Baldwin shook his head. He hunkered down again and studied the body carefully. ‘Did you know him yourself?’ he asked the watchman.
‘Quite well.’
‘Is there anything about him that strikes you as odd? Anything at all – his clothes, his flesh – anything?’
The guard drew down the corners of his mouth and stared at Baldwin a moment, then gazed down at Mucheton. ‘Well, there is one thing. All the years I’ve known him, he’s always had a pin in his cloak. A big one, you know, like a brooch. He said it was his good luck pin. He made it when he was an apprentice.’
‘And it’s not here.’
‘No, sir.’
Rising, Baldwin stared down at the ground, at the pool of vomit, the man’s body, the blood, and once again he had that unpleasant feeling that he was exposed here, and in danger.
John of Nottingham heard the men before he reached the front door. His shriek of agony as his shoulder was scorched had attracted the attention of people outside. He looked about him coolly, then rushed up the stairs and found a small bed chamber. It was adequate. He could hide here.
The chamber was tiny, much like his own grim room. That was a pathetic little cell, in reality. Probably only half the size of his last place in Coventry, but adequate for all that. Illumination came from a shaft in the ceiling, over near the road, and because there was a wide space before his building there was a fair amount of light entering. It was unnecessary for him to have candles down there until dusk came, and then he must shut up the space under the shaft as he lit them so that anyone walking past wouldn’t notice him.
Damp walls; two rotten tables, their tops scrubbed and salted to clean them of the filth of the years; a single stool for him; a low truckle bed in the corner, with a palliasse set atop; a box full of the essentials.
Men were rushing about downstairs now. He grimaced, listening. There was little for him to do. Instead he gingerly settled himself on a stool and began to tease his clothing from his shoulder, wincing and drawing in his breath as he did so, shivering with the pain. Only fear of discovery could give him the strength to do so without a whimper and as he gazed at the terrible mess of his shoulder beneath his shirt, he closed his eyes.
The fierce heat of the shards of pottery had burned his robe and then the foul concoction within had soaked into the material, searing his flesh. It was red and weeping already. There would be a terrible soreness there, he knew. Without medications, he must simply endure it, though.
He must not sit here all day. He had to return to his own little chamber and get on with his project. There was much to be done: the wax must be shaped and moulded, and then he would have to begin his period of fasting and prayer before taking the necessary steps to ensure the success of this venture. It would be difficult, strenuous even, but he was sure that it would be worth it. After all, his new patrons had offered the same money as that which he had been promised in Coventry – another twenty pounds to add to the deposit given by the men up there.
Grunting to himself, he rubbed his stomach. The fasting would begin today. There was no point in delaying matters. He had to get on with the job. Especially now he had won the tools he needed so badly.
As soon as the noise below had abated, he would get out of this place and back to his own. There was much to be done.
Chapter Ten
Exeter Castle
The sheriff’s wife, Madam Alice, was a willowy blond woman, with the body of a girl hardly out of her teens. All who saw her were impressed by her gentle, soft demeanour, her excellent manners, her flawless pale complexion, the eyes of clear grey with little flecks of hazel, and her steadiness. There was a stillness about her as she listened to others, as she spoke to them – as she did anything – that was almost unworldly.
Women would mutter grimly about her, saying that there was something ‘not right’ about her. For a woman who was nearly into her thirty-first year, such calmness and cool beauty, such an unmarred figure, seemed frankly wrong. She looked as though she had made use of spells to keep herself young.
Their husbands would agree with their wives. They would look at Madam Alice sternly, eyeing her perfect oval face with the little rounded chin, her soft, slightly pouting lips that somehow always contrived to look moist, and they would turn back to their own women with gestures of concern. But in their minds they had all undressed that youthful figure, they had weighed her heavy breasts in their hands and kissed her flat stomach.
Alice knew that she was the source of jealousy amongst the women of the city, and she knew that their menfolk desired her. It was nothing to her. She was content with her man, and if none of the women wished for her friendship, that was no matter. There were plenty of others who enjoyed her company. The difference was, they were not the rather tatty women from this little provincial city, but the wives of noblemen. She had even been introduced to Queen Isabella herself on two occasions. No, she had no interest in other men.
The castle was a hotbed of intrigue. She rather supposed it was like the household of the king himself, if a copy in miniature. There were other places which might have been the same size, with similar enormous expenditure in food and drink and cloth – the household of Sir Hugh Despenser sprang immediately to mind – but few could rival Exeter for the sheer enthusiasm of her disputes. Arguments ran on between the city and the cathedral, between the cathedral and the friars, between the friars and the monks, between the friars and the city … there was no aspect of city life which was not constantly running contrary to another.
It was a source of amusement to her that so many people strove so hard to make their little marks on the world. Surely any one of them could see that it was pointless. Great people carved out great lives, and little people from a place like this were correspondingly dull and little in comparison. She was born to greatness because she had come from a great family. Her father was the famous Lord Maurice Berkeley.
From her earliest years she had been highly aware of her position. It was impossible not to be. Her father ranked amongst the most powerful in the realm, and his army was one of those which was most often called upon to support the king. Every year, so it seemed, while she grew up, the family had a ritual sending off of the young men, the knights, esquires, men-at-arms and all their servants, as they answered the call to help the king defend his realm or attack his enemies. Each year the army would gather, and then drift off, more commonly than not heading northwards, the sprawling mass of men and horses consuming hundreds of yards of roadway, churning the surface into a foul mixture of mud, discarded bones and broken pots, dung and human faeces. Once, when she was very young, she had overheard her mother exclaim that it was a relief to see them all go: there had been scarcely enough food to keep the men fed at the castle and estates, and now that they were gone they could steal provisions from the vills through which they passed and leave the household’s stores alone.
It had been a militaristic upbringing. She had known how to wield a sword and dagger from an early age; she learned both at the same time as her brother. Although her father had no sympathy for women who sought to equal the prowess of their brothers, he was content to see his child learn how to protect herself. There were few enough defences for a woman in this rough world. Teaching her skill with arms was one of the best methods of seeing his child safe.
Not that there was much safety these days even for her family. Poor Father! He was in his castle much of the time now. Once, only four years ago, he had been so trusted that he had been given the post of seneschal of Gascony and the duchy of Aquitaine – the king’s own representative and commander-in-chief of the king’s forces there in his absence. It had been a wonderful time for the whole family. Ah! She had been so proud.
Not now. Since the king appeared to have lost his mind – not a happy thought, and not one which could safely be repeated to anyone now that his spies were everywhere, but true, nonetheless – and had provoked the war against the Lords Marcher, her father’s fall from grace had
been inevitable. The only source of consolation was the fact that her father had surrendered and avoided involvement in the battle of Boroughbridge. So many of his friends and their sons had perished either at the battle itself, or in the reprisals that occurred up and down the country afterwards. Even here at Exeter there were the remains of one or two knights who were thought to have been involved, still hanging from a post outside the South Gate. Almost all the cities in the land had their own reminders of the king’s brutal retaliation.
She had known King Edward II. The man had never struck her as particularly cruel. It seemed strange to think that he could have so changed. Unless it was those devils in human guise, the Despensers. It was much easier to think of them as being responsible for the killings. They, father and son, were so avaricious, they would take a widow and torture her to have her sign away her rightful possessions to them. Like poor Madam Baret.
But no matter who was responsible for it, the fact remained that her father stayed in his castle. He was under suspicion because a few of his knights had gone to Boroughbridge: Sir Thomas Gournay and Sir John Maltravers, to mention only two, had been forced to fly the realm and find new lives abroad as free-lances. At least there were always places for a man to fight and earn a living, thanks be to God.
What was less pleasant was to reflect on the fate of her brother, also called Maurice. He had been implicated in the looting of Despenser lands and estates, and as soon as the Despensers had survived the last wars they had returned filled with wrath to avenge themselves on those who had taken their plate and plundered their treasure-houses. Maurice had simply disappeared, and although it was rumoured that he was hiding somewhere in the country, no one could find him.
She walked into the main hall of the castle, where her husband sat working with his steward, the undersheriff, and his keeper and returner of writs. Madam Alice nodded to her husband, but paid no attention to the scribblers with him. They were only servants of one kind or another, when all was said and done.
‘Wife.’
She smiled at him. ‘I shall be walking about the town shortly, husband. Do you wish for anything from the market?’
He waved a hand in bland denial. ‘No, I have all I need, my love.’
‘Then I shall see you later.’
She turned and left the hall, and behind her heard the sound of the men talking again, the gruff tone of the keeper and returner of writs, the laugh of the undersheriff, but there was nothing in her mind, as she walked from the hall down to the courtyard and out into the open, grassed area between the castle and the city, other than her coming meeting.
If she had seen the expression of black distrust on her husband’s face, she would have paused to wonder what might have caused it.
Exeter City
Before they left, Baldwin sucked at his bottom lip and took one last look at the body of Mucheton.
‘Was he married? A sweetheart?’
‘I think he was married, yes, but I don’t know the woman myself.’
‘Send someone to find her, and bring news of her to me at the Talbot’s Inn.’
‘I can’t leave my place here, though’.
‘I will send a man to replace you here,’ Baldwin said. ‘You need to be rested.’
He walked slowly after the coroner. Sir Richard took him down the alley towards the South Gate. As they reached the messenger’s body once more, Baldwin shook his head, eyes narrowed.
‘I find it very peculiar that the bishop could not tell us his name. And it is more strange still that the fellow should die within a short while of being in receipt of a message from the bishop. But for now, what we need to do is speak to all those who have had anything to do with his fellow’s death. As soon as you have held the inquest, I should have him carried away to the nearest church ready for his burial, poor soul.’
‘HOI!’ the coroner boomed back at Thomas. ‘You! What is the name of the man who found this fellow? Older man, looked like a hare that’s been chased by the hounds too long?’
‘It was Will Skinner, the watchman from the gate.’
‘Does he live there?’ Baldwin glanced at the gatehouse and again felt like a man about to enter an ambush. It made a chill wash through his frame, and he had to wrap his arms about his breast to calm the shiver that threatened. And then he saw something. In a low window to the left of the main gate, he was sure that he caught a fleeting glimpse of a pale face. He kept his eyes on that little gap as he listened to the response.
‘Next to it, in that small cottage, aye. But he’ll be asleep by now, I reckon.’
‘Really?’ the coroner said. ‘How quaint.’
His manner was one of simple amusement, but Baldwin did not feel the same lightness of spirit. The sun was being smothered by some grey, unwholesome-looking clouds as they made their way to the gate, and Baldwin kept his eyes on the window all the way until the opening was out of sight, wondering who had been watching. It didn’t matter: surely it was only a child watching the two king’s officers at work, or perhaps a servant.
No, he must put the thing from his mind. Feeling a pattering on his head, he looked up to see a fine spattering of hail falling from the leaden clouds. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the day, he thought as they reached the door. The keeper of the gate lived in the rooms built into the gateway itself, but the watchman had directed them to a small building to the right of the roadway, a ramshackle affair that was almost a lean-to shed with a thick roof of thatch sorely in need of patching or renewal.
Baldwin shot a look about them, and then rapped smartly on the timbers of the door. They were all mis-sized, fitted together inexpertly, and would provide little defence against the elements. Just standing outside here, Baldwin was aware of the wind that whipped along the line of the wall from the quay over to the east, and straight over as though using the wall as its own roadway.
‘Piss off!’
The coroner turned and looked at Baldwin. There was an expression of mild pain on his face. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, and Baldwin was about to knock again and call out his title, when the sound of the Coroner’s deep intake of breath warned him, and he took a quick pace backwards.
‘Hoi! You festering piece of dog’s turd, OPEN THIS DOOR IN THE NAME OF THE KING!’
In what was for him a whisper, the coroner added for Baldwin’s benefit, ‘I tend to find that voice works with reluctant witnesses.’
Baldwin was not surprised. Nor was he surprised when a few moments later he saw an eye appear in one of the cracks, an anxious eye that stared at him for a short while. Shortly thereafter there was the sound of a wooden beam being lifted from its rests, and the door was opened, scraping over the dirt and making an arc in the soil of the floor.
Entering behind the coroner, Baldwin found himself in a small, noisome dwelling, with a mess of dirt on the floor, a single small table and stool, and a filthy palliasse. The smell was a mix of damp dog, urine, and sweat, all mingled in an unwholesome fug. There being no window, the only light came from the doorway through which they had just entered, and in it Baldwin could see that the whole of the rear wall was red sandstone like the rest of the city wall, although here it was streaked with green where water was leaking at the junction of the roof and the wall itself. The water puddled at the base of the wall, making the floor perpetually damp through the winter. Perhaps in consequence, because it would have been difficult to light a fire and keep it going, instead the watchman made use of a charcoal brazier for his heating. There was one small cauldron for heating water and perhaps making a pottage, but apart from that Baldwin assumed that Will Skinner ate at a pie shop or bought an occasional loaf of bread. There was no sign of any cooking.
‘You remember me from this morning?’ the coroner said, and in the small room it sounded like a bellow.
‘You are the coroner,’ the small man said, and he almost shivered as he spoke. It was plain to Baldwin that the fellow was entirely unused to being questioned by men of such standing, and h
e didn’t enjoy it. He had been asleep, from the look of his bleary eyes.
‘What do you want with my man, then, eh? You going to try to have him arrested?’
Baldwin and the coroner spun about to find themselves confronted by a woman. In age, she could have been anything from forty to seventy. Her face was dreadfully scarred, and she was bent like an old crone, but Baldwin had seen a woman like that before – the survivor of a siege who had been engulfed by flames in a final assault.
‘Mistress, you are this man’s wife?’ he asked.
She peered up at him, turning her head sideways to accommodate her bent spine. ‘You guess well, master.’
From nearer, he could feel sympathy for her. Lank hair straggled at either side of a long, thin face pinched with the grief that was reflected in the eyes. Intelligent, they were red-raw with weeping, and Baldwin had the impression of paleness, as though all the crying had washed the colour from them. She was an aged peasant woman in shabby clothing, and clearly pain and she were long-standing companions.
‘Woman, I am the coroner, and I would speak to him. Pray sit and don’t interrupt,’ Sir Richard said.
To Baldwin’s surprise she made no protest, but walked over and sat down on the stool, one arm on the table while she turned and listened to the men talking.
‘Now, fellow. This friend of mine here is the Keeper of the King’s Peace, and he has some questions for you. So listen and answer honestly. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Baldwin was tempted to suggest that they leave the hovel and speak outside, but even as he considered the suggestion there was a rattling, like gravel thrown at a wall, and when he glanced out he saw that there was a sudden shower of hail. Steeling himself, he faced Will Skinner.
‘The man you found out there. You found him because there was a hog there?’
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 10