never been particularly close. Do not protest! Please, we are both sensible men. I am frivolous and enjoy the trivial. Yes. However, I do serve Our Lord, and I am determined to do all I may to succour the souls of the people who live here. Not all monks are like that. I know some who would be happy to leave their paths of service and instead follow the path of knowledge. Some are so determined to learn as much as they may that they have left the sensible courses of learning and sought out more … curious routes to knowledge.’
Simon stood. ‘I have no part in the election of the next abbot, and want nothing to do with it.’
‘What? Money wouldn’t tempt you?’
‘I shall take my leave,’ Simon said coldly. He had never been open to bribery.
‘Simon, I was only teasing. It is my habit, when I am anxious, to be light about my concerns. Look: sit a moment and listen. Please?’
He waited until Simon was seated once more, and then turned to the parchment on the table baside him. His eyes were floating over the words, and Simon had the impression that he was reading from it as he spoke.
‘I know some little of Busse. He is a man of lowly birth. Did you know that? I have learned that he was the son of a priest, a man called Master Robert de Yoldeland. That was how he acquired his Christian name. His surname came from his mother, a concubine of his father’s called Joan Busse. He is not the sort of man we want as abbot here, Simon.’
‘I have always found him to be a fair and sensible man,’ Simon said coldly.
‘Would you say that if you thought that he had made use of a magician? That he was asking someone to use maleficia to help him become abbot?’
Simon shivered. Everyone knew of sorcerers and witches – maleficus and malefica – who could use their evil spells to harm others or cause benefits to accrue. Some would use a witch to win a woman’s love, while others would seek a sorcerer to help enhance their prospects.
‘I see from your expression that you have as much liking for such people as I do, Simon. Aye, well, Busse has been using a necromancer. He has already made enquiry of Master Richard de Langatre. You know of him? He is the chief fortune-teller in Exeter. Busse came here from Lincoln. They say he consulted unclean and malignant spirits while he was there. Do you really think he would make a better abbot than me? Even the most biased fellow must wonder whether he would be a safe and sensible master of a place such as this … a place constructed to save souls and protect the people of the area. Simon, you must follow him. I need a man who is responsible, and I can think of no better man than the son of my father’s own best and most faithful steward.’
Chapter Four
Exeter City
The traveller had reached a tavern early on to try to get some heat into his bones. He had a simple requirement, now he was here: to find as many as possible of the materials he would need to continue with his experiments.
Here he was, a master of the secret arts, and he was constrained by the lack of simple tools. It was infuriating. He had money, he had the knowledge, and yet he still lacked those basic requisites. Even a piss-swilling brewer had them, but not he. Not just now.
He had the one, of course. Cautiously, from beneath his robe he brought out the small bone needle. It was perfect: smooth, thin, elegant and ideal. There were other items he needed, though: sickle, wax and linen would be easy to find … but the daggers, the hat, the other bits and pieces, would be harder to procure. And of course he would need peace in which to pray and fast and prepare mentally for the task. Ideally he ought to have a servant, but that was too much to hope for. That had been made clear.
It was as he reached this conclusion that he saw the two lurching inside. Plainly the pair of them had already enjoyed a good evening, and they were ready to continue a little longer, until they fell down in a drunken stupor. Well, so much the better. If only he weren’t staying here, he would be happy to go to them and slip his dagger between the ribs of the younger one. One good turn deserves another, he mused as he turned to his drink.
Their conversation was loud, as such conversations often are, and he could hear snatches.
‘You ought to come back to my place, Jamie. It’s not far from here. Walter would like to see you again.’
‘I wouldn’t want to see him, though …’
There was some quieter murmuring, then: ‘Come on, Jamie, let him be. He’s no worse than me.’
‘I remember what he used to do.’
‘That’s a long while ago.’
‘Not long enough.’
For all the brashness of the younger man, this Jamie could plainly hold his ale better than his companion.
‘And besides, I must be off in the morning. I have urgent messages for my master,’ he said with a significant tap at the pouch on his belt.
And at that moment, John of Nottingham glanced up and saw Jamie’s eye on him, and he felt a lurch in his belly to think that he could be discovered so easily.
Wednesday, Morrow of St Edmund’s Day5
Exeter City
It was cold, a freezing night, and thoroughly miserable for a watchman.
Of those who spent their nights pacing the territory trying to ensure that, so far as was possible, draw-latches and robbers were prevented from plying their trade and the rest of the population could sleep easily in their beds, all had their own lists of the worst kind of weather. For Will, his list had once been topped by the autumnal showers that drifted over the city every so often. They would appear
from nowhere, and in moments he would be drenched. There was something almost unnatural about them, the way that with just a mild breeze behind them they could seep through even a leather jack and leave a man sodden and uncomfortable. Yes, in the past he had hated those nights more than any other. The cold hadn’t bothered him.
Now, though, as the years went by, he had learned to detest the ice that came with weather like this. He was that little bit older, and whereas in the past he had been able to avoid slipping on frozen cobbles, now he was wary of anything that could unbalance him. He was not so secure on his feet as once he had been.
‘Evening, Thomas.’
‘Will.’
Thomas atte Moor had a brazier going to keep him from joining the puddles all about here and becoming iced. He was a younger man, perhaps only four-and-thirty, so but half Will’s age, but even one so young could be chilled to the core in this weather. Set to guard the body Will had found yesterday, the last thing he wanted was to be stuck outside in this weather, but when the coroner commanded, only a fool would disobey. Especially this coroner!
Leaving Thomas, Will went on to the end of the alley. Here he was almost at the South Gate. The alley opened out to show the pile of rubbish which was waiting to be cleared just in front of the Church of Holy Trinity, the mound lying almost against the wall.
A hog had been rootling in the heap, and as Will watched it shoved with its short, stubby snout at the pile, hauling at something. Will was just eyeing it speculatively, wondering whether, if he killed it, he could persuade a butcher at the shambles to help him joint and sell it for a share of the profit, when he caught sight of a flash of blue. It was strange to see a piece of material in among all the rubbish left out there, most of it ancient food and rubble. After all, cloth was expensive. A watchman could hardly afford to see it thrown away.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 5
