The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I shall – and, friend, I am most grateful,’ Baldwin said.

  As he left Ivo, another thought struck him. If a man was recently arrived in the city, in order to make no noise as he walked in he must have travelled light. A fellow with a packhorse or a cart would be more noticeable. But a necromancer had need of his tools. Perhaps a necromancer without his tools had come, and required replacements?

  It was an interesting hypothesis, anyway.

  Robinet stood in the street and stared again at the place where he thought he had seen the man on the night James died.

  Ach! It was one thing to think that a man was there in the middle of the night, when it was silent, all the people back in their homes, probably in their beds, but now? With all the noise and bustle of the city in the middle of the day, it was near impossible to bring back to mind that strange memory. The only thing he thought he could remember was that the figure was shortish, but beyond that the darkness and the ale had wiped the details from his mind.

  He had been walking here for hours now, just walking the way that they had come, trying to prompt something – anything – that might help; but nothing occurred to him. At last, now, he was meandering about the place and eyeing the people milling all round, wondering whether a face or shape might prompt something. So far nothing had worked.

  ‘You still here?’

  ‘Just looking about.’

  Walter looked at him and shook his head. ‘Look, the man who killed him probably had no knowledge who it was he killed. It’s not as though James was a man who would be missed.’

  ‘He was a king’s man,’ Robinet said obstinately.

  ‘He was an arse. He ruined you.’

  ‘It was largely my own fault.’

  ‘And had you gaoled fine, didn’t he?’

  Newt shrugged. It was true, and he had hated James for it at the time. Christ Jesus, the first moment he saw James here in Exeter, he had thought to kill the man. But then he had seen the shadow of the lad he had helped train in the job, and suddenly all that had been less important. Especially when James had apologised. It was a little thing, but Robinet was not the sort of man to bear a grudge unnecessarily. If James was contrite, and he did appear to be, well, there was little worth in being angry or bitter about things. The king had forgiven him a long while ago, and Newt was well protected now, with his corrody.

  ‘Just leave him be, friend. There’s a murder every few weeks here. What’s the point of seeking James’s killer when there are so many others? They never get resolved, and I doubt this one will either.’

  ‘He was once a friend,’ Newt said softly. ‘That makes it worthwhile for me.’

  Walter nodded, but gave a twisted grin. ‘Not for me, though. I’m back for some food. You coming?’

  Robinet was tempted. He had been walking and thinking all day without a break, but he shook his head. ‘I’ll stay here a little longer. Just to see if I can recognise anyone.’

  Walter gave a chuckle and shook his head as he strode off towards his house. He was clearly of the impression that Newt had lost his senses over this matter.

  Well, his opinion was not important, Robinet thought to himself. No. The main thing was that he felt as though he had a duty to find his apprentice’s killer, no matter who that man might be.

  From Langatre’s house, it was a short walk up the hill to the main South Gate Street, and thence down to the gate itself. On the way, Baldwin wondered whether he might meet the coroner again, and found himself hoping against hope that he would not. The coroner was a kindly soul, it was true, and generally had a shrewd mind, but his loudness and constant attempts at telling jokes were wearing after a while. Baldwin was happier to try to find out all he could without his company.

  The keeper of the gate was standing before the arch with his thumbs stuck in his belt, grinning broadly at the sight of a carter shouting with rage and kicking at his horse. His exhausted old nag stood patiently, head hanging in the shafts, and as Baldwin approached he saw the man aim a kick at her flank. She moved with the pain, but was too tired to do more than shake her head and whinny.

  ‘Damned fool. Has turds for brains,’ was the gatekeeper’s assessment. ‘Came in here with his cart overloaded, and then complains when the poor beast can’t carry it all.’

  ‘Does it often happen here?’ Baldwin asked, seeing other splinters and shards of broken wheels about the place.

  ‘Fair bit. If a carter’s an idiot. The way up here is not so steep as Stepecote, but it’s bad enough. Look at her! She’s carrying far too much on that cart. It’s his own fault.’

  Baldwin could only agree. ‘Master Hal? I have been advised to speak to you.’

  ‘What about?’ His eyes had hardened instantly, and now Baldwin was aware that the fellow’s smile was gone like frost in the sunshine. ‘If it’s anything to do with my lad, I’ll …’

  ‘I am trying to learn whether anyone has come to the town recently who might have looked suspicious. I was told,’ he improvised shamelessly, ‘that you were the most astute of all the gatekeepers, and if anyone was a stranger, and looked up to no good, you’d be the man to spot him.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s as may be. True enough, I suppose, but what would you want with the man?’

  ‘I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace, friend,’ Baldwin said silkily, with just a hint of menace. ‘You can be assured that I have my reasons for wanting to speak to him.’

  ‘Well, there’s no one I’ve seen entering by my gate,’ the man said shortly, and would have left, but Baldwin shook his head.

  ‘What does that mean? Hal, you say that no one entered by your gate, but the very way you say it seems to imply that you have seen something – what?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Let me guess, then. You know about the two dead men. One was a local man, who had few enemies from what I have heard. He could have been killed by anyone – but more likely a stranger with a knife than someone who knew him. And then there was the other: a king’s messenger, no less. Someone with a pouch full of important notes for other people. Surely a man who would dare to kill such a one would dare anything at all. He must be a most dangerous fellow.’

  ‘Perhaps. Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Ah, but a man who knew something and didn’t let me know, that sort of a man would be of great interest to the king himself, wouldn’t he? Because a man like that might just be in league with the man who killed his messenger. The king would most certainly want to speak to him. Or have his expert questioners come and speak to him.’

  At the thought of torture, Hal’s face changed. ‘Now, Keeper, there’s no need to think such things. I wouldn’t deceive you … I have seen a man who looked most odd, but it’s surely nothing to do with the murder of the king’s man. I wouldn’t have held back anything from his majesty.’

  ‘Tell me all.’

  ‘It was Tuesday evening. I was off to the tavern early with my son. I like a drink or two with him, and we were off to the little place near Bolehille that’s just opened. Well, we had some of the strong ale there, and when it came to be time to get home, I was a little weak on my pins. Art, he was all right, and he helped me along. I seem to remember seeing a fellow up in front of me. At least, that was what I reckoned at first,’ he added more quietly.

  ‘What was he like, this fellow?’

  ‘A shadow. Nothing more than a shadow. He moved along with the speed of a ghost. Slinking along in the darkness, he was. I thought at the time that he was just a silly dream I had because of the ale, but now … the more I think of it, the less I think I was dreaming.’

  ‘It was not the dead messenger?’

  ‘Master, if I’d seen him, I’d have said so. No one wants to upset the king about the murder of his messenger,’ he said sharply.

  Baldwin nodded. That much was almost certainly true. ‘What else?’

  ‘That is it.’

  ‘No. You are embarrassed or ashamed by something. What was
it?’

  Hal was about to repeat that it was nothing, but then he lowered his head and stared at his boots. It was hard to confess. He was a stolid man, and proud of his commonsense, but that sight had given him more of a shock than he wanted to admit.

  At last he nodded. ‘I heard about my neighbour. Old Willie Skinner there. He saw something too, the same night, I think. A figure. I mentioned what I saw to him, and he told me he’d seen the same thing. A low figure. Except when he approached the figure, it disappeared. Just like mine.’

  ‘Porter, any man can sidle into a shadow or into an alleyway without resorting to the occult,’ Baldwin growled.

  ‘Maybe so. But they do say that the devil can make his servants disappear. And witches can fly through the air.’

  ‘You say you saw a witch?’

  ‘You can laugh, but there are necromancers about who can look just like ordinary people if they want to. And they will kill people, so they say.’

  ‘Who says that?’

  ‘You know,’ Hal said gruffly. ‘People. Will said he didn’t see where his man went, and neither did I. You can’t explain people disappearing like that.’

  Baldwin looked at him with pursed lips. It was tempting to say that he could explain such manifestations all too easily, usually by the expedient of a convenient rope, ladder or trap door, but this man was already embarrassed enough. Instead he clapped his hands together.

  ‘Good. In that case, come and show me where this all happened. Let us see whether I can conjecture a more natural agent for your vision.’

  ‘You might have all the time you need, but I don’t!’ Hal spat, bitter at the impression that the keeper was amused by him. He waved a hand about him. ‘Look at all these people here! I have my duty to do until the gates are closed.’

  Baldwin eyed him, and then he smiled. ‘I know,’ then: ‘fetch me your son. He can take me to see where you saw this … this thing.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Exeter City

  It was done. John of Nottingham scraped away the last pieces of wax and let them fall to the floor as he stood back and stared at the last of the little models. Only when his hawkish face had studied them all for some few moments did he finally give a sharp nod to himself. If not pride, there was at least professional satisfaction in a job well done.

  The mass he had attended at church had been enough to make him realise that he would have to make this last figure more… realistic, for want of a better word.

  It had been a marvellous occasion. The crowd of city folk all standing and listening as the canons and vicars sang their refrains, murmuring the prayers … it made him feel quite nostalgic. All that part of his life was gone, though, naturally. He could hardly return to Nottingham now. Everyone would be looking for him, the noted necromancer who had dared to attempt the assassination of the most powerful men in the country.

  Still, the ceremony had soothed his soul. The broad open space of the nave, cluttered and spoiled as it was by the rebuilding work, was yet so enormous that it stilled a man’s heart to think of the effort that had gone into it, the adoration of God which had impelled men to undertake such a project. All too soon, the mass was done and he was ushered out again with the ebb of the congregation, listening to people discussing the priest who had officiated. Most concluded that he was still too new to his job. They felt sure that the following Sunday would be better. It was Saint Catherine of Alexandria’s feast day, an auspicious day for any church. Surely the bishop would attend. Perhaps John should have him in full episcopal rig in honour of the feast day?

  Others he knew would have taken a piece of the man’s elements. They’d have paid to acquire some of his hair, or some parings from his nails, and incorporated those into the figure while making it, so that when the ivory pin was thrust into the heart, the little mannequin would transfer the damage all the more easily. Yes, that was necessary for those who were less powerful than John.

  He had no need of such hocus-pocus. John of Nottingham was an artist. He did not require any paltry little additions, because he could make use of less tangible exhibits of the man’s soul. But accuracy was important. When he had been in the church today, he had seen an error. The king was clear and obvious: his crown would make him stand out. But a bishop, a man who remained in his cathedral close all the while, would be more difficult to pinpoint. Surely the demons sent to destroy him would need more than a mere image of the man, they would need a closer likeness.

  So, he had put more detail on the figure, given him more elements of his regalia, and finally – this was a touch of brilliance on his part, he thought – crafted a pair of spectacles on his nose. No one but Bishop Stapledon in the whole of Exeter would have them, he thought. He had seen the bishop wearing them in the cathedral a couple of days ago, and it had made him frown at the time, but apparently they were for reading pages close to his nose. After all his work in the king’s exchequer, it was probably no surprise that the man’s eyes were suffering.

  The bishop was carefully, almost reverently, picked up and set alongside the king.

  He pinched at the bridge of his nose as he thought about the work he had yet to do. The tools of his trade were all laid out on the bench, where they had been fumigated and cleaned assiduously. Soon, when all his preparations were complete, he would set in train the process by which he would have the four men killed. And then he would have his money in full, and he could travel to extend his understanding of his magic.

  It was then that he had the idea, and the marvellous perfection of it made him catch his breath. Looking at the figure, he nodded as though already personally acquainted, and gave a dry smile. Yes. That was how he would do it.

  His head was hurting, and he wandered to the grille which gave out to the roadway above. The light was fading. He could just see the sturdy legs of a man standing near the wall above him. Stepping backwards to avoid being noticed, he knocked against the table with the tools, and carefully rested a hand on it to keep it stable. One item only rolled to the edge, and as it was about to fall from the table he managed to catch it.

  Closing his eyes in relief, he carefully set it down again. It would have been terrible if it had become contaminated with dirt from the floor, because then all that time spent in cleaning the damned thing would have been wasted.

  No, the fingers of a man killed a few moments after they were removed were far too important to be allowed to get dirty.

  Art was no fool. When he saw the knight talking to his father out there in the space by the roadway, he knew that the man must have guessed about him, and he was half inclined to bolt. The door to the yard was in plain view, but Art was fairly confident that he could beat a knight carrying a sword over a short distance, let alone a longer one. This man, the Keeper of the King’s Peace, didn’t live here in the city. He was just an occasional visitor, that was all. All Art had to do was run now, and then come back in a week or two when things had calmed down. Or maybe he should just go. There was little enough to keep him here now. The bleeding city was a prison to a man like him with ideas and schemes. He had a good mind, him.

  There was no love between him and his old man. Hal didn’t understand him at all. Never had. He seemed to reckon that a boy like Art should be well behaved all the time, like Hal always was. But Art wasn’t some crusty old wrinkled shell like his father. He was young, and his blood fizzed with energy. Hal? He was a worn-out old husk, he was.

  He could see his father talking with that self-righteous manner he had, like he was always so perfect. Well, he wasn’t any better than Art himself. Art had heard tell of the scrapes his father used to get into when he was a lad, too. Which was what made it all the more galling that he tried to beat Art when Art went out and had a good time.

  When he heard them discussing the figure Hal had seen, Art gave a wry grin. Old fool! The thing was just a trick of the light, that was all. There’d been nothing there. Nothing at all. If there had, Art would have seen it too, wouldn’t he?


  Art leaned out to peer at his old man again, and saw the knight’s gaze fix on him. ‘Shite!’

  If he was going to run, he’d best get on with it right now. He took a deep breath, dropped his head to his breast, and was about to set off when he heard a step very close – too close.

  ‘So you are Art? I would like to speak to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The night that the messenger died you saw someone. Your father told me about it. I want to know all about it.’

  The Bishop’s Palace

  Robert Busse had completed the business he had with Bishop Stapledon, and was glad to be able to take his leave.

  It had been an excellent idea to come here, he thought with satisfaction as he walked from the palace into the close. That dunghill rat John de Courtenay would find it hard, very hard, now that Busse had already won the bishop’s ear.

  His rival was a fool, that was the thing. He never understood the simplest point of organisation, he couldn’t manage an account to save his life, and his sole interests were his damned hunting animals and his clothing. Had to follow every damned fashion – as soon as the court altered the length of their hosen, so did he. Under him, the abbey would collapse. Busse was convinced of it.

  Still, the good thing was, Busse was ahead of him now. There could be no doubt in the mind of any of the brothers that the better was going to win the throne, and it wouldn’t be de Courtenay. And one of the first instructions that Busse would give, when he had the abbacy, would be to command that all brothers adhered to the rule’s commands, and all hounds, raches, alaunts, whatever the blasted slobbering mutts were, would have to go. If de Courtenay wanted, he could send them all back where they came from, his father’s household. Personally Busse had nothing against them; it was only that de Courtenay was flaunting his wealth for no reason. And when that God-cursed monster had come into the refectory last month and taken the food from Busse’s very bowl, Busse had known, absolutely for certain, that he would rather die than see the poor abbey fall into that man’s hands.