Simon’s face clouded. ‘So he was an assassin? We had heard as much.’
‘Yes. But not a mercenary. He would only ever work for the king.’
Baldwin stood and walked about the room, a hand cupping his chin, the other wrapped about his upper body. He didn’t look at Newt as he asked, ‘Did he ever kill a man here?’
Newt cleared his throat. ‘I think so.’
‘Who, and when?’
‘He told me a long time ago that he had to come here when the Bristol men revolted against their tallage. You remember that?’
‘Of course I do. It was the outset of the dread years, wasn’t it? The city was in revolt from 1314 to 1316, when the whole posse of the county was called out against the men of the city. Was it not Pembroke who had to lay siege?’
‘Yes. I think there were upwards of eighty who were outlawed. It was a disaster, especially coming on the heels of Bannockburn and other failures of the king’s. That was why … well, I was gaoled the year before, in 1315, because the king was wary of any comments that held his authority in contempt. And it was why Walter was sent down here a while afterwards.’
‘Why?’
‘If you knew Walter, you’d know that there was no point asking him something like that. He’d just be quiet, and you wouldn’t want to ask again. However, I have heard that a man died. A fellow called Piers de Caen.’
‘And this was when?’ Simon said.
‘It was the same year as the Bristol riots – the year sixteen. He was calming hotheads here because the king did not want to see any more challenges to his authority. He couldn’t afford them. Christ Jesus, it was bad enough that he should have lost his greatest friend …’
‘Gaveston?’
‘Yes. So Walter was here, and afterwards, when it came to his leaving the king’s service because he was getting to be quite an old man, well, he thought of this city because he had liked the feel of the place when he had been here before.’
‘So what you’re saying is, he chose to retire to the place where he had pacified the people,’ Simon said with a knowing nod.
Baldwin shook his head slowly. ‘No, I don’t think that’s quite what he’s saying, is it, Robinet? You think he came here for slightly different reasons, don’t you?’
‘He liked it here. He felt safe.’
‘Yes. Because he could cow the people who lived here. Isn’t that right?’
‘I suppose that’s one way to look at it.’
‘Because when he was here, I don’t remember any rioting.’
‘There wasn’t any,’ Simon agreed. ‘Nothing here in 1316 or afterwards – the famine was kicking in by then, after all.’
‘That’s not what he meant,’ Baldwin said, turning back to them and sitting on the table’s edge. ‘No, our friend here is talking about a hired murderer who retired to the place where he felt secure because he reckoned he could kill others with impunity. That was how he “pacified” this city, after all, wasn’t it, Robinet? He killed Piers de Caen.’
‘I think so.’
‘And that was the friend you had?’ Baldwin spat contemptuously.
‘He was a friend to me,’ Newt said defensively. ‘All those he killed were enemies of the king. He was no murderer, but a professional acting in the interests of the crown.’
‘A mercenary,’ Simon said with disgust.
‘No. A king’s man. A man from the king’s household. And honourable. He would only kill quickly and with the minimum of pain. I know that.’
Baldwin’s tone was dismissive. ‘You may do – I do not. Killers are killers, friend. Once a man gets a taste for slaughter, it is a hard habit to vanquish.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Exeter City
Baldwin and Simon walked back towards their inn with the coroner.
‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut!’ Coroner Richard declared loudly as they passed the bloody stain in the street where Sarra had lain.
Baldwin was looking at the stain, and now he frowned and stared towards the undercroft. ‘Whoever killed Walter, they must have invited him down there. Surely a professional killer like Walter wouldn’t have let the man get behind him?’
‘If it was an older man, perhaps then he’d do it,’ Simon guessed. ‘This necromancer is said to be tall and skinny. A haggard old man, from what we’ve heard. Surely a brave and brawny man would feel safe enough with someone like that behind him?’
The coroner was thinking. ‘If I were a mercenary killer like Walter, I doubt I’d let my own mother behind me. I’d be inside the room and sidle round with my back to the wall. I certainly wouldn’t allow a man rumoured to be a paid assassin to get behind me, no matter how old and decrepit he was.’
‘That is how I read it too,’ Baldwin said. ‘It makes little sense to me. Do you think that man was telling the truth, Simon?’
‘Yes. I trusted his word,’ Simon said. ‘He seemed quite rational and sensible to me.’
‘Certainly rational,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I wonder if he told us all the truth.’
‘What else could there be?’
Coroner Richard stopped and was gazing at Baldwin with his head set to one side. ‘You have an idea, don’t you?’
Baldwin continued walking for a few paces, then halted, his head bowed. ‘I think I have the beginnings of an idea, but I am sure of nothing yet. I have to consider things more carefully.’
‘In the meantime,’ Simon said, ‘I think that we ought to make sure that the woman who tried to kill the sheriff’s wife has been captured. If she is still wandering the streets, others could be in danger.’
‘Yes,’ the Coroner agreed. ‘We should make our way to the castle as quickly as possible and ensure that the good lady arrived home safely.’
‘To check that she has suffered no harm,’ Simon agreed.
‘Oh, yes. And to see what they serve in the sheriff’s hall for dinner. It is a fish day, and I have heard that he does not stint when it comes to a good fish pie and wine,’ the coroner agreed unperturbably, a beatific smile fixed to his face.
Robinet stood watching from Langatre’s doorway as the three men disappeared east up the hill, and only when they were out of his sight completely did he dart back into the house, into the magician’s hall, and over to a table. There he found a knife with a good oak handle. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. The blade was a scant two and a half inches in length, and black all over, unpolished from the forge, with only the edge keen and gleaming where it had been honed. Putting it on his forefinger, he found that the short blade balanced the heavy wooden handle nicely. It was ideal.
With it in his pocket, he peered out through the doorway into the street. He had worked in places like this often enough to recognise potential danger when it was visible. Today he could see nothing, and he soon nodded to himself and slipped out, his back to the wall for the first five paces, eyes scanning the street, where there was nothing to give him cause to shy. After that, he set off at a smart pace, up towards the Carfoix, and once there he turned southwards to the South Gate.
He knew that his friend had been grabbed from behind. He intended to see that no one had an opportunity to do the same to him.
His old friend had been in that room for a specific reason. He reckoned that it was likely that the necromancer had invited him inside, or perhaps the man had left the undercroft, and the watcher had thought it safe to essay a short investigation into what the magician was attempting. No matter. The man had killed a close friend. He would suffer for it.
First, he must find the evil bastard who had been there in the room. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do that yet, but he’d think out a way soon, and then, when he had the man in his hands, he’d kill him very slowly indeed. He’d learn whether a necromancer could beg a demon to harm a man when his own fingers had all been cut off.
He came to the South Gate and nodded to the gateman. In the house he saw Art, and stared at him meaningfully. Art looked from him to his f
ather, but his father was already speaking to someone else in the gateway, and Art quickly left the house and came to him.
‘Boy, I need help.’
‘It’ll cost.’
‘It always does, boy. It always does.’ He smiled, and then the smile was wiped away. ‘I want you to find me a necromancer.’
Exeter Castle
Sir Matthew was back in the city in the late afternoon, a little weary, but elated after a fine ride. The rounsey was still full of spirit, and if he’d wanted to, he felt he could have ridden the beast all the way to Winchester and back!
Not today, though. There was too much to be done. This was a busy time of year, and there was still the matter of the writ about the murder attempt on the king and the Despensers.
He had heard a rumour from a friend in court that the Lord Despenser had himself written to the pope asking for special protection against such attempts at assassination using supernatural means – but the pope had written back to tell him to mend his ways and stop abusing his powers, beg forgiveness for his past sins, and nothing more would be needful. Apparently the Despenser had raged up and down the corridors of his house for hours after reading that.
At the moment, though, Matthew thought he had enough on his own plate. There was the matter of his wife, then the mad maidservant, not to mention this trouble with sorcerers. It was all getting to be a little too much for him. He needed time to focus and concentrate. Stop being blown about by events.
The castle came into view, and he found himself peering about him, half expecting to find himself confronted at any moment by a mad woman with foaming mouth and rolling eyes. Christ in a cave, but that wench scared him. Madness was akin to leprosy – both were obviously unhealable, and both left the sufferer revolting to all men of good sense. And madness was the worse in some ways. It meant that the victim could not herself see why she had become the object of revulsion.
He rode in through the gate and tossed the reins to a waiting groom, then dismounted and stood watching while the man began his work. If there was one thing that Sir Matthew would not tolerate, it was any laxity in the care of his mounts. A stable boy or groom who displayed laziness or incompetence would not last any time in the castle. No one received more than the one chance to do things right in Sir Matthew’s stables.
‘Sir Matthew? There are some men here to see you, in your hall.’
Sir Matthew gazed distastefully at his steward. ‘I have not invited anyone to visit me today.’
‘These were most insistent, sir. The Keeper of the King’s Peace, a coroner, and a bailiff from Tavistock. They are trying to catch the woman who killed your wife’s maid.’
‘My wife’s …’
‘Your wife was there, sir. It is thought that the woman wanted to harm her too.’
Sir Matthew’s mouth fell wide. He recalled glancing back from the gate, seeing Jen with her hand raised, the fist and forearm painted with blood … he left the steward in the court and bolted to the hall’s door. He threw it wide and hurried inside. ‘My wife, where is she?’
‘I am here, husband,’ Alice responded. She lay on a bench near the fire, while a girl soothed her brow with a cool cloth and passed her a large gobletful of wine.
‘My darling, I only just heard – your servant is dead?’
‘Yes. She was stabbed by that little bitch we removed this morning.’
‘It is true that it was her, then. And you saw it all?’
‘If Sarra had not sprung in between us, I should be the one lying dead on the cobbles instead of her,’ Alice said.
‘We would like to speak to you about this,’ Coroner Richard said.
Sir Matthew lurched, startled by the voice over his shoulder. In truth, he had been in such a hurry to speak to his poor wife, he had forgotten that he had visitors. Now he spun and saw that there were three men seated at the table at the other end of the hall. ‘Who are you all?’
Baldwin snapped curtly, ‘Come, now, Sir Sheriff! You know me at least, and my good friend here the coroner. And if you do not know my companion Bailiff Simon Puttock, one of my lord abbot of Tavistock’s most trusted servants, it is about time you did.’
Peering into the gloomier reaches of the hall, away from the fire, the sheriff could make out their faces more clearly. He could also see that although the keeper and Simon had risen to their feet, the coroner still remained sitting at the bench. He waved a hand airily while in the other he held a salmon’s head.
Matthew nodded to them, bowing as graciously as he might as Coroner Richard sucked loudly on the head. ‘My apologies, lordings. You were in the gloom there – after the sunshine in my courtyard. I did not recognise you.’
‘Now, Sheriff, can you tell us aught about the woman who left your service this morning? We understand she may have come from Silverton. Is that right?’
‘I have no idea. Perhaps the steward would know?’
‘He thought Silverton,’ Baldwin said, reflecting on how little interest some people took in the lives of those upon whom their comfort depended. ‘We have sent a man to the vill to see whether she might have tried to escape in that direction, but have had no luck.’
‘She must be in the fields, then.’
‘I doubt it,’ Lady Alice said weakly. ‘Why should she leave the city? If she had somewhere to go where she would be free, that would be one thing, but if she’s got nowhere else to go, then why should she leave? I think it more likely that she waits somewhere nearby.’
‘Why, my darling?’ Sir Matthew asked.
Baldwin responded. ‘Sir, we have been discussing this affair since we arrived here. It seems clear that the wench is infatuated with you …’ He was tempted to add an acerbic comment about his own surprise at the thought, but curbed his tongue. ‘It is possible that she fled after her crime, but it is equally likely that she has remained here, in which case you will have to do all that is needful to protect your lady.’
Sir Matthew felt as though he might be sick. This morning he had contemplated the grateful thanks of the king for his swift and efficient apprehension of the magician, and instead he was being advised to exercise great caution on behalf of his wife. ‘Why would the child think I could desire her? It’s insane.’
‘Did you ever give her cause to think you might love her?’ Baldwin pressed. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Never, on my heart! I love my wife, Sir Baldwin. Adultery would never sit easily on my soul.’
‘I have heard of young wenches who gain a false impression of another’s love,’ Baldwin admitted doubtfully. ‘They have such an intense fascination with the object of their desire that they convince themselves that their adoration is reciprocated. I have never witnessed such a one, though. Are you quite sure that you never gave her cause to believe that you might …’
He could not continue. One look at the sheriff’s face told him all he needed to know. This was not a man ruled by his heart on most occasions, but seeing him now, Baldwin was forced to admit to himself that unless the fellow was a consummate actor, he was no adulterer. To Baldwin, who had once submitted to his passions and betrayed the love he felt for his own dear wife, it was plain enough that this man had never committed the same sin.
‘This wench is very clearly dangerous. The men must be told to redouble all their efforts in the city to find her, and in the meantime you, Lady Alice, must not leave the castle grounds.’
‘I would be most reluctant to become a prisoner in my own house,’ she said sharply.
‘And we should all be most reluctant to see you buried for lack of protection,’ Baldwin said as gently as he could. ‘And now, Sheriff, there is another matter which we needs must ask you about.’
It had been damnably cold at the gate when she stopped, but Maurice had steeled himself to kill Jen. The bitch had tried to kill his sister, and he would spill her blood for that.
Standing there, he’d had a stirring of revulsion at the thought of slaying a young woman, but the memory of the great blow aime
d at Sarra was enough to drive away any compunction he might usually have felt. The blood … he could scarcely believe that the girl who had smiled at him and flirted as she relayed messages from her mistress, his sister, had been slaughtered like a hog in the street. Her sightless eyes returned to haunt him now, as though reproving him for doubting the justice of his revenge.
She had been there in front of him as he began to make his way towards her. With her back to him, she made a very tempting target. Easy enough to throw a knife at her, except in a crowded street it would be too obvious. No one could miss the sight of a man hurling a missile. Better by far to slip a knife between her ribs from closer.
As he approached, she lifted a hand to wave, and following the line of her sight, he saw the man whose attention she was trying to catch, saw the sheriff on his horse suddenly spur his mount on, and saw him clatter along the roadway and out through the gate.
Suddenly Jen’s shoulders dropped. Even from behind she presented the very picture of dejection. It was little enough, but sufficient to make Maurice hesitate.
Turning, she stumbled blindly away, a hand at her face, the other clutching at the breast of her tunic.
It was that which stayed his hand. She came closer and closer, and he stood still, waiting, his hand on his knife, until she was before him, and then he saw the misery in her features, and his hand left his dagger sheathed. It was impossible to harm a child in such despair. And that was what she was: a child barely ready to be loosed from her mother’s apron-strings.
She looked at him, her eyes unseeing, and then continued on her way, sobbing with deep, racking shudders of her entire frame, and he couldn’t do it. A man, yes, he could kill any man – but not this child.
Wonderingly, he followed her to a little tavern, but although she went inside, it was plain enough that she had little enough money, and soon she was out again, reeling from one wall to another. Although occasionally she would look about her, it was clear enough to him that she didn’t recognise him when her eyes passed over him. She had no thoughts for anyone else; she was entirely focused on her own deep depression.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 32