The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Exeter City

  Art hurried with a growing sense of trepidation. He had been involved on the fringes of violence and outlawry for some years, but this was the first time he had witnessed near-death. Hob had never been a friend of his … or anyone else for that matter. He just happened to be a strong man in a team who admired strength and little else. Yet he had been destroyed in a moment by this man, this stranger. And now they were hurrying towards a place where there would probably be another fight. It made him anxious, and his nervousness was making him stumble.

  ‘Keep up, boy! Is this the alley?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, this is the one.’

  ‘He said it was the third door. Come! You can knock for me.’

  Art was reluctant to get any further involved. He wanted nothing more to do with all this – but the man was compelling. Art had the feeling that if he wasn’t careful, it would be him being held by the chin, a sharp knife point at his throat. ‘What do you want me to do? I don’t know who lives here!’

  ‘The lad in the tavern said that if anyone would know where the necromancer had gone, they would be here. Let’s find out.’

  Art stood at the door and hunched his shoulders against the cold. Perhaps it was him, but just now he felt as though the temperature in the alley had dropped almost to freezing. He pulled his jack closer about his chest, gripped it in a tight fist, and knocked.

  ‘Do it again!’

  Art complied. While the knife was held in the man’s fist, he was unwilling to antagonise him. At last, after a third bout of knocking, Art heard steps. They were hesitant, ponderous, shuffling steps, and Art heard them come almost to the door before a thin little voice called out, ‘Who is it? What do you want?’

  ‘Mistress, I need a room. Do you know where a man may rest the night?’

  ‘Go find an inn. There are rooms aplenty in them.’

  ‘No – I don’t want to be in a place like that. I need somewhere quieter.’

  The bar was lifted, and then the door opened a crack. Immediately Art felt himself propelled forward, into the old timbers, and then he was through and sprawling on the dirt floor, while his companion slammed the door behind them, barred it, and then kicked the knife from the old woman’s hand.

  She was older than Art would have expected. Thin, frail-looking, she was at least sixty years if a day, and her thin, hatchet face spoke of her harsh life. There had been a time perhaps when she had been young, but there was no sign of it in her pinched features and narrowed eyes. Now she cringed like a dog waiting to be kicked, and cowered away from Art’s companion.

  ‘Don’t hurt me, masters! I have nothing worth taking, on the gospels!’

  ‘You have knowledge. That will do for me. I seek a man who recently came to the city from Coventry. Do you know where he is?’ He was gazing about him as he spoke. There was a staff by the door, and he moved it further from her reach, glancing at the ladder propped up against the rafter where her bed was unrolled on bare planks.

  She interrupted his thoughts. ‘How can I know? I am bound to my house. I rarely leave it now, with my poor legs hurting so much and …’

  ‘Yes, old crone, you are a wizened old bitch. You were a whore, though, and you know where the whores all live and work, still, don’t you? And you have a good knowledge of where a man might take a room to hide from the law.’

  Art wondered if he was right … there was a slight glint in her eyes as though she was considering springing on the two men. As he watched, he was sure that he saw her right hand moving under her kirtle, and then stop, as if she had taken hold of a knife and was waiting before drawing it from a scabbard. Still she cringed, trembling, as though petrified by them. She whined, ‘How can I know all this? I am only an old woman trying to make ends meet.’

  ‘And you do so by peddling information. Very well. I have money. I will share it with you – for information.’

  ‘There are some houses where a man may hide,’ she admitted, her eyes taken by the coins now held out towards her. Art pursed his lips in a silent whistle at the sight of them all. If he’d known how much the man was carrying, he’d have joined the men at the alehouse against him.

  ‘He is tall, thin, strong, older, and dresses in dark clothing to suit his trade.’

  ‘What trade is that?’ she asked, her eyes still on the coins.

  ‘He is a necromancer. He was living at Michael Tanner’s undercroft beneath Langatre’s house. Do you know the place?’

  ‘There was a man killed there today.’

  ‘That is right. It is the murderer I seek.’

  ‘Why?’ Her shrewd eyes rose to his face and studied him. There was no fear in them, he saw. She was entirely absorbed by the attraction of the coins in his hands. Any pretence at cowering was over.

  ‘He has killed my friend,’ he said. ‘A good friend. I will have vengeance.’

  ‘Ah, well. That’s as good a reason as any. Come back in the morning.’

  ‘I want to know now.’

  ‘You’ll wait. You’ll wait. There’s nothing so urgent that you can’t wait a short while, and there’s nothing I can find out in an instant. You will have to wait. What shall I call you?’

  ‘Robinet. And you?’

  ‘Me?’ She laughed drily as she straightened finally. ‘Call me Edie. It’s what my friends like to call me.’

  The Palace Gate

  Things grew a little sticky when he told them that he was leaving, because by that stage he had amassed the majority of the money from the table, but Rob had expected some dissatisfaction, and put his hand to his knife, gripping his purse in his other hand as he walked backwards from them, scowling ferociously. A schooling amongst the sailors of Dartmouth taught a lad much about life, he reflected as he turned and ran towards the Palace Gate.

  There had not been much to learn, if they were telling the truth. Certainly no one appeared to know anything much about Busse, although there was the strange little snippet he had picked up on while they were playing. Beside him was a scruffy little sodomite with the face of a ferret – and the body odour to go with it. He was called Ben the Bridge, because he had been born near the city’s great bridge over west, and Ben was a servant in the bishop’s household.

  ‘Not much happens there, I dare say,’ Rob had ventured early on in the game.

  Ben had been stung into a response. ‘You think? We have enough excitement.’

  ‘What, meetings with a monk wants to be abbot?’

  ‘Killers and witches. That’s what. There are some even here in the city want to see the king dead, that’s what I’ve heard.’

  ‘You have, eh?’ Rob had a practised indifference when he cared to use it. Just now he was concentrating on the dice, because he was sure that if he expressed more enthusiasm, this fellow would clam up and say nothing more. The fact that he was showing no interest upped the stakes for Ben, who now fought to gain his attention.

  ‘Yes. The steward of the household had me in there as the bishop was instructing a messenger. You know what he said? He was giving a message to the king that the sheriff here in the city wasn’t trustworthy, that’s what. He said that the sheriff was weak-willed and might make an attempt on the king’s life.’

  ‘A sheriff who’s disloyal?’ Rob chuckled cynically, and the other boys about the table joined in.

  ‘You laugh if you want to, but the bishop reckons the sheriff plots against the king.’

  ‘And how would he hear that, eh?’ Rob demanded sarcastically. ‘Suppose he’s got spies in the sheriff’s house, has he?’

  There was no answer to that, and the very lack of any more information piqued Rob’s interest. The lad must have thought that the bishop did indeed have some means of access to the sheriff’s household, for otherwise he would not have brought up the matter, but the simple fact was that as soon as he realised how much interest Rob took in his words, he had become as open and informative as the cathedral’s stones.

  Nah,
there was probably nothing in it. He was just some lad trying to make an impression on a stranger. Perhaps he was laughing about it even now, telling his mates in their room how he’d got the prick from the sticks all fired up with that ballocks. No, it had to be nothing.

  He twisted his face with indecision. Probably no point telling Sir Baldwin and his master. Probably no point at all.

  Nah. Best if he just made his way back to the inn. Looked like Busse was set up for the night now.

  Exeter City

  The old woman watched as the wary, unsettling man all but kicked the youth through the door and then walked out himself. She had to remind herself to try to look anxious, and for the most part she was happy that she had succeeded.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Mother, you never cease to astonish me,’ Ivo the watchman said. He had been dozing in the upper chamber, and now he peered over the boards and stared down at her.

  She lifted both hands in irritation and kicked some sparks from her fire, pushing the logs nearer together, and then settling before the flames. ‘Get down here, then, fool. You’re due out there in the streets shortly. Do you want to lose this job of all?’

  Ivo grinned and tipped himself forward, rolling out until he was dangling from his hands, which clung to the rafter. He was only a scant eighteen inches from the floor, and when he allowed himself to fall, his feet scarcely raised any dust. ‘Well?’

  She shot him a look to hear her own word returned to her. ‘I think he’s a serious man who wants revenge for the death of his friend. What Art is doing with him, I don’t know, but never mind that. There could be good money in supplying him with what he wants. What do you think?’

  The watchman nodded thoughtfully. ‘It could be worthwhile. His purse looked full to bursting. Just the sort I have always liked.’

  ‘What of this man he seeks?’

  Ivo shrugged emphatically. ‘If he wants the man and it’s worth some cash, who are we to leave the money in his purse? Surely this man is guilty of something, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, but she wasn’t listening. She had another aspect on her mind. ‘Did you recognise him? He looked familiar.’

  Ivo knew better than to make fun of her memory. ‘I think I have seen him recently about the market or somewhere. Why?’

  ‘No … this was longer ago.’

  ‘Well, you can recall many things that happened long before my birth, mother. How would you expect me to remember all your lovers?’

  She aimed a clout at his head. ‘Fool. You concentrate on winning his money. You’d not be foolish enough to try to take it on your own, and then claim I did no work for it, eh?’

  ‘The thought wouldn’t cross my mind,’ Ivo said lazily as he pulled on a thick jerkin against the cold night air. He set his cap on his head and smiled at her again as he walked from the room.

  She sighed. Her son was an idiot, but an engaging one. She had given birth to him three-and-twenty years ago, and although her husband was already dead by the time of his birth, he had been some consolation to her. As a child he had been difficult, obstinate and surly, but now that he had reached a more mature age, he was endearing to her and others. His good looks and apparent shyness could disarm any, and his carefully learned, hesitant speech made all think that he was a borderline cretin.

  As a watchman he was perfect. He would keep his eyes and ears open for any infractions of the city’s rules – unless it was to the benefit of himself and his mother. And being a city’s officer meant that he could always be counted upon to learn of things sooner than others.

  This matter of the dead friend was interesting, though. And there was the other thing: the necromancer. She didn’t approve of meddling with people’s lives in that way. A sharp blade was enough for her. Killing with supernatural nonsense was for the rich. She found that for her purposes cold steel was adequate.

  Edie did wish she could remember where and when she had seen that face before, though.

  Only a few tens of yards away, in the little room which Michael had made available for him, John of Nottingham smiled as he set the last of the characters down on the table and rubbed his tired eyes. All was ready now.

  He stood and eased himself upright to his full height of six feet and one inch, lifting his arms over his head and feeling the bones of his back settle into their more usual position. The last days of hunching over his work had not been good for them, but now the figures were completed he could rest a little. Already fasted and prepared mentally for the ordeal, he could start his conjuration, and with a task such as this the sooner he began it the better.

  Cleanliness was important. He took up the besom and started to sweep the floor of the dirt lying all about. With his arm, he swept the shavings of wax from the table, careful not to disturb the four statues. They looked good. Almost his best. The king stood so regal, especially with the crown. Beside him, the two Despensers were easily distinguished, with their finery on display, the one taller and younger, the father fatter and shorter, just as they were in real life. And then there was the bishop. An evil, grasping man who would do anything to increase his wealth, no matter who else was forced to suffer that he might win advantage. All of them disloyal, untrustworthy men who had conspired against his lord.

  When he had been advised to come here and seek a safe place in the tranquillity of this small, rural city, he had been happy to do so not only for the benefit of his clients, so that he could continue to carry out their bidding and earn the balance of the payment they had offered, but also for his own reasons.

  There were many who would applaud the removal of this king with his cruelty, treachery and pathetic interests; more still would celebrate the demise of the Despensers. But most would be no less delighted to hear of the death of that foul thief and tyrant, the Lord Bishop Stapledon of Exeter.

  For years he had tried to show himself as a moderating influence on the king. He had displayed a political liberality that was appealing to all men of conscience, but then, by degrees, his true colours had been revealed. In place of the man who tried to negotiate peace between the king and his barons, there appeared a man who would oust all of the king’s older confidants, who would even presume to evict the queen herself, in order to acquire ever more power and wealth. There was nothing this evil chancre in the heart of government would not dare, so that he might gain more himself. The strength of the realm, the good of the people – they meant nothing compared with his intolerable pride and arrogance.

  It was performing a sacred duty, removing these people – especially the arch-villain himself, Bishop Walter of Exeter.

  It was the bishop who had stolen lands from all over the realm, impoverishing others as he lined his own purse. He was as evil as the Despensers … No! He was worse! They did not conceal their rapacity: he took what he wanted by more subtle means, persuading the king to deprive the queen of her manors and income, and to help – ha! – volunteering to take over her mining ventures and any other profitable opportunities while professing to do all for the good of the realm, not his own self-interest.

  There was too much to be done, though, to worry about that man.

  John retrieved his book – the one item he had been able to rescue from Coventry – and wiped its cover. The lettering was quite worn already, but he could feel the letters under his fingers on the embossed leatherwork: Book of the Offices of the Spirits. This was his own copy, written out in his own hand when he was studying in Oxford.

  Satisfied with the cleanliness of his room, he sat down and began breathing carefully. He was no Satanist, and didn’t seek to worship the evil lord. No, he was a cautious, pious and Christian man, who sought to control demons to do his bidding. All magicians knew that no enterprise could succeed without utter confidence in God and belief in His power.

  The tools were all fumigated and asperged. Now he consecrated them, before reciting the psalms and beginning the first of the many prayers. He washed himself carefully, itself a part of his ritual, first from
the bucket, and then more slowly with holy water.

  It was very late when he was ready to don his robes. Standing in the cold room, his arms held high over his head, he began the invocation, the thrill of fear setting his belly quivering as he dared once more to summon the demons to obey his will.

  ‘In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I summon you: Sitrael, Malantha, Thamaor, Falaur and Sitrami …’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Saturday Next after the Feast of St Edmund8

  Exeter City

  Simon woke several times that night. There was the insistent call to the chamber-pot, a natural result of Coroner Richard’s repeated purchases of ale the previous night, and then his snoring, which was enough to make a man commit violent murder; and then, long before the sun rose and illuminated the outline of the shutters, he saw Baldwin, fully dressed, sitting in the open window and staring out to the south.

  It was not unusual for his friend to sleep badly every so often, and Simon wondered if he had been suffering from a bad dream. Once in a while, so he had told Simon, he would have a mare come to him in his sleep and plant hideous dreams of the foul end of Acre in his mind. There were children and women … but beyond that Baldwin would not speak.

  Simon knew full well that the confession of this weakness pained Baldwin, so he made a conscious effort to forget that his friend had mentioned his dreams. However, sometimes it was impossible to ignore Baldwin’s behaviour, and when Simon woke properly a while later, when the sun was almost over the roofs to the east, he raised himself on one elbow, tugging the blankets up over his nakedness against the cold air.