The Malice of Unnatural Death

Chapter Eighteen

North-East Dartmoor

Simon woke with a pain in his hip where the unyielding soil had been an inadequate cover for a large stone. Busse was snoring gentlyat his side, but when he peered out into the cold daylight he saw Rob shivering at the fire, Simon’s spare cloak pulled tight,his arms wrapped about himself, a thin smoke rising from the twigs and tinder he had worked at.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Simon asked quietly as he crawled from their shelter. It looked quite solid still, he was pleased tosee. It gave him a feeling of quiet satisfaction to think that he had managed to construct that at short notice.

Rob nodded, but his face was pinched, and Simon could feel the chill air at his own back.

The landscape had altered over the night since Simon and the monk’s conversation. The snow had kept on falling, and now therewere a few inches covering everything. Usually Simon enjoyed the sight of snow. It was lovely to rise in the morning, lookout from the window and see all covered in the unmarked blanket of white. To see the trees bowing, to hear the branches crackingwith the weight, and then to see children skating on the ice of the ponds … it all made a man’s heart leap. Especiallywhen he could return to his own house and stand in front of his own fire to warm himself. That certainly helped.

Not all would view it in the same light, of course. Some, he knew, hated the snow and feared its arrival. Mostly it was theolder folks. Each year the winter would carry away the older, the more infirm and feeble. It was natural, but sad. And whenthe snow fell, there were other deaths too: men fell through the ice while playing on the ponds; children fell prey to thecold; some folks would drink themselves stupid and then die on the way home from a tavern, only to be found the next morningby a passer-by, lying at the roadside with their bodies frozen to the soil. Aye, there were plenty who had cause to dislikeand mistrust the weather, but for his part Simon loved it, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than the fresh, crisp airand the crunch of compacted snow underfoot when he was well prepared for it.

And that was the trouble. Today he and his companions were not ready. ‘Rob, go and see how the horses have fared,’ he said.‘I’ll attend to this.’

The lad walked away without even a sharp comment about masters who preferred to hog the fire, which showed Simon just howjaded the lad was feeling. He set to with determination. The fire had been banked up well last night, and the embers werestill good and warm, so he set about rekindling it. The tree which had supplied so much of their needs last evening was oflittle use. All the fine twigs were hidden by the snow. Instead he walked about the encampment seeking small sticks, and soonhad found a fair collection, getting himself thoroughly smothered in snow in the process. He bound them together into a faggotand bound it tightly together with green withies wrapped about it, and put it onto the hottest part of the fire, kneeling down and blowing steadily to waken the sparks. Soon he could feelthe warmth, and there was a hissing and spitting as the twigs began to take the heat.

He had brought a clay pot with him — he fetched it now, and filled it with the wine left in his skin. Setting it in the midstof the fire, he hoped the pot would warm gradually and not shatter.

‘Ho, Bailiff, and a fine morning to you,’ Busse grunted as he thrust his head from the shelter. ‘In God’s name, but this isa cold dawn!’

‘As a whore’s heart,’ Rob muttered. ‘Horses are all right, master. All stood together, and kept their heat in.’

Simon nodded, but his mind was already on other matters. ‘Prepare them, then. We shall leave here as soon as they are ready.’

Rob nodded, too cold to argue. It was Busse who protested as the boy walked back to the mounts. ‘But should we not break ourfast? Surely it would be foolish to set off without something in our bellies?’

‘Brother, I fear it would be more foolish to remain here in the open. We’ll soon start to freeze. Better to ride on and seehow soon we can find a house. A farm or cott. It matters little where we shelter, but we must get moving — if only to keepourselves warm.’

‘How long will it take us to reach Exeter?’

‘With luck, if the weather off the moor is more clement, we might reach the city soon after noon. It depends upon the mounts. If they can cope, we should hurry. It is only one league to the edge of the moor, I’d guess. Maybe a little farther. And thereare roads down there, which will make the going easier.’

‘Thanks be to God.’ Busse began to settle himself on the ground.

‘Brother, there isn’t time.’

‘I am a man of God. I have to pray at first rising.’

‘Look on this as a special dispensation, Brother. There isn’t time.’

Busse looked at him long and hard, and then began to pray, muttering a hasty Pater Noster, and adding sarcastically, ‘I hope that is not too slow for you?’

Simon shrugged. He had retrieved his pot, and now he sniffed at it. About to take a long swallow, he remembered his manners,and offered it to Busse. The monk drank with his eyes closed, as though this was the finest drink he had ever tasted. As wellit might have been, Simon reckoned. When the pot came to him, he sipped slowly, rolling the warmed wine about his mouth andfeeling the sensation of heat strike at his belly. It felt as though every inch of the liquor’s journey to his stomach wasdistinct, and every particle of his being thrilled to the sensation.

The rest was saved for Rob, whose need was the greatest of all of them. Today, when they mounted, Simon lifted Rob up beforehim on the horse. In this weather it would be better for him to ride and keep his feet out of the snow. Simon was happy thathe would soon be able to lead his little party off the moors and down into the warmer lands that encircled them.

It was a thought that had clearly occurred to Busse too. ‘Will it be this cold and snowy all the way?’

‘No. Usually the moors catch all the worst weather. We used to live north of Crediton, and there we could be enjoying a brightsunny day, and when we looked to the south we’d see Dartmoor with clouds above. Often in the spring we could be working in the warm, but Dartmoor would have snow. You could see it like a white coat lying on top. So I am hoping that when we leave the moors we should find the way a greatdeal easier.’

Busse nodded, but Simon could feel the man’s eyes on him, and he was struck with that anxiety again — not fear exactly, butjust the faint nervous premonition that this man could be dangerous to him.

He could have cursed brother John de Courtenay.

Exeter Gaol

It had been a miserable night for Master Richard de Langatre.

He had spent evenings in poor dives before now, what with one thing and another. There had been a deeply unpleasant littlecell just outside Oxford where he had been incarcerated for a couple of days before the error of his arrest had come to light,but notwithstanding that, this had to be the very worst pit in which he had ever been forced to spend a night. The walls weredank and mouldy, the floor a foul mix of substances which were best forgotten, the toilet facilities non-existent. Not evena pail!

He knew why he was here, of course. It was that devious shit Sir Matthew. The sheriff had made it clear enough that he didn’tlike men like Master Richard. Well, that was the sort of thing which he had grown all too used to — but he never expectedthis! The man had seemed almost beside himself last night when he shouted at him. Sweet Christ in heaven, how could Langatrehave guessed that the sheriff would fly off the handle like that! The worst that anyone could say about Langatre was thathe had been attacked and robbed, and yet here he was — he was — in gaol for his trouble! It was grossly unfair.

There was a skittering noise, which he had grown to recognise as rats, and then he heard the scrape of the bolts on the greatdoor outside that gave onto the castle yard. The screech of the door’s hinges was like a knife dragging down Langatre’s bones: a hideous, drawn-out metallic squeal of agony. He wondered if they soaked them in water daily to give the sound that timbre.

Footsteps crunched along the paved corridor, and stopped, so far as he could tell, outside his chamber. There was a silencefor a moment, then the rattle of a key in the lock, and the door suddenly opened.

He winced in the sudden light from a torch, peering up at the shadowy figures before him and fearing what the sheriff mighthave in store for him, but then he heard the welcoming bellow and felt his courage return.

‘Christ alive, man! What sort of sty have they kept you in overnight? Eh?’

‘Coroner? Sir Baldwin?’

The two slipped inside, and Baldwin looked about him with distaste. ‘I am truly sorry to see how you have been treated, Master Langatre. I shall ensure that you are released as soon as is feasible.’

‘I am grateful to you. I am not used to such conditions.’

‘Better get used to ’em, then,’ the coroner stated cheerfully. ‘If the sheriff keeps to his word and has you held for questioningby the king’s men, you could be here a while.’

‘But that would be daft! What could I have done? I’ve never even seen the king!’

‘The sheriff seems determined enough,’ the coroner said. ‘Perhaps he knows something else you’ve been doing?’

Langatre frowned down at his boots. These two seemed friendly enough, although that was an attitude which could all too easilydissipate. Still, he was in no position to conceal anything from anyone. The very worst thing for him would be to continueto be held down here.

‘My lords, look, I have done nothing wrong. I have certainly never tried to summon a demon.’

‘Tell us what you have done.’

‘Nothing! I swear! All I have ever done is try to earn a small living. That’s all. There’s nothing secret about my work. Sir Baldwin, you saw that I was robbed — my knives, my hat, all gone!’

‘You have been said to have been involved in telling the future,’ Baldwin said.

‘Oh, that! It’s mainly a knack of letting people tell me what they want me to say, and then telling them what they want ina different manner. Easy, that is. But there are many in town who profess to be able to do the same — even one of the monksin St Nicholas’s Priory is supposed to be able to do that.’

‘Is there something in particular that could have irritated the good sheriff? Anything you have done recently?’

‘Nothing I know of. What is this all about, anyway?’

‘Someone has attempted an attack on the king and his friend Despenser, from all we’ve seen,’ the coroner rumbled. ‘I shouldtake it that the king is not happy with anyone supposedly associated with the magical arts.’

Langatre stared about him helplessly. ‘Oh, cods!’

‘So if there is anything — anything — you can tell us that might help,’ Baldwin prompted seriously, ‘it might just assist us to help you.’

‘Oh, God in heaven!’ Langatre gazed from one to the other. ‘You want me to be honest?’

Exeter City

Master John of Nottingham was happy with his work so far. The models were taking on their own appearances already, and hefelt sure that they would be as successful as the originals.

He put the final touches to the first of them, using his knife to remove a small flaking of wax from the little crown he hadplaced on its head, and setting it upright on the table before him, then bowing his head and pinching at the top of his nosewhere the headache seemed to be starting.

It was one of the problems he had suffered from for a long while now: he was sure that his eyes were beginning to fail him. In the past he had been graced with perfect eyesight, and there would have been little difficulty involved in doing this kindof work by candlelight, but more recently it had started to take its toll. Perhaps it was just that he was still tired fromhis long journey down here from Coventry. It had been a hard effort. A sore, hard effort.

He had not expected to be released. The sudden opening of his cell door in the middle of the night had been a terrible shock. At first he had been convinced that he was about to be dragged out to be tortured. Or pulled out to the gibbet and hangedwithout an opportunity of putting his own case. When he was grabbed by the arms and dragged out, he could not command evenhis voice. The words he tried to utter pleading innocence were stifled by his terror. There were steps, harsh orange lightfrom the flickering torches, then a long corridor, and he was brought out into the open air. It made him want to shriek. As soon as he arrived out in the open, he saw a tall post, and the sight made him begin to swoon,his head pounding, his heart thudding as though trying to break free.

Before the post he saw the tall figure of Croyser.

The Sheriff of Warwick was standing by a huddled mess on the ground, and as he was pulled forward John saw that it was a man,a man of John’s own age, his face white, his lips blue in death. That was when he became sure that he was being brought hereto be killed.

‘Master John,’ Croyser said. He was pulling on gloves, and John automatically thought of a murderer covering his hands sothat no blood should pollute them.

The hold on him was released, and John fell on all fours, where he remained with his head hanging, waiting for the blow tofall. He daren’t look up into the eyes of the man who was to kill him.

‘Get up, fool! Do you want to die here? Get up, I said.’

John hesitated, fearing a trick, but then he noticed that the two men who had brought him had left. Their feet were not athis side any more. Hardly daring to hope, he looked up.

Croyser pointed at the body beside him. ‘See him? Do you know him?’

‘I have never …’

‘He is Master John of Nottingham. Do you understand? I’m going to put him in that cell, and when the gaoler arrives in themorning, he will swear on his mother’s grave that it was you. Or who you once were. You are safe. You are free.’

‘I …’ John’s mouth hung open, and then he slowly closed it. ‘What do you seek, sir knight?’

‘You were paid to perform a task, were you not? There are many in the land would like to see that mission completed. If you have the stomach for it, man, fly from here and complete it. You were paid for it, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, but the money is lost. How can I start afresh?’

‘Here!’ Croyser tossed a purse to him. It was heavy, a ponderous weight, and John dropped it. Picking it up, he could feelthe coins inside. Croyser nodded. ‘Yes, the balance of your twenty pounds. The money you were promised. The same men who paidyou before want you to succeed, but you will have to leave Coventry. Go somewhere else, where you may be safe. But in God’sname, be quick. The country cannot survive much longer with this corruption at its heart.’

John had needed no second bidding. There was a pack of food and drink with a blanket and heavy cloak against the weather,and he had taken them, stammering his thanks while the sheriff gave him some instructions for his own safety. There was nodoubt that he was risking much, for if John was discovered, it would be the sheriff’s own neck that would be stretched.

‘One thing I do need, though,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘My book … without that I cannot do my work,’ John had said despairingly.

He looked over at the waxen image once more, remembering that night, flying from the gaol and the city of Warwick, guidedby a man wearing the sheriff’s own livery. The man took John out by a small postern, and then led him along filthy, dark streetsuntil they reached the road south. There the man gave him his book and left him. John attempted to thank him, but in returnthe man merely spat at the ground and turned on his heel.

It had been a terrible flight, but at least he had escaped. And now he would do as he had promised, and make these models. Four pounds of wax. Enough for four images.

One of the king, one each for the two Despensers, and one for the Bishop of Exeter.

They would all die.