The Malice of Unnatural Death: (25 page)

The strength of the accusations lay in their terrible nature. Whereas a simple theft of plate or the suggestion that brother Templars had been involved in corruption would have earned the individuals concerned a period in cells followed by eviction
from the order and installation in another, harsher regime, the charges levelled against Baldwin and his companions were so
atrocious that the whole order must be destroyed. They had all been accused of heresy and worse. It had been said that they
had worshipped an idol, that they had indulged in obscene rites at their initiations – even that knights had been persuaded
to urinate on the Holy Cross.

That was the thing that worried at him always: the idea that a man like him, who had been raised as a Christian warrior, a
man who had been so devoted to Christ that he had been prepared to risk his life in the journey to Acre, there to try to defend
the city against the hordes of enemies who stood at the gates – that a man like him, who sought only to serve God, could become
so easily diverted in the space of an initiation ceremony as to discard the beliefs which had built in him in the past eighteen
years and perform such a hideous act. It was beyond belief. If any man had asked him to do such a thing, he would have had
their head off in a flash. It was ridiculous.

Was it as ridiculous as thinking that a man might try to
murder another with waxen images? Perhaps. Baldwin shrugged. The fact that a man was accused of a crime did not mean that
he was guilty. There were necromancers in the land, but in Baldwin’s experience they were mostly men like Langatre: not evil,
but usually well educated and clerical men who sought to increase their knowledge. Mostly Baldwin had thought them mildly
lunatic, but that was only because he classed them in his own mind with a similar group of madmen, the alchemists. Both trailed
a faint but unpleasant odour with them wherever they went, the inevitable concomitant of their trades, but Baldwin had never
seriously considered them dangerous.

No. If there was a danger about the city, it was surely more prosaic. No demon had stabbed Mucheton, and no devil had throttled
the king’s messenger.

The house they were directed to was a narrow building with a jetty overhead that would disable any poor soul who tried to
ride beneath it. Just in front of it, the road had a dip where years of ill-use had caused the surface to collapse. Riders
would ride down into it, and duck, only to find, as their mount clambered up the farther side, that there was not enough height
for them. Many men must have fallen here, he thought.

‘This the place?’ Coroner Richard boomed.

‘Friend, please.’ Baldwin winced.

‘What?’

‘Please try to be quieter, my friend. This woman has only just recently been widowed. She needs care and tact.’

‘Of course she does!’ Coroner Richard exclaimed. ‘ ’Strordinary thing to say. What, do you think I would be clumsy or rude
to her? Hey? Hah! Come, now. Let us know whether the wench is in before you begin to give me
instruction in manners, eh?’

John of Nottingham woke with an ache in his belly. It was a dull, annoying sensation, the sort of mild griping that would
make a man unsettled in his spirits, but John was strong. He stood, walked to the little altar he had created in the corner
of his room, and prayed for some little while, asking for God’s strength in his enterprise.

If he had been asked, John would have been surprised that anyone could look on his prayers as anachronistic. To him, the authority
of the spells he attempted came from the power of the divine words he was using. These words, when woven into certain specific
spells, could so terrify a demon that he would instantly fall under the power – the spell – of the necromancer. But if a man
were to use God’s own holy name, how could he hope to achieve anything unless he was himself filled with a love of God and
reverence for Him? So even if he were attempting
maleficium
, the fact of his own belief made John convinced that he was a pious man. It was just that the use of demons offered a faster
route to success.

His belly was empty, though, and today that would interrupt his work. He had been through this before, oh, so many times. Today he would take a break, drink a little water, and visit the local church. Celebrating mass always had the effect of calming
his nerves when he was at this late stage of work.

Later, when he was soothed by the rituals, he would return. Already the first of the figures was complete, and the second
and third were roughly formed. Soon all four would be ready.

Jen
was walking past the main hall as her master ate his lunch. As she entered, she saw him again – oh! He was so perfect, sitting
there in his great chair, like a king on his throne! The sight of him made her feel weakly. There was a feeling of warmth
in her groin, a rush of blood in her heart, and she was almost ready to faint for a moment. Then, with fortune, Sarra arrived
behind her, and pulled her away.

‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.

Jen raised her chin. ‘What did you pull me away for?’

‘Look, Jen, I don’t know what’s got into you, but you mustn’t stand staring at him. He’ll grow angry and throw you out. Me
too, if he’s in the mood.’

‘Honestly, you have nothing to worry about.’

‘Are you mad? We are just servants here. You talk as if we’re secure!’

‘Master won’t throw us out,’ Jen said confidently. ‘We are perfectly safe here.’

‘No, Jen. You don’t know the man like I do – he’d throw you out in a blink if he thought it would make his life easier.’

‘He loves me.’

Sarra was silenced for a moment. She stopped and turned slowly to face Jen. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said: “He loves me.” ’

Sarra stared for a moment, and then, disconcertingly, laughed aloud. ‘Are you mad? Look at the way he watches his wife, Jen! He has eyes for no one else at all.’

‘You haven’t seen how he looks at me. I have seen it in his eyes. Even this morning, when he arrived back from his ride, he
offered himself to me. Asked me if I wanted him, and it was only my shyness stopped me from asking for him there and then!’

‘Jen, honest, he’d not do anything to upset his lady. If he
offered you a tumble tonight, well, that’s one thing …’

‘A tumble? You’re
stupid
, you are! If you can’t see the love in his face, you’re blind! Don’t you know that every time he sees me his whole face lights
up? Haven’t you seen how he thrills when I walk into a room? He is embarrassed when his wife enters. She is so hard and cruel
to him, it is a miracle that he never beats her. Better that he did, perhaps. Or just asked for a divorce. Then he and I could
…’

‘No!’ Sarra grabbed her upper arms and shook her. ‘Jen, you mustn’t think like that. If you want, let him have you some night. Let him – well, you can’t stop him. But don’t try to convince yourself that you’re his lady love. You are his servant, and
nothing more than that. You won’t ever be more than that to him. You can’t be! He’s married, and he’s not going to leave his
lady.’

‘You just don’t understand,’ Jen said calmly. She glanced down at Sarra’s hands, and gradually Sarra loosened her grip, standing
back, eyeing Jen with mingled alarm and concern. Jen shook her head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll not forget you, dearest Sarra. Even
if I marry him, I can’t forget my oldest friend.’

Sarra shook her head and began to weep as she realised she was serious.

Baldwin
had knocked on enough doors asking to see the recently bereaved to recognise the signs, but there was something about widow Mucheton that struck him more than almost any.

It was not that she was beautiful. Even when her face was not ravaged with grief she would have been plain at best, with a
face slightly too round, her eyes a little close-set, her mouth thin and hard. Her complexion was pale, but that was probably
largely due to the grief, Baldwin reckoned.

No, it was the obvious distress that affected him. So often women were so inured to the idea of death – it was such a major
part of life, after all – that even when a close and loved person died, they would steel themselves and try to show little
of their misery. People simply did not show their feelings like that. A man or woman had to have pride, and believe in the
promise of the Church that they would see their loved ones again.

This woman would have none of that. She was distraught, and she was content that her neighbours should know it.

‘Mistress?’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘Would you mind if we were to ask you some questions? We seek your husband’s murderer.’

‘Come
inside,’ she said after a moment. It was not that she was reflecting, more that she could only think slowly now, since the
loss of her man.

It was a small room, but well maintained. The floor actually had some tiles set into the dirt to walk on. They ran to the
edge of the hearth, which was delineated by a circle of little red stones, much the same rough stones as had been used to
make Exeter’s walls. A single chair stood near it, clearly Norman’s own, while a stool sat by a table in the corner. That Norman had been wealthy was proved by the two tapestries on one wall, but more generally by the feeling of comfort. There
was a sideboard with pots and three pewter plates on it, a large box for clothing, and a pantry cupboard in a corner. Candles
illuminated the room, and Baldwin could see that there was a ladder climbing to the floor above. When he glanced up at it,
he saw a pair of faces peering down at him: two children.

She made an effort to show that she was functioning, and offered them some food and ale, which Baldwin quickly declined, glaring
ferociously at the coroner as he did so. All to no avail.

‘Mistress, if you have a little good, strong ale, that would be most kindly received.’

The barrels, two of them, stood on a trestle at the far wall, and she took a pot from the sideboard to fill. But as she walked
from the shelves, her apron snagged at the edge. The whole structure moved, and two pots tumbled down to the tiled floor,
where both smashed.

She stood as though stunned by this latest disaster. Pots and pans were not overly expensive, but to a widow with no income,
to lose two at a stroke was a disaster. As Baldwin watched, her face slowly wrinkled with despair, and then her
eyes closed as her misery overwhelmed her again.

‘Coroner, fetch her some ale,’ he commanded harshly, while he himself stood and took her hand to try to comfort her. It took
some little while, but at last she drew some deep, shuddering breaths, and drank deeply from the cup which the coroner proffered.

‘Thank you, masters. I am sorry to be so weakly.’

‘Mistress, you deserve only sympathy after your sad loss,’ Baldwin said.

‘You are kind. I miss him so!’

Before she could dissolve into tears again, Baldwin patted her hand. ‘What did he do, your husband?’

‘My Norman? He was an honest man.’

‘Of course.’

‘He was an antler worker. He made combs and other devices.’

Baldwin nodded encouragingly. He knew of such workers: they would take a complete set of antlers and cut them carefully into
discrete parts, and then saw each down to specific sizes. A comb would be made as a composite, with two blanks for each side
of the handle, more inserted between them with cuts to create the teeth, and usually another composite section, a sheath into
which the teeth would be thrust for safekeeping. An antler could be used for making almost anything. Even the harder, bonier
part from near the skull itself could be cut into cubes and dots burned into it to create dice. Little would go to waste.

Seeing his calm interest, the widow wiped at her eyes and concentrated, sitting on her stool and sniffing.

‘Had he been working on the night he died?’ Baldwin asked.

‘That was Monday last. Yes, he’d been here in his room
all day, and then when it grew later, he walked out to the tavern for a fill of ale.’

‘There was nothing apparently upsetting him?’

‘My man?’ She smiled. It made her look a little younger. ‘Nothing ever got to him. So long as he had his work in the daytime
and an ale or two at night, he was ever happy. So were we …’ Her eyes were drawn up to the children overhead. ‘We all
were.’

‘Why should he have travelled along that alley? Do you know?’ Baldwin asked.

Her face fractured again, and her mouth was drawn down into an upturned bow. She closed her eyes, but then opened them again,
and now there was an angry glitter in them. ‘Those bitches over the way have been saying he was going to the stews, to visit
the draggle-tails in their brothels – but, sir, he wouldn’t have. He never did before. Always home here, he was, as soon as
he left the tavern. You ask any of the men there. They’ll all vouch for him. He was as honest as a man could be.’

Baldwin nodded soothingly, but he was not convinced. Many a man, in his experience, would find it easy enough to go and see
a doxy after too many ales. His courage would increase with proportion to the ales drunk, and all fear of consequences – the
pox – would disappear until morning.

She saw his doubt. ‘It is true, he never used to go to them. I gave him all he needed.’

‘Did he have any enemies? Did he owe money to anyone?’

‘Bless you, sir! He was successful. A better provider I could never meet. He always had money for us. That was how we could
afford this house.’

‘So he never worried about money?’

‘No. Only
that day he had made plenty of money. He was off to the tavern to celebrate.’

‘But when he was found, his purse was gone.’

‘I know. And we needed that money without him.’ She sniffed. Then she shrugged resignedly. There would be many more disappointments
in the years ahead, she knew.

‘We have heard that he used to wear a bone brooch, too. Is that right?’

‘Yes, sir. A great circle of antler, it was, with a long, thin pin to secure it. A lovely piece of his work.’