The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘The whole thing sounds extremely unlikely to me,’ Baldwin said. ‘If it were not for the poor fellow in the dungeon, I should treat the whole thing as a joke, but clearly for Langatre it is deadly earnest.’

  ‘Aye. If the king and Despenser believe that a man like him has been making models to murder them, Langatre can look forward to a warm end over a couple of cartloads of faggots. Reminds me of a story I heard …’

  Baldwin hastily interrupted. ‘He is in trouble, yes, but we also have the bishop’s paper to find. I am still struck by the matter of that other man dying there. I wish to speak to his wife. What was her name? Ah, yes, Madam Mucheton.’

  ‘You’ll almost certainly learn that he fell to a footpad, Baldwin. That message has been taken and it will appear in some place which is entirely guaranteed to embarrass the good bishop. We can do nothing about it, and nor can he. There’s little point worrying about it.’

  ‘I agree, but I dislike coincidence when it is so blatant,’ Baldwin said. He sipped a little ale and his face twisted with distaste. ‘What is this stuff?’

  The coroner peered into his pot. ‘Tastes good to me.’

  Baldwin gave him a long, sour look. ‘Anyway, I have a feeling that there is something about that first murder that will help us. The idea that there could be two murders in the same area that were entirely unconnected is fatuous. There must be something about them both.’

  ‘Perhaps. If you say so. Hmm. Personally, I think that the main thing will be to hold the inquests as soon as possible.’

  ‘You have them arranged?’

  ‘I had planned on holding them this afternoon.’

  ‘Very well. So we have a little time.’

  ‘To see this woman?’

  Baldwin pushed his ale away. It was undrinkable, it was so vinegary. ‘Yes, briefly, and then to go on and speak to the watchmen as well. I want to learn where all the other alleged necromancers are.’

  North-East Dartmoor

  Simon had been careful all morning to keep his conversation to a minimum. Busse appeared content to sit upon his mount and continue on his way with an expression of pinched coldness on his features. Somehow in the last day his face appeared to have lost much of its chubbiness. Where he had been red-faced and cheerful, now he was pale, almost blue, with a faint pinkness at his cheeks, his head hunched down into his robe, his hood up and over his head.

  For Simon, the more important of his charges was young Rob, though. The boy was on his feet again now, having argued that even with the snow he was more comfortable walking because it kept him warmer.

  They had found a homestead soon after leaving the moors. The farmer, a young man with two toddlers at his legs, had been suspicious at first, until he saw the state of Busse and Rob; upon seeing whom, he called urgently to his wife, and helped the three into his little yard. They had been able to pause in front of a great fire, drinking hot spiced cider with honey to give them strength. Although Simon had offered money, the kindly farmer and his wife had refused to accept anything. They both agreed that it was their duty to help weary and chilled travellers out on the moors, and helpfully provided the three with replenished wineskins and a loaf to keep them going for the rest of their journey.

  After that, though, as they began to make their way downhill and head out towards Exeter, their passage became a great deal easier. Before long the snow was noticeably thinner, and they found that they could move much more swiftly.

  Simon was only glad that Busse appeared to be happier to remain on his horse and reach Exeter than to stop and pray like the day before.

  Exeter City

  Baldwin and the coroner reached the widow Mucheton’s house as the sun began its slow descent to the west. Its passage high overhead took Baldwin’s mind far from here, to his youth in the Mediterranean.

  At this time of year, the keeper was all too often reminded of the delights of sitting in warm sunshine and drinking warm wine as the sun glinted off the sea. That was when he had lived as a novice Templar on the island of Cyprus, immediately after the fall of Acre, when he had offered his sword in the continued struggle to protect pilgrims going to the Holy Land. First, though, they must win back the Crusader kingdoms, and for that Baldwin must learn to fight as a Templar, a single member of a greater host.

  The training had been hard, both mental and physical. Even though he had been learning the arts of a warrior from an early age, there was a difference between a single mounted man in hand-to-hand single combat and a knight who responded instantly to the command of his master, wheeling into attack, turning to hasten away at the order, only to strike together again at another point. This discipline, and learning how to wield swords, maces and war-hammers in unison, was exhausting. It was not the physical work that tired, it was the constant repetition, having to learn a whole new method of fighting, that wore out the recruits.

  Then came the proudest day of his life. He was at last accepted into the order. The ritual was ancient: fasting, a night of prayer, then the ceremonial robing in the uniform of the Templars, and the oaths. And all had been made to sound evil and foul in the accusations made by the French king.

  Baldwin would only ever remember that man with loathing. Driven by his own intolerable greed, he had seen the most holy order destroyed, her members harried and tortured, many burned at the stake, and all for his own self-aggrandisement. All to make him appear more holy as he tried to create a new crusading force – fused from the Templars, the Hospitallers, and all other orders – that would be mighty enough to win back Jerusalem. Under his own leadership, of course. Such power could never be left by the French king in the hands of others. With a force like that, he would be invincible.

  The strength of the accusations lay in their terrible nature. Whereas a simple theft of plate or the suggestion that brother Templars had been involved in corruption would have earned the individuals concerned a period in cells followed by eviction from the order and installation in another, harsher regime, the charges levelled against Baldwin and his companions were so atrocious that the whole order must be destroyed. They had all been accused of heresy and worse. It had been said that they had worshipped an idol, that they had indulged in obscene rites at their initiations – even that knights had been persuaded to urinate on the Holy Cross.

  That was the thing that worried at him always: the idea that a man like him, who had been raised as a Christian warrior, a man who had been so devoted to Christ that he had been prepared to risk his life in the journey to Acre, there to try to defend the city against the hordes of enemies who stood at the gates – that a man like him, who sought only to serve God, could become so easily diverted in the space of an initiation ceremony as to discard the beliefs which had built in him in the past eighteen years and perform such a hideous act. It was beyond belief. If any man had asked him to do such a thing, he would have had their head off in a flash. It was ridiculous.

  Was it as ridiculous as thinking that a man might try to murder another with waxen images? Perhaps. Baldwin shrugged. The fact that a man was accused of a crime did not mean that he was guilty. There were necromancers in the land, but in Baldwin’s experience they were mostly men like Langatre: not evil, but usually well educated and clerical men who sought to increase their knowledge. Mostly Baldwin had thought them mildly lunatic, but that was only because he classed them in his own mind with a similar group of madmen, the alchemists. Both trailed a faint but unpleasant odour with them wherever they went, the inevitable concomitant of their trades, but Baldwin had never seriously considered them dangerous.

  No. If there was a danger about the city, it was surely more prosaic. No demon had stabbed Mucheton, and no devil had throttled the king’s messenger.

  The house they were directed to was a narrow building with a jetty overhead that would disable any poor soul who tried to ride beneath it. Just in front of it, the road had a dip where years of ill-use had caused the surface to collapse. Riders would ride down into it, and duck, only to find,
as their mount clambered up the farther side, that there was not enough height for them. Many men must have fallen here, he thought.

  ‘This the place?’ Coroner Richard boomed.

  ‘Friend, please.’ Baldwin winced.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please try to be quieter, my friend. This woman has only just recently been widowed. She needs care and tact.’

  ‘Of course she does!’ Coroner Richard exclaimed. ‘ ’Strordinary thing to say. What, do you think I would be clumsy or rude to her? Hey? Hah! Come, now. Let us know whether the wench is in before you begin to give me instruction in manners, eh?’

  John of Nottingham woke with an ache in his belly. It was a dull, annoying sensation, the sort of mild griping that would make a man unsettled in his spirits, but John was strong. He stood, walked to the little altar he had created in the corner of his room, and prayed for some little while, asking for God’s strength in his enterprise.

  If he had been asked, John would have been surprised that anyone could look on his prayers as anachronistic. To him, the authority of the spells he attempted came from the power of the divine words he was using. These words, when woven into certain specific spells, could so terrify a demon that he would instantly fall under the power – the spell – of the necromancer. But if a man were to use God’s own holy name, how could he hope to achieve anything unless he was himself filled with a love of God and reverence for Him? So even if he were attempting maleficium, the fact of his own belief made John convinced that he was a pious man. It was just that the use of demons offered a faster route to success.

  His belly was empty, though, and today that would interrupt his work. He had been through this before, oh, so many times. Today he would take a break, drink a little water, and visit the local church. Celebrating mass always had the effect of calming his nerves when he was at this late stage of work.

  Later, when he was soothed by the rituals, he would return. Already the first of the figures was complete, and the second and third were roughly formed. Soon all four would be ready.

  Exeter Castle

  Jen was walking past the main hall as her master ate his lunch. As she entered, she saw him again – oh! He was so perfect, sitting there in his great chair, like a king on his throne! The sight of him made her feel weakly. There was a feeling of warmth in her groin, a rush of blood in her heart, and she was almost ready to faint for a moment. Then, with fortune, Sarra arrived behind her, and pulled her away.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.

  Jen raised her chin. ‘What did you pull me away for?’

  ‘Look, Jen, I don’t know what’s got into you, but you mustn’t stand staring at him. He’ll grow angry and throw you out. Me too, if he’s in the mood.’

  ‘Honestly, you have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Are you mad? We are just servants here. You talk as if we’re secure!’

  ‘Master won’t throw us out,’ Jen said confidently. ‘We are perfectly safe here.’

  ‘No, Jen. You don’t know the man like I do – he’d throw you out in a blink if he thought it would make his life easier.’

  ‘He loves me.’

  Sarra was silenced for a moment. She stopped and turned slowly to face Jen. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said: “He loves me.” ’

  Sarra stared for a moment, and then, disconcertingly, laughed aloud. ‘Are you mad? Look at the way he watches his wife, Jen! He has eyes for no one else at all.’

  ‘You haven’t seen how he looks at me. I have seen it in his eyes. Even this morning, when he arrived back from his ride, he offered himself to me. Asked me if I wanted him, and it was only my shyness stopped me from asking for him there and then!’

  ‘Jen, honest, he’d not do anything to upset his lady. If he offered you a tumble tonight, well, that’s one thing …’

  ‘A tumble? You’re stupid, you are! If you can’t see the love in his face, you’re blind! Don’t you know that every time he sees me his whole face lights up? Haven’t you seen how he thrills when I walk into a room? He is embarrassed when his wife enters. She is so hard and cruel to him, it is a miracle that he never beats her. Better that he did, perhaps. Or just asked for a divorce. Then he and I could …’

  ‘No!’ Sarra grabbed her upper arms and shook her. ‘Jen, you mustn’t think like that. If you want, let him have you some night. Let him – well, you can’t stop him. But don’t try to convince yourself that you’re his lady love. You are his servant, and nothing more than that. You won’t ever be more than that to him. You can’t be! He’s married, and he’s not going to leave his lady.’

  ‘You just don’t understand,’ Jen said calmly. She glanced down at Sarra’s hands, and gradually Sarra loosened her grip, standing back, eyeing Jen with mingled alarm and concern. Jen shook her head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll not forget you, dearest Sarra. Even if I marry him, I can’t forget my oldest friend.’

  Sarra shook her head and began to weep as she realised she was serious.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Exeter City

  Baldwin had knocked on enough doors asking to see the recently bereaved to recognise the signs, but there was something about widow Mucheton that struck him more than almost any.

  It was not that she was beautiful. Even when her face was not ravaged with grief she would have been plain at best, with a face slightly too round, her eyes a little close-set, her mouth thin and hard. Her complexion was pale, but that was probably largely due to the grief, Baldwin reckoned.

  No, it was the obvious distress that affected him. So often women were so inured to the idea of death – it was such a major part of life, after all – that even when a close and loved person died, they would steel themselves and try to show little of their misery. People simply did not show their feelings like that. A man or woman had to have pride, and believe in the promise of the Church that they would see their loved ones again.

  This woman would have none of that. She was distraught, and she was content that her neighbours should know it.

  ‘Mistress?’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘Would you mind if we were to ask you some questions? We seek your husband’s murderer.’

  ‘Come inside,’ she said after a moment. It was not that she was reflecting, more that she could only think slowly now, since the loss of her man.

  It was a small room, but well maintained. The floor actually had some tiles set into the dirt to walk on. They ran to the edge of the hearth, which was delineated by a circle of little red stones, much the same rough stones as had been used to make Exeter’s walls. A single chair stood near it, clearly Norman’s own, while a stool sat by a table in the corner. That Norman had been wealthy was proved by the two tapestries on one wall, but more generally by the feeling of comfort. There was a sideboard with pots and three pewter plates on it, a large box for clothing, and a pantry cupboard in a corner. Candles illuminated the room, and Baldwin could see that there was a ladder climbing to the floor above. When he glanced up at it, he saw a pair of faces peering down at him: two children.

  She made an effort to show that she was functioning, and offered them some food and ale, which Baldwin quickly declined, glaring ferociously at the coroner as he did so. All to no avail.

  ‘Mistress, if you have a little good, strong ale, that would be most kindly received.’

  The barrels, two of them, stood on a trestle at the far wall, and she took a pot from the sideboard to fill. But as she walked from the shelves, her apron snagged at the edge. The whole structure moved, and two pots tumbled down to the tiled floor, where both smashed.

  She stood as though stunned by this latest disaster. Pots and pans were not overly expensive, but to a widow with no income, to lose two at a stroke was a disaster. As Baldwin watched, her face slowly wrinkled with despair, and then her eyes closed as her misery overwhelmed her again.

  ‘Coroner, fetch her some ale,’ he commanded harshly, while he himself stood and took her hand to try to comfort her. It took som
e little while, but at last she drew some deep, shuddering breaths, and drank deeply from the cup which the coroner proffered.

  ‘Thank you, masters. I am sorry to be so weakly.’

  ‘Mistress, you deserve only sympathy after your sad loss,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You are kind. I miss him so!’

  Before she could dissolve into tears again, Baldwin patted her hand. ‘What did he do, your husband?’

  ‘My Norman? He was an honest man.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He was an antler worker. He made combs and other devices.’

  Baldwin nodded encouragingly. He knew of such workers: they would take a complete set of antlers and cut them carefully into discrete parts, and then saw each down to specific sizes. A comb would be made as a composite, with two blanks for each side of the handle, more inserted between them with cuts to create the teeth, and usually another composite section, a sheath into which the teeth would be thrust for safekeeping. An antler could be used for making almost anything. Even the harder, bonier part from near the skull itself could be cut into cubes and dots burned into it to create dice. Little would go to waste.

  Seeing his calm interest, the widow wiped at her eyes and concentrated, sitting on her stool and sniffing.

  ‘Had he been working on the night he died?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘That was Monday last. Yes, he’d been here in his room all day, and then when it grew later, he walked out to the tavern for a fill of ale.’

  ‘There was nothing apparently upsetting him?’

  ‘My man?’ She smiled. It made her look a little younger. ‘Nothing ever got to him. So long as he had his work in the daytime and an ale or two at night, he was ever happy. So were we …’ Her eyes were drawn up to the children overhead. ‘We all were.’