The fogs could appear from nowhere, and when they came down a man was hard pressed to know anything: the compass, his direction, even whether he was going up-or downhill. It was disorientating to be so completely lost, and for a lad as young as he had been, perhaps only nine years or so, quite scary.
Ever since then, he always took more clothing and provisions than he thought he might need when he crossed the moors. Usually there was no problem for him. After all, he knew all the miners and where they lived, so in the worst case he could usually find someone to provide him with a refuge, but every so often, like today, that was not possible. And here he was now in a rude shelter with two others who had little experience of such affairs.
Rob’s feet looked all right in the firelight, although Simon would be happier when he had checked them again in the morning, but he was anxious enough about the lad to give him his thicker blanket and his spare riding cloak for protection. Rob wearily crawled into the shelter, and Simon could see him wrapping himself up before resting his head on a thick pile of leaves. In a short space of time there was regular snoring from inside.
‘You are a very capable man,’ Busse observed after a few moments.
‘A man does what he must. Only a fool is unprepared on the moors.’
‘I can quite understand why the good Abbot Robert, bless his memory, put so much trust in you.’
‘I am grateful, but I have done nothing that any other Devon man used to the moors would not have done.’
‘Do not belittle your skills, my friend. It is plain to me that you see and understand much about this land. More than most.’
Simon shrugged. ‘I have spent a lot of time on the moors since I was a child.’
‘I have been spending as much time up here as I can since I arrived too, of course, but I’ve only been here – what? maybe twelve, thirteen years? I have nothing like your experience.’
‘Yes, well, you are a monk. You can hardly expect to gather as much knowledge about the moors as someone who’s worked on them for as long as me,’ Simon said uncomfortably. After all he had heard from John de Courtenay, he didn’t feel he could trust this man, no matter that he had such an apparently amiable disposition, or that his behaviour so far had given Simon no reason to mistrust him.
‘What would you like to do when the new abbot is installed?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. From all I’ve seen of you, you aren’t a man suited to sitting in a customs house and counting coins. When you are in the town, you have an appearance of frustration, as though you want to be away, but here … here you look like a man in his element.’
Simon had to control himself. It was too tempting to let his jaw drop. No one else had ever noticed his irritation and dissatisfaction with the job in Dartmouth, he was sure. ‘I certainly like the moors,’ he said cautiously.
‘So I always believed! I never thought you were ideal for the post of keeper of the port. So, if I were to become abbot, would you prefer me to put you back up here as bailiff? It is entirely up to you, but if you wish it, let me know and I’ll do what I can.’
‘Do you think you will win the election?’
Busse was blowing on his hands. Now he stopped and held them to the fire, looking away from Simon as he did so. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, and he smiled faintly as he spoke.
‘Oh, don’t listen to what others say, Bailiff. Just because a man is born to a noble family doesn’t mean that he is himself very noble. I know the sort of rumour that brother John has been spreading against me, and I will not allow it to upset me. Better, I think, for me to behave as a real monk should, and continue to perform my duties to the best of my ability, rather than sinking to low political rumour-mongering.’
‘I didn’t mean …’ Simon began, distressed to think that he had been so transparent.
‘Of course you did, and you would be right to worry about me, too. If I were to become the new abbot, and if I were a thief or an untrustworthy soul in any way, I would merit caution from any man. Naturally. But I say this, Bailiff,’ and now he turned and faced Simon, still with the little smile on his lips, but with shrewd, serious eyes, ‘I say this: I am no liar, fraud or thief. I seek only to do the best I may for the abbey and for God. I have no other interests. However, I am driven by one consideration, one motivation that urges me on with ever greater determination.’
Simon nodded. ‘And that is?’
‘Dear God in heaven! To keep that blasted idiot de Courtenay out of it, of course! You know how the abbey was when Abbot Robert was first elected?’
Simon could smile at that. Abbot Robert had taken on an abbey that was collapsing under its debts. His first act had been to borrow money to maintain the fabric of the place. And now? At his death it was probably the wealthiest institution in the whole of Devon.
‘Precisely. The abbey is safe for now – but if brother John takes on the abbacy, how long would that last? He would spend all he could on his wine and his hunting. Under him, I could imagine Tavistock having the best bloodlines of every rache, alaunt and rounsey in the country, but no money to buy candles or bread! God forbid that that spendthrift and fool should ever be in charge of the place.’
A little while later, he apologised to Simon, but begging the age of his bones and his inexperience of such long days he crawled into the shelter and rolled himself up in his own blanket, close to Rob.
It was hard to know what was best to do in these circumstances, Simon told himself. De Courtenay had been right when he told Simon that Simon had a loyalty to the family. His father had been so devoted, it was hard for Simon to consider being even remotely disloyal. And yet Busse had hit the nail on the head when he spoke about the man’s interests. Simon didn’t know de Courtenay intimately, but he was quite sure that the man would be an unmitigated disaster if he was responsible for the abbey’s finances.
However, as he crawled backwards into the shelter, his blanket and cloak in his hands, as he wrapped himself up in them and closed his eyes, all he could see was Busse’s calm, affable face offering him the chance of throwing over life in Dartmouth and returning here, to the moors he loved. He could live with his wife again in Lydford, see their daughter, see his little son growing …
For that he would support any contender, no matter what John de Courtenay felt.
Exeter Castle
The sheriff’s chamber at the castle was a small, comfortable affair, but there was nothing kindly or welcoming in the sheriff’s expression as Baldwin and the coroner entered, Langatre behind them.
‘I hear you released this man? On what grounds?’
‘Sir Matthew, it is delightful to meet you again,’ Coroner Richard declared.
‘And you. What is the meaning of releasing this man when I had ordered him arrested and brought here?’ He had stood now, and walked past the two knights to stand staring at the wilting Langatre.
Baldwin glanced at Sir Richard, but he could see that the coroner was as bemused as he by this display of anger. ‘You had a man ordered arrested on the basis that he had killed his servant. After a brief investigation, it was clear not only that he had not killed his servant, but that he was himself the victim of a fierce assault, and would have died were it not for the fact that he defended himself with vigour.’
‘And he convinced you of that, did he?’
‘Show him your neck, lad,’ Coroner Richard rumbled.
Langatre obediently lifted his hands to his throat, but the sheriff knocked them away.
‘I don’t care what fatuous evidence you have given these two good knights. I know who you are and what you do, man. I won’t have your kind in this county, and for now I want you held in my gaol until the little matter of your guilt or innocence has been confirmed to my satisfaction. Take him down, sergeant!’
Baldwin protested. ‘Sheriff, this man is innocent. You cannot seriously believe that he could have killed his servant. I have seen the scene myself, and it accords in every detail with this man’s evid
ence. If you hold him here, the people in his road will assume that he is guilty, and his life will become impossible.’
The sheriff watched his sergeant ungently pulling the shocked Langatre through the door and closing it after them. ‘You may feel that this is unjust, Sir Baldwin, but it’s only the latest in a series of insanities, so far as I am concerned. However, I have a writ from the king himself demanding that people such as this Langatre should be arrested and presented to him.’
‘Where is this writ?’ Sir Richard grated.
The sheriff looked at him with surprise – although Baldwin was not sure whether it was because the coroner had questioned his veracity, or merely that he didn’t think the coroner could read. Whatever the reason, he had soon pulled out a small parchment with the king’s seal broken on it. He passed the small cylinder to Sir Richard, who unrolled it, his eyes all the while on the sheriff, as though doubting that the man was safe.
‘Good God in heaven!’
‘Yes,’ the sheriff said. ‘Dated the sixth of November at Westminster.’
‘What does it say?’ Baldwin asked at last, frustrated beyond tolerance.
‘There has been an attempt on the life of the king and the Despensers. All those who could have had anything to do with it are to be held.’
‘You say that this pathetic little man who pretends to be able to make magic – that this little fellow might be involved in assassinating the king?’ Baldwin asked.
‘According to the king’s messenger, the dead man, the fellow responsible for this attempt to assassinate them was a man called John of Nottingham, who was living in Coventry at the time,’ the sheriff admitted. ‘But that does not mean others were not themselves involved.’
‘You mean even a man so far away as here in Exeter?’ Baldwin said, and chuckled.
‘You find it amusing?’
‘I find the idea that you could think him guilty very amusing!’
‘Langatre had sold his services to many clients. He is known to conjure spirits to tell him the future, as well as summoning demons to do his bidding.’
‘And yet an assassin could almost have his head off with a string?’
‘There is little to laugh about,’ the sheriff said. He took the parchment from Sir Richard’s hand. ‘This message was delivered, ordering me to arrest those who could have had a part in a magical attempt on the lives of the king and his favourite companions, and a short while later the messenger was found throttled. That, to me, seems a great coincidence. And in matters of the law, I don’t like coincidences, Sir Baldwin. Especially when they affect my lord the king.’
Chapter Sixteen
Exeter City
Walter drew a large jug from the barrel of strong ale at the rear of his buttery, and poured two pottery drinking horns full. Passing one to Robinet, he lifted his own and they clashed them, the ale inside splashing about and spattering the floor.
Drinking deeply, Walter eyed his old friend over the brim. ‘So, come, now. What is all this about? Who’d want to kill that youngster?’
‘I don’t know. He wasn’t known here in Exeter.’
‘He was hardly known anywhere, was he?’
‘This way, no. He tended to get the circuits north of London, rather than the longer ones westwards.’
Both men knew how the messengers tended to work. There were two groups: the nuncii regis and the cursores. The former were the men on horseback, the latter the men on foot. Both would cover the same distance in a day, about thirty-five miles, because a man with a horse would have to allow the beast a certain amount of rest, while a man on foot could keep going all day.
‘Was he booted or horsed when you knew him?’
‘When he was under my wing, he was mostly on horseback. He didn’t start out like me.’
‘Those fellows have it too easy,’ Walter said, refilling their horns. After another toast, he glared at the floor thoughtfully.
‘It is strange for a messenger to be harmed in any way whatever. You know that.’
‘Aye, I do. I’ve only heard of one being molested, and that was by the Scots, I think.’
‘Few would dare cause such offence to the king himself.’
‘Yet someone did.’
Newt nodded, and leaned his elbows on his thighs. ‘What is odd is that when I woke up this morning, I was in a small stable, and my knife was beslobbered with dried blood.’
‘He bled?’
‘I heard he was strangled, but later stabbed as though to make sure. And someone had cut off a finger or two.’
Walter scowled. ‘This grows more and more unpleasant.’ Yes, confusing. The messenger was a pathetic little fellow – he’d seen him with Newt on that first day, when he walked straight into Newt. Walter wasn’t impressed by the fact that he stood up to Newt. That could well have been terror rather than courage. Walter had seen it before, with men who were startled. When they reacted, they could sometimes behave as though bold as a knight in a tournament, when in truth they were simply acting.
Newt shook his head. ‘There’s something about this. He didn’t deserve it. He screwed me, I know, but he didn’t deserve to be throttled and left out there.’
‘No one does, Newt. No one ever does,’ Walter said, and his eyes were black wells of memory as he spoke.
It was very late when they returned to the Suttonsysyn, and the innkeeper was not welcoming, but the coroner made full use of his size and anger, and soon they had a table in a quiet corner with a jug of the inn’s best ale and two large cups, while a servant was sent to see what food was still available.
‘What do you think?’ Baldwin said as soon as they were alone.
‘Me? That prickle has something on his mind. This is nothing to do with the poor sod found dead, or I’m not from Welles. Ballocks to that! No, the blasted idiot thinks that he can gain advantage with the king if he holds that poor dolt, and if the good sheriff sees profit in it, he’ll do it. I know him of old.’
‘So do I, and I hate to think that I might one day be at his mercy,’ Baldwin said. ‘If there has truly been an attempt on the king’s life, and that of his … friend, then you may be assured that our little necromancer here will be sent to the king.’
‘I would not reckon his chances, were he to be sent before the Despenser, not if it’s true that the Despenser thought his life had been endangered by a magician,’ Sir Richard said.
‘I think not,’ Baldwin said, with a sense of inner relief. It was always a fearsome thing to talk openly to another about the king and his favourite. The rumour was that the King and Despenser were lovers, but that could well have been nonsense. However, the power and authority of Despenser was something that could not be forgotten. He had a long arm, and an infinite ability for hatred, so Baldwin had heard. Merely discussing him was hazardous, for if another overheard their conversation, and they were derogatory about him, he could be expected to seek them out. And Despenser did not seek mere punishment: he sought to destroy his enemies and take all their treasure for his own, impoverishing the families for ever.
‘Of course, it is none of our business,’ the coroner muttered. ‘We were asked to help investigate the murder of a king’s messenger.’
‘Why were you here?’ Baldwin asked. Coroner Richard was not usually in Exeter. He hailed from Lifton.
‘The Sheriff asked me here for a case before the Justices of Gaol Delivery, and when the body was found I was asked to come and view it. I suppose it was known that I was a coroner for the king’s estate, so it was fitting that I should hold inquest on a king’s messenger.’
‘So it was known that he was a nuncius regis before you had even come to view him?’
‘No … at least, no one told me. I realised he was a messenger when I saw him – no one warned me that he was.’
‘Whereas I happened to be here in the town, so the bishop thought to engage me to help him,’ Baldwin mused. ‘It is peculiar that he should seek to ask me to aid you.’
‘Means the man t
hought the theft of this roll could be embarrassing either to the Church or to him personally.’
‘What could be so embarrassing, I wonder?’
‘Be careful that your wonderings don’t catch you out!’ Coroner Richard laughed drily. ‘You know what they say: if you wish for something too much, you might just win it … and live to regret it! This thing must be something of great importance to the bishop, whether it involves national or Church matters. Either way, if you learn what is in the roll, you will surely come to regret the fact!’
‘We must find the roll. That is the charge laid upon us.’
‘Aye. But if we want to learn what has happened to that, we have to find the murderer of the messenger. The man who killed and mutilated him must know about the thing.’
‘I wonder. I wonder.’ Baldwin sat with his chin cupped in the palm of his hand as he stared at the dying embers of the fire.
‘I should think that the fellow was most likely unfortunate, that he ran into some desperate footpad, and was killed.’
Baldwin slowly raised his eyes and stared at him. ‘You believe that? This messenger was caught by a stranger who knew nothing about him, was held, had his finger cut off, and was then throttled while he scrabbled, even with his mutilated hand, to save himself? And then, when the murderer had concealed his body and rested, he went to that necromancer’s house and killed his servant in an attempt to kill Langatre too?’
‘Think of the alternative, Baldwin,’ the coroner said quietly, leaning forward and meeting Baldwin’s serious stare. ‘The alternative to this being an unfortunate mistake is that it was intentional. Someone knew that this messenger was carrying a secret, urgent roll that could seriously embarrass the bishop, if no one else. And then the same fellow went to the necromancer to execute him for some reason.’
‘That is how I read the riddle.’
‘It supposes that the young fool in the sheriff’s gaol had an insight into matters far above his station, Baldwin. It means that fool has an understanding of national or Church affairs. Can you really believe that?’
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 15
