The Tainted Relic (26 page)

Simon drew a small knife and hesitated before running the blade along the splinter’s path. It stung, but he inserted the point and levered it out, listening as Baldwin asked his questions.

It should have been the new coroner, Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple, investigating this, but he had left for Topsham after the Gaol Delivery hangings because of a brawl between sailors: three of them had died. In his absence, it was only natural that the Keeper should take over. The Keeper had the right to order the posse and lead it to find a felon.

Even now Simon was sure that Baldwin doubted Rob’s evidence. Something had caught his fancy about the ostler, although now he was squatting and frowning at the pooled vomit. Simon left him: he was more intrigued with the young woman.

This Moll was an auburn-haired woman of maybe three-or four-and-twenty, with a dumpy figure but a face that would have been pretty, in a soft, pale, round sort of a way, but for the calculation in her eyes when she looked at a man. From this Simon was convinced she was a prostitute, maybe one of those who inhabited the cheap taverns and alehouses along the South Gate road.

While Baldwin left the puke to talk to the neighbours, Simon wandered to her side. ‘What do you think really happened?’

‘How should I know? I was safe in my bed.’

‘All alone?’

‘Why–you jealous?’

‘Could be! Did you know this man?’

‘Never seen him before,’ she said, but her eyes moved away from Simon.

‘Who was he?’

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Did he try something on? You called your pander to pull the bugger off you, and he took offence at the fellow’s cheek? If your pimp killed him, there’ll be no blame attached to you.’

She smiled at him with quick contempt. ‘You think my pander would do something like that? He’d shit himself at the thought. It’s only women he bullies.’

‘Then you’re protecting someone else? Who?
Why
? Whoever did this could attack again. Such frenzied butchery–it must be a madman. He could strike again, maid. Maybe he’ll attack you next.’

She eyed him a moment. ‘No. I think
I’m
safe.’

When they released him, Rob ran all the way from the alley to the place up at the old Friars’ Hall, and then ducked down another alley and waited, heart pounding savagely. He’d almost been caught, and his terror was only increased by the sudden approach of heavy feet. It sounded like the city’s bailiffs, and he closed his eyes. At any moment the Keeper’s voice would rasp out an order for his attachment. He’d be hauled off to the gaol until he could be brought before the justices and hanged. He just
knew
it. Why had he ever…

The steps passed by the alley and on down towards the West Gate, and he felt his breath leave him in a sharp gasp, as though it would be his last.

It was awful. He was lost, confused. His brother was gone, Will was dead…who could he trust? There was only Annie, no one else. He must tell her what had happened.

He shot off up the lane past the priory of St Nicholas, and on to the shanty town. Once this had been the abode of Franciscans, but recently they’d moved away. In the space of two years nine of the brethren had died because of the foulness of the location, so they’d moved to a new six-acre site outside the walls.

In their place a series of huts had been built. Bays were made from scraps of timber lying about. Wattles were thrust between them and smeared with daub, and thatch was thrown on top to keep out the rain.

None was strong; none was proof against more than a mild wind or shower, and yet people flocked here. It was proof of the misery of life in the outlying areas that so many were keen to come to this place, which was already known for its malodorous air and the illnesses the foul air caused. The friars had been driven away, yet others more desperate were happy to live here.

The place he wanted was up near the northern walls. It was a scruffy place, the daub falling from the walls while the thatch was worn thin and penetrated in many places where birds had made their homes, or stolen the straw for their nests. What remained was green and little use in a storm, but neither was the rest of the house. The door was an old blanket, which fluttered and moved with every breeze.

Rob hesitated, then cleared his throat. ‘Annie? Are you there?’

‘Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?’

She pulled the curtain aside and he walked in, revelling in the nearness of her body as he ducked under the low lintel.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

Annie was about twenty years old, as tall as Rob, but better built because during the famine years she had been in the service of a lord who had seen to the well-being of his servants, and bought in food even as prices rose. Fodder prices rose by six times before the end of the first summer, and buying grain for the serfs of his manor finally ruined him. Three years earlier she had been turfed out when the old man died, brought down by fear of God and the struggle to support his people. His wife, the bitch, hadn’t the same sense of responsibility, and she’d seen to it that all the ‘useless mouths’ were evicted.

Rob first met her on the road from the north, up near Duryard, a mile or so north of the city. She had been a waif-like creature, all skin and gangling limbs, with huge eyes in a skull-like face, and he had at once taken pity on her.

‘Hello, where are you from?’

‘Tiverton.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Exeter.’

Each word had seemed as though it must be dredged up, and each time it took a long while for her to mouth an answer, she was so exhausted.

‘Do you have somewhere to go?’

‘No.’

She was one of hundreds who had come this way seeking employment or merely a roof. At first, when the city had stocks to be shared, people were permitted inside the walls, and the churches thundered the responsibilities of Christian to Christian, but that was seven years ago. When Annie arrived, the same men who had demanded that food and drink should be shared were more cautious. Only those who could help Exeter should be supported, and those who couldn’t must return home. Their parishes should shoulder the burden, rather than expecting Exeter to suck in all those without means.

Rob had been lucky. He and Andrew had been orphaned when he was not yet ten. Andrew was already apprenticed with a metal smith, and Rob was accepted into the household, but Andrew was rowdy and unreliable. The smith kicked them out after Andrew fought another apprentice in the smith’s hall.

It was Rob’s skill with horses which led to his being hired by the stables. That meant good food, a bed and some money, but not enough. He didn’t think he received his due, so when Andrew suggested something more profitable, he’d leaped at the chance.

Annie obviously had a clear idea what she could do in Exeter.

‘Come with me,’ he said as kindly as he could. ‘You don’t want that game. I know a place…’

She was so fragile, like a butterfly; she stirred something warm and protective in him, and Rob responded to it and the hope of companionship it brought. He brought her here to the old friary lands, where a friend lived with his wife, working on the cathedral’s rebuilding. She would be safe here, and in return for a little work about the place, and Rob paying a little rent, she could share their board until she found work.

Annie soon filled out, and now she was a buxom maid, with a tunic of red-stained cloth, and a crimson sleeveless surcoat over it. Her apron was faultless, clean and fresh. Her shining dark hair was decorously braided and wound into a thick bunch under her wimple; a pity, for he adored to see it loose. She had once said, laughing, that he only ever liked to see her wanton, and to be honest it was largely true. When she was naked over him, breasts free, her hair hanging on either side of her face like great raven’s wings, he felt true happy contentment. Yet it wasn’t just lust. No, it was more than that. The sight of her smiling face was enough to send a thrill of pleasure to his heart. To see her content was to fill him with joy.

Her eyes were on him in the gloom, but today there was no delight in them. He hated to see her like this: suspicious and unhappy. Sometimes she could be a little peevish. He only hoped that this wasn’t one of those days. He had enough on his plate.

‘Annie, have you heard?’

‘About Andy?’ she said quickly.

Rob gritted his teeth. ‘He’s missing. I don’t know where. And Will–he’s dead. I found him last night in an alley, and…Christ’s Bones, but it was awful. Someone had cut him up.’

‘Why do that?’ she asked.

There was scant interest in her voice, but that was reasonable. Will had been his friend, not hers. It was one of the things he loved about her, this naturalness and refusal to feign feelings that she didn’t have. At no time would she lower herself to pretending affection for someone when there was nothing there. She’d have made a dreadful whore. He was also glad that she didn’t harp on about Andrew. It was hard enough for Rob without having to cope with her feelings as well.

‘Will had plenty of enemies. A thief who preys on travellers is never without foes. Someone recognized him and killed him,’ Rob said, thinking about the tall, dark keeper and his words about catching foxes.

‘Did he leave many alive?’ she said pointedly.

Rob didn’t answer. Confirming what he and the others had done to win money was unnecessary. She knew what they were. It wasn’t as though she wondered where Rob had won the money to keep her happy. He hadn’t hidden anything; he could have lived on his stable’s income had he not put her up in this shack. It was the money for that which drove him to Will and robbery.

‘I’d have thought there were few enough living to take revenge on him,’ she said. ‘He saw to that.’

Rob knew she was in the right there. There were only a few who wanted to see him dead.

And he had himself been one of them.

When their questioning was complete, Baldwin and Simon beckoned the clerk to follow them, and strode to the Blue Rache.

‘What is your name?’ Simon asked of the clerk. ‘I haven’t seen you about the place before.’

‘I am Jonathan, Bailiff. I hail from Winchester, and it is only a mere chance that I happened to be here. The good dean asked me if I could attend your inquiry, because he was holding a meeting this morning, and it was a great honour to be able to help you.’

‘You mean you have heard of Baldwin and me?’

‘No. But it’s always an honour to help law officers in their duties.’

‘Oh,’ Simon said, a little chastened.

The cleric saw his face fall and chuckled. ‘But although I have not heard of you myself, Bailiff, Dean Alfred was insistent that I should come. You have helped him in the past, and he wished me to convey his best wishes and begs you will advise him of any aid you need.’

‘That’s good to know. Why are you visiting?’

‘I brought messages to the chapter from the bishop.’

Simon nodded. Bishop Walter had been drawn from his comfortable palace in the service of the King, and now spent much of his time in the King’s household travelling about the realm. Naturally he wanted to communicate with his brethren at regular intervals. ‘Have you been here before?’

‘No. Never. It is a wonderful city. It flourishes under the benevolent eye of Bishop Walter.’

Simon grunted his approval. He knew the bishop quite well, and liked him. ‘Where are we going now?’ Jonathan asked after a moment or two.

‘The alehouse where the witness was drinking last night,’ Baldwin responded. ‘I want to confirm that man’s name, and also see why that fellow was so anxious. I think he lied about finding the body.’

Simon waited, but Baldwin was not going to explain his thoughts. For his part, Simon was intrigued about Moll. ‘She was convinced she was safe. She had no fear of being attacked herself.’

‘Perhaps she guesses the identity of the murderer, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘So you are going to make sure of the dead man’s name,’ Jonathan said.

‘That and anything else we can,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve often found murders were committed in hot blood because of arguments about money or a woman. Perhaps someone from the place can point us in the direction of the murderer.’

‘I see. Is that it?’

Baldwin had stopped at a low, thatched, dilapidated building with a tired-looking bush of furze tied to a horizontal pole over the door. The knight turned with a grimace to Simon and rolled his eyes. ‘This looks like your sort of den, Simon. I doubt whether they’ll have Guyennois wine fit for a knight.’

‘Don’t judge the ale by the tun,’ Simon said loftily.

Jonathan sniggered and, boosted by his appreciation, Simon shoved at the door.

Simon had visited many alehouses and taverns when his father was steward of Okehampton Castle. When he travelled with his father they would stop at places like this to refresh themselves and ensure their road ahead was safe. Alehouses were cheap drinking halls in which a man could consume as much rough ale as he wanted before collapsing. Food was rudimentary if available, and company was of the lowest sort; if a peasant wanted a place in which to sing and dance, however, there was nowhere better, and Simon had fond memories of many small alehouses.

Expecting this to be rough, Simon was not disappointed. It was the sort of hovel where people would assume that a foreigner was worthy of contempt and deserved to be considered an enemy. This was not Simon’s city, but that mattered little to the people inside. He could have been a man from one street away and they would have studied him in the same mistrustful manner. Because he was not of their own parish and lane, he was a foreigner to be scorned.

He walked inside and the room’s noise was hushed in an instant. Where before there had been excited chatter and arguments, now there was a menacing stillness. Unabashed, Simon strolled to the bar, a simple board laid over two barrel-tops, and leaned on it.

The chamber was perhaps fifteen feet by twenty, and the bar was at the far end. Along the walls were three benches, and in the middle of the room was a fire, which threw up a sullen flame every so often in the midst of a rank smoke. There were two barrels upended to serve as tables, and about these were some rough stools, three of them simple cylinders sawn from large logs. On the floor was a fine splintering of ancient rushes, their stalks long since mashed by the passage of so many feet, and the whole place reeked of urine and sourness.