The Malice of Unnatural Death: (41 page)

If he had the money available, he would have razed the place to the ground and replaced it with a good, new, warm castle on
the lines of the late king’s castles in Wales. Good, substantial fortresses with firm, grey walls of moorstone rather than
this soft sandy stuff. But a place like that would cost far too much. The king would never agree to it, not while the city
was so quiescent. In the past, there had been risings here, and men had revolted, but not for many years now. Not since the
tallage riots of 1314 had there been any popular gatherings in mutiny – and even that had been in Bristol, not down here in Exeter. At least the Bristolians had the courage of their anger against that tax. Down here the men were more bovine.

He
clattered down towards the High Street, glancing about him at the clear space around the castle. On the north and east, the
castle was bounded by the city’s own walls, but to the south and west the walls gave onto the city itself. For protection
there were no houses allowed nearby, and this clearing meant that any attack would be visible for some distance. Now, though,
there were a few apple trees permitted. And city-dwellers were allowed some rights of pasturage on the slopes. There was a
flock of sheep there now, grazing quietly on the very last of the year’s grass.

It was a calming sight, a pastoral scene such as he had witnessed for so many years, and a little of the tension he had felt
started to leave him. The horse under him was eager, and he was growing keen to get out of the city himself. They would both
be better for a good ride.

Already soothed, he was almost smiling by the time he turned east on the High Street and rode up to the East Gate. He acknowledged
the porter at the gate, and was about to ride on when he heard the sudden shriek.

He whirled in the saddle and gazed behind him, and saw the woman again. His heart seemed to freeze, and he felt a wave of
ice smooth its way over his back as he took in her uplifted arms, her wide eyes and slobbering mouth. He was tempted to ride
straight back into her and run her down, or, better, to draw steel and run her through, but even as his hand strayed to his
hilt, he was aware of the porter and all the others there in the gateway. No, he couldn’t do that. But he needn’t hang around
here like a cretin.

Turning away, he set spurs to his horse’s flanks and felt the power of the beast as he surged forward, under the old gate,
and eastward on the old roads.

She stopped, gaping, feeling foolish in amongst so many others who stood and stared at her as though thinking she was mad. Had he not
seen
her? Perhaps he couldn’t see her in such a group, with all these others about her. Yes. That was probably it. He had surely
heard her voice, because he had turned as soon as she called out to him. ‘My sweet!’ she had cried when she saw him, and instantly
he had paused and looked for her. She had seen that: he must have been upset to have missed her. That was it. He had looked
for her, and when he couldn’t see her he had ridden off in a hurry.

It was tempting to go up to the castle now, to walk straight inside as though she was already married to him, but she knew
that she shouldn’t yet. Her ascendancy was not in doubt, but a certain wariness was making itself felt. Perhaps it would be
better to wait until Alice was already gone.

She gazed longingly after the man who, she was convinced, loved her more than anything. There was a soft, wistful smile on
her face at the thought of him, but then she turned about and began to trudge back towards the city centre. She had nowhere
to go just now, and the only thing she could think of doing was making her way to an inn and staying there for a night. In
the morning she would be able to seek out the sheriff again and make sure that this time he saw her.

‘Are you feeling a little better now?’ Baldwin asked Robinet.

Newt stood at the side of the room, away from the strange devices and implements lying all about the place. There was an unfamiliar
emptiness in his soul as he looked about the room. It made him feel desolate. For some reason it reminded him that he would
never see his friend again.

After
considering him for a few moments, Baldwin suggested that the sheriff’s wife should be taken home again, and after she had
gone with Langatre he stood and contemplated Newt.

‘Your friend was killed for some reason,’ he said. ‘Is there any more you can tell us about him?’

‘What more is there to say? He was remaining outside here to watch for the man he had heard of who could have been the man
who killed James. He sent me to fetch pies for our breakfast, and when I returned he was gone. I thought he must have followed
the man. It never occurred to me that he could be … there.’

‘Do you know who the man was whom he sought to find? If you have any information, it would help us.’

‘All I know is, he said that the man was tall and gaunt-looking. I had thought that the man I saw was shorter, but Walter
heard different. I suppose I saw someone else.’

‘Or you were right and he was wrong. How did he come by this description?’ Simon asked.

‘Walter was familiar with people I would never have come to know. It was all a part of his work. He knew those who were involved
in crimes, whereas I only ever mingled with the people who were important in the city.’

Baldwin studied a long-handled sickle and shook his head distastefully. ‘I dislike men like this Langatre who meddle in things
they know little about. Fooling about with conjurations … it is ridiculous. A man should be expert in his own field and
leave others to their own. I am competent as an investigator – you were a good messenger, I presume? And Walter, he was an
expert in the king’s household. But an expert at what?’

Newt
sighed to himself. ‘I have no reason to conceal anything from you. He was a man who would enforce the king’s rule. Sometimes
that would mean that he must kill in order to protect the king. He would remove obstacles to the king’s will.’

Simon’s face clouded. ‘So he
was
an assassin? We had heard as much.’

‘Yes. But not a mercenary. He would only ever work for the king.’

Baldwin stood and walked about the room, a hand cupping his chin, the other wrapped about his upper body. He didn’t look at Newt as he asked, ‘Did he ever kill a man here?’

Newt cleared his throat. ‘I think so.’

‘Who, and when?’

‘He told me a long time ago that he had to come here when the Bristol men revolted against their tallage. You remember that?’

‘Of course I do. It was the outset of the dread years, wasn’t it? The city was in revolt from 1314 to 1316, when the whole
posse of the county was called out against the men of the city. Was it not Pembroke who had to lay siege?’

‘Yes. I think there were upwards of eighty who were outlawed. It was a disaster, especially coming on the heels of Bannockburn
and other failures of the king’s. That was why … well, I was gaoled the year before, in 1315, because the king was wary
of any comments that held his authority in contempt. And it was why Walter was sent down here a while afterwards.’

‘Why?’

‘If you knew Walter, you’d know that there was no point asking him something like that. He’d just be quiet, and you
wouldn’t want to ask again. However, I have heard that a man died. A fellow called Piers de Caen.’

‘And this was when?’ Simon said.

‘It was the same year as the Bristol riots – the year sixteen. He was calming hotheads here because the king did not want
to see any more challenges to his authority. He couldn’t afford them. Christ Jesus, it was bad enough that he should have
lost his greatest friend …’

‘Gaveston?’

‘Yes. So Walter was here, and afterwards, when it came to his leaving the king’s service because he was getting to be quite
an old man, well, he thought of this city because he had liked the feel of the place when he had been here before.’

‘So what you’re saying is, he chose to retire to the place where he had pacified the people,’ Simon said with a knowing nod.

Baldwin shook his head slowly. ‘No, I don’t think that’s quite what he’s saying, is it, Robinet? You think he came here for
slightly different reasons, don’t you?’

‘He liked it here. He felt safe.’

‘Yes. Because he could cow the people who lived here. Isn’t that right?’

‘I suppose that’s one way to look at it.’

‘Because when he was here, I don’t remember any rioting.’

‘There wasn’t any,’ Simon agreed. ‘Nothing here in 1316 or afterwards – the famine was kicking in by then, after all.’

‘That’s not what he meant,’ Baldwin said, turning back to them and sitting on the table’s edge. ‘No, our friend here is talking
about a hired murderer who retired to the place where he felt secure because he reckoned he could kill
others with impunity. That was how he “pacified” this city, after all, wasn’t it, Robinet? He killed Piers de Caen.’

‘I think so.’

‘And that was the friend you had?’ Baldwin spat contemptuously.

‘He was a friend to me,’ Newt said defensively. ‘All those he killed were enemies of the king. He was no murderer, but a professional
acting in the interests of the crown.’

‘A mercenary,’ Simon said with disgust.

‘No. A king’s man. A man from the king’s household. And honourable. He would only kill quickly and with the minimum of pain. I know that.’

Baldwin’s tone was dismissive. ‘You may do –
I
do not. Killers are killers, friend. Once a man gets a taste for slaughter,
it is a hard habit to vanquish.’

Baldwin
and Simon walked back towards their inn with the coroner.

‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut!’ Coroner Richard declared loudly as they passed the bloody stain in the street where Sarra had lain.

Baldwin was looking at the stain, and now he frowned and stared towards the undercroft. ‘Whoever killed Walter, they must
have invited him down there. Surely a professional killer like Walter wouldn’t have let the man get behind him?’

‘If it was an older man, perhaps then he’d do it,’ Simon guessed. ‘This necromancer is said to be tall and skinny. A haggard
old man, from what we’ve heard. Surely a brave and brawny man would feel safe enough with someone like that behind him?’

The coroner was thinking. ‘If I were a mercenary killer like Walter, I doubt I’d let my own mother behind me. I’d be inside
the room and sidle round with my back to the wall. I certainly wouldn’t allow a man rumoured to be a paid assassin to get
behind me, no matter how old and decrepit he was.’

‘That is how I read it too,’ Baldwin said. ‘It makes little
sense to me. Do you think that man was telling the truth, Simon?’

‘Yes. I trusted his word,’ Simon said. ‘He seemed quite rational and sensible to me.’

‘Certainly rational,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I wonder if he told us all the truth.’

‘What else could there be?’

Coroner Richard stopped and was gazing at Baldwin with his head set to one side. ‘You have an idea, don’t you?’

Baldwin continued walking for a few paces, then halted, his head bowed. ‘I think I have the beginnings of an idea, but I am
sure of nothing yet. I have to consider things more carefully.’

‘In the meantime,’ Simon said, ‘I think that we ought to make sure that the woman who tried to kill the sheriff’s wife has
been captured. If she is still wandering the streets, others could be in danger.’

‘Yes,’ the Coroner agreed. ‘We should make our way to the castle as quickly as possible and ensure that the good lady arrived
home safely.’

‘To check that she has suffered no harm,’ Simon agreed.

‘Oh, yes. And to see what they serve in the sheriff’s hall for dinner. It is a fish day, and I have heard that he does not
stint when it comes to a good fish pie and wine,’ the coroner agreed unperturbably, a beatific smile fixed to his face.

Robinet stood watching from Langatre’s doorway as the three men disappeared east up the hill, and only when they were out
of his sight completely did he dart back into the house, into the magician’s hall, and over to a table. There he found a knife
with a good oak handle. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. The blade was a scant two and a half
inches in length, and black all over, unpolished from the forge, with only the edge keen and gleaming where it had been honed. Putting it on his forefinger, he found that the short blade balanced the heavy wooden handle nicely. It was ideal.

With it in his pocket, he peered out through the doorway into the street. He had worked in places like this often enough to
recognise potential danger when it was visible. Today he could see nothing, and he soon nodded to himself and slipped out,
his back to the wall for the first five paces, eyes scanning the street, where there was nothing to give him cause to shy. After that, he set off at a smart pace, up towards the Carfoix, and once there he turned southwards to the South Gate.

He knew that his friend had been grabbed from behind. He intended to see that no one had an opportunity to do the same to
him.

His old friend had been in that room for a specific reason. He reckoned that it was likely that the necromancer had invited
him inside, or perhaps the man had left the undercroft, and the watcher had thought it safe to essay a short investigation
into what the magician was attempting. No matter. The man had killed a close friend. He would suffer for it.

First, he must find the evil bastard who had been there in the room. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do that yet, but he’d
think out a way soon, and then, when he had the man in his hands, he’d kill him
very
slowly indeed. He’d learn whether a necromancer could beg a demon to harm a man when his own fingers had all been cut off.

He came to the South Gate and nodded to the gateman. In the house he saw Art, and stared at him meaningfully. Art
looked from him to his father, but his father was already speaking to someone else in the gateway, and Art quickly left the
house and came to him.