The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Why should he have travelled along that alley? Do you know?’ Baldwin asked.

  Her face fractured again, and her mouth was drawn down into an upturned bow. She closed her eyes, but then opened them again, and now there was an angry glitter in them. ‘Those bitches over the way have been saying he was going to the stews, to visit the draggle-tails in their brothels – but, sir, he wouldn’t have. He never did before. Always home here, he was, as soon as he left the tavern. You ask any of the men there. They’ll all vouch for him. He was as honest as a man could be.’

  Baldwin nodded soothingly, but he was not convinced. Many a man, in his experience, would find it easy enough to go and see a doxy after too many ales. His courage would increase with proportion to the ales drunk, and all fear of consequences – the pox – would disappear until morning.

  She saw his doubt. ‘It is true, he never used to go to them. I gave him all he needed.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies? Did he owe money to anyone?’

  ‘Bless you, sir! He was successful. A better provider I could never meet. He always had money for us. That was how we could afford this house.’

  ‘So he never worried about money?’

  ‘No. Only that day he had made plenty of money. He was off to the tavern to celebrate.’

  ‘But when he was found, his purse was gone.’

  ‘I know. And we needed that money without him.’ She sniffed. Then she shrugged resignedly. There would be many more disappointments in the years ahead, she knew.

  ‘We have heard that he used to wear a bone brooch, too. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A great circle of antler, it was, with a long, thin pin to secure it. A lovely piece of his work.’

  ‘But not something which could easily be sold on?’

  ‘Bless you, no! Anyone who saw it would know it was my Norman’s.’

  It was late that afternoon that Simon and his companions arrived at the West Gate. Weary and hungry, the three rode up Stepecote Street towards Carfoix at the centre. Simon intended to see that Busse was delivered safely to the cathedral, and then he would find a place to rest, while he tried to work out how on earth he could keep an eye on the man as John de Courtenay had asked. At the moment, he had no idea whatsoever how he might be able to do that.

  The sun was already low in the west behind them, and the token warmth it gave was already a memory as they reached the Fissand Gate and asked the doorkeeper to let them through. Soon they were in the close, and could release their horses to wander and crop the grass. Rob was left with them while Simon and Richard Busse walked stiffly towards the bishop’s palace.

  ‘I am most grateful to you, Bailiff, for your efforts on my behalf,’ Busse said.

  Simon nodded absently. ‘Are you going straight away to see my lord the bishop?’

  ‘I must. It would scarcely be right to leave him all unknowing that I have arrived, and I wish to give thanks for our safe delivery.’

  Simon nodded again, but wondered whether he ought to try to stay with Busse even as he spoke to the bishop. John de Courtenay had made it clear that he wanted Busse watched at all times, but he could scarcely expect Simon to be able to listen in to every confidential discussion Busse had even with Bishop Walter. That was stretching things too far.

  Busse’s next words solved his little dilemma. ‘Why do you not come with me, Bailiff? You should also make your presence known.’ Thus it was that Simon and the brother were soon in the bishop’s palace, while Rob dealt with the horses and saw to their effects.

  Sitting at the bishop’s table in his hall, Simon felt the anxiety of the last day slipping away. In its place was a marvellous somnolence. As Bishop Walter spoke to Busse, Simon drank some of the strong wine with which they had been plied as soon as they entered, and knew it was having its effect. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy in the wonderful heat, and his head started to tip forward without his being able to prevent it. With a jerk, he drew himself up again, and took a deep swallow of wine to try to waken himself, but the result was not as he intended. He felt his chin fall to his breast, and then he had a struggle to keep his eyes open. Only when he felt his hand slip from his lap to begin its journey towards the floor, with his goblet of wine still in his fist, did he lurch upright again.

  ‘Do we keep you awake?’ the bishop asked, but not angrily.

  ‘This good bailiff kept us all alive,’ Busse said eagerly. ‘My lord, he was able to construct a shelter in the midst of the storm, and with that and a little fire he kept us healthy. It was a miracle, out there in the wilds.’

  ‘This is true?’ the bishop enquired, his head tilted as he peered somewhat short-sightedly at Simon.

  ‘Our passage took us longer than it should have,’ Simon mumbled. ‘We had to halt up near Scorhill in the woods there. Otherwise we could have been caught in the open, and we would have died.’

  ‘I owe you my thanks, then,’ Stapledon said. ‘It would have been a great loss to Tavistock were this excellent brother to have perished.’

  ‘I did my best,’ Simon said.

  ‘Good. I have rooms set aside for you all – but, Bailiff, your good friend the knight of Furnshill is here in the city. Would you prefer to join him at his inn?’

  After a short discussion it was agreed that Simon and Rob would take rooms with Baldwin, and the bishop sent a message to the innkeeper to make a room ready.

  Then, ‘So, Brother Robert,’ the bishop said, turning back to the monk. ‘Will you need anything from me while you are here?’

  ‘No, my Lord Bishop. All I need is a few little items, and a consultation. When that is all done, I shall be returning to Tavistock. However, if the good bailiff doesn’t mind, I think that I may ask to return by the slower, but perhaps more reliable, route, over past Crediton, and thence to Okehampton and Tavistock.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to consider that, eh, Bailiff?’

  Simon opened his eyes and looked at the kindly bishop. ‘Yes. Yes, of course, Bishop.’

  What sort of consultation did Busse need, he wondered.

  John of Nottingham returned to his small chamber as darkness fell in the alley outside.

  It was a peculiar little twilit world, this. The sun was long over the horizon before it could make any impact here in the alley. The buildings opposite were only two storeys high, but that was enough to blank off the sun most effectively in the mornings. By the time it had struggled over them, it was already close to noon. And then the full daylight lasted for a mere hour or so, before the sun had traversed the alley and moved back towards the west. All that could be seen down here was a narrow gap of blue high overhead between the jettied upper levels of the houses.

  But that was all good for John. He liked the dark. The anonymity which he craved was here, and the result was effectual safety. Nobody who would want to harm him ever came down this way, and if they did, they would be hard pushed to find him, search however diligently they might.

  In the chamber, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of dampness, and then set to lighting his candles. He had some old tinder, which he struck his flint over, and by God’s good grace, after only ten strikes, he had a spark alight. Wrapping the tinder within a handful of dry wood chips, he blew steadily until a flame appeared, and then it was only a matter of lighting the first of the many candles. Taking it up, he walked about the room, lighting all the tapers and rushlights, and when he was done he set the candle on his table, and reached for the image.

  It was good. There was no doubt about that. The crown was a perfect symbol to guide the demon to the king. There was only the one king, after all. John’s prayers would make that clear enough even to the most simple of demons. Setting that aside, he set himself to crafting the next man. This one and his father were hard. One was large and heavily paunched, while his son was taller and slim, strong and powerful. It was frustrating, and after working on them for a while he set them aside to form the fourth man.

  This was easy enough: he had to fashion
the correct features first, but that was no trouble to the necromancer. He had seen this man’s face often enough in the last few days when he had gone to celebrate mass. The clothing was easy. Clerical robes were long and designed to be practical, rather than objects of fashion. The hat was easy too, of course. A mitre was no trouble to a man like him. And as he worked, he felt sure that the stooping appearance was perfect. The way that the mommet peered from narrowed eyes caught the essence of the fellow perfectly. Before he came to Exeter, the last time John had seen him had been when he had been walking the streets of London after attending a meeting of financiers, and John had almost been knocked down by the man’s henchmen as they cleared the road for his passage. Stapledon had not even glanced in John’s direction as he walked on, his eyes set into that little frown as he tried to focus on the way ahead.

  Soon he would be finished, and the bishop could take his place beside the model of the king.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Exeter City

  The coroner had left Baldwin soon after they walked from Madam Mucheton’s house, muttering about having to go and ensure that the inquests were properly recorded. Meanwhile Baldwin had walked slowly and musingly along the street up to the Carfoix, where he stopped and looked about him.

  This was a strange, bustling city. Baldwin had been to many European cities in his life, and most were similar: noisy, boisterous places, filled with excitable people who were devoted to making themselves a little more money every day. It did not matter whether they were traders, merchants, hucksters, whores or thieves, all had the same motive: to win money from another.

  Exeter had impressed him from the first time he had seen the city. It was spacious, secure within its walls, and for the most part filled with good, righteous people. But one man he could never bring himself to trust was the most senior in rank: the sheriff.

  Sir Matthew de Crowethorne was a politician, and Baldwin detested those who put politics above all else. Sheriffs were notorious for their corruption, but there was something about Sir Matthew that struck Baldwin as worse.

  All sheriffs would occasionally misuse their powers. Some did it to take money – in bribes, or even in corrupt handling of legal cases, charging money to release known felons. Others would not require direct financial gain: they committed their crimes to demonstrate their loyalty to or support for a lord. There were many sheriffs who were in the pocket of the Despenser family.

  This Sir Matthew was certainly happy to take money in return for favours, so far as Baldwin had heard, but he was also keen to leave this city and make a name for himself in the king’s court. Not for him the daily trudge about the city performing his ceremonial and legal duties. Better by far to recline on a seat in the king’s household, drinking and farting with the rest of them. The decadence of the king’s court was almost legendary. The trouble with such a man was, he could not be trusted in Baldwin’s estimation. Most men would be keen to behave as their pockets dictated, moving with the whim of their financial advantage, but Sir Matthew was not like that. He would be more likely to consider any decision with a view to how it might impact on the Despensers and, accordingly, how his prospects might be improved by judicious leaking of information to the king.

  Baldwin frowned. There was still no connection, so far as he could see, between the murders of Mucheton and the messenger. It was possible, perhaps, that he was mistaken to jump to the conclusion that simply because the two men had died on successive nights, and their bodies had been discovered so close to each other, they must have been victims of the same killer. Perhaps he would be better served by considering both deaths as individual and reviewing them in that light.

  It was not good for him to wander the streets like this, though. He craved peace, and just now he craved above all his wife Jeanne. Being apart from her was … unsettling. Curious, because in past years he would not have thought it possible that he might so swiftly grow dependent upon a woman. He had desired them, yes, but would never have thought that one could so entirely win over his heart. That was a surprise.

  And yet perhaps it was not just Jeanne – it was also this situation. It worried him that the bishop appeared so determined to have Baldwin sent to the next parliament, that Walter Stapledon was so keen to see him thrown into the bear pit of national politics. Baldwin wished to have nothing to do with the affairs of the realm. He was a contented rural knight, when all was said and done. Others sought glory and power, but not he. He wished to be left alone to manage his estates. That and a little hunting was all he craved. There was nothing better in life, he believed.

  He recalled the bloody stumps where fingers had been cut from that dead messenger’s hand. Could they have borne rings? Might a man have detached the finger to gain access to a bauble of some kind? Or was the man simply being tortured for some reason – to say where he had money kept back, or perhaps to explain what he held in his pouch: which was the most valuable message? After all, Baldwin knew already that there was one important message in the pouch of the nuncius. The bishop had hinted as much. If the bishop were offering advice to the king that could be construed as disadvantageous to the king’s friends, or his wife, perhaps, either of them could be provoked into attacking Bishop Walter himself.

  Which meant that a fellow who sought advancement, someone who knew of the bishop’s note, could easily betake himself to acquire it and sell it to the highest bidder.

  But why harm the messenger? Perhaps because there was a verbal appendix to the note itself? Suddenly Baldwin felt close to an answer.

  Simon was already halfway through his second quart of ale when he heard the booming voice out in the road. He paused, his jug near his chin, mouth partly opened as he listened, and when his ears told him for certain who it was outside, he closed his eyes in silent despair. He waited, listening intently as the coroner spoke. Every word was as clear as if he was standing in the room next to Simon, and the bailiff gained the impression that Sir Richard’s voice could quell any other sound and force it to submit.

  ‘Have the bodies seen to. There’s no point leaving a corpse lying in the street leaking blood and guts all over the place, is there?’

  There was a mumble in response, and then a guffaw. ‘You think the poor fellow would give a piss for that? Dear Christ in heaven, I know he’s dressed in a good suit. The watchman wants his suit? Tell him he can have it – but it belongs to the king, and if he wants to argue the toss with the king, he is welcome to do so. It’s none of my concern. The clothes are off him, anyway, so have them set aside in case the king feels a need for them, but I’d give the king a fortnight to decide. If your man doesn’t hear, perhaps he could take them without trouble. Still, have the messenger wrapped in some good linen and have him taken to the church nearest. They can look to him … no, better than that, have him delivered to the care of my lord bishop. The fellow was carrying a message from Bishop Walter, so I’m sure the good bishop would want to see to the man’s body as best he might … WHAT? Speak UP, man! D’you think I can hear you when you squeak like a mouse? Who’s to pay? EH? How do I know? Ask the good bishop to pay for the linen if the city won’t. Not my concern, is it?’

  With the rattle at the latch, Simon felt his heart sink even as he heard the voice roar aloud, ‘BLESS MY CODS! Bailiff Puttock! Now there’s a sight to cheer the heart of a thirsty man in the desert!’

  Baldwin had not enjoyed a fruitful afternoon.

  Upon leaving the widow and Sir Richard, he had decided to seek other necromancers in the city, but had met with no success. Rather than speak to the sheriff or his men, he had sought out the beadle. At Langatre’s house he had met young Ivo Trempole guarding the house, who had given him some names, but he looked dubious when Baldwin began to talk about maleficium.

  ‘If there was a man like that, I’d have heard,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Folks here wouldn’t have much to do with a man who tried that kind of thing.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But if there were someone he
re, perhaps he could keep his arts secret?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ivo agreed, but without conviction.

  Baldwin soon had a list of three men to talk to, but although two admitted to telling the future, and one asserted that he could perform certain veterinary functions for cows with sore udders or horses with colic, all looked blank when asked about more advanced magic. Either they were very good at acting, or there were no men in Exeter who actively sought such assistance, Baldwin thought.

  The third of these had lived a little farther down the road from Langatre’s house, and as he passed by, he saw Ivo Trempole again.

  ‘Any fortune?’ Ivo asked when he caught Baldwin’s eye.

  ‘None, I fear,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I was thinking …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, if there was someone in the town, we’d have learned about him. People always spot someone nearby who’s doing strange things.’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. After walking about the city all afternoon learning that no one knew anything that could help him, he was in no hurry to be told that he had been on a wild goose chase. He moved to walk away. Even Sir Richard’s company was preferable to this.

  ‘It occurred to me, though, that perhaps this man, if there is one, isn’t a local? Perhaps it’s someone who’s only recently come to the city.’ Catching sight of Baldwin’s expression, he apologised quickly. ‘I’m sorry, sir knight. It was silly. I was just thinking …’

  ‘No – you are quite right. This could so easily be someone who has only recently come to the city. It would explain much. But …’ His face grew more lugubrious as he considered the problem. ‘How would I learn whether there was anyone who had recently come to the city and might practise the magical arts?’

  Ivo screwed up his face. ‘I’d speak to the keepers of the gates. They ought to know if there were any real strangers coming in. They know the regular visitors, like those who supply the markets, and they’d be sure to notice strangers. Try old Hal at the South Gate. That’s the main way into the city for anyone usually.’