The Malice of Unnatural Death: (28 page)

Others he knew would have taken a piece of the man’s elements. They’d have paid to acquire some of his hair, or some parings
from his nails, and incorporated those into the figure while making it, so that when the ivory pin was thrust into the heart,
the little mannequin would transfer the damage all the more easily. Yes, that was necessary for those who were less powerful
than John.

He had no need of such hocus-pocus. John of Nottingham was an artist. He did not require any paltry little additions, because
he could make use of less tangible exhibits of the man’s soul. But accuracy was important. When he had been in the church
today, he had seen an error. The king was clear and obvious: his crown would make him stand out. But a bishop, a man who remained
in his cathedral close all the while, would be more difficult to pinpoint. Surely the demons sent to destroy him would need
more than a mere image of the man, they would need a closer likeness.

So, he had put more detail on the figure, given him more elements of his regalia, and finally – this was a touch of brilliance
on his part, he thought – crafted a pair of spectacles on his nose. No one but Bishop Stapledon in the whole of Exeter would
have them, he thought. He had seen the bishop wearing them in the cathedral a couple of days ago, and it had made him frown
at the time, but apparently
they were for reading pages close to his nose. After all his work in the king’s exchequer, it was probably no surprise that
the man’s eyes were suffering.

The bishop was carefully, almost reverently, picked up and set alongside the king.

He pinched at the bridge of his nose as he thought about the work he had yet to do. The tools of his trade were all laid out
on the bench, where they had been fumigated and cleaned assiduously. Soon, when all his preparations were complete, he would
set in train the process by which he would have the four men killed. And then he would have his money in full, and he could
travel to extend his understanding of his magic.

It was then that he had the idea, and the marvellous perfection of it made him catch his breath. Looking at the figure, he
nodded as though already personally acquainted, and gave a dry smile. Yes. That was how he would do it.

His head was hurting, and he wandered to the grille which gave out to the roadway above. The light was fading. He could just
see the sturdy legs of a man standing near the wall above him. Stepping backwards to avoid being noticed, he knocked against
the table with the tools, and carefully rested a hand on it to keep it stable. One item only rolled to the edge, and as it
was about to fall from the table he managed to catch it.

Closing his eyes in relief, he carefully set it down again. It would have been terrible if it had become contaminated with
dirt from the floor, because then all that time spent in cleaning the damned thing would have been wasted.

No, the fingers of a man killed a few moments after they were removed were far too important to be allowed to get dirty.

Art
was no fool. When he saw the knight talking to his father out there in the space by the roadway, he knew that the man must
have guessed about him, and he was half inclined to bolt. The door to the yard was in plain view, but Art was fairly confident
that he could beat a knight carrying a sword over a short distance, let alone a longer one. This man, the Keeper of the King’s Peace, didn’t live here in the city. He was just an occasional visitor, that was all. All Art had to do was run now, and then
come back in a week or two when things had calmed down. Or maybe he should just go. There was little enough to keep him here
now. The bleeding city was a prison to a man like him with ideas and schemes. He had a good mind, him.

There was no love between him and his old man. Hal didn’t understand him at all. Never had. He seemed to reckon that a boy
like Art should be well behaved all the time, like Hal always was. But Art wasn’t some crusty old wrinkled shell like his
father. He was young, and his blood fizzed with energy. Hal? He was a worn-out old husk, he was.

He could see his father talking with that self-righteous manner he had, like he was always so perfect. Well, he wasn’t any
better than Art himself. Art had heard tell of the scrapes his father used to get into when he was a lad, too. Which was what
made it all the more galling that he tried to beat Art when Art went out and had a good time.

When he heard them discussing the figure Hal had seen, Art gave a wry grin. Old fool! The thing was just a trick of the light,
that was all. There’d been nothing there. Nothing at all. If there had, Art would have seen it too, wouldn’t he?

Art
leaned out to peer at his old man again, and saw the knight’s gaze fix on him. ‘Shite!’

If he was going to run, he’d best get on with it right now. He took a deep breath, dropped his head to his breast, and was
about to set off when he heard a step very close – too close.

‘So you are Art? I would like to speak to you.’

‘Why?’

‘The night that the messenger died you saw someone. Your father told me about it. I want to know all about it.’

Robert Busse had completed the business he had with Bishop Stapledon, and was glad to be able to take his leave.

It had been an excellent idea to come here, he thought with satisfaction as he walked from the palace into the close. That
dunghill rat John de Courtenay would find it hard, very hard, now that Busse had already won the bishop’s ear.

His rival was a fool, that was the thing. He never understood the simplest point of organisation, he couldn’t manage an account
to save his life, and his sole interests were his damned hunting animals and his clothing. Had to follow every damned fashion
– as soon as the court altered the length of their hosen, so did he. Under him, the abbey would collapse. Busse was convinced
of it.

Still, the good thing was, Busse was ahead of him now. There could be no doubt in the mind of any of the brothers that the
better was going to win the throne, and it wouldn’t be de Courtenay. And one of the first instructions that Busse would give,
when he had the abbacy, would be to command that all brothers adhered to the rule’s commands, and all hounds, raches, alaunts,
whatever the blasted slobbering
mutts were, would have to go. If de Courtenay wanted, he could send them all back where they came from, his father’s household. Personally Busse had nothing against them; it was only that de Courtenay was flaunting his wealth for no reason. And when
that God-cursed monster had come into the refectory last month and taken the food from Busse’s very bowl, Busse had known,
absolutely for certain, that he would rather die than see the poor abbey fall into that man’s hands.

There had been many things to be done, of course. Busse had managed to deal with many of the other brothers long before poor Abbot Robert, God save his soul, had died. He’d already won the agreement of Richard de Wylle (he would become prior under Busse); Roger de Pountyngdon (who would become sacristan); William de la Wille (almoner); Alexander … the list was endless. All had agreed, though, to vote for him at the election, rather than for de Courtenay.

But now he had just one last little task to ensure that all was done. He’d already checked with Langatre, and now he wanted
to make sure once more. Just to see that his future was as secure as he thought it should be. Langatre was competent enough
to read the signs for him. Not that it was necessary, of course. But it would make him a teeny bit more comfortable … John de Courtenay was a powerful man, after all. His father was a baron …

The roads were clearing now in the gathering dusk, and he could smell the delicious odour of cooking pies and meats as women
prepared their last meals of the day. During the summer months, they would do so at this hour, and he somehow much preferred
the summertime, and smelling the cooking in daylight. There was something wrong about the
odours in the darkness, he always felt. When it was dark, people should be in their beds. God! As he ought to be now, he thought,
pulling his robes tighter about him. The thought of rising for Matins was most unappealing. But Langatre was never about much
during the day. He reckoned that most of his work was achieved in the dark, and slept for much of the morning. Probably a
load of old guff, so far as Busse was concerned, but the man was a competent fortuneteller, so who cared. Let him think he
was convincing. The main thing was, he helped clear Busse’s mind and allow him to think logically.

His path was in darkness, and he almost fell full-length at a loose cobble, but managed to save himself at the last moment. Still, it left his ankle giving him gip, and he hobbled the rest of the way.

Passing a man leaning against the wall, he nodded and absently made the sign of the cross, before walking to the door and
knocking on it.

‘He’s not there, Father,’ the man said.

‘Hmm?’ Busse grunted enquiringly.

‘The man used to live there. He’s been taken by the sheriff’s men. Held up at the castle, so I heard. If you want to see him
up there, you’d best pray your hardest. The sheriff’s not minded to let him have visitors, so I reckon!’

‘Langatre taken! Sweet Christ! Why?’

‘He’s been dabbling with evil magic, they say. Getting demons to obey his command. I heard tell that he’s been trying to kill
men with waxen images.
Maleficium!
’ Elias said solemnly, as though it was a word he had known all his life, and not something he had heard for the first time
that morning.

Busse
muttered a hasty ‘Thank you. God speed!’ before turning and hastening as fast as his limp would allow, back up the road towards
the cathedral. And all the way he could only think that God was sending him a sign. With his fortuneteller arrested and held
for summoning demons, all of a sudden Busse felt that his plans were beginning to collapse about his ears.

He could have wept.

Baldwin was sure that this was the same boy. Yes, he had the same pale, rather unhealthy-looking face that he had glimpsed
while standing over the dead messenger, and, as he eyed Art, Baldwin was impressed by just how shifty a lad in his late teens
could appear.

There was none of the arrogant self-confidence he would have expected in a lad this young, only a kind of anxiousness. Baldwin
had seen that in the faces of others: it was a natural result of someone’s realising that they were in the company of a man
who, after the sheriff, was one of the most powerful in the country. Often, of course, the lads he met were those who had
something to hide, he reminded himself, and wondered about Art. It was natural for a keeper to suspect everyone, though, and
he tried to put his suspicions aside.

Apart from that, there was little else to impress. The boy was thin and would have been gangling, were it not for his bent
back. It did not look like a hunch, but was more an affectation which appeared to be there to highlight his disgruntlement
with the world. He had a pasty complexion enlivened by a small mountain region of yellow-headed spots about his mouth and
chin, grey, watery-coloured eyes,
and a shock of thin sandy hair that only served to emphasise his glowering demeanour.

‘All I wish is to see where you saw this man, and to hear what exactly you saw,’ Baldwin said soothingly as Hal left them,
muttering darkly about being ‘not too big to be clipped hard round the ear if you’re cheeky …’ and similar dire warnings.

‘I didn’t see the one he’s telling about. Didn’t see anyone that side of the road. Anyway, doubt whether the old man did either. Silly old fart’s too pissed to see anything clearly. He prob’ly saw a dog in the shadows or something.’

‘Let us go and look, eh? Surely your eyes are keener than your father’s, and you will be able to tell me much more.’

‘Wouldn’t be hard,’ Art admitted grudgingly.

Baldwin was always being surprised by youngsters. Some could look as helpful and quick-witted as any, and then prove themselves
tongue-tied by the sight of a knight, or more commonly by the sight of a woman, while others would be cocksure and a pain
but then, when a posse was needed, the first to lift their hands to volunteer to help. They were also the first to get into
a fight as well, though, sadly.

First impression aside, this fellow seemed bright enough. He wasn’t one of the nervous, overly self-aware boys who would retreat
into a blushing shell at the first sign of an argument, but neither was he the sort who would respond with violence to any
perceived threat. In short, he was moderately quick-witted. Baldwin had the feeling that anything the lad said would be trustworthy.

‘Your old man was drunk?’

‘Yeah. Usually is. He thinks I’m going to get into trouble if I go to an alehouse without him, so he always comes
along. But he can’t handle his ale like he used to.’

‘No mother?’

Art squinted sideways at him. ‘She met a merchant, so they say, and left the city to be with him. Look at the old man. Not
hard to see why.’

Baldwin nodded. It was depressing how often a woman could have her head turned by someone who was interested in a buxom breast
or the length of a thigh. So often these fellows would ensnare a wench, then prod her and leave her, despairing, with a babe. At least Art’s mother appeared to have left with her man. Baldwin wondered whether he would have kept her, or had perhaps
left her at the next city he visited. It had happened before.

‘What did you see that night, Art?’

‘We’d been in the tavern some while, and the old man had been throwing the stuff down his neck like it was gone out of fashion,
so when I could, I grabbed him to take him home. He didn’t want to come, though. He was right pissed off,’ Art said. He was
speaking slowly, musingly, as he walked, his face introverted, as though he could see the scene in his mind as he spoke. ‘I
think it was that man – you know, Norman Mucheton. Dad’s not used to seeing things like that. It was a shitty sight. It was
like his head was about to fall from his shoulders.’

‘You were all right about it, though?’ Baldwin said as a picture of the man’s body sprang into his mind.