The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  Baldwin threw a casual look at Rob, and, seeing he was far enough away, drew nearer to Simon. ‘Old friend, do not even wonder aloud about such things. Simply listen and draw your own conclusions. This country is grown too dangerous for musings in public. For now, assume that his lordship the bishop will stay loyal to Despenser and the king, for it is in his interests to remain so. His star has waxed with the Despenser’s, and Despenser has grown fat on the largesse of the king. Yet there are many who do now question the king’s management, and who detest the overweening arrogance and greed of Despenser. Perhaps this sheriff is one such? I do not know.’

  They had reached the Palace Gate, and Baldwin nodded at the porter as they entered the bishop’s precinct again. And I hope I learn to read the signs correctly too, he said to himself.

  Exeter Castle

  Will was appalled to see how the girl was thrown to the floor. ‘Wait! Don’t hit her! She’s been raped!’

  ‘Sorry, man, but this little innocent slaughtered another maid from the castle yesterday,’ the coroner said. ‘She’s not as sweet as she looks.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ Jen said. She spat in the direction of Lady Alice. ‘She’s right there!’

  ‘You killed your own friend, maid!’ Sheriff Matthew stated. ‘You killed Sarra.’

  ‘Me? I couldn’t have hurt her! She is my best friend.’

  ‘It was witnessed by many people,’ the coroner said calmly, bending to pick up her knife.

  ‘She was asleep in my hayloft,’ Will said stupidly. ‘I just thought she’d been attacked and went there to hide.’

  ‘You did well to bring her here,’ the sheriff said.

  There was a note of dismissal in his voice, though, which Will recognised. He nodded sadly, walking to the doorway. Yet he could not help but turn and give her one last look before leaving. She was so much like the girl his daughter might have grown into, and the thought made him want to weep.

  The Bishop’s Palace

  ‘A good day to you,’ the bishop said as he marched into his main chamber. He peremptorily demanded wine from his waiting steward, and sent him on his way. Rob scuttled after him in a hurry, knowing when it was best to make himself scarce.

  ‘My lord,’ Simon said hesitantly, ‘you seem a bit vexed this morning. Do you prefer that we leave you for a little, or come back tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Hah! It is all well and good for a bailiff to suggest work on the Sabbath, but for some of us that day is already the busiest in our week. No, Simon, I am not rebuking you – do not look so pained. Tomorrow is the feast day of Saint Catherine of Alexandria, though. I shall officiate at the mass to her honour, although God knows well enough that I could do with a day of rest myself just now. I am too old for all this bickering!’

  This last was said with a particular fervour, and Baldwin smiled. ‘You are not enjoying a peaceful time just now?’

  ‘Just now? Just now, you say? Sir Baldwin, I am hedged in upon all sides. There is the master mason who looks daggers at me because I refused to agree to order thirty cartloads of marble when he admitted to me that he should only need twenty-three. My labourers are all complaining that there is not enough light for them to work, and, of course, they won’t do a thing when it rains! My… but I can see that you are not very interested in the affairs of a bishop with the rebuilding of his church. At least I have my throne made and ready. It fits me perfectly. And a good thing too.’

  Baldwin smiled, but politely did not mention the reason why the Bishop had demanded so extravagant a seat. Some assumed it was only to make sure that the bishop went one better than his peers, but in reality it was in order that he should be as comfortable as possible. He was a prey to haemorrhoids.

  ‘So! You are here to bring me more news? What can you tell me?’

  ‘Little enough,’ Baldwin said. ‘There was another murder last afternoon, when an innocent man was killed. We assume that he had surprised the assassin, and had his throat cut for his pains.’

  ‘Who was this? Anyone of importance?’

  ‘I do not think so … although his past appears to be rather a mystery,’ Baldwin admitted.

  Simon knew that the bishop knew many in the city. ‘His name was Walter, my lord. Walter of Hanlegh. He came here recently, so we understand.’

  ‘I know of him, yes,’ the bishop said. ‘Hmm. He was a worthy man in the king’s service. I knew him before …’

  ‘Is it true that he was an assassin?’ Baldwin asked bluntly.

  ‘Yes. He was one of those who in past times would remove obstacles to maintaining the king’s peace. If a man sought to upset the king’s equanimity, this Walter might sometimes be sent to chastise him. And occasionally, I fear, simple words were not enough.’

  ‘We have spoken to Robinet, who was once a messenger like James, and who appears to hold the same regard for Walter.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin, do not judge the man entirely by your own code of chivalry. In God’s name, I can swear that there are many dangerous men in the realm who would do the king harm if they but had the opportunity. Walter saved the king, very likely, and possibly that could have impacted on your life too.’

  ‘He worked down here, then?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I recall hearing that he was here once at the outset of the famine, and because of his efforts the city was saved from disaster.’

  ‘I wonder what led him to try to arrest the magician,’ Simon said. ‘A fellow like him should have overwhelmed a poxed old man like this fellow. Perhaps he was lured into a trap intentionally.’

  ‘We may never know. Let us only pray that no more men need die and that you soon find the stolen message.’

  ‘We shall if we may. If God wills it,’ Baldwin said irreverently. ‘Have you had a demand for money?’

  ‘No. I should have told you if there had been any such thing.’

  Baldwin frowned, but it was Simon who voiced his thoughts. ‘In that case, I really wonder whether there has been some sort of error. The pouch was still with the messenger, wasn’t it? Were there other messages in it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘This was the only one we know of that was missing.’

  ‘Was it the only written message you confided to him?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the bishop said, with a sidelong look at Baldwin.

  ‘Then if it was so important that it alone was taken from the pouch, I do not understand why someone has not yet asked you for money to return it. It makes little sense.’

  ‘It was important – but perhaps the thief did not recognise its value.’

  ‘Then why take it? Why not cast it away and find another message more interesting to him?’

  ‘Who can say?’ the bishop said uncomfortably.

  Baldwin enjoyed his discomfiture. There were two messages in James’s safekeeping: the one about the trustworthiness of the sheriff, if his guess and Rob’s information were correct, and another that proposed further persecution of the queen. Either of them could have caused great pain to others. If he was wrong, the sheriff could have been condemned without the opportunity to defend himself; his suggestion that the queen should be made to suffer still more indignities and humiliation was unchivalrous in the extreme.

  Baldwin said, ‘I told you when you first asked me to help that it would be a difficult task. I do not know whether the message still exists or has been destroyed, whether it is in the city or has been spirited away … nothing! For me to find it, I shall need a miracle of some sort. But we will stretch every sinew to rescue it if we may.’

  The bishop’s wine arrived, and he smiled wearily. ‘I thank you for that at least.’

  ‘Shall we come here again tomorrow to report what fortune we have enjoyed?’

  ‘No. Tomorrow you must attend the mass. It will be a beautiful service, and with the work you have undertaken, you need your day of rest. Perhaps we can meet afterwards to discuss matters of lesser importance?’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Exeter City


  The man who had murdered his friend was gone, but he could find out where with some luck. He was back in the house as soon as he realised what the magician had been attempting. Squatting in front of Michael, he eyed the bloody mess of cloth wrapped about his hand. ‘You should learn to talk more quickly.’

  ‘Please – I don’t know how to help you. You must believe me!’

  ‘Ah, but I don’t.’

  ‘I cannot tell you anything more.’

  The girl had returned. She held a large bowl of warmed water from the copper, and she stood in the doorway with a terrified look on her face.

  Michael shook his head at her. ‘Go! It’s not safe for you here!’

  ‘Oh no, I think she ought to see to your wounds,’ Robinet said with a flash of his teeth. He had the knife in his hand again now. Against the wall, he saw one of the fingers, and he picked it up and studied it. There was a crash, and when he glanced round the girl had fainted again. ‘You should get her viewed by a physician. She seems too phlegmatic for words. Now – you were going to tell me where he’s gone.’

  Michael looked up into the man’s eyes and saw nothing there but a cold intensity that spoke of his determination. ‘I don’t know anything, master.’

  ‘You can do better than that. You will have to.’

  ‘Master, I can’t tell you what I don’t know!’ Michael pleaded.

  ‘A man with no fingers is a sad sight. You know that?’

  Michael withdrew his hand as his torturer reached for it.

  ‘Now, naughty. If you don’t help me, I may get angry, and look to something other than your finger. Do you want that?’

  ‘Please! I don’t know anything.’

  ‘The only thing that looks worse than a man with hands but no fingers is probably a man with no fingers and no eyes.’ He was speaking ruminatively, with a pensive expression that sent ice into Michael’s blood. Gently, he reached for Michael’s bleeding hand, and took it, pulling the linen away as he did so. ‘Ah, good, clean cuts. I thought that knife was good and sharp. Now – you’ve lost those two already. What is it to be next? The thumb or the next finger? What? Not sure? Shall I decide for you?’

  ‘The bishop! He’s going to kill the bishop, God save me!’ Michael burst out, pulling his hand away and weeping.

  ‘Enough!’

  Michael was close to puking. The interruption gave him the moment’s respite he needed. He turned his head and retched emptily. There was nothing more to come.

  ‘Leave us, Langatre.’

  ‘I will not! You are committing a gross offence on that man, and I will not permit it!’

  ‘You will learn to keep your silence.’

  ‘Why? So you can execute him? What if he is telling the truth? What if he is nothing more than an innocent tradesman who rented a room to a stranger? You are performing a foul injustice on him. Out of my way!’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing, Langatre. Leave me with him for a few more minutes. He will tell me where the murderer is.’

  ‘You are no better than a murderer yourself. I will not leave you. I demand that you release this man to me instantly. Ivo? Ivo! Get in here. If he tries to harm that man even by so much as a scratch, you will strike him with your staff.’

  ‘Master, I don’t think …’

  ‘I am sure you’re right and fortunately there is no need for you to do so! If he so much as scratches that man, you knock him down. Do you hear me? Right, now, Master Michael, you come with me. This man will not harm you any more.’ Langatre pushed past Robinet and leaned down to help Michael to his feet. ‘Come, fellow. Where is the nearest leech?’

  Exeter Castle

  Coroner Richard was unhappy to see the girl bound, wretched and groaning with despair, but he wasn’t willing to risk her grabbing a dagger and putting paid to another life. No. Best to see that she was kept controlled.

  ‘What will you do with her?’ he asked the sheriff.

  ‘She is a murderer. She should be gaoled until the next court is held. If the bitch comes before me, I’ll have her hanged in a day!’

  Coroner Richard nodded. Understandable, he reckoned. The silly minx had killed off a perfectly good young servant for no reason. Well, only because she wanted to kill someone else and her blow went awry, which was not the best legal defence against a capital crime he had ever heard. No, he was fairly sure that she would soon join her dead friend.

  There were some who asserted that extreme cases of dementia like this were caused by demons who inveigled their way into the body of their victim, and then began to cause mayhem. The coroner had no idea whether that had happened in this case, but he wondered whether it was possible. In some cases, so he had heard, the use of prophylactic flogging could bring on a recovery, as could the use of starvation occasionally. Perhaps this was a case where such a treatment could be considered.

  ‘Yes. I’ll have her hanged in a trice, damn her soul!’ Matthew said.

  The Coroner looked at him without speaking. The sheriff was visibly shaking as his wife put her hand over his shoulder and tried to comfort him. He hardly seemed to notice her, but after a little while his hand rose and took hold of hers. Still, he could not speak without a quaver in his voice.

  He was so knocked back, Sir Richard wondered whether he had indeed led the poor child on. Perhaps even raped her. It was hardly unknown for a pretty maid to be bedded by her master, and if the master then thought that the mad bint was going to try to kill him and his wife, it would hardly be surprising if he was a little unnerved by the thought.

  ‘Aye, well, I’ll be leaving you now. Business to attend to,’ he said, and made his way from the hall, out into the court and thence to the castle gate. ‘Hoi, guard, where is the best alehouse around here?’

  He was soon being given directions to the place favoured by the castle’s guards, and thinking that a tavern which was patronised by the castle’s men at arms would be ideal for him too, he set off over the bridge to the High Street. But before he could reach it, he saw the grim face of Langatre hurrying up the street towards him.

  ‘You are in a hurry.’

  ‘I have been searching for you, Coroner. You can be a most elusive person on occasion. You must come with me to hear what has been happening to the poor man Michael in his own house.’

  Coroner Richard held up his hands. ‘Tell me as we walk. I have a need of some food and drink first, though. If you want to tell me this tale, do so now and while I eat.’

  ‘You must come at once, Coroner!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The man Robinet – he has been torturing Michael. I had to get him away, and have left him with a leech.’

  ‘So he is safe at the moment?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Tell me as I eat, then,’ the imperturbable coroner repeated, and listened as he marched at his best speed to the tavern, Langatre dancing at his side as he tried to keep up. ‘You know this Michael?’

  ‘Yes. He is an old companion of mine in the taverns. He is a kindly man. He doesn’t deserve this assault.’

  ‘Then what was he doing protecting this necromancer? It sounds to me, from what you’ve said, that the fellow deserved all he got.’

  ‘It is illegal to capture a man and torture him,’ Langatre said, and there was a fierce determination in his voice.

  Coroner Richard looked at him for a long moment. Then, ‘Very well. But first I want my companions to join us. I will send a message for them to meet us here. Now, where is that bone-idle bugger of a landlord? HOI! HOI!, I AM THIRSTY!’

  Exeter City

  John had heard the brouhaha as soon as the first knock came on the door. He had already packed up all his remaining belongings against just such an eventuality, although it did not please him to learn that his place of hiding was already discovered. Still, at least the man who owned the house would keep his mouth shut if he knew what was best for him.

  Quickly, he grabbed his pack, now considerably heavier than it had been
originally, and threw it over his back by the stout rope that bound it. He ran to the wattle fencing hurdles and pushed his way between a pair of them, then darted up the adjacent garden all the way to the end, where it gave out onto the road near the south-western corner of the city wall. Once there, he set off eastwards. That was the way to the busy street from the South Gate, and once there he could easily lose himself in the crowds.

  He was still cursing under his breath as he reached the gate, and turned northwards again, pulling his hood over his face. In this cold weather, most people were doing the same, conserving their warmth as best they might, and he did not stand out. It was ideal.

  Yes. It was annoying that his refuge had been lost, but perhaps it was all for the best. Now he had but one night to worry about, and for that he knew exactly where to go. In the north-western angle of the wall was the old Franciscan abbey, but the brothers had moved from the city a few years ago, to a new location outside the walls near the river. Since then, the place that had held their cloisters and dormitories had become the province of various poverty-stricken families. There would be space there for a poor wanderer like him, and no one would be the wiser. It was only for one evening, after all.

  It took him little time to find the place. Soon he was traversing the muddy, icy paths, and looking for a dwelling that could accommodate him. There were several near the outer wall, but he didn’t want to be too close to the edges. Better to be entirely immersed. He would keep on going until he felt sure that no one following him would be able to find him with ease.

  At last he saw it. A rough lean-to, much of whose thatched roof had long ago disintegrated. However, a section of it still functioned, and when he peered in through the doorway he saw that beneath the straw there was a good space in among the rafters, and if he pushed the door up there he would be able to lie snugly off the floor, secure from the wet and hopefully warm enough.