The Malice of Unnatural Death: (5 page)

And he began to smile to himself – until there came a crash of metal from outside.

‘What the devil …?’

A red-faced man-at-arms peered in apologetically from the screens passage. ‘Sorry, Sir Matthew – I dropped my bill.’

‘Be more careful!’ Matthew snapped, and then returned to his contemplation. Gradually his annoyance dissipated, to be replaced
by a certainty that his plan was not only workable, it was perfect.

It
was late afternoon when John of Nottingham at last reached the city. From the wide flood plain, he could see it from far away
as a smudge in the sky. He had to stop and rest, his sore feet aching and blistered from his hastening march.

His had been an arduous journey. Thanks to Christ that he had learned of his danger and escaped quickly, because otherwise
he’d be dead already. It was only the speed with which he had made his escape that had saved him.

In part it was the example of his master that had given him the spur. When Lord Mortimer of Wigmore had been captured, he
had little opportunity to resist; to have defended himself would have meant instant conviction for treachery to his liege-lord,
the king. All through the war, Mortimer had been careful to avoid raising his own standard against the king’s, but instead
he’d held up the king’s standard while razing the Despenser lands so that when he explained himself later as only having the
king’s interests at heart, none would find it easy to reject his assertion.

He had been forced to surrender when the long hoped for support from Thomas of Lancaster never arrived. That cowardly son
of a diseased sow stayed in his castle and
refused to make the leap to defend his own comrades – with the result that the king destroyed Mortimer’s armies, and then
turned on Lancaster himself. And when Lancaster was caught, he was condemned out of hand with no opportunity to defend himself
against the charges, and executed – the first of hundreds to be slaughtered by that vengeful, vicious king. The man didn’t
deserve his throne. He didn’t deserve his life.

To remove him had been the most precious desire of so many, and yet only so few could have achieved it. And it had been so
close. But when the assassination plot had been discovered, all were taken. All but John of Nottingham.

He eased the staff over his shoulder, his pack an almost unbearable weight. Few enough possessions: mostly it was his one
heavy book. That was all, wrapped up together with some clothes in his blanket, but they had rubbed the flesh in a broad swathe,
and now he spent much of his time trying to forget the pain. Still, better to be foot and shoulder-sore than dead, or held
and tortured.

Exeter was a new town to him. He had never been here before, which was itself an advantage, but it had the additional merit
of being far enough away from all central sources of power in the realm for him to be perfectly secure. And there was a port,
which meant that if he needed, he could escape over the water, too. For now, though, all he sought was a warm fire, a bed,
and some hot wine to ease his chilled bones.

The smudge in the distance began to acquire definition as he followed the old roadway and found himself skirting a high plateau. Now he could see that it was composed of many fires throwing their fumes up into the air. And then, as he continued, he found
himself face to face with a broad city wall, all red stone, with ditches raised before it as additional
defences. There were houses lining the route now, some well built with little garden plots before them where straggling plants
grew in the chill: spindly stems of rocket with the last few tiny leaves, and some harsh-looking cabbages. Not much still
grew at this time of year.

From close to, the gates were enormous, and he stood before them with relief to know that here at last he would be able to
sleep indoors. He marched in, and soon found where he could take a drink or two. After asking advice, he chose a place called
the Suttonsysyn, which was only a very short distance from where he stood. And it was while he was there, looking about himself,
that he saw
him
again.

It was a shock. He had been ready to relax, take a drink, and then retire to his cot, but now here was this fellow, one of
those guaranteed to remember him – the king’s messenger from Coventry. There was nothing for it: he must leave the city, escape,
run away again. Perhaps head straight for the coast, take a ship to Guyenne … Lord Mortimer had done just that, after
all: he’d fled the land, and was now living with the French king, so they said.

But to run now might mean he could never achieve the destruction of the king and his favourites. The thought was unbearable. He had to stay.

It had taken him four days to march here. Four days of walking without halt except at night, avoiding people as far as possible,
and now he had arrived here and already his safety was at risk. He sank onto a low wall, thinking desperately about his mission. It was enough to make a man weep, seeing an agent of his destruction so soon after arriving in a town where he had thought
himself secure. Perhaps there was nowhere which was entirely safe. This, maybe, was to be the tenor of his life from this
moment forth:
to wander the lands, ever seeking safety, only to discover at every vill yet another familiar, and dangerous, face.

But he was not the man to accept defeat. Other churls might whine and complain at the way that fate would play hazard with
their lives, but that was not for
him
! He was stronger than that: he made others change their situation to suit
him
! It was he who was in control. Events were so constructed by him that they guided others to obey his whims.

He would not be thwarted. Standing, wincing, he watched the man disappear down the street ahead of him, and squaring his shoulders
he set off after him, his hand pulling at the little weighted cord under his tunic. With that, he could defend himself.

And then, as he stepped out, he saw another man follow him, a short, dark man who watched him closely with wide-set, dark
and serious eyes.

John took a closer grip on his cord.

Tuesday, Feast Day of St Edmund
⁴

It was Will Skinner, the watchman at the South Gate, who first noticed the body slumped just inside the alley on that Tuesday
morning.

Will was one of the older night watchmen. When he first took over duties down here near the gate, he had been middle-aged,
but that was six years ago now. Felt like a lot longer. At the time he had only recently lost his house and
everything he loved.

Poor Margie had never recovered from that fire. Badly burned, seeing their bodies drawn from the house, she’d lost her mind. They’d both doted on the little mites, all three of them. They’d had seven children born, but they’d had to bury the other
four only a short while after their births. Not many children lived to four years old.

Bob had been twelve, Joan eight, and Peg six when they died. That damned fire had rushed through the house like … like
anything. Will had been speaking at a small meeting, telling his audience they should fight to reject the latest demands for
extra taxes, when the woman came to get him. She was herself distraught, and he gaped at her, not really comprehending what
she was saying. It was like a dreadful nightmare, hearing her talking about his children, his wife badly burned …

He had run to the house, but by the time he got there there was nothing. Just a smoking wreck.

It was a friend who had managed to get him this job. Others had told him not to take it, because his house had been around
here, not far from the gate itself. That was why he liked it, though. He walked down there at every opportunity, past the
alley where his children had died, where his wife had lived with him happily, before that dread evening. It was his daily
pilgrimage.

The gap where his house had once stood remained, shut away behind a wooden paling fence. Now, as he wandered down the alley,
he saw the broad gap where his family had once lived. It made him feel – not
sadness
exactly, more a sort of emptiness. He had long ago grown accustomed to the fact of their deaths; that was something any man
must learn to cope with. But passing the space he was reminded again
that it seemed out of place, as though he still almost expected his house to reappear.

This month was always hardest. It was at this time of year that his children had died, and the chill in the air, the naked
trees denuded of leaves, the ice in the lanes, all reminded him of them.

He couldn’t help but stop and stare at where the house had been. Leaning on his staff, he gazed hungrily, as though the intensity
of his regard could bring them back to life. But nothing could. Turning to continue on his way, he stumbled, and nearly fell
headlong.

Over the body in the alley.

When the keeper of the gatehouse heard the pounding on his door, his immediate thought was that his blasted son had been on
the sauce again, and he threw off his bedclothes with an angry curse at the thought of what the damned fool could have been
up to this time.

Old Hal was not a particularly ill-tempered fellow. Certainly, many would agree that he tended towards a melancholy humour
at the best of times, but more often than not he could be amusing, and good company when a group got together in the tavern. His jokes were risqué, his songs filthy, his mind invariably lewd, so men got along with him enormously well – provided that
they never mentioned his good-for-nothing son Art.

Art. It was ironic that he and Mabel had named the little devil after Hal’s grandsire, for if ever a man was unlike his namesake,
it was Art. Where old Art had been reliable, responsible, honourable and dedicated, young Art was the opposite. He wouldn’t
wake on time, he was always late and blaming others for his failings, and when he did turn up of a
morning, it was invariably with a headache and a pathetic, shaking demeanour. Twice in the last month Hal had been called
to have him released from the gaol after drinking too much and fighting. He hated to think what else the little bastard had
got up to without being discovered.

‘Why do you fight?’ Hal had demanded after the last escapade.

‘It’s not that I want to … when I’ve had too much ale, it just happens.’

‘You’d best stop now, before someone stands on your head too hard,’ Hal had said unsympathetically, looking at the wreckage
that had been his son’s face. Now it was a mass of bruises and scabs. The trouble was, Art was born with more sense than he
now had. He couldn’t assess odds, apparently. If he was drunk and his dander was up, he’d pick a fight with a man in armour.

Reaching the door, Hal threw aside the bar and pulled it wide. ‘What’s he done this … oh, Will? What is it? Christ alive,
man, it’s hardly daylight yet!’

Will entered hurriedly, and from the look on his face Hal knew it wasn’t good news.

‘Murder – there’s been a murder!’

Simon Puttock’s journey to Tavistock was eased considerably by the memory of Stephen of Chard’s face the night before when
he realised that Simon’s recommended inn was a place frequented by gamblers, sailors and whores.

Even this early, a little after dawn, his mood was sunny because he would soon be seeing his children and his lovely Meg. It seemed such a long time since he had last been with her. That was when he had first heard of the death of his
friend and mentor, Abbot Robert. Even now the memory was depressing. Strange to think how close a man could grow to his master.

With uncanny timing, his own servant’s whining voice intruded on his thoughts. ‘Is it much farther, Bailiff?’

‘Yes.’

‘Many miles?’

‘Boy, be quiet! It is a long way, and the more you chatter, the longer it feels. Enjoy the views and the air, and hold your
tongue.’

If it weren’t for Rob trailing along with him, he would have been enjoying this perfect morning. As it was, he was constantly
aware of the lad behind him, muttering and complaining under his breath as he stumbled along after Simon, the reins of the
packhorse in his hands. Rob was little more than a lad, only some thirteen summers or so, but as hard and devious as only
the illegitimate son of a sailor could be. He was sharp-eyed, with dark eyes set close together in a narrow, weaselly face. His accustomed expression of suspicious distrust reminded Simon of a small ferret who was forever seeking the next rabbit. He was clad in a simple tunic, a leather jerkin and a cowl, and barefooted like so many who live near the ships. Boots cost
money, and when sailors disdained such wastefulness, many of their children had to learn to do without too.

In the middle of the summer the journey was an easy one. In winter even a man like the obnoxious Stephen could make the distance
safely by keeping to the larger roads, but only slowly. Stephen had apparently taken two days to cover the thirty or more
miles between Tavistock and Dartmouth. Simon was disinclined to take his time. He was keen to learn the reason for being called
back, and still more so to see
his wife. That was why he avoided the lower roads that encircled the moorland, and in preference made his way along the muddied
trackways until he reached the open heights, and then took his way north and west until he met up with the Abbots’ Way, the
great path marked by enormous stone crosses that guided a man safely across some of the most treacherous parts of the moors.

This was land where a man could breathe, Simon thought as he stopped his mount to wait for Rob to catch up and gazed about
him. From this hill, he could see nothing but rolling countryside on all sides. He had joined the Abbots’ Way near Ter Hill,
and westwards he could see the first of the three crosses that showed the safe route past the Aune Head’s mire. The path here
wandered north of that, then curved to avoid the Fox Tor mire a short distance farther on. The bogs were deadly, and all too
often the ghostly shrieks and wails of animals who had blundered into a mire would be heard as the terrible muddy waters gradually
enfolded them and smothered them. No matter how often Simon crossed and recrossed the moors, he would never get used to those
cries. They sounded like tortured souls screaming out from hell.