The Malice of Unnatural Death: (50 page)

‘God’s teeth!’ he muttered, and completed his dressing. There was no more singular arrogance than that of a man who felt that
his life had a mystical purpose to it. Clad in his red tunic, he went to join Simon and the coroner at their table.

The fire was sparking fitfully in the corner, and the smoke was forming an unpleasant pall beneath the roof. Baldwin cast
a look up at it. The trouble was, so often a householder in a city like this found himself being passed off with rubbishy
wood for his fires. There was sometimes little to tell whether a bough was of good wood or rotten, whether it had been properly
dried, or whether it was simply wood that was bad for burning, like elm.

‘I think that the good host of the tavern has been rooked by a deceitful woodseller,’ he muttered as he joined his friends.

Rob looked at the fire. ‘It’s the fault of the boy who laid the fire. He ought to know what wood will burn and what won’t.’

‘And you’re the expert?’ Simon scoffed. ‘You are hardly out of your bed in time to see the fire being laid when you’re at
home in Dartmouth.’

‘You let the boy lie in his bed?’ the coroner asked, his mouth full of bread. He cocked an eye at Rob. ‘Didn’t I tell you
your duties last time I was in Dartmouth?’

‘And I do them, sir. My master is making fun,’ Rob said with a scowl at Simon.

Baldwin shook his head. ‘Never let your servants get the better of you, Simon. If he’s lazy, give him a good beating
every so often. That’s what he needs.’

‘You may not think it much, but it’s a lot better than other fires I’ve seen,’ the coroner said. ‘Anyway, you should pity
those without a fire this fine morning.’

‘There can’t be many who survive without a fire at this time of year,’ Baldwin said. ‘I suppose that man Robinet may be without
one, if he has taken refuge in some quiet little out-of-the-way place.’

‘True. I was thinking of the girl, though. The demented one in the gaol. She’ll be suffering for her illness.’

‘Which? The one who killed the servant outside Langatre’s house?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know? She’s in the sheriff’s gaol. Poor little thing. The devil’s got her, right enough.’

‘Is she really lunatic, then?’ Simon asked with a shudder. He hated the sight of the mad, drooling and shouting at people.

The coroner was largely of the same opinion. ‘Yes. Thought the sheriff fancied getting inside her skirts so much that he’d
appreciate her killing his wife to facilitate matters. Well, she’ll have a while to reconsider her foolishness in his gaol,
and then he’ll have her neck stretched.’

Baldwin shook his head, appalled. ‘That is barbaric, though. The poor chit has a demon in her, but the sheriff should be consulting
people as to the best way to remove it, not trying to have her executed for something that is beyond her control.’

‘Baldwin, you can’t tell us that a mad woman who has killed her friend and now wants to murder the sheriff’s wife shouldn’t
be kept secure.’

‘Secure, yes – in a hospital where her demons can be exorcised without harming her any more. She is no more
responsible for her actions in harming the other servant than we are, if she has a demon inside her.’

The coroner grunted affably. ‘You are too kind-hearted for your own good, Keeper. Look, she must be guilty of some gross sin
to be afflicted with this. Either some perversion or a crime. Why else would God have visited this dreadful punishment on
her? Better, probably, that she is simply hanged.’

‘What, would you punish the child for something she cannot be held responsible for? It is madness indeed to hang her for an
act that was the responsibility of the demon inside her,’ Baldwin declared.

‘What would you do, then?’ Simon asked.

‘Why not bring her to the cathedral with us? Ask the bishop whether he can do something to cure her?’ Baldwin said.

‘You are joking!’ Coroner Richard said. ‘Think what harm she could do in the church with the congregation there.’

‘We could do her a great deal of good, with any fortune,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘The bishop should be able to drive out her
demons and save her. After all, even if she did kill the servant, she cannot be held guilty. Remove the demon and see whether
she could have done it on her own.’

Coroner Richard drained his cup, then leaned back and considered Baldwin, chewing the last of the bread ruminatively. It was
a bizarre idea, but no worse than flogging the girl. And he couldn’t help but remember how small and thin and frail she had
looked when she had been knocked down. Little more than a child in reality. He swallowed and decided.

‘Well, if you’re serious, we’d best go to the castle and tell
the sheriff that we want to try it.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. And his eyes went to Rob.

At least it was only a short walk to the castle. But it was ruddy freezing, Rob told himself bitterly. The weather was miserable,
too. Not wet, but it was surely colder than a witch’s tits.

‘Hi, boy. You getting the keeper’s breakfast?’

He looked up to see the beadle, Elias. ‘We’ve eaten,’ he snarled. ‘I’m just off to the gaol.’

Elias shrugged as Rob explained about the girl. ‘Your master and his friends must be mad. Easier to just have her hanged. If there’s a demon inside her, that’d let it out fast enough!’

Rob nodded as he carried on his way. Yeah, it would be better. At least he could have stayed by the fire then, rather than
trudging through the cold and damp to the castle.

Waking, he looked about him sadly.

Walter had bought this place only a few years ago. At the time he had thought that his life was going to change, as he had
repeatedly told Robinet over the last days until his death. Well, now it had changed.

Thinking about that sad little body lying before the door in Langatre’s undercroft made him feel the sadness again. That man
had been his only real friend for many years. When Robinet arrived in Exeter, the two of them had immediately felt the bond
between them renewed, as though they had never parted. And, now they were parted for ever.

He left the place with a few coins from the purse on the window-ledge, walked the hundred or so yards to Cooks’ Row, keeping
a wary eye open for anyone who showed a
little too much interest in him, and ordered himself a good meat pie. Eating it slowly, he went round the back to the little
alehouse at the corner of two alleys. It was a rowdy place even at this time in the morning, and he knew that no one in there
would be looking for him. The only people who could be on his tail would stand out too distinctly in here. It was the sort
of place he could enjoy a form of anonymity.

Where had the murderous bastard got to? He had thought he could get some answers from Michael, but the interference of that
pathetic imitation sorcerer had put paid to that. If he’d been able, he could have silenced Langatre, but there was no telling
what Ivo would do while he was making the man shut up. Anyone with a stout staff was a threat to be considered when his loyalty
was in doubt. And there was certainly no love between him and Ivo. No, none.

Where was John? With any luck he had fallen into a ditch and his decomposed remains would be found late in the summer. But
there was no way to tell whether he was dead or not. Better to assume he was still alive for now, and find him. There was
nothing he wanted more than to see John’s head on a spike outside the city wall as a warning to all those who dared kill his
friends.

If he didn’t know where John was, perhaps the Watch had been luckier. A beadle could have stumbled over his corpse in the
night. And if he hadn’t, a beadle could maybe tell him what the city’s officers had been doing overnight to hunt the bastard
down.

He drained his cup and left the alehouse quietly by the little side door. Soon he was walking down the alley where Ivo and
his mother lived, and when he came to it he stood in a doorway some distance away and surveyed the street, making sure that
the measly little prickle hadn’t thought to
protect himself with a couple of roughs who would look for him in case he returned again.

No. There was nothing. Confident that the alley itself held no threat to him, he sauntered to the door and knocked.

It opened quickly, and Ivo stood gaping before him. A hand planted firmly on his breast gave him the hint, and he walked backwards,
still silent.

When the door was shut, Ivo’s mother, who had been huddled by the fire, turned and scowled. ‘What do you want here?’

‘Mother, I only want to learn what happened yesterday. Ivo? Did they get him?’

‘No. After you disappeared we spent the afternoon searching high and low for him, but none of us had any luck. Half the time
the coroner seemed to want us to find
you
more than the stranger.’

‘Fortunately no one did, though. What are they going to do today?’

‘They’re not. They’re fetching a demented girl to take to the bishop to see if he can exorcise her demons.’

‘That would be worth seeing.’

Ivo nodded. He had seen plenty of exorcisms in his time. The shrieking and screaming was quite entertaining in its own way. As good as a hanging. This way, perhaps they’d have the exorcism and then the hanging later, both from the same girl. He was
so taken up with his thoughts for a moment or two that he didn’t notice the man’s expression change suddenly.

‘What day is it?’

Ivo shot a look at his mother. ‘St Catherine’s Day?’

All knew of St Catherine of Alexandria. The noblewoman who refused to marry the emperor of Rome and defended
her Christian faith even when they threatened to kill her on the wheel. She had disputed her religion with fifty philosophers
and won, and had stood up for …

Robinet stood as the realisation struck.

‘We must get to the cathedral!’

Baldwin
and Simon had a leisurely walk to the cathedral after their breakfast. Already the grounds before the great church had started
to fill with city folk ready to join the Sabbath celebrations.

Practically every day of the year had its own saint to revere, and Baldwin knew that keeping abreast of which was due for
honour on any day was a task that exercised some of the finest minds in Christendom. At the cathedral there was a good man
who was paid a gallon of wine to call out all the different relics that were held there on the Monday after Ascension each
year. It was a task that demanded a degree of perseverance on the part of the annueller concerned, calling out the piece of Mary’s pillow, the splinter of the True Cross, the oil of St Catherine and all the other bits and pieces that made up the
great treasury owned by the cathedral. The number of relics made Exeter a place of pilgrimage for people from all over the
west country.

All too soon Baldwin saw the first of the black-robed canons appearing in his doorway as the bells began to ring, and then
all the houses in Canon’s Row disgorged their occupants. Entire households stood in the road, with the
processions being decided by rank and authority: canon first, then vicars, annuellers, novices, servants, all clad in their
robes ready for the service. They stepped over the open sewer that ran between their houses and the cemetery, and began to
cross the grassy plain. A hog and two horses moved out of their way as the men passed around the new building work, avoiding
the great stones lying all about, and making their way to the southern entrance. Only when all the choir had already entered
did the rest of the congregation follow.

Inside it was serene, an odd silence compared with the anticipated noise of a working building site. None of the workmen was
allowed to continue on the day of rest.

Baldwin and the others made their way to the northern side of the cathedral, where there was the altar dedicated to St Catherine,
and stood about while the incense wafted and the singing of the choristers rose to the heavens.

Bowing his head beneath his hood, Baldwin listened to the service in the choir. The music was marvellous, as always. Although
he had travelled widely and knew the forms of celebrations in the more modern and contemporary churches of France, Galicia
and Portugal, he still felt most at home here in English churches, with their more restrained, simple services. In other countries
there was too much extravagance, he felt. The plainer customs in English services were more suitable.

As always, the people standing all around were hooded and hatted respectfully. When the bishop came to raise the host up on
high for all to see, they would bare their heads. There was a group of women near him, under the watchful gaze of a chaperon,
while beyond them an older couple were sitting on folding chairs with leather seats and reading a book of hours together. The sole irritant to him was the
woman behind him, who would keep up a relentless prayer for a son who had disappeared some years ago, which spoiled his concentration.

And then he saw the man: Robinet.

He was over at the southern wall with the watchman, Ivo. Baldwin recognised him immediately, and was angry to see the man
here, flaunting his freedom in a church of God. It was shameful.

‘Look, Simon,’ he breathed. Simon followed his pointing finger and Baldwin saw his neck stiffen.

‘Where’s Sir Richard?’

Ivo had tagged along reluctantly, but he wasn’t sure he understood what his companion was on about. There was some story about
the man they’d tried to find yesterday actually being an assassin who was going to try to kill the bishop, which caught his
attention, naturally enough. Where there was a job to be done saving a bishop’s life, there was also a good fee to be earned
as reward. He was sure of that.

But apparently the killer wouldn’t have to be nearby. Would not be getting up close with a knife or anything. No, he would
be a little distance away – but near enough to see the bishop.

‘What, he going to use a bow in the cathedral?’

‘Not a bow, no. But something quite as deadly.’

‘As deadly as a bow?’ Ivo said doubtfully, squinting up at him.