The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  He thrust with his staff at the hog, who eyed him angrily at being pushed from his feast, and Will was anxious for a moment that the beast might attack him, but then the animal snorted and backed away, looking about for other morsels. Not before he had snatched another quick mouthful, though.

  And Will saw that behind it, under the blue material, was the remains of a chewed hand. A human hand.

  Furnshill, near Cadbury

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a man of certain habits, and as the light breached his shutters he was already awake.

  After so many years of soldiering, he was used to being up with the dawn. In the past it was because his order, the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, demanded rigorous training. Woe betide the knight who remained in his bed when his horse needed grooming or his weapons sharpening. For Baldwin, all his life this period after dawn had been a time of intense effort. There were masses to be celebrated, equipment to be checked, and, of course, his exercises.

  A Templar who sought to serve the order must spend many hours each day in training, and Baldwin was a keen exponent of the most stringent efforts possible. It was only by striving for perfection that a knight might achieve the degree of excellence which was sought for by all. He used to rise early from his bed and stand outside in the chill morning air, often bare-chested, sword in hand, practising defensive manoeuvres, retreating on his feet, stamping flat-footed as he gripped the hilt with both fists, then suddenly moving to the offence, his sword stabbing forward to strike an imaginary foe, then rising to block a sudden hack, before swirling round smoothly to strike another.

  Yes, every day of his life for thirty years or more he had been a devout exponent of practice, and now … well, it was cold outside, and he was growing older. An experimental hand reached out to stroke his heavily pregnant wife’s flank, and he listened to her muffled groans as she protested against his advances, but then he found the junction of her thighs, and her complaints became less urgent. She straightened a leg so his hand could be more easily accommodated, and as his other hand found her breast she rolled over, one arm over her head, eyes still closed, lips parted. She turned to him, her head thrusting forward slightly, her naked body tensing luxuriously under his hands. She arched her back and spoke breathily into his ear.

  ‘Isn’t it time you were up? You haven’t forgotten today you have to go to the bishop?’

  There were words he could have used about the bishop that morning, but instead he gripped her a little more urgently. ‘Not until later.’

  And it was much later that he managed to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed and make his way down the stairs of his solar, and out to his hall, all the while rehearsing in his mind how he might be able to refuse the offer which the bishop had made to him.

  ‘Offer? Hah!’

  No, it was no offer. It was an ultimatum. Bishop Walter wanted Baldwin to go to London for his own reasons. Baldwin had no idea what those reasons were, but Walter Stapledon had decided that he wanted Baldwin to attend parliament, and the good bishop was determined. It was rare that he was ever thwarted in his aims. As Baldwin knew only too well, Stapledon, once a close and trusted friend of his, was at the very centre of power in the realm, and as one of the king’s key advisers, the Lord High Treasurer. That was enough, in Baldwin’s eyes, to make him less trustworthy.

  Since the destruction of his order by an avaricious and unscrupulous French king and his lackey the Pope, Baldwin had been less prepared to place his trust in the hands of such men. His faith in politics and the Church itself had been ruined by his experiences as a Templar. Recently, since his friend Simon had introduced him to Bishop Stapledon, he had begun to change his opinion, but then he had been forced to accept that the bishop had misled him intentionally, and now he was unable to trust the king’s closest adviser.

  The bishop wished him to become a knight of the shire in London’s parliament, and Baldwin was determined that he would avoid that fate. The idea of being sent away from his wife and child for weeks or months was unbearable. Only last year had he been off on pilgrimage with Simon, and the sense of loneliness and desolation at being cut off from his wife was still a weight on his soul when he thought of it. Better by far that he should not leave her again. Remain here in Devon, where he was content. He had no interest in or need of politics and its practitioners.

  Unusually for him, he demanded a warmed and spiced wine as he sat at his table, and sipped it slowly as he chewed on a slab of meat, listening to the thundering of small feet from the solar behind him as his daughter woke and ran about the place. It was inconceivable that he could be tempted away from this house and his little girl again, he thought, and grinned to himself as she burst through the door, her accustomed smile leaping to her face as she caught sight of him.

  He took her up in his arms and cuddled her closely. The two year old always enjoyed being hugged, and she threw her arms about his neck, shoving her face into the point of his jaw.

  There was nothing, Baldwin told himself, nothing that could tempt him to volunteer for a parliamentary career. And fortunately there was little likelihood that the freemen of Exeter would be willing to help the bishop in his ambitions anyway. No, Baldwin reckoned himself safe enough.

  Exeter City

  Robinet woke with a head that felt as though a man had taken to driving a hole through his skull by the simple expedient of using a small awl and twisting it with determination, slowly.

  He cautiously opened his eyes and stared about him. The room was unfamiliar: a high ceiling, bare, white wooden beams, a smell of fresh hay. It was no room in which he had slept before, clearly. The place was too new.

  Sitting up quickly, he winced at the pain at his temples, and reached up with a hand. As he felt his skull, he was aware of a soreness and swelling above his ear, but then a rolling wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he retched without release for a few moments.

  There was nothing new about this. Someone had cracked his skull last night. Quickly he reached for his essentials: his little wallet, in which he had stored his spoon and the pewter badge of St Christopher from when he went on pilgrimage long ago. His knife was still at his belt, and his few coins were not stolen. All seemed in their place. And there was this place, too. Where, in God’s good name, was he?

  Shaking his head gently, he walked to the doorway. From here he could gaze out into a small yard. It was entirely unfamiliar, and he wondered whether he might have been brought here by James last night.

  The fellow had a sound heart. He had explained all about how his uncautious words had come to the ear of the king, and how his guilt had assailed him immediately he heard what had happened to Robinet, but by that stage there was nothing he could do. The harm was done, and Robinet was after all the architect of his own downfall. He should have kept his trap locked shut instead of shooting his mouth off like some idiot with word diarrhoea.

  Bearing in mind how fearful James had been on meeting him again, the lad had proved stout-hearted. He’d insisted on buying Robinet, his ‘old mentor’, as he would repeat over and over, more ale until Newt had been quite cheerful. And then, for some reason, the pair of them had decided that they needed to go out for a walk in the middle of the night. A God-cursed miracle they hadn’t been seen by the watch and arrested.

  Why, though? Was it just to clear their heads? To his shame, Newt couldn’t remember. It was an affliction he’d noticed before, this loss of memory after a few ales. It never used to happen to him when he was young, but now he was into his fiftieth year, whenever he drank more than usual, it led to this forgetfulness.

  The light was bright in the doorway, and, feeling still rather fragile, he walked slowly to the bed where he had slept last night, letting himself fall into the hay. Eyes closed, he groaned gently to himself. James must have brought him here rather than deposit him with Walter. James had always been scared of Walter – natural enough, but Robinet had long ago lost any terror he had of Wal
ter. The man was retired now, anyway, and it was plain silly to be scared of him. Still, it had been kind of James to find him a safe, warm stable to sleep in. If he’d been left out in the cold and ice, he could have frozen to the cobbles.

  It was strange to think how he had hated James for all those years. The lad had been the focus of all his bile and loathing, and yet now James had protected him from the miserable weather.

  Curious to think how they had changed. When they had first met, it was before the famine. Christ Jesus, Robinet was still too used to the miserable weather of the last years. It would never leave him, no, nor any of the others who had experienced it. The famine had touched every household in the realm with the kiss of death. Barons, the rich, the poor, all were affected. And as people died, the cost of food had risen until many like Robinet could no longer afford feed for their horses.

  Robinet had already decided to end his career in 1320, but when his corrody had been granted at Ospringe, he had taken leave to travel a little more. For a man like him, to be tied to one religious house was a torment. Better by far to be permitted to wander still as the urge took him. There was little of the country which he had not already seen, admittedly, but he still had a desire to see some other aspects of it. He had come to Exeter, and then he had seen the man whom he loathed above all others. The man who had reported him and destroyed his career. Young James.

  It was peculiar to see him there in broad daylight as though there was nothing for him to be fearful about. The fool. There was always someone to fear, no matter how strong or courageous you might be. Even the king himself … but that was a separate story.

  A cry in the street startled him out of his mild torpor. He put his hands on the hay and pushed himself upright. There was a liquid mess on the hay under his left hand, and without wanting to look at it or discover what it might be, he averted his head, still queasy, and wiped his hand dry on the stems before walking to the door and peering out into the sunlight.

  Shielding his eyes from the brightness, he was relieved when a cloud drifted lazily overhead and shut out the light. He crossed the yard, aware at every step of the looseness in his belly. It felt deeply unpleasant. At the gate to the yard, he found himself looking out into an ancient alley which smelled rank with the odour of faeces and rotten meats.

  From here, the alley ran southwards down to the southern gate. It lay a distance below him, down the hill. His eyes were not as strong as they once had been, even before the ale last night, yet he could make out a group of people standing in a ragged line at the bottom of the hill. One was a great, bearded fellow, and Robinet wondered who he could be. Certainly, the fellow was haranguing his audience with vigour, from what Robinet could see. And then he saw the body being drawn from the rubbish, and he withdrew from the doorway in alarm, his hand on his knife. Quickly, he snatched it free and stared in horror at the blackening stains on the metal of the forged blade. Filled with a rising horror, he noticed his hand – the mess that he had rested his palm on was blood …

  His common sense rose swiftly now, and he strode across, back into the stable. Yes, the mess in the hay beside the flattened area where he had slept was indeed beslobbered with blood. He quickly grabbed a handful of straw and wiped his hand again, then rubbed at his dagger’s blade until it was clean.

  ‘Must leave the town,’ he said to himself. His pack must be here somewhere, and he cast about for it. The room appeared to be a storage house for a rich man or someone, and was filled with hay and barrels of salted fish among other items. Nothing good for him just now, certainly. He must find his few belongings and be gone, that was all that mattered to him now: to get to Walter’s house, collect his belongings and make good his escape.

  And then he heard voices approaching the place, and he must retreat into the shadows, his eyes as wide as a felon who felt the rope begin to tightened about his neck.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, what have I done?’

  As soon as the voices had passed by up the alleyway, he kicked the hay about to conceal where he had lain and cover over the blood, and then slipped out into the alley himself.

  Chapter Five

  Exeter City

  COME, NOW! WHO FOUND THIS BENIGHTED SOUL?’

  Will was fretting enough already, without this giant bellowing at him. He tentatively put up his hand and confessed that he had discovered the corpse.

  ‘You again, eh? You found the poor devil up that alley as well, didn’t you? Don’t be so damned nervous, man. You make me twitchy! Come along, come along! What happened, hey?’

  Not only was Will a watchman, he had also been involved in several juries over the years, and the thought of a coroner’s inquest held no fears for him. He knew the coroners of the city, and they were not scary. Yet this man …

  Sir Richard de Welles was a large man – not over-tall, perhaps a little more than six feet, nor grossly fat, but in some way the bearded knight appeared to take up more space than an ordinary mortal. He stood with his legs set widely apart and gazed about him with an expression of benign approval on his cherubic face. Much was concealed by the thick bush of beard that overhung his chest like a heavy gorget. His eyes were dark brown and shrewd, and criss-crossed with wrinkles, making him appear older than his true age of some fifty summers.

  And just now those keen, narrowed eyes were studying Will.

  ‘WELL, MAN?’ he suddenly barked, and Will all but dropped his staff.

  ‘Sir, if it pleases your honour, I found him here. A hog was at him already, sir, and I had to beat it away, but the man was down here under the rubbish and I had to clear away a little of it to see him. Then the gatekeeper here came to help me when I raised the hue and cry, and …’

  ‘Enough! God’s pain, but you’d witter here while the city burned about your ears, wouldn’t you, man? No doubt you’re a fine fellow when it comes to maintaining the peace at night after curfew, but you just leave matters to me when it comes to dead men, eh?’

  For all his bluster, the coroner was a kindly man. He could see perfectly well that the watchman was petrified at being questioned by him, and, to be fair, Sir Richard de Welles was not concerned with the fellow anyway. He was much more interested in the men who should be here as witnesses. He wasn’t holding a formal inquest yet, but he did want to see who the neighbours were so that tomorrow, when he did hold the full inquest, he would know whom he was dealing with.

  ‘Two murders in as many days, hey? Suppose that’s what you get when you live in a city. Damned unhealthful places, cities. Give me a good vill in the country. Somewhere with dogs and a park to hunt the deer. You can keep your alleys and winding streets,’ he said conversationally. ‘That other fellow,’ he said, jerking his head up the alley where he had already inspected the body from the previous morning, ‘he’ll be safe to leave exactly where he is. This one, though, I suppose we ought to pull him free. Can’t have him lying in the middle of this rubbish heap, eh? Someone might decide to tidy him up …’ He stopped and took a long, considering view of the neighbourhood. Then, shaking his head sadly, he confessed, ‘Although I can’t see it meself. No one ever cleans up around here, do they? Damned mess.’ He glanced back at Will, who had started to relax, feeling the coroner’s attention moving on. ‘Tell me: did you knock up the neighbours?’

  ‘Aye, all four nearest.’

  ‘And are those excellent fellows here now?’ Sir Richard asked, gazing about him amiably.

  ‘Three of them are, your honour.’

  ‘Three, you say? That is good. It is almost very good. What sort of man is the fourth, who failed to come here today?’

  ‘He is a tradesman, sir. He is working. We didn’t think you’d hold an inquest today, because it’ll take a day to gather the jury … sir …’

  The smile on Sir Richard de Welles’s face grew brittle. ‘He is working, is he? And a fine thing to be doing, too. Is there any here who knows this man? What is he called? John Currier? Excellent. Excellent. Now, my fine friend Will …’ Sir Richard place
d his hands on his hips and smiled, leaning down to the petrified watchman. ‘Will, I would like you to go to this marvellous man, right now, if you don’t mind, and when you see him, you tell that benighted excretion of a minor demon that whether or not I hold the inquest here today, I am working too, and if he doesn’t want his balls separated from his body and spread over my roasted bread before the full inquest tomorrow morning, he had best get his arse over here RIGHT NOW!’

  ‘I’ll bring him,’ Will bleated anxiously, all but tripping over his staff in his hurry to escape that fearful face with the blazing eyes. He stumbled once on the rough cobbles, and then hared off as fast as his ancient legs would carry him.

  The coroner, satisfied that the man had an appreciation of his need for urgency, turned away from him and studied his audience. All male, their ages ranging from some twelve or thirteen years, the jury ringed him, their faces registering their own displeasure. None was happy to be there, especially when a body had been found so near to them. A corpse meant one thing: punishment. They all knew that if this man had been murdered, they would all be amerced.

  Sir Richard allowed his eyes to range over the jury, and then he selected two to pull the man from the pile, his eyes going to the body as the men grabbed a wrist and an arm and tugged.

  The man at the wrist was a younger fellow, and the churl was as ineffectual as a damned maiden in the way that he pulled at the hand which had been all but chewed away by the hog, but Sir Richard’s attention was not focused on him, or on the hand with the missing fingers. Rather, his serious gaze was fixed on the uniform of the dead man. Particoloured: half blue, half blue striped.

  ‘Sweet mother of Christ,’ he muttered. ‘The man’s a king’s messenger.’

  Watching from a short distance away, the man sucked his teeth as the messenger’s body was tugged from the garbage heap, and then, having seen enough, he turned away and crossed the street towards the tavern at the top of the Cooks’ Row. From there he could watch the streets east and west, which gave him some comfort. He didn’t want to be arrested without seeing her.