‘Not for a moment.’
‘Nor can I. However, if the murderer thought that he was being pursued, he could have entered a house to escape? Perhaps he was hurrying past the necromancer’s house, saw a man following him, and walked inside. He saw the servant, killed him, and then heard that fellow Langatre in his room, so slipped in to do away with him too. The pursuers ran on …’
‘They could have assumed he was heading for the city’s gate. Stepecote Street leads down to the West Gate,’ Baldwin considered.
‘And then he hoped to escape. Except the neighbours heard something and ran to the house, and found one corpse and the necromancer standing over it looking guilty. There you are! A simple story, well told.’
‘True. And it chimes well, but for one problem. As soon as the pursuers reached the gate, they would know he had not been that way. And they would have doubled back to seek him, and in doing so, they would have passed by a house outside which there was a large crowd gathering. They would have thought to find their man inside.’
‘Perhaps. Yes, that is possible. And why not? Perhaps they did indeed find him?’
‘And there was no sound of a posse, either.’ Baldwin frowned. ‘If there were, we should have heard of it. So no. I don’t believe your tale. In which case, there is still a murderer loose in our city.’
North-East Dartmoor
Simon shivered himself awake at regular intervals through the night. It was freezing, and although he was relieved, each time he woke, not to have the added misery of rain, he was conscious of the soft hissing sound of snow falling gently on the trees.
In their shelter, there was so little space, it was hard to imagine that any of the three could roll over without hitting the others, or knocking down a wall, but Simon was relieved to see that there was no sign of any gaps in the thatch over his head. It seemed that nobody had knocked the shelter’s walls so far.
However, he was also aware of a growing sensation of pressure in his bladder. He hunched his shoulders, turned away from the other two, and faced the wall. Then he turned back and faced in to the middle. He lay on his back. No matter what he did, or how he lay, the pressure seemed to grow, like a wineskin that was sat upon. By degrees, the wine would leak from it… and that was how Simon felt now. That the building discomfort must find release.
At last the inevitability of his position became clear, and he grunted quietly to himself as he unwrapped his cloak and blanket and crawled from the entrance.
The fire was glowing gently, but there was no flame now, and when he looked up at the sky he could see only white-rimmed clouds. There was no way to tell what time of day it might be, and at the moment he hardly cared. All he knew was, it was the sort of hour of the night that was only good for monks. He grunted as he felt the chill of the cold air at his cheeks, and pulled his cloak from inside the shelter. Wrapping it about his shoulders, he walked a short distance from their camp, and with enormous relief opened his hose to empty his bladder.
As he retied the thongs that held his hosen up, he glanced about him. The snow had fallen, although mercifully not too heavily. From here, although the sky was clouded, he could still make out the moors just beyond the fringe of the trees. The top of the nearer hill gleamed with a light of its own, the snow shining grey.
‘I should be at home with Meg,’ he grumbled to himself, feeling how the cold air was tightening the skin on the backs of his hands.
Rather than re-enter the shelter, he decided to warm himself up again. The pile of logs remained near the fire, and it took only a little shaking of it to clear away the snow. Then he spent a little time setting thin twigs on top of the embers, blowing determinedly to reignite the flames. Soon, mercifully, he had a few flickers, and he could set larger twigs about the pile. Only then did he sit back and hold his hands to it, feeling that the fire was doing him some good.
‘May I join you?’
He groaned inwardly, but grunted a more or less polite acknowledgement to the monk.
‘This weather! You know, I had a friend in Tavistock some years ago, and he was removed to be sent to a monastery in Italy. Have you ever been there?’
‘No.’ Rather than sound entirely bound to this land, he added defensively, ‘But I’ve been to Galicia.’
‘Compostela? I am jealous. I always intended to go there, but I doubt I shall make it now. I am growing a little long in the tooth to make such a pilgrimage. What tempted you to go so far?’
‘It was a while ago,’ Simon said. He could not explain that it all stemmed from a friend’s accidental homicide of an innocent man.
‘I see. Well, my friend will be sitting back in a pleasantly warm room, I am told. No matter what the season, the weather is always more clement than ours. Ah! But I am fortunate to be here in the land I love. Although the moors are daunting, do you not feel?’
Simon glanced over through the trees at the hills beyond. ‘Daunting, you say? I suppose so. They are certainly dangerous for those who don’t appreciate the risks.’
On the cool air, there came a weird, shuddering cry. It wavered on the air like a sob, and then died.
‘What, in God’s holy name?’
‘Sit down again, brother. It is a horse. You can often hear them at this time of year. They wander the moors, and every so often they’ll go into a mire and drown.’
The cry came again, a long drawn out wail of terror and misery.
‘Are you sure? That sounds human!’
‘It’s a horse.’
‘Christ have mercy!’ Busse sat quietly, his eyes moving swiftly about the moors in front of them, hands clenched before him.
‘At least you’re used to being up at this time of night,’ Simon muttered. ‘I’m normally long asleep by now, and it’d take more than a horse to wake me.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But a sound like that … it reminds me …’
Simon heard a note of uncertainty in his voice. He glanced at the monk. In the firelight, Busse looked wide-eyed and terrified, like a man who was listening at the brink of hell itself.
‘I was talking to a necromancer not long ago. He was an interesting man, in many ways. And pious. He believed that in order to compel a demon to do his bidding, he must make full use of the irresistible power of certain divine words. He would fast, too, and prepare himself with a long period of chastity and prayer before embarking on such a perilous act.’
‘You spoke to him?’ Simon asked, shocked.
‘Of course, Bailiff. If I, as a monk, am to pray for those whose souls most need God’s help, it is best to understand them. That was my first feeling. And then I realised that this man was a great proof of the strength of God’s power. After all, even a man who wished to make use of a demon must needs first show his devotion to God.’
‘It hardly sounds the sort of behaviour God would support,’ Simon said. His was a simple faith: God was good, and all demons were evil and to be shunned.
Busse appeared not to hear him. ‘It was that poor creature’s cry that reminded me of him. He told me, you see, that there was a magician called Philip about sixty years ago, who was challenged by a knight to show what he was capable of. He took the knight to a crossroads in the middle of the night – I believe that mid-night is supposed to be propitious for those involved in such works – and there the knight endured what he had never before dreamed of. The man Philip made a circle in the dirt, and warned the knight that if so much as a digit of his finger were to stray outside the circle, he would inevitably be drawn out and pulled apart.
‘He sat in this circle for some while, and then he heard voices approaching. They were obscene voices, shrieks, squawks, all manner of foul bestial cries. And then they reached him, and he found himself surrounded by the full evil of Satan’s hordes. Demonic creatures of all kinds. At last a massive, foul demon appeared, so repellent and terrifying that the knight fell on his face in a dead faint.’
‘Did he recover?’
‘I suppose so. I didn’t ask. Bu
t that sound reminds me of the tale.’
Simon pulled a face as he listened to another cry. ‘It won’t be there for long. Soon drown now. He’s too tired to survive.’
‘Doesn’t it scare you too?’
Shaking his head, Simon threw a few more twigs onto the fire. ‘When I was a lad, I heard that sound, and I was petrified. I’d been told stories of the wild hunt when I was little, by my nurse. She always told me that if I didn’t eat my food, or if I didn’t go to bed when she said, or some other little thing, then the devil would surely come and get me. The wish-hounds would appear first, riding over the moors, and then the devil would ride up on his fire-breathing horse, and catch me, and I’d be taken away to hell with them. But I’d never seen the devil down here.’
‘I wish you hadn’t told me that,’ Busse said.
‘You must have heard the stories about the moors,’ Simon said. ‘You’ve lived here long enough.’
‘I think that many of the tales are told to children who are raised here, but the same stories are not thought suitable for a middle-aged monk like me. Too racy, I dare say.’
‘Not even the stories of the pixies?’
‘Enough! I think you are taunting me intentionally. Perhaps I should go and rest again.’
‘You should. We travelled far yesterday, and tomorrow we’ll still have another seven or eight leagues or so to get to Exeter.’
‘I don’t think I could sleep just now,’ Busse said. ‘The cold, and that screaming, would stop me. And, of course, I am used to being awake at this time of night. This is my usual waking hour for Matins. To think that all my brothers are even now leaving their cots and making their way to the church … It is a beautiful service, Bailiff, when all the voices lift in praise of the Lord.’
Simon nodded, studying the monk from the corner of his eye. It seemed so peculiar to be talking so normally to this man, who had admitted to consorting with demon-conjurors and magicians. For anyone the association was curious, but for a man of God to confess to such behaviour was bizarre.
The two men stayed together for a little longer, quiet for the most part, simply sharing in the atavistic pleasure of holding their hands to the fire, and then, as Simon yawned and stretched, Busse declared himself tired once more. Simon wished him a good night, and his eyes followed the monk as he crawled backwards into the shelter.
Yes. Busse was an odd character, certainly. And yet likeable in some strange way. Not that it mattered to Simon a jot. As far as he was concerned, the only thing that mattered was looking after the man on the way to Exeter, and then back to Tavistock again. And he preferred not to think about the references to demon-conjurings or knights sitting inside small circles…
It was only as Simon considered that tale again that he wondered whether Busse was giving him some kind of warning. Perhaps he was telling Simon that if he intended to spy on him for John de Courtenay, he should be careful. Busse could have a man set a demon onto Simon himself.
As he had this thought, there came another shrill, shuddering cry on the wind, but this time, for all Simon’s level-headed protestations and explanations, a freezing shudder ran down his spine and trickled into his bones. He threw a last log on the fire, and hurriedly returned to the shelter.
He did not feel comfortable lying in the same tiny space as Busse, but he liked still less being out in the open on his own.
Exeter Castle
And in the sheriff’s bedchamber, although Matthew had rolled over and was soon asleep, content with a hard day’s work satisfactorily completed, his wife lay on her back at his side and stared at the ceiling.
Langatre had nothing to do with anything dangerous, she was sure. He was an innocent man. A fellow like him did not deserve to be caught up in the mess that was English politics.
She had been astonished when her husband accused her of trying to use necromancy again. He was desperate for children – surely he must understand her despair? But no. He said that she must not visit such men ever again. Better that she remain barren than that she risk their souls.
Yes. It was a shame. She would try again tomorrow to use her influence on him to have Langatre released. His imprisonment could help no one.
At least it had taken her mind off the other man and her fear that he, a genuine traitor, could be found and captured.
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday Next after the Feast of St Edmund6
Exeter City
In the cool of the early morning, Robinet woke with a tongue that appeared to have been expertly employed in cleaning the street overnight. It was thick, foul-tasting, and rough, which seemed to match perfectly his feeling of general nausea, as though he had been drinking too much for several days.
He opened his eyes with some reluctance, wondering what he might find. If the previous day was anything to go by, he could expect to be in a strange room, with no sign of his friend, and perhaps a knife fouled with another man’s blood.
Fortunately, there was nothing of the sort when he peered about him. Instead he saw his old companion at the fire, a cauldron already warming, filled with a fresh porridge that scented the room with the delicious aroma of oats and barley.
‘You slept well. It’s past dawn now,’ Walter said, stirring the pot. ‘Thought I was going to have to kick you or eat it all myself.’
Robinet grinned as he drew the blanket away. Sweet Christ, but it was cold enough to shrivel his cods to the size of hazelnuts! He pulled on his shirt and tunic in a hurry to cover his nakedness, and took time to pull on his old hosen.
In the past, he would have proudly clad himself in the blue and striped particoloured uniform of one of King Edward II’s messengers. Those had been glorious days. He had lived with the king’s household, eating and drinking at the king’s expense, all against the day when he might be sent post-haste across the country with messages held in his little pouch, bound by his oath to deliver the king’s letters until he was released or death took him.
If a messenger was ill, the king would send his own physician to help them. King Edward was always a compassionate, friendly man. He enjoyed the company of his men, and they loved him for that. So what if barons said he oughtn’t to hedge and ditch with the churls on his estates, or act, or sing? He was the king, in God’s name!
‘Any nearer an idea what happened the night before last?’ Walter demanded.
‘I swear, all I know is, we were in a tavern for the night, and then I woke in a stable. Someone had looked after me well enough. I had a comfortable straw bed, and apart from a headache, I was perfectly well.’
‘Headache from the wine?’ Walter asked.
‘I don’t know. It still hurts now, but that’ll be your ale last night.’
Walter set the spoon down and walked over to him, studying him with his head on one side. ‘Where does it hurt?’
‘All over the back of my head – but it’s not a bruise. It just hurts as if I had too much to drink.’
Walter ran his hands over Robinet’s skull, ignoring his protestations, but as his fingers ran over the area above and behind the left ear Newt had to wince and draw in his breath quickly. ‘That hurts!’
‘I’m not surprised. There’s a lump like a duck’s egg there. No, old friend. You’ve been knocked down. Perhaps it was the wine that saved your life. You fell so quickly, you were no threat to anyone else.’
‘But that’s mad! Who would knock me down?’
‘Someone who wanted to kill James? If they were happy to kill him, perhaps they knocked you down first?’
‘That would be stupid. Would you have done that?’
‘No. I’d have killed you too, just in case,’ Walter said, and his eyes had that quality again which Newt had seen before when they discussed murder: a quality of emptiness. ‘Better always not to leave witnesses behind. They can be messy.’
‘There is more to it than expediency, old fellow; if they were content to strike me down, they would have left me where they had hit me: in the street.
Who would have carried me into a stable and left me there, nice and comfortable? Certainly not this assailant who murdered James.’
‘True enough.’
‘No, I think it must be more simple,’ Newt asserted with a frown. His head was painful still. ‘Perhaps I was merely horribly drunk, and rather than carry me home James saw a stable and installed me comfortably there.’
‘Perhaps – although what were you both doing out in the open at that time of night anyway? Weren’t you drinking in the tavern where he stayed?’
‘Yes. In the Noblesyn.’ Newt frowned.
‘But he was down at the South Gate, and you were near the Palace Gate yourself when you came to, weren’t you? What were you both doing down there?’
A flash of memory came back to Robinet. ‘There was a man at the inn who made James anxious. He said something …’
If only he could remember. The whole of the evening had been a blur, but now he knew his head had been struck, at least there was an explanation for that. And perhaps if he could concentrate, he might remember something. ‘There was a man in there. That was it. And when he left the inn, James wanted to follow him. I went too.’
‘What then?’
He was frowning now with the effort. ‘I thought he was mad. I wanted to get away, anyway. Meant to come back here. So I left with him …’
In his mind’s eye he was there again. He could see the streets, wet with the thin sleet falling, smell the woodsmoke from a hundred fires, but the whole was tilting as he stared. The wine he’d been drinking was strong, and there had been plenty of it, and now he felt sickly as he stumbled over the cobbles.
At his side, James, who seemed more competent on his legs. Watching all about them as though fearing an attack – although perhaps it was only the natural caution of a man who feared that the watch might see them and try to arrest them for being out after curfew.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 16