King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  He had soared to new heights. Usually the feeling of being a foreigner would make him anxious. So often the ignorant churls wouldn’t understand what he was talking about, even when he was being as slow as possible, trying to explain every point clearly and concisely. And the mere act of careful enunciation highlighted his sense of strangeness, his alienness compared with the folk here. It made him feel this was a dangerous part of the country.

  Country folk were the hardest, of course. They tended to stand by, surly and grim-faced, while he spoke, mistrusting the sight and sound of a different accent. Ach! They’d distrust a man who came from a vill two miles away, most of them. Give him a good city crowd for preference. They would admire his rhetoric, laugh at his sallies, and some would even pay him extra if his delivery had been good enough.

  It wasn’t generally true of bumpkins. Where a city dweller appreciated that he would sometimes be fleeced, but still enjoyed the spectacle, the countryman would jealously guard his purse. The idea uppermost in his mind was generally that he was being rooked, and no villein liked to feel himself to be a gull.

  Not so here, though. The people appeared uniformly cheery. There was nothing thrown at him. The boys, and even some of the women, heckled him good-naturedly, while the men openly laughed at his more risqué jokes. It was reassuring. Such attitudes spoke of money. And only the comfortably off could afford to commit sins, in his opinion. He always preferred wealthier crowds. The poor were too desperate for their next meal to bother with pardons.

  When he lifted the parchment, all laden down with seals from bishops, damn his soul if a maid at the front didn’t swoon! It was the most perfect day he’d known in a long while. It was all downhill from there.

  First the more easily swayed came to the front, some with their money all ready, others with rings or other tokens, and he’d passed out the vellum with enthusiasm. Each promised a period of thirty days, remission of sins after payment. Soon he’d have to buy some more vellum, if things kept going like this.

  The second group arrived when the first were flagging. He had seen it all too often. While the first enthusiastic crush pressed forward, others would curl their lips, roll their eyes and otherwise demonstrate their contempt for the poor hopeful fools who were so keen to throw their money at a stranger.

  That was when he would bring out his pride and joy. While the women and children snatched at their vellum, he slowly reached into his purse while watching the doubters at the back, and then bring out the feather. ‘Behold this! Granted to me by the Bishop of Bath and Wells!’ he roared, holding it aloft. Bath and Wells was far enough away, he reckoned, for it to be safe to tell a fib about the bishop down here.

  ‘What of it? A goose feather!’

  ‘“What of it,” you say? You dare suggest that this marvellous white plume is that of a common goose? Nay, friend. This is a feather from the wings of the angel Gabriel himself! Aye, but if you doubt my words, like Thomas, then you may leave well alone. Stay there at the back where you are safe, and see what miracles you miss!’

  ‘Get on! It’s a quill from the goose you stole – the one you ate last night, from the look of your gut, Pardoner!’

  But the comment was jocular, not sour, and the sight was enough to bring a few more forward. Only a few. Others still waited at the back, several of them eyeing him with some admiration, like men who listened to the patter of a street seller, enjoying the atmosphere created.

  That was when he brought out the bones, one by one, and let all see them, holding them in his cupped hands. And when he announced that they were King Arthur’s, the crowds were hushed in awe.

  For a moment anyway, John reminded himself, contentedly rattling the coins in his purse. In his experience the longer the silent hesitation, the more money he would garner later. There was plenty here, and soon he would have more. He was a very happy man that night.

  Which was good, because it was his last.

  Hob of Oxford pulled the apron from his belly as the last guests left his little tavern. It had been a good day, all in all, what with the pardoner appearing and drawing in all the folk from the vill. They’d listened, and once he’d talked them out of their money they’d all come into Hob’s house to spend some more.

  There were no two ways about it. The pardoner had made him a goodly sum of money. And while the fellow had taken some of Hob’s own in exchange for the little strip of vellum, that was not expensive. Especially for the peace of mind it gave him. He needed it.

  Closing the door, he shoved the wooden peg into the wood above the latch to lock it before clearing the last of the cups and jugs from the floor where they had been discarded. He banked up the fire, kicking the embers into a small pile, and sank his backside down to rest on a stool nearby. It had been a long day, and his legs were killing him. A jug of ale at his side, he sipped contentedly, yawning and scratching at his beard while he considered the work he must do in the morning.

  He was wryly contemplating an early morning’s start when he heard the faint noise. It was a scritching, scratching noise, and seemed to come from behind him.

  This was not a large tavern. Two rooms only sufficed for the vill’s needs, and while Hob had a bed up in the rafters here, over the fire where it was warm, the room at the back was where he occasionally allowed travellers to sleep. It was where the pardoner was resting. Surely it was only that fellow, he told himself. Probably striking a light with flint and tinder. Needed a light to find his way to the pot. Not surprising, the amount the man had put away. Not many could drink so much. Of course, Hob was to blame. He shouldn’t have offered all the ale the man could drink in exchange for his strip of vellum.

  Grunting, he rose, emptied the last of his jug over the glowing coals and stepped away as the steam fumed. Only when he was sure the fire was dead did he begin to make his way to the ladder that gave access to his upper chamber.

  But there was a curious odour in the air. A scent of burning that was odd. It was not natural. All about him was the fug of his damp hearth, but for some reason he could also smell fresh woodsmoke. It was an abnormal smell. Peculiar, odd, out of place. It was enough to make him pause at the bottom of his ladder, frowning and peering about him. And then he heard another noise, some sort of clattering or something.

  He didn’t want to check. The man was just soused, that was all. He’d probably fallen over. But if he’d collapsed and puked, he might die. And he could have knocked over his pot of piss. The smell of that would reek in a day or so if he had. Ach! Better to see what the dull-witted prickle had done.

  Taking a rushlight from its holder on the wall, he used it to light a candle. There was no need for silence, not if the sot was so mazed he had fallen over. Hob threw open the door, and it was only then, as the light from his candle illuminated the chamber, that he realized what had happened, and Hob began to scream even as he fled, running from the appalled horror in John’s dead eyes.

  Friday before the Feast of St John the Baptist,5 Crediton

  Sir Baldwin was accustomed to being woken early.

  In his youth he had joined the great Crusade which set off from England to aid the city of Acre in its hour of need. A massive army of Mamelukes had overrun the kingdom of Jerusalem and all the city states which bounded the sea, and now only Acre itself survived. But in a short time the city fell, and Baldwin was one of a tiny number of wounded men who were rescued by the Templars and brought back to health in their care. It left him with an abiding sense of commitment to the order, and he joined the knights as soon as he could to repay his debt.

  Sleeping in the Temple had always been an austere experience, but sleeping here was if anything a little more . . . rugged, for want of a better word.

  It was the spare bedchamber in his friend Dean Peter Clifford’s house in Crediton. Peter, a tall, stooped, white-haired cleric, was always pleased to provide hospitality for Baldwin when the Keeper had a need to stay in Crediton. And he was often about the town – occasionally in his capacity as Keeper,
sometimes as a Justice of Gaol Delivery, occasionally for some social reason.

  The banging on his door made him frown quickly though. This was not the patient, subtle knock of a servant seeking to gently arouse a sleeping guest. It was the panicked thudding of a servant who thought there was overriding need.

  ‘Sir Baldwin! There has been a murder. A dreadful murder!’

  The canon hastened his way along the road from the church, his black robes flapping in the wind. It was cool this early in the morning, but the canon scarcely noticed, his cloak was drawn so tightly about him. In any case, when he saw his breath steaming on the morning air, it did not make him pause. A man in holy orders tended to see too much of stone slabs and tiles, usually in the middle watches of the night, and cool air held no fears for him.

  He knew the way as well as he would if it were a part of the church’s lands. Up the high street, along the alleyway to the left, and then back on himself along the little track that led up the hill, before turning right again down the little lane. It ended in the large house.

  It was a rough place, this. On the outskirts of the town itself, this area was the haunt of some of the poorest, and few would dare to approach without a group of men about them. Canon Arthur knew better than most how dangerous it truly was. He had been visiting this site for some months. Ever since his profitable little arrangement had begun.

  The last time he had come he had felt sure that he had been followed. Afterwards the dean had grown frosty towards him, and he felt sure that his little secret was known – but there was no proof. He was sure of that.

  He knocked on the door, glancing about him. Soon it opened, and he saw the narrow features of Edward of Newton, the servant of Henry of Copplestone.

  It was all over in less time than a man would need to flay a rabbit. The canon hurried away from that evil place with his heart in his mouth, hoping against hope that no one saw him.

  ‘Well, Peter?’

  The dean had been up for some while already, and he beckoned Baldwin into his little hall, asking, ‘Please, Baldwin, old friend, I am glad to see you well. You slept comfortably?’

  ‘Peter, there has been a crime, this lad tells me.’

  Peter Clifford motioned to the boy to leave. ‘There has been a message to say that a man has been found dead in the Black Lamb at Sandford.’

  ‘Hob’s place? Who was it? A local?’

  ‘No, a foreigner, I heard. He was staying overnight with Hob, and someone killed him.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘Very well. I must go there, I suppose.’

  Peter nodded and called to his servant to bring breakfast for them both. As Keeper of the King’s Peace, it was Baldwin’s duty to try to seek out felons. When a crime was committed, his writ commanded him to seek the man ‘from vill to vill, hundred to hundred, shire to shire’, with all the posse of the county. ‘You will eat first?’

  ‘I’d rather not fall from my saddle from hunger,’ Baldwin said, smiling.

  ‘I should warn you that the coroner has also been called.’

  ‘That is good.’

  Peter lifted his eyebrows and gazed pensively at the jug as his bottler poured two mazers of wine. ‘Ah. Perhaps. It is Sir Richard de Welles.’

  There were few names that would strike such a reaction in a man’s breast, Baldwin reflected later as he jogged along the muddy trail from the church, up the steep hill behind and down past the Creedy manor house to Sandford itself.

  Sir Richard de Welles was one of those rare creatures, a king’s coroner who was uninterested in corruption. In the years since Baldwin had begun investigating felonies, he had known many of them, and most were little better than felons themselves: mendacious, devious and out to line their own purses. Men with honour and integrity were rare, but Sir Richard was one such. He didn’t reject corruption so much as live in a state of blindness to the possibility of it. So long as there was ale, wine and food, he was happy. But woe betide the man who did not see to the coroner’s needs.

  It was his appetites for wine and ale which had served to make Baldwin’s close friend, Simon Puttock, regret ever meeting the coroner. For some reason, the coroner had taken a liking to Simon which had led to hangovers of a virulence that was quite unlike anything Simon had known before.

  Baldwin had seen little of Simon recently. They had both been together much of the year so far, but now the two had been separated for some weeks. Simon had once lived near here, over at the farm north of West Sandford, before he had been given the post of bailiff on Dartmoor, but that had necessitated a move to Lydford. Baldwin missed his company.

  Still, no matter what Simon thought of him, Baldwin respected the coroner’s judgement and enjoyed his good nature. And did not drink with him.

  Not that he would be here yet, Baldwin knew. The journey from Exeter would take him all the morning.

  Canon Arthur was anxious when he received the message as he returned to the church. Still, he must obey his master, and he bent his steps towards the dean’s house.

  ‘Dean? You asked for me?’

  Peter Clifford was seated at his table while a dark-haired, bearded man clad in a threadbare red tunic chewed at a little bread and cold ham. The canon recognized him as the knight who had arrived to calm the crowds when Henry’s wife Agatha had been soiled in the roadway. It made him panic for a moment to see the man there.

  ‘Canon Arthur, I am glad you could come here so swiftly,’ Peter Clifford said. ‘Sir Baldwin here was wondering who might know of the people over at Sandford. Could you help him?’

  With that, the dean offered Godspeed to them both and left them alone.

  ‘I feared you might have been here to complain about the dispute the other day,’ Arthur said with a slight grin.

  ‘No. These little matters will happen,’ Baldwin said. ‘Please, will you not be seated?’

  His questions were concerned entirely with the running of the little vill of Sandford, the quality of the men there, and especially the reeve, Arthur was pleased to learn. He furnished Baldwin with a full list of the senior men of the vill. ‘Ulric the reeve is a strong fellow. Hob is a strange fellow: I cannot ever get away from the impression that he is embarrassed about something when I meet him.’

  ‘You go there often?’

  ‘I am responsible for the manors about there which provide us with much of our foods.’ He nodded. ‘I often travel up there and beyond to the granges and barns to ensure that all is well. Hob runs the tavern in the vill, and I stop there for lunch on occasions.’

  ‘I see. I trust you avoid West Sandford though.’

  ‘Hmm? Why?’

  ‘Surely you would keep away from Henry of Copplestone’s house?’

  ‘Oh, him. Yes. Well, I do for now. But he is a reasonable man, generally. As a merchant, he and I will do business occasionally. I am sure that this affair will blow over.’

  ‘The matter of Henry’s wife’s dress?’

  ‘No! That was a mere accident. No, I was thinking of this problem about the sheep. A small flock of mine was allowed to wander, and it ate all his pea crop in an afternoon before anyone saw.’

  ‘That was why the dispute, then,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Yes.’

  It was a short ride.

  Baldwin’s road followed the River Creedy, curling around eastwards for some way, before leaving the manor’s park and rising up again. The church was prominent before him, with a scattering of little cottages about it, some with smoke rising from holes in the thatch to give a welcoming appearance in this thin rain. It pattered on his cloak as he rode, and he pulled his hood over his head, musing on the dean’s words as he left the church.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Baldwin had said, tugging on gloves while waiting for his horse.

  ‘You are always welcome here.’

  ‘One thing, though. You have heard of the matter of Henry of Copplestone’s troubles. Why do you not compensate him for his losses?’

  Peter had been still
a moment, and he would not meet Baldwin’s eye. ‘What did you think of young Arthur?’

  Baldwin was baffled, but if his friend chose to change the subject he would not embarrass him by harping on. ‘He seemed a pleasant enough fellow. Quite efficient and organized.’

  ‘One must always be aware of younger canons,’ Dean Peter said. ‘They can be more prone to temptations than older men. And he is very aware of his name.’

  It had been a curious comment to make, but Baldwin’s horse was being brought to him even as Peter spoke, and in a few minutes Baldwin had mounted and was trotting from the church’s precinct.

  The journey was mercifully short. Sandford was fortunate in its location. The lands to the south and west were fertile, with the good, red soil of the area, not that much could be seen now. Everywhere was smothered with plants. Beyond there were orchards, with apples, pears, some cherry trees and others. Here at the side of the road was the vill’s coppice, and men were in there in the rain, hacking away, and only stopping when they saw him. Some stood still and eyed him suspiciously, dark eyes peering from beneath brims.

  The road rose up the next hill, but before the crest was a track that passed off to the left. This was a narrower way that suddenly widened into a broad triangular market space. Uncobbled, it was muddy where the grass had been trampled. A road led up to his right from here, up the hill to the church, while another wound off to the left. That, he knew, led to West Sandford and beyond. Simon’s old farm was itself off in that direction. But directly ahead of him was the tavern.

  It was not a large building. Little more than a cottage built of cob and thatch on top of a raised mound that sloped steeply down to the muddy roadway. Once it might have been a longhouse, a Devon farmhouse with one area for family living and a second for animals. No longer, though. From the piles of broken timbers and the heap of small stones, it looked as though there had been a structural failure, and the end wall replaced with fresh stones and cob to seal it.

  Even had he not known where the murder had been committed the day before, Baldwin would have been able to guess. All about the door to the tavern were the vill’s men and women. Baldwin rode to the edge of the road where a small oak stood, and tethered his mount to a low branch before making his way to the men.