The Malice of Unnatural Death: (26 page)

‘But not something which could easily be sold on?’

‘Bless you, no! Anyone who saw it would know it was my Norman’s.’

It was late that afternoon that Simon and his companions arrived at the West Gate. Weary and hungry, the three rode up Stepecote Street towards Carfoix at the centre. Simon intended to see that Busse was delivered safely to the cathedral, and then he
would find a place to rest, while he tried to work out how on earth he could keep an eye on the man as John de Courtenay had
asked. At the moment, he had no idea whatsoever how he might be able to do that.

The sun was already low in the west behind them, and the token warmth it gave was already a memory as they reached the Fissand Gate and asked the doorkeeper to let them through. Soon they were in the close, and could release their horses to wander and
crop the grass. Rob was left with them while Simon and Richard Busse walked stiffly towards the bishop’s palace.

‘I am most grateful to you, Bailiff, for your efforts on my behalf,’ Busse said.

Simon
nodded absently. ‘Are you going straight away to see my lord the bishop?’

‘I must. It would scarcely be right to leave him all unknowing that I have arrived, and I wish to give thanks for our safe
delivery.’

Simon nodded again, but wondered whether he ought to try to stay with Busse even as he spoke to the bishop. John de Courtenay
had made it clear that he wanted Busse watched at all times, but he could scarcely expect Simon to be able to listen in to
every confidential discussion Busse had even with Bishop Walter. That was stretching things too far.

Busse’s next words solved his little dilemma. ‘Why do you not come with me, Bailiff? You should also make your presence known.’ Thus it was that Simon and the brother were soon in the bishop’s palace, while Rob dealt with the horses and saw to their
effects.

Sitting at the bishop’s table in his hall, Simon felt the anxiety of the last day slipping away. In its place was a marvellous
somnolence. As Bishop Walter spoke to Busse, Simon drank some of the strong wine with which they had been plied as soon as
they entered, and knew it was having its effect. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy in the wonderful heat, and his head
started to tip forward without his being able to prevent it. With a jerk, he drew himself up again, and took a deep swallow
of wine to try to waken himself, but the result was not as he intended. He felt his chin fall to his breast, and then he had
a struggle to keep his eyes open. Only when he felt his hand slip from his lap to begin its journey towards the floor, with
his goblet of wine still in his fist, did he lurch upright again.

‘Do we keep you awake?’ the bishop asked, but not angrily.

‘This
good bailiff kept us all alive,’ Busse said eagerly. ‘My lord, he was able to construct a shelter in the midst of the storm,
and with that and a little fire he kept us healthy. It was a miracle, out there in the wilds.’

‘This is true?’ the bishop enquired, his head tilted as he peered somewhat short-sightedly at Simon.

‘Our passage took us longer than it should have,’ Simon mumbled. ‘We had to halt up near Scorhill in the woods there. Otherwise
we could have been caught in the open, and we would have died.’

‘I owe you my thanks, then,’ Stapledon said. ‘It would have been a great loss to Tavistock were this excellent brother to
have perished.’

‘I did my best,’ Simon said.

‘Good. I have rooms set aside for you all – but, Bailiff, your good friend the knight of Furnshill is here in the city. Would
you prefer to join him at his inn?’

After a short discussion it was agreed that Simon and Rob would take rooms with Baldwin, and the bishop sent a message to
the innkeeper to make a room ready.

Then, ‘So, Brother Robert,’ the bishop said, turning back to the monk. ‘Will you need anything from me while you are here?’

‘No, my Lord Bishop. All I need is a few little items, and a consultation. When that is all done, I shall be returning to Tavistock. However, if the good bailiff doesn’t mind, I think that I may ask to return by the slower, but perhaps more reliable,
route, over past Crediton, and thence to Okehampton and Tavistock.’

‘Perhaps you ought to consider that, eh, Bailiff?’

Simon opened his eyes and looked at the kindly bishop. ‘Yes. Yes, of course, Bishop.’

What
sort of consultation did Busse need, he wondered.

John of Nottingham returned to his small chamber as darkness fell in the alley outside.

It was a peculiar little twilit world, this. The sun was long over the horizon before it could make any impact here in the
alley. The buildings opposite were only two storeys high, but that was enough to blank off the sun most effectively in the
mornings. By the time it had struggled over them, it was already close to noon. And then the full daylight lasted for a mere
hour or so, before the sun had traversed the alley and moved back towards the west. All that could be seen down here was a
narrow gap of blue high overhead between the jettied upper levels of the houses.

But that was all good for John. He liked the dark. The anonymity which he craved was here, and the result was effectual safety. Nobody who would want to harm him ever came down this way, and if they did, they would be hard pushed to find him, search
however diligently they might.

In the chamber, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of dampness, and then set to lighting his candles. He had some old tinder,
which he struck his flint over, and by God’s good grace, after only ten strikes, he had a spark alight. Wrapping the tinder
within a handful of dry wood chips, he blew steadily until a flame appeared, and then it was only a matter of lighting the
first of the many candles. Taking it up, he walked about the room, lighting all the tapers and rushlights, and when he was
done he set the candle on his table, and reached for the image.

It was good. There was no doubt about that. The crown was a perfect symbol to guide the demon to the king. There was only
the one king, after all. John’s prayers would make
that clear enough even to the most simple of demons. Setting that aside, he set himself to crafting the next man. This one
and his father were hard. One was large and heavily paunched, while his son was taller and slim, strong and powerful. It was
frustrating, and after working on them for a while he set them aside to form the fourth man.

This was easy enough: he had to fashion the correct features first, but that was no trouble to the necromancer. He had seen
this man’s face often enough in the last few days when he had gone to celebrate mass. The clothing was easy. Clerical robes
were long and designed to be practical, rather than objects of fashion. The hat was easy too, of course. A mitre was no trouble
to a man like him. And as he worked, he felt sure that the stooping appearance was perfect. The way that the mommet peered
from narrowed eyes caught the essence of the fellow perfectly. Before he came to Exeter, the last time John had seen him had
been when he had been walking the streets of London after attending a meeting of financiers, and John had almost been knocked
down by the man’s henchmen as they cleared the road for his passage. Stapledon had not even glanced in John’s direction as
he walked on, his eyes set into that little frown as he tried to focus on the way ahead.

Soon he would be finished, and the bishop could take his place beside the model of the king.

The
coroner had left Baldwin soon after they walked from Madam Mucheton’s house, muttering about having to go and ensure that
the inquests were properly recorded. Meanwhile Baldwin had walked slowly and musingly along the street up to the Carfoix,
where he stopped and looked about him.

This was a strange, bustling city. Baldwin had been to many European cities in his life, and most were similar: noisy, boisterous
places, filled with excitable people who were devoted to making themselves a little more money every day. It did not matter
whether they were traders, merchants, hucksters, whores or thieves, all had the same motive: to win money from another.

Exeter had impressed him from the first time he had seen the city. It was spacious, secure within its walls, and for the most
part filled with good, righteous people. But one man he could never bring himself to trust was the most senior in rank: the
sheriff.

Sir Matthew de Crowethorne was a politician, and Baldwin detested those who put politics above all else. Sheriffs were notorious
for their corruption, but there was something about Sir Matthew that struck Baldwin as worse.

All
sheriffs would occasionally misuse their powers. Some did it to take money – in bribes, or even in corrupt handling of legal
cases, charging money to release known felons. Others would not require direct financial gain: they committed their crimes
to demonstrate their loyalty to or support for a lord. There were many sheriffs who were in the pocket of the Despenser family.

This Sir Matthew was certainly happy to take money in return for favours, so far as Baldwin had heard, but he was also keen
to leave this city and make a name for himself in the king’s court. Not for him the daily trudge about the city performing
his ceremonial and legal duties. Better by far to recline on a seat in the king’s household, drinking and farting with the
rest of them. The decadence of the king’s court was almost legendary. The trouble with such a man was, he could not be trusted
in Baldwin’s estimation. Most men would be keen to behave as their pockets dictated, moving with the whim of their financial
advantage, but Sir Matthew was not like that. He would be more likely to consider any decision with a view to how it might
impact on the Despensers and, accordingly, how his prospects might be improved by judicious leaking of information to the
king.

Baldwin frowned. There was still no connection, so far as he could see, between the murders of Mucheton and the messenger. It was possible, perhaps, that he was mistaken to jump to the conclusion that simply because the two men had died on successive
nights, and their bodies had been discovered so close to each other, they must have been victims of the same killer. Perhaps
he would be better served by considering both deaths as individual and reviewing them in that light.

It
was not good for him to wander the streets like this, though. He craved peace, and just now he craved above all his wife Jeanne. Being apart from her was …
unsettling.
Curious, because in past years he would not have thought it possible that he might so swiftly grow dependent upon a woman. He had desired them, yes, but would never have thought that one could so entirely win over his heart. That was a surprise.

And yet perhaps it was not just Jeanne – it was also this situation. It worried him that the bishop appeared so determined
to have Baldwin sent to the next parliament, that Walter Stapledon was so keen to see him thrown into the bear pit of national
politics. Baldwin wished to have nothing to do with the affairs of the realm. He was a contented rural knight, when all was
said and done. Others sought glory and power, but not he. He wished to be left alone to manage his estates. That and a little
hunting was all he craved. There was nothing better in life, he believed.

He recalled the bloody stumps where fingers had been cut from that dead messenger’s hand. Could they have borne rings? Might
a man have detached the finger to gain access to a bauble of some kind? Or was the man simply being tortured for some reason
– to say where he had money kept back, or perhaps to explain what he held in his pouch: which was the most valuable message? After all, Baldwin knew already that there was one important message in the pouch of the
nuncius
. The bishop had hinted as much. If the bishop were offering advice to the king that could be construed as disadvantageous
to the king’s friends, or his wife, perhaps, either of them could be provoked into attacking Bishop Walter himself.

Which meant that a fellow who sought advancement,
someone who knew of the bishop’s note, could easily betake himself to acquire it and sell it to the highest bidder.

But why harm the messenger? Perhaps because there was a verbal appendix to the note itself? Suddenly Baldwin felt close to
an answer.

Simon was already halfway through his second quart of ale when he heard the booming voice out in the road. He paused, his
jug near his chin, mouth partly opened as he listened, and when his ears told him for certain who it was outside, he closed
his eyes in silent despair. He waited, listening intently as the coroner spoke. Every word was as clear as if he was standing
in the room next to Simon, and the bailiff gained the impression that Sir Richard’s voice could quell any other sound and
force it to submit.

‘Have the bodies seen to. There’s no point leaving a corpse lying in the street leaking blood and guts all over the place,
is there?’

There was a mumble in response, and then a guffaw. ‘You think the poor fellow would give a piss for that? Dear Christ in heaven, I know he’s dressed in a good suit. The watchman wants his suit? Tell him he can have it – but it belongs to the king, and
if he wants to argue the toss with the king, he is welcome to do so. It’s none of my concern. The clothes are off him, anyway,
so have them set aside in case the king feels a need for them, but I’d give the king a fortnight to decide. If your man doesn’t
hear, perhaps he could take them without trouble. Still, have the messenger wrapped in some good linen and have him taken
to the church nearest. They can look to him … no, better than that, have him delivered to the care of my lord bishop. The fellow was carrying a message from Bishop Walter, so
I’m sure the good bishop would want to see to the man’s body as best he might …
WHAT?
Speak
UP
, man! D’you think I can hear you when you squeak like a mouse? Who’s to pay?
EH?
How do I know? Ask the good bishop to pay for the linen if the city won’t. Not my concern, is it?’