The Malice of Unnatural Death

Chapter Sixteen

Exeter City

Walter drew a large jug from the barrel of strong ale at the rear of his buttery, and poured two pottery drinking horns full. Passingone to Robinet, he lifted his own and they clashed them, the ale inside splashing about and spattering the floor.

Drinking deeply, Walter eyed his old friend over the brim. ‘So, come, now. What is all this about? Who’d want to kill thatyoungster?’

‘I don’t know. He wasn’t known here in Exeter.’

‘He was hardly known anywhere, was he?’

‘This way, no. He tended to get the circuits north of London, rather than the longer ones westwards.’

Both men knew how the messengers tended to work. There were two groups: the nuncii regis and the cursores. The former were the men on horseback, the latter the men on foot. Both would cover the same distance in a day, about thirty-fivemiles, because a man with a horse would have to allow the beast a certain amount of rest, while a man on foot could keep goingall day.

‘Was he booted or horsed when you knew him?’

‘When he was under my wing, he was mostly on horseback. He didn’t start out like me.’

‘Those fellows have it too easy,’ Walter said, refilling their horns. After another toast, he glared at the floor thoughtfully.

‘It is strange for a messenger to be harmed in any way whatever. You know that.’

‘Aye, I do. I’ve only heard of one being molested, and that was by the Scots, I think.’

‘Few would dare cause such offence to the king himself.’

‘Yet someone did.’

Newt nodded, and leaned his elbows on his thighs. ‘What is odd is that when I woke up this morning, I was in a small stable,and my knife was beslobbered with dried blood.’

‘He bled?’

‘I heard he was strangled, but later stabbed as though to make sure. And someone had cut off a finger or two.’

Walter scowled. ‘This grows more and more unpleasant.’ Yes, confusing. The messenger was a pathetic little fellow — he’d seenhim with Newt on that first day, when he walked straight into Newt. Walter wasn’t impressed by the fact that he stood up to Newt. That could well have been terror rather than courage. Walter had seen it before, with men who were startled. When theyreacted, they could sometimes behave as though bold as a knight in a tournament, when in truth they were simply acting.

Newt shook his head. ‘There’s something about this. He didn’t deserve it. He screwed me, I know, but he didn’t deserve tobe throttled and left out there.’

‘No one does, Newt. No one ever does,’ Walter said, and his eyes were black wells of memory as he spoke.

It was very late when they returned to the Suttonsysyn, and the innkeeper was not welcoming, but the coroner made full useof his size and anger, and soon they had a table in a quiet corner with a jug of the inn’s best ale and two large cups, whilea servant was sent to see what food was still available.

‘What do you think?’ Baldwin said as soon as they were alone.

‘Me? That prickle has something on his mind. This is nothing to do with the poor sod found dead, or I’m not from Welles. Ballocksto that! No, the blasted idiot thinks that he can gain advantage with the king if he holds that poor dolt, and if the goodsheriff sees profit in it, he’ll do it. I know him of old.’

‘So do I, and I hate to think that I might one day be at his mercy,’ Baldwin said. ‘If there has truly been an attempt onthe king’s life, and that of his … friend, then you may be assured that our little necromancer here will be sent to theking.’

‘I would not reckon his chances, were he to be sent before the Despenser, not if it’s true that the Despenser thought hislife had been endangered by a magician,’ Sir Richard said.

‘I think not,’ Baldwin said, with a sense of inner relief. It was always a fearsome thing to talk openly to another aboutthe king and his favourite. The rumour was that the King and Despenser were lovers, but that could well have been nonsense. However, the power and authority of Despenser was something that could not be forgotten. He had a long arm, and an infiniteability for hatred, so Baldwin had heard. Merely discussing him was hazardous, for if another overheard their conversation,and they were derogatory about him, he could be expected to seek them out. And Despenser did not seek mere punishment: hesought to destroy his enemies and take all their treasure for his own, impoverishing the families for ever.

‘Of course, it is none of our business,’ the coroner muttered. ‘We were asked to help investigate the murder of a king’s messenger.’

‘Why were you here?’ Baldwin asked. Coroner Richard was not usually in Exeter. He hailed from Lifton.

‘The Sheriff asked me here for a case before the Justices of Gaol Delivery, and when the body was found I was asked to comeand view it. I suppose it was known that I was a coroner for the king’s estate, so it was fitting that I should hold inqueston a king’s messenger.’

‘So it was known that he was a nuncius regis before you had even come to view him?’

‘No … at least, no one told me. I realised he was a messenger when I saw him — no one warned me that he was.’

‘Whereas I happened to be here in the town, so the bishop thought to engage me to help him,’ Baldwin mused. ‘It is peculiarthat he should seek to ask me to aid you.’

‘Means the man thought the theft of this roll could be embarrassing either to the Church or to him personally.’

‘What could be so embarrassing, I wonder?’

‘Be careful that your wonderings don’t catch you out!’ Coroner Richard laughed drily. ‘You know what they say: if you wishfor something too much, you might just win it … and live to regret it! This thing must be something of great importanceto the bishop, whether it involves national or Church matters. Either way, if you learn what is in the roll, you will surelycome to regret the fact!’

‘We must find the roll. That is the charge laid upon us.’

‘Aye. But if we want to learn what has happened to that, we have to find the murderer of the messenger. The man who killedand mutilated him must know about the thing.’

‘I wonder. I wonder.’ Baldwin sat with his chin cupped in the palm of his hand as he stared at the dying embers of the fire.

‘I should think that the fellow was most likely unfortunate, that he ran into some desperate footpad, and was killed.’

Baldwin slowly raised his eyes and stared at him. ‘You believe that? This messenger was caught by a stranger who knew nothingabout him, was held, had his finger cut off, and was then throttled while he scrabbled, even with his mutilated hand, to savehimself? And then, when the murderer had concealed his body and rested, he went to that necromancer’s house and killed hisservant in an attempt to kill Langatre too?’

‘Think of the alternative, Baldwin,’ the coroner said quietly, leaning forward and meeting Baldwin’s serious stare. ‘The alternativeto this being an unfortunate mistake is that it was intentional. Someone knew that this messenger was carrying a secret, urgentroll that could seriously embarrass the bishop, if no one else. And then the same fellow went to the necromancer to executehim for some reason.’

‘That is how I read the riddle.’

‘It supposes that the young fool in the sheriff’s gaol had an insight into matters far above his station, Baldwin. It meansthat fool has an understanding of national or Church affairs. Can you really believe that?’

‘Not for a moment.’

‘Nor can I. However, if the murderer thought that he was being pursued, he could have entered a house to escape? Perhaps hewas hurrying past the necromancer’s house, saw a man following him, and walked inside. He saw the servant, killed him, andthen heard that fellow Langatre in his room, so slipped in to do away with him too. The pursuers ran on …’

‘They could have assumed he was heading for the city’s gate. Stepecote Street leads down to the West Gate,’ Baldwin considered.

‘And then he hoped to escape. Except the neighbours heard something and ran to the house, and found one corpse and the necromancerstanding over it looking guilty. There you are! A simple story, well told.’

‘True. And it chimes well, but for one problem. As soon as the pursuers reached the gate, they would know he had not beenthat way. And they would have doubled back to seek him, and in doing so, they would have passed by a house outside which therewas a large crowd gathering. They would have thought to find their man inside.’

‘Perhaps. Yes, that is possible. And why not? Perhaps they did indeed find him?’

‘And there was no sound of a posse, either.’ Baldwin frowned. ‘If there were, we should have heard of it. So no. I don’t believeyour tale. In which case, there is still a murderer loose in our city.’

North-East Dartmoor

Simon shivered himself awake at regular intervals through the night. It was freezing, and although he was relieved, each timehe woke, not to have the added misery of rain, he was conscious of the soft hissing sound of snow falling gently on the trees.

In their shelter, there was so little space, it was hard to imagine that any of the three could roll over without hittingthe others, or knocking down a wall, but Simon was relieved to see that there was no sign of any gaps in the thatch over hishead. It seemed that nobody had knocked the shelter’s walls so far.

However, he was also aware of a growing sensation of pressure in his bladder. He hunched his shoulders, turned away from theother two, and faced the wall. Then he turned back and faced in to the middle. He lay on his back. No matter what he did,or how he lay, the pressure seemed to grow, like a wineskin that was sat upon. By degrees, the wine would leak from it… and that was how Simon felt now. That the building discomfort must find release.

At last the inevitability of his position became clear, and he grunted quietly to himself as he unwrapped his cloak and blanketand crawled from the entrance.

The fire was glowing gently, but there was no flame now, and when he looked up at the sky he could see only white-rimmed clouds. There was no way to tell what time of day it might be, and at the moment he hardly cared. All he knew was, it was the sortof hour of the night that was only good for monks. He grunted as he felt the chill of the cold air at his cheeks, and pulledhis cloak from inside the shelter. Wrapping it about his shoulders, he walked a short distance from their camp, and with enormousrelief opened his hose to empty his bladder.

As he retied the thongs that held his hosen up, he glanced about him. The snow had fallen, although mercifully not too heavily. From here, although the sky was clouded, he could still make out the moors just beyond the fringe of the trees. The top ofthe nearer hill gleamed with a light of its own, the snow shining grey.

‘I should be at home with Meg,’ he grumbled to himself, feeling how the cold air was tightening the skin on the backs of hishands.

Rather than re-enter the shelter, he decided to warm himself up again. The pile of logs remained near the fire, and it took only a little shaking of it to clear away the snow. Then he spent a little time setting thin twigs on top of the embers, blowing determinedly to reignite the flames. Soon, mercifully,he had a few flickers, and he could set larger twigs about the pile. Only then did he sit back and hold his hands to it, feelingthat the fire was doing him some good.

‘May I join you?’

He groaned inwardly, but grunted a more or less polite acknowledgement to the monk.

‘This weather! You know, I had a friend in Tavistock some years ago, and he was removed to be sent to a monastery in Italy. Have you ever been there?’

‘No.’ Rather than sound entirely bound to this land, he added defensively, ‘But I’ve been to Galicia.’

‘Compostela? I am jealous. I always intended to go there, but I doubt I shall make it now. I am growing a little long in thetooth to make such a pilgrimage. What tempted you to go so far?’

‘It was a while ago,’ Simon said. He could not explain that it all stemmed from a friend’s accidental homicide of an innocentman.

‘I see. Well, my friend will be sitting back in a pleasantly warm room, I am told. No matter what the season, the weatheris always more clement than ours. Ah! But I am fortunate to be here in the land I love. Although the moors are daunting, doyou not feel?’

Simon glanced over through the trees at the hills beyond. ‘Daunting, you say? I suppose so. They are certainly dangerous forthose who don’t appreciate the risks.’

On the cool air, there came a weird, shuddering cry. It wavered on the air like a sob, and then died.

‘What, in God’s holy name?’

‘Sit down again, brother. It is a horse. You can often hear them at this time of year. They wander the moors, and every sooften they’ll go into a mire and drown.’

The cry came again, a long drawn out wail of terror and misery.

‘Are you sure? That sounds human!’

‘It’s a horse.’

‘Christ have mercy!’ Busse sat quietly, his eyes moving swiftly about the moors in front of them, hands clenched before him.

‘At least you’re used to being up at this time of night,’ Simon muttered. ‘I’m normally long asleep by now, and it’d takemore than a horse to wake me.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But a sound like that … it reminds me …’

Simon heard a note of uncertainty in his voice. He glanced at the monk. In the firelight, Busse looked wide-eyed and terrified,like a man who was listening at the brink of hell itself.

‘I was talking to a necromancer not long ago. He was an interesting man, in many ways. And pious. He believed that in orderto compel a demon to do his bidding, he must make full use of the irresistible power of certain divine words. He would fast,too, and prepare himself with a long period of chastity and prayer before embarking on such a perilous act.’

‘You spoke to him?’ Simon asked, shocked.

‘Of course, Bailiff. If I, as a monk, am to pray for those whose souls most need God’s help, it is best to understand them. That was my first feeling. And then I realised that this man was a great proof of the strength of God’s power. After all, even a man who wished to make use of a demon must needs firstshow his devotion to God.’

‘It hardly sounds the sort of behaviour God would support,’ Simon said. His was a simple faith: God was good, and all demonswere evil and to be shunned.

Busse appeared not to hear him. ‘It was that poor creature’s cry that reminded me of him. He told me, you see, that therewas a magician called Philip about sixty years ago, who was challenged by a knight to show what he was capable of. He tookthe knight to a crossroads in the middle of the night — I believe that mid-night is supposed to be propitious for those involvedin such works — and there the knight endured what he had never before dreamed of. The man Philip made a circle in the dirt,and warned the knight that if so much as a digit of his finger were to stray outside the circle, he would inevitably be drawnout and pulled apart.

‘He sat in this circle for some while, and then he heard voices approaching. They were obscene voices, shrieks, squawks, allmanner of foul bestial cries. And then they reached him, and he found himself surrounded by the full evil of Satan’s hordes. Demonic creatures of all kinds. At last a massive, foul demon appeared, so repellent and terrifying that the knight fell onhis face in a dead faint.’

‘Did he recover?’

‘I suppose so. I didn’t ask. But that sound reminds me of the tale.’

Simon pulled a face as he listened to another cry. ‘It won’t be there for long. Soon drown now. He’s too tired to survive.’

‘Doesn’t it scare you too?’

Shaking his head, Simon threw a few more twigs onto the fire. ‘When I was a lad, I heard that sound, and I was petrified. I’d beentold stories of the wild hunt when I was little, by my nurse. She always told me that if I didn’t eat my food, or if I didn’tgo to bed when she said, or some other little thing, then the devil would surely come and get me. The wish-hounds would appearfirst, riding over the moors, and then the devil would ride up on his fire-breathing horse, and catch me, and I’d be takenaway to hell with them. But I’d never seen the devil down here.’

‘I wish you hadn’t told me that,’ Busse said.

‘You must have heard the stories about the moors,’ Simon said. ‘You’ve lived here long enough.’

‘I think that many of the tales are told to children who are raised here, but the same stories are not thought suitable fora middle-aged monk like me. Too racy, I dare say.’

‘Not even the stories of the pixies?’

‘Enough! I think you are taunting me intentionally. Perhaps I should go and rest again.’

‘You should. We travelled far yesterday, and tomorrow we’ll still have another seven or eight leagues or so to get to Exeter.’

‘I don’t think I could sleep just now,’ Busse said. ‘The cold, and that screaming, would stop me. And, of course, I am usedto being awake at this time of night. This is my usual waking hour for Matins. To think that all my brothers are even nowleaving their cots and making their way to the church … It is a beautiful service, Bailiff, when all the voices lift inpraise of the Lord.’

Simon nodded, studying the monk from the corner of his eye. It seemed so peculiar to be talking so normally to this man, whohad admitted to consorting with demon-conjurors and magicians. For anyone the association was curious, but for a man of God to confess to such behaviour was bizarre.

The two men stayed together for a little longer, quiet for the most part, simply sharing in the atavistic pleasure of holdingtheir hands to the fire, and then, as Simon yawned and stretched, Busse declared himself tired once more. Simon wished hima good night, and his eyes followed the monk as he crawled backwards into the shelter.

Yes. Busse was an odd character, certainly. And yet likeable in some strange way. Not that it mattered to Simon a jot. Asfar as he was concerned, the only thing that mattered was looking after the man on the way to Exeter, and then back to Tavistockagain. And he preferred not to think about the references to demon-conjurings or knights sitting inside small circles…

It was only as Simon considered that tale again that he wondered whether Busse was giving him some kind of warning. Perhapshe was telling Simon that if he intended to spy on him for John de Courtenay, he should be careful. Busse could have a manset a demon onto Simon himself.

As he had this thought, there came another shrill, shuddering cry on the wind, but this time, for all Simon’s level-headedprotestations and explanations, a freezing shudder ran down his spine and trickled into his bones. He threw a last log onthe fire, and hurriedly returned to the shelter.

He did not feel comfortable lying in the same tiny space as Busse, but he liked still less being out in the open on his own.

Exeter Castle

And in the sheriff’s bedchamber, although Matthew had rolled over and was soon asleep, content with a hard day’s work satisfactorilycompleted, his wife lay on her back at his side and stared at the ceiling.

Langatre had nothing to do with anything dangerous, she was sure. He was an innocent man. A fellow like him did not deserveto be caught up in the mess that was English politics.

She had been astonished when her husband accused her of trying to use necromancy again. He was desperate for children — surelyhe must understand her despair? But no. He said that she must not visit such men ever again. Better that she remain barrenthan that she risk their souls.

Yes. It was a shame. She would try again tomorrow to use her influence on him to have Langatre released. His imprisonmentcould help no one.

At least it had taken her mind off the other man and her fear that he, a genuine traitor, could be found and captured.