The Malice of Unnatural Death

Chapter Four

Exeter City

The traveller had reached a tavern early on to try to get some heat into his bones. He had a simple requirement, now he was here: to find as many as possible of the materials he would need to continue with his experiments.

Here he was, a master of the secret arts, and he was constrained by the lack of simple tools. It was infuriating. He had money,he had the knowledge, and yet he still lacked those basic requisites. Even a piss-swilling brewer had them, but not he. Notjust now.

He had the one, of course. Cautiously, from beneath his robe he brought out the small bone needle. It was perfect: smooth,thin, elegant and ideal. There were other items he needed, though: sickle, wax and linen would be easy to find … but thedaggers, the hat, the other bits and pieces, would be harder to procure. And of course he would need peace in which to prayand fast and prepare mentally for the task. Ideally he ought to have a servant, but that was too much to hope for. That hadbeen made clear.

It was as he reached this conclusion that he saw the two lurching inside. Plainly the pair of them had already enjoyed a goodevening, and they were ready to continue a little longer, until they fell down in a drunken stupor. Well, so much the better. If only he weren’t staying here, he would be happy to go to them and slip his dagger between the ribs ofthe younger one. One good turn deserves another, he mused as he turned to his drink.

Their conversation was loud, as such conversations often are, and he could hear snatches.

‘You ought to come back to my place, Jamie. It’s not far from here. Walter would like to see you again.’

‘I wouldn’t want to see him, though …’

There was some quieter murmuring, then: ‘Come on, Jamie, let him be. He’s no worse than me.’

‘I remember what he used to do.’

‘That’s a long while ago.’

‘Not long enough.’

For all the brashness of the younger man, this Jamie could plainly hold his ale better than his companion.

‘And besides, I must be off in the morning. I have urgent messages for my master,’ he said with a significant tap at the pouchon his belt.

And at that moment, John of Nottingham glanced up and saw Jamie’s eye on him, and he felt a lurch in his belly to think thathe could be discovered so easily.

Wednesday, Morrow of St Edmund’s Day⁵

Exeter City

It was cold, a freezing night, and thoroughly miserable for a watchman.

Of those who spent their nights pacing the territory trying to ensure that, so far as was possible, draw-latches and robbers were prevented from plying their trade and the rest of thepopulation could sleep easily in their beds, all had their own lists of the worst kind of weather. For Will, his list hadonce been topped by the autumnal showers that drifted over the city every so often. They would appear from nowhere, and inmoments he would be drenched. There was something almost unnatural about them, the way that with just a mild breeze behindthem they could seep through even a leather jack and leave a man sodden and uncomfortable. Yes, in the past he had hated thosenights more than any other. The cold hadn’t bothered him.

Now, though, as the years went by, he had learned to detest the ice that came with weather like this. He was that little bitolder, and whereas in the past he had been able to avoid slipping on frozen cobbles, now he was wary of anything that couldunbalance him. He was not so secure on his feet as once he had been.

‘Evening, Thomas.’

‘Will.’

Thomas atte Moor had a brazier going to keep him from joining the puddles all about here and becoming iced. He was a youngerman, perhaps only four-and-thirty, so but half Will’s age, but even one so young could be chilled to the core in this weather. Set to guard the body Will had found yesterday, the last thing he wanted was to be stuck outside in this weather, but whenthe coroner commanded, only a fool would disobey. Especially this coroner!

Leaving Thomas, Will went on to the end of the alley. Here he was almost at the South Gate. The alley opened out to show thepile of rubbish which was waiting to be cleared just in front of the Church of Holy Trinity, the mound lying almost against the wall.

A hog had been rootling in the heap, and as Will watched it shoved with its short, stubby snout at the pile, hauling at something. Will was just eyeing it speculatively, wondering whether, if he killed it, he could persuade a butcher at the shambles tohelp him joint and sell it for a share of the profit, when he caught sight of a flash of blue. It was strange to see a pieceof material in among all the rubbish left out there, most of it ancient food and rubble. After all, cloth was expensive. Awatchman could hardly afford to see it thrown away.

He thrust with his staff at the hog, who eyed him angrily at being pushed from his feast, and Will was anxious for a momentthat the beast might attack him, but then the animal snorted and backed away, looking about for other morsels. Not beforehe had snatched another quick mouthful, though.

And Will saw that behind it, under the blue material, was the remains of a chewed hand. A human hand.

Furnshill, near Cadbury

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a man of certain habits, and as the light breached his shutters he was already awake.

After so many years of soldiering, he was used to being up with the dawn. In the past it was because his order, the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, demanded rigorous training. Woe betide the knight who remainedin his bed when his horse needed grooming or his weapons sharpening. For Baldwin, all his life this period after dawn hadbeen a time of intense effort. There were masses to be celebrated, equipment to be checked, and, of course, his exercises.

A Templar who sought to serve the order must spend many hours each day in training, and Baldwin was a keen exponent of the moststringent efforts possible. It was only by striving for perfection that a knight might achieve the degree of excellence whichwas sought for by all. He used to rise early from his bed and stand outside in the chill morning air, often bare-chested,sword in hand, practising defensive manoeuvres, retreating on his feet, stamping flat-footed as he gripped the hilt with bothfists, then suddenly moving to the offence, his sword stabbing forward to strike an imaginary foe, then rising to block asudden hack, before swirling round smoothly to strike another.

Yes, every day of his life for thirty years or more he had been a devout exponent of practice, and now … well, it wascold outside, and he was growing older. An experimental hand reached out to stroke his heavily pregnant wife’s flank, andhe listened to her muffled groans as she protested against his advances, but then he found the junction of her thighs, andher complaints became less urgent. She straightened a leg so his hand could be more easily accommodated, and as his otherhand found her breast she rolled over, one arm over her head, eyes still closed, lips parted. She turned to him, her headthrusting forward slightly, her naked body tensing luxuriously under his hands. She arched her back and spoke breathily intohis ear.

‘Isn’t it time you were up? You haven’t forgotten today you have to go to the bishop?’

There were words he could have used about the bishop that morning, but instead he gripped her a little more urgently. ‘Notuntil later.’

And it was much later that he managed to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed and make his way down the stairs of his solar, and out to his hall, all the while rehearsing in his mind how he might be able to refuse the offer whichthe bishop had made to him.

‘Offer? Hah!’

No, it was no offer. It was an ultimatum. Bishop Walter wanted Baldwin to go to London for his own reasons. Baldwin had noidea what those reasons were, but Walter Stapledon had decided that he wanted Baldwin to attend parliament, and the good bishopwas determined. It was rare that he was ever thwarted in his aims. As Baldwin knew only too well, Stapledon, once a closeand trusted friend of his, was at the very centre of power in the realm, and as one of the king’s key advisers, the Lord High Treasurer. That was enough, in Baldwin’s eyes, to make him less trustworthy.

Since the destruction of his order by an avaricious and unscrupulous French king and his lackey the Pope, Baldwin had beenless prepared to place his trust in the hands of such men. His faith in politics and the Church itself had been ruined byhis experiences as a Templar. Recently, since his friend Simon had introduced him to Bishop Stapledon, he had begun to changehis opinion, but then he had been forced to accept that the bishop had misled him intentionally, and now he was unable totrust the king’s closest adviser.

The bishop wished him to become a knight of the shire in London’s parliament, and Baldwin was determined that he would avoidthat fate. The idea of being sent away from his wife and child for weeks or months was unbearable. Only last year had he beenoff on pilgrimage with Simon, and the sense of loneliness and desolation at being cut off from his wife was still a weighton his soul when he thought of it. Better by far that he should not leave her again. Remain here in Devon, where he was content. He had no interest in or need of politics and its practitioners.

Unusually for him, he demanded a warmed and spiced wine as he sat at his table, and sipped it slowly as he chewed on a slabof meat, listening to the thundering of small feet from the solar behind him as his daughter woke and ran about the place. It was inconceivable that he could be tempted away from this house and his little girl again, he thought, and grinned to himselfas she burst through the door, her accustomed smile leaping to her face as she caught sight of him.

He took her up in his arms and cuddled her closely. The two year old always enjoyed being hugged, and she threw her arms abouthis neck, shoving her face into the point of his jaw.

There was nothing, Baldwin told himself, nothing that could tempt him to volunteer for a parliamentary career. And fortunatelythere was little likelihood that the freemen of Exeter would be willing to help the bishop in his ambitions anyway. No, Baldwinreckoned himself safe enough.

Exeter City

Robinet woke with a head that felt as though a man had taken to driving a hole through his skull by the simple expedient ofusing a small awl and twisting it with determination, slowly.

He cautiously opened his eyes and stared about him. The room was unfamiliar: a high ceiling, bare, white wooden beams, a smellof fresh hay. It was no room in which he had slept before, clearly. The place was too new.

Sitting up quickly, he winced at the pain at his temples, and reached up with a hand. As he felt his skull, he was aware of a soreness and swelling above his ear, but then a rolling wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he retched withoutrelease for a few moments.

There was nothing new about this. Someone had cracked his skull last night. Quickly he reached for his essentials: his littlewallet, in which he had stored his spoon and the pewter badge of St Christopher from when he went on pilgrimage long ago. His knife was still at his belt, and his few coins were not stolen. All seemed in their place. And there was this place, too. Where, in God’s good name, was he?

Shaking his head gently, he walked to the doorway. From here he could gaze out into a small yard. It was entirely unfamiliar,and he wondered whether he might have been brought here by James last night.

The fellow had a sound heart. He had explained all about how his uncautious words had come to the ear of the king, and howhis guilt had assailed him immediately he heard what had happened to Robinet, but by that stage there was nothing he coulddo. The harm was done, and Robinet was after all the architect of his own downfall. He should have kept his trap locked shutinstead of shooting his mouth off like some idiot with word diarrhoea.

Bearing in mind how fearful James had been on meeting him again, the lad had proved stout-hearted. He’d insisted on buying Robinet, his ‘old mentor’, as he would repeat over and over, more ale until Newt had been quite cheerful. And then, for somereason, the pair of them had decided that they needed to go out for a walk in the middle of the night. A God-cursed miraclethey hadn’t been seen by the watch and arrested.

Why, though? Was it just to clear their heads? To his shame, Newt couldn’t remember. It was an affliction he’d noticed before, this loss of memory after a few ales. It never used to happen to him when he was young, but now he was intohis fiftieth year, whenever he drank more than usual, it led to this forgetfulness.

The light was bright in the doorway, and, feeling still rather fragile, he walked slowly to the bed where he had slept lastnight, letting himself fall into the hay. Eyes closed, he groaned gently to himself. James must have brought him here ratherthan deposit him with Walter. James had always been scared of Walter — natural enough, but Robinet had long ago lost any terrorhe had of Walter. The man was retired now, anyway, and it was plain silly to be scared of him. Still, it had been kind of James to find him a safe, warm stable to sleep in. If he’d been left out in the cold and ice, he could have frozen to thecobbles.

It was strange to think how he had hated James for all those years. The lad had been the focus of all his bile and loathing,and yet now James had protected him from the miserable weather.

Curious to think how they had changed. When they had first met, it was before the famine. Christ Jesus, Robinet was stilltoo used to the miserable weather of the last years. It would never leave him, no, nor any of the others who had experiencedit. The famine had touched every household in the realm with the kiss of death. Barons, the rich, the poor, all were affected. And as people died, the cost of food had risen until many like Robinet could no longer afford feed for their horses.

Robinet had already decided to end his career in 1320, but when his corrody had been granted at Ospringe, he had taken leaveto travel a little more. For a man like him, to be tied to one religious house was a torment. Better by far to be permitted to wander still as the urge took him. There was little of the country which he had not already seen, admittedly,but he still had a desire to see some other aspects of it. He had come to Exeter, and then he had seen the man whom he loathedabove all others. The man who had reported him and destroyed his career. Young James.

It was peculiar to see him there in broad daylight as though there was nothing for him to be fearful about. The fool. Therewas always someone to fear, no matter how strong or courageous you might be. Even the king himself … but that was a separatestory.

A cry in the street startled him out of his mild torpor. He put his hands on the hay and pushed himself upright. There wasa liquid mess on the hay under his left hand, and without wanting to look at it or discover what it might be, he averted hishead, still queasy, and wiped his hand dry on the stems before walking to the door and peering out into the sunlight.

Shielding his eyes from the brightness, he was relieved when a cloud drifted lazily overhead and shut out the light. He crossedthe yard, aware at every step of the looseness in his belly. It felt deeply unpleasant. At the gate to the yard, he foundhimself looking out into an ancient alley which smelled rank with the odour of faeces and rotten meats.

From here, the alley ran southwards down to the southern gate. It lay a distance below him, down the hill. His eyes were notas strong as they once had been, even before the ale last night, yet he could make out a group of people standing in a raggedline at the bottom of the hill. One was a great, bearded fellow, and Robinet wondered who he could be. Certainly, the fellowwas haranguing his audience with vigour, from what Robinet could see. And then he saw the body being drawn from the rubbish, and he withdrew from the doorway in alarm, his hand on his knife. Quickly, he snatchedit free and stared in horror at the blackening stains on the metal of the forged blade. Filled with a rising horror, he noticedhis hand — the mess that he had rested his palm on was blood …

His common sense rose swiftly now, and he strode across, back into the stable. Yes, the mess in the hay beside the flattenedarea where he had slept was indeed beslobbered with blood. He quickly grabbed a handful of straw and wiped his hand again,then rubbed at his dagger’s blade until it was clean.

‘Must leave the town,’ he said to himself. His pack must be here somewhere, and he cast about for it. The room appeared tobe a storage house for a rich man or someone, and was filled with hay and barrels of salted fish among other items. Nothinggood for him just now, certainly. He must find his few belongings and be gone, that was all that mattered to him now: to getto Walter’s house, collect his belongings and make good his escape.

And then he heard voices approaching the place, and he must retreat into the shadows, his eyes as wide as a felon who feltthe rope begin to tightened about his neck.

‘Sweet Jesus, what have I done?’

As soon as the voices had passed by up the alleyway, he kicked the hay about to conceal where he had lain and cover over theblood, and then slipped out into the alley himself.