There had been many things to be done, of course. Busse had managed to deal with many of the other brothers long before poor Abbot Robert, God save his soul, had died. He’d already won the agreement of Richard de Wylle (he would become prior under Busse); Roger de Pountyngdon (who would become sacristan); William de la Wille (almoner); Alexander … the list was endless. All had agreed, though, to vote for him at the election, rather than for de Courtenay.
But now he had just one last little task to ensure that all was done. He’d already checked with Langatre, and now he wanted to make sure once more. Just to see that his future was as secure as he thought it should be. Langatre was competent enough to read the signs for him. Not that it was necessary, of course. But it would make him a teeny bit more comfortable … John de Courtenay was a powerful man, after all. His father was a baron …
The roads were clearing now in the gathering dusk, and he could smell the delicious odour of cooking pies and meats as women prepared their last meals of the day. During the summer months, they would do so at this hour, and he somehow much preferred the summertime, and smelling the cooking in daylight. There was something wrong about the odours in the darkness, he always felt. When it was dark, people should be in their beds. God! As he ought to be now, he thought, pulling his robes tighter about him. The thought of rising for Matins was most unappealing. But Langatre was never about much during the day. He reckoned that most of his work was achieved in the dark, and slept for much of the morning. Probably a load of old guff, so far as Busse was concerned, but the man was a competent fortuneteller, so who cared. Let him think he was convincing. The main thing was, he helped clear Busse’s mind and allow him to think logically.
His path was in darkness, and he almost fell full-length at a loose cobble, but managed to save himself at the last moment. Still, it left his ankle giving him gip, and he hobbled the rest of the way.
Passing a man leaning against the wall, he nodded and absently made the sign of the cross, before walking to the door and knocking on it.
‘He’s not there, Father,’ the man said.
‘Hmm?’ Busse grunted enquiringly.
‘The man used to live there. He’s been taken by the sheriff’s men. Held up at the castle, so I heard. If you want to see him up there, you’d best pray your hardest. The sheriff’s not minded to let him have visitors, so I reckon!’
‘Langatre taken! Sweet Christ! Why?’
‘He’s been dabbling with evil magic, they say. Getting demons to obey his command. I heard tell that he’s been trying to kill men with waxen images. Maleficium!’ Elias said solemnly, as though it was a word he had known all his life, and not something he had heard for the first time that morning.
Busse muttered a hasty ‘Thank you. God speed!’ before turning and hastening as fast as his limp would allow, back up the road towards the cathedral. And all the way he could only think that God was sending him a sign. With his fortuneteller arrested and held for summoning demons, all of a sudden Busse felt that his plans were beginning to collapse about his ears.
He could have wept.
Exeter City
Baldwin was sure that this was the same boy. Yes, he had the same pale, rather unhealthy-looking face that he had glimpsed while standing over the dead messenger, and, as he eyed Art, Baldwin was impressed by just how shifty a lad in his late teens could appear.
There was none of the arrogant self-confidence he would have expected in a lad this young, only a kind of anxiousness. Baldwin had seen that in the faces of others: it was a natural result of someone’s realising that they were in the company of a man who, after the sheriff, was one of the most powerful in the country. Often, of course, the lads he met were those who had something to hide, he reminded himself, and wondered about Art. It was natural for a keeper to suspect everyone, though, and he tried to put his suspicions aside.
Apart from that, there was little else to impress. The boy was thin and would have been gangling, were it not for his bent back. It did not look like a hunch, but was more an affectation which appeared to be there to highlight his disgruntlement with the world. He had a pasty complexion enlivened by a small mountain region of yellow-headed spots about his mouth and chin, grey, watery-coloured eyes, and a shock of thin sandy hair that only served to emphasise his glowering demeanour.
‘All I wish is to see where you saw this man, and to hear what exactly you saw,’ Baldwin said soothingly as Hal left them, muttering darkly about being ‘not too big to be clipped hard round the ear if you’re cheeky …’ and similar dire warnings.
‘I didn’t see the one he’s telling about. Didn’t see anyone that side of the road. Anyway, doubt whether the old man did either. Silly old fart’s too pissed to see anything clearly. He prob’ly saw a dog in the shadows or something.’
‘Let us go and look, eh? Surely your eyes are keener than your father’s, and you will be able to tell me much more.’
‘Wouldn’t be hard,’ Art admitted grudgingly.
Baldwin was always being surprised by youngsters. Some could look as helpful and quick-witted as any, and then prove themselves tongue-tied by the sight of a knight, or more commonly by the sight of a woman, while others would be cocksure and a pain but then, when a posse was needed, the first to lift their hands to volunteer to help. They were also the first to get into a fight as well, though, sadly.
First impression aside, this fellow seemed bright enough. He wasn’t one of the nervous, overly self-aware boys who would retreat into a blushing shell at the first sign of an argument, but neither was he the sort who would respond with violence to any perceived threat. In short, he was moderately quick-witted. Baldwin had the feeling that anything the lad said would be trustworthy.
‘Your old man was drunk?’
‘Yeah. Usually is. He thinks I’m going to get into trouble if I go to an alehouse without him, so he always comes along. But he can’t handle his ale like he used to.’
‘No mother?’
Art squinted sideways at him. ‘She met a merchant, so they say, and left the city to be with him. Look at the old man. Not hard to see why.’
Baldwin nodded. It was depressing how often a woman could have her head turned by someone who was interested in a buxom breast or the length of a thigh. So often these fellows would ensnare a wench, then prod her and leave her, despairing, with a babe. At least Art’s mother appeared to have left with her man. Baldwin wondered whether he would have kept her, or had perhaps left her at the next city he visited. It had happened before.
‘What did you see that night, Art?’
‘We’d been in the tavern some while, and the old man had been throwing the stuff down his neck like it was gone out of fashion, so when I could, I grabbed him to take him home. He didn’t want to come, though. He was right pissed off,’ Art said. He was speaking slowly, musingly, as he walked, his face introverted, as though he could see the scene in his mind as he spoke. ‘I think it was that man – you know, Norman Mucheton. Dad’s not used to seeing things like that. It was a shitty sight. It was like his head was about to fall from his shoulders.’
‘You were all right about it, though?’ Baldwin said as a picture of the man’s body sprang into his mind.
‘Yeah. Seen a few corpses in my time. Well, you know. This is a city.’
‘Of course. What then?’
They had reached the little tavern now. A decaying holly bush was bound to a stake over the door to advertise its business, and Art glanced up as it squeaked. ‘We came out, and walked down back that way. Didn’t take long usually. Well, you’ve seen how near we are.’
Baldwin reckoned that they had walked a scant two hundred yards from the gate, but they had turned into a little alley to reach this place. The gate was hidden from view.
Art continued: ‘It was when we got into the road. Look, come up here …’ He led the way back along the alley, until only a few yards from South Gate Street. ‘Hereabouts, it was. The old man saw something down there on the right.
Shook, he did, and fair gave me a shock. Said it was a man, but when I looked there was nothing there.’
Baldwin walked to where the lad pointed. In the gloom, he could see little. There was a bundle or two of faggots lying at the foot of a wall, and the overhang from the jettied room overhead concealed anything else until Baldwin was right underneath. Gradually his eyes grew acclimatised, and he peered about him carefully. ‘Your father said the thing was where? Here?’
‘Yeah. A bit up that way.’
Moving to his right, Baldwin saw that the building here did not quite meet its neighbour. A gap of eighteen inches separated them. ‘Where does this go?’
‘Right along to the next alley. Why?’
‘I think your father was not so drunk as you imagine,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully.
Art gazed about at the alley. ‘You joking? You think there was some sort of …’
‘Not a ghost, not a demon, nothing like that,’ Baldwin said. ‘But there was probably a man here, yes.’
‘That what Will saw too?’ Art asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin mused. ‘He was very nervous about it, certainly.’
‘It was him telling my dad about it made him see things that night.’
‘You mean your father spoke to Will yesterday and his story prompted Hal to think of what he saw as a demon?’
‘Yesterday? No, Will said all that to us on Tuesday, after finding the body outside his old house.’
Baldwin stopped and peered at him. ‘I think you and I need to discuss this further.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Exeter City
‘Did I tell you the joke about the man who wanted his neighbour’s wife?’ Coroner Richard asked Simon rhetorically, and continued before Simon could respond. ‘He waited until his neighbour had gone on a journey, and then knocked on her door. “Madam,” he said, “I have fallen in love with you. My life holds no promise for me unless I can have you. I will do anything – command me and give yourself to me!”
‘Well, this woman was honourable, and she was shocked to be addressed in this manner by her neighbour, so she gave him the turnabout right away. “I love my husband, and I’ve given him my vows. I won’t dishonour myself and betray him. Begone!”
‘So off he went, the flea biting his ear, until he had a thought. There was a clever woman in a wood not far away, and maybe she could help. Off he went, and spoke to her thus: “Old woman, there is a wife I adore, but she will have nothing to do with me. I’ll die if I can’t have her. Is there anything you can do?”
‘The old woman looked him up and down, named her price, and when she had it in her purse she told him to wait there in her cottage. She took some string, and set it about the neck of a piglet, and walked off. When she approached the woman’s house, she rubbed soil in her hair and down her face, and pinched herself to make herself tearful, and then carried on, the piglet behind her.
‘ “Old woman, what is the matter?” the woman asked when she appeared.
‘ “My daughter! Look at her! Turned into a piglet by that evil man!”
‘ “What evil man? What has happened?”
‘This dishonourable old woman said: “A man arrived yesterday and no sooner had he seen my daughter than he decided he must have her. He told her he would pine without her …”
‘ “But that is what happened to me!”
‘ “My daughter was a good, honourable chit, though, so she refused him.”
‘ “As did I.”
‘ “And although he told her that without her, his life would be worth naught, still she refused him. And when he set to her to try to force her, I beat him away. And as he went on his way, he roared at us most fearfully that if he couldn’t have her, nor would any other man. My daughter would henceforth be turned into a pig and would never know a man. And this morning … this morning, when I awoke … this had happened to my little child!”
‘The wife turned pale on hearing this, you see, and she cried out, “But this all happened to me! Good woman, tell me what I must do to save myself! There was a man here today who asked me to lie with him, and told me he would pine for love of me if he didn’t have my body, and I sent him away with every curse my heart could summon. What shall I do?”
‘ “Good wife, there is only one thing you may do: find him and promise you’ll do all he desires so long as he doesn’t turn you into a sow.”
‘ “Should I leave at once?”
‘The old woman shook her head. “You wait here. I shall fetch him to you. I think he lives near here. Do you prepare yourself for him.”
‘ “Old woman, you are kind.”
‘So the old woman sauntered back to her cottage and told him to get back to his neighbour’s house, and he had a high time. And it only goes to show, you see, that if you want a vain woman, while she tries to protect her looks there is always a way to her heart!’
Simon looked up at him. ‘You think that was a joke?’
‘Just a story to lighten the heart,’ the Coroner declared confidently. ‘Hoi, host, where’s your wine all gone? Is your barrel empty that you leave your customers dying of thirst in this hovel? Eh? Ah, Bailiff, it is good to see you again. I like your friend the keeper, but he can be a cold soul of an evening. Much more fun to have a congenial companion.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said meaningfully. His own thoughts were on his wife again after that joke. At least Meg would never fall for so foolish a tale. Turned into a sow indeed!
‘Yes. I was not glad to be sent here just now.’
‘What did bring you?’ Simon enquired.
‘Ah, thank you, my fine fellow!’ Coroner Richard declared happily as more wine was poured into his jug. ‘To answer you honestly, Bailiff, I do not know. There must have been something, for the sheriff asked me to come here to meet him. When I arrived, I learned that the city’s coroners were both away, and as soon as I got here there were these bodies about the place, so it was fortunate I was here.’
‘But the sheriff …’
‘Saw me briefly at the bishop’s palace, then at the castle too, but that is it. Since then, nothing. Still don’t know what he wanted with me.’
Hearing how his voice had grown quieter, Simon shot him a look. The coroner’s eyes held a cold glitter suddenly, as though his thoughts were not pleasant to him. ‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just musing,’ the coroner said. ‘Aha, who’s this?’
‘Baldwin!’ Simon said with relief. ‘It is good to see you once again.’
‘And you, old friend. This man is Art, son of Hal at the South Gate. He has an interesting tale to tell about a body or two.’
Christ Jesus, but his feet hurt! The way here with all the newer cobbles was hard on the feet, especially after two or three days of solid walking. Rob didn’t know what was so exciting about marching from one town to another. From what he’d seen, walking and seeing other places was greatly over-valued. Better by far to stay in one place, and if you had to travel, then best to do so by ship. The less of this stomping over moors and cobbles, the better.
Where was he off to now? Rob watched as the little hunched figure of the monk scurried across the lane in front of a horse, which shied and made the rider curse, and thence passed over Carfoix and continued along the High Street towards the castle at the farther edge of the town.
‘Why couldn’t you stay at the bishop’s palace?’ he grumbled as he walked. ‘Hot rooms, beds, blankets, food, ale … what more does a man need?’
But the monk merely hurried onwards, and Rob had to stifle his complaints to keep up.
Simon had been quite explicit. ‘If he leaves the close, you have to stay with him. Don’t let him see you, but keep behind him and watch where he goes and who he talks to. All right? If you do this well, there will be a reward for you. Fail, though, and you’ll get a thrashing!’
The threat was meaningless, as Rob knew perfectly well. The bailiff wasn’t the sort of man to punish a lad for trying his best and failing, but still
he seemed to be happier for sounding like one of those modern knights who only ever knew how to get men to obey by threatening dire punishment.
If he were to be honest, he rather liked the tall, dark-haired bailiff. Simon Puttock was a great deal kinder than most masters he’d seen before. Usually they would be content to issue a command once, and then beat a fellow with a suitable rod. Only last year a young apprentice had died after being whipped by his master. The man had explained that he had been trying to show the boy the error of his ways after he had done something wrong – probably drank too much one evening or something. There were so many reasons why a master could beat his charges.
Puttock was different. There were times when he had been so bound up with his work that he had been ridiculously easy to fool. Usually when there were too many new ships in the port, all waiting for their goods to be assessed so that they might be unloaded. At times like that, Rob’s life was much easier. He could rise later and not worry about preparing too much food, for his master would snarl about going to a pie shop, he was in such a hurry, and that would be all. Still, the fact that he was trusted tended to make Rob more protective of his master, as though Simon was in fact his charge, not he his.
The monk passed through the castle gates and Rob could see him inside. He was speaking to a guard, but when he was finished he didn’t go to the steps that led to the little hall. Instead, he was taken to another building. Even Rob could recognise the entrance to a small gaol-house. He watched as the monk entered, and then he sauntered over to a log by a wall to sit down and wait.
Bailiff Puttock would be interested in this, he reckoned.
There was a short pause after Art had told his story, and then Baldwin and the coroner glanced at each other and nodded.
‘He has some questions to answer,’ Coroner Richard acknowledged, and soon the three men were marching back down South Gate Street towards the old watchman’s house, Baldwin speaking quickly to Simon to explain what he and the coroner had already learned.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 22
