Michael was at the far end of the screens passage gripping a sword and a knife, and now he bellowed his defiance and flew at them.
Ivo would have fled, but the man with him knew nothing about running. He waited, then used the staff in a quarter-staff grip, knocking the sword away, and coming back to thrust with it at Michael’s face. It connected, striking the man’s nose, mashing the bone and slipping down to hit his mouth, striking all the front teeth from his jaw and carving a great gash in his upper lip and chin.
Screaming incoherently with pain, Michael clapped his hands over his mouth and fell to his knees.
‘Where is he? Here in the house? Where, man?’
He grabbed Michael’s shoulder and pulled him up, holding the knife to his chin and letting the older man see his eyes. ‘You may make the mistake of thinking I wouldn’t want to kill you – but look in my eyes, master. You’ll see that would be a foolish mistake. If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you as easily as I would squash a beetle. Now: where is he?’
Michael drew his hands away from his mouth and spat on the floor. There was a step behind him, and Ivo saw a woman appear from a doorway. She saw her master and shrieked, high and terrified. Michael seemed to take strength from her, and held his chin up defiantly.
‘Don’t kill him,’ Ivo said quickly. ‘He’s not …’
But the man had no intention of killing him. Not yet. He took Michael’s hand and put it flat on the wall, and then set the little knife over his index finger. Michael made to snatch his hand away, but before he could, the knife pressed down, hard, and there was a little crunching sound. Held by a tendon, the finger flapped and jerked as Michael pulled his hand free, a muffled scream bursting from him because he was too shocked to even open his mouth properly.
‘You want to lose another? My friend James lost two, didn’t he? But I expect you think you’re stronger, eh?’
Michael was shaking his head, and now he spoke, ‘No, no, please, no more …’
‘You showed no pity to my friend, did you?’
As Michael tried to fight, his hand was taken again. A snatch and a tug, and the finger flew off. Ivo could not help but watch it as it bounced on a wall, to come to rest on the ground near the servant’s feet. She rolled her eyes skywards and slowly collapsed. When Ivo looked back, Michael was pulling his hand away. There was a short punch from a fist, and Michael’s head snapped back. He began to fall, but his hand was held up again, rested on the wall again, and the little knife pressed down once more. There was a ‘click’ this time as the blade passed through the finger and struck the stone.
Michael’s body tensed with the pain and horror. He watched as his finger, still twitching, was lifted before him. The man tapped it against his mouth as though tempting him to eat it, and then at last Michael spewed, retching violently.
‘Where is he, Michael?’
‘In the back. The barn. He’s there.’
Wasting no more time on more words, the man took the staff and ran along the passage, then out to the garden beyond. Ivo gathered his thoughts and followed him.
The garden was a small affair, with four little vegetable patches set apart with decorative woven hurdles to raise them. Farther beyond was an orchard. Nearer, though, stood a small thatched barn. The man ran to it, grabbing the door and throwing it wide. With his staff held high, he entered, and then Ivo heard him curse viciously and long.
‘He’s not fucking here! We missed him!’
Jen walked with her hood over her head all the way up the little lanes and streets to the castle’s main gate. She was wearing a thick, rather smelly old cloak of Will’s, and with her head under the hood she was unrecognisable, she felt sure. Will spoke a little as they walked, all inconsequential stuff.
‘I had a little girl. She’d have been quite like you by now, I suppose. About your age, too. Her name was Joan. Lovely thing, she was.’
Jen said nothing, but her silence seemed not to offend him. Rather, he appeared to like it. She did not realise that his friend at the bishop’s palace gate had asked him to look in the loft for her. There was no need to mention her ordeal of last night he reasoned.
‘She was always into things. That was why I looked in the hayloft just now, you see. Joan once climbed into a loft like that one, and the door slipped when she was inside, and if my neighbour hadn’t heard her shouting, she might have been left up there until the next need for hay. So, when I saw that the door on that loft was shut when usually it’s left open, I just thought, maybe some little girl has fallen inside. But there was no need to worry about that, was there?’
They were passing the ruins of an old house, and Jen heard him sigh and sniff a little. ‘There. That was where she died. Her and her brother and sister. We had a fire one night. Everyone said it was an accident … You never stop loving them, you know. Your own children. Never stop loving and missing them, when they die. Doesn’t seem natural, your children dying before you. No. Not at all.’
She had nothing to say, but as they carried on up the alleyway, she squeezed his upper arm. He patted her hand. ‘There, it was a long time ago now. Who knows but that they would have died in the famine, anyway? So many other little ones did. Do you remember that? Of course you do. You’d have been eight or nine by then.’
He started talking again, about unimportant, irrelevant little things that he obviously felt wouldn’t upset her too much, as they made their way along quieter lanes towards the castle, and once there she heard her helper explain coyly to the guard why he was bringing the young maid to see the sheriff, and where could they wait for him?
She thrilled within to hear the guard answer immediately, telling them to wait outside the hall, and he’d have the steward come to find them when the sheriff was ready. Already excited to be back inside the castle’s court, she found herself growing faint with expectation as they entered the hall’s little screens passage.
‘Maid, you’re coming over all weak, aren’t you? Look. There’s a bench here. Be you seated, and the sheriff will be here shortly. You’ll be all right, maid. Don’t you worry. Are you sure you don’t want a physician to see you? No? Well, you be seated there, and we’ll have the sheriff and the coroner come look at you. You’ll soon have satisfaction.’
It was a long wait, though, with men coming and going, some casting interested glances at the woman who remained still, covered only with a blanket that her protector had given her, and the hood of her cowl. She shivered periodically, although if asked she could not have said whether it was because of the cold, her trepidation, or simple excitement.
‘You the girl?’
It was a voice she didn’t recognise, but then she heard Will talking respectfully, and realised he must be important. Then he said something about the Rolls and called the man ‘Sir Richard’, and she realised it must be the coroner. Of course – he would have to be present at any enquiry into a rape.
Suddenly she felt a panic welling up inside her. Of course her man would support her – Sir Matthew could hardly deny their love, could he? But he might find it difficult to explain her arrival in front of another important official of the king.
So be it! She would show them all how much she loved him.
At long last the steward came and spoke to the man at her side, and he seemed conscious of her condition, speaking kindly and warmly to her. It took some while for her to understand that he meant her to follow him into the hall, for she was panicked by the sound of his voice, but then she realised he was talking quietly and understandingly, and simply had not recognised her.
It was astonishing. Only yesterday she had been petrified of this man. After the sheriff, he was the most powerful man in the castle, and he ruled it with an iron rod. Any maid found slacking in her duties would soon be evicted, and she would never be permitted to return while he lived. That was her belief, anyway. He had been so stern always. Yet now he was treating her as an honoured guest, and she could do nothing but follow him dumbly as he took her arm and broug
ht her into the hall.
‘Well, maid? You have been raped?’
It was him! He didn’t recognise her either. Ah, blessed Mary, Mother of …
‘It’s her, husband! Can’t you recognise her? It’s her, I say!’
Jen recognised that voice, right enough. She threw her blanket aside and stood straight again, seeking her enemy. There she was, up at the far end of the dais. With a snarl, Jen leaped up towards her, but even as she drew her knife and raised it to stab, there was a stunning crack over her skull, and she fell to her hands and knees.
Groggily, she looked up. From here all she could see at first was a shimmering vision of boots and hosen. Her vision swayed and wobbled out of focus as she tried to hold her head still, but it was impossible. And then she saw the face of her beloved. Sir Matthew was peering down at her with an expression of … not love, but horror, as though she was a devil or a witch … She glanced about her, and saw that the men in the hall had formed a ring about her as though they all feared her. They had weapons ready, as though they meant to slay her there and then. They all feared her.
She wanted to shout at them, to declare that they were mad, it wasn’t her, it was the poisonous whore’s whelp who stood there behind Sir Matthew and held his shoulder, the picture of matronly virtue – but she wasn’t! It was she, Jen, who loved him, she who should be there now, with her man. But she couldn’t work her mouth. It was too hard. She was so tired.
Letting her head droop, she panted and waited for the blow to come that would end her misery.
Chapter Forty
Exeter City
Ivo was tempted to run through the house and grab some friends to come and capture this man, but courage was never his strongest suit. Having seen how the man had dispatched Michael, he was reluctant to test his own skills as a fighter against him.
‘What is it?’
‘Didn’t you hear me, fool? He’s gone. And so have the figures, from the look of it.’
‘What figures are you talking about?’
He had approached to the doorway now, and could peer in as the foreigner kicked at tables and benches, overturning them all and hunting high and low for something. The dust was rising, and he chewed at his lip as he went about the room, prising with a knife at some of the stones, seeing if they could be moved, then carefully inspecting the floor as though there could have been a trap door hidden there, but soon he stood, breathing heavily and staring about him. A shelf dangled from the ceiling, attached by ropes. He slapped his hand underneath it, sending everything atop flying, and kicked at a small phial lying on the ground. It flew away and smashed into pieces on the wall.
Only then did he seem to calm a little. Standing staring at the wall, he nodded to himself, and then called to Ivo. ‘Fetch me Richard Langatre. Right away.’
Ivo was nothing loath. He turned and hurried from the barn, through the house, where Michael sat huddled on the floor with a bloody rag tied about his ruined hand, being tended to by a maid, and out into the street with a feeling of distinct relief. Up the road he hurried, and pounded on the sorceror’s door.
Langatre had been sitting before his fire and thinking of the man lying dead beneath him when the banging came on his door, and now he agreed with alacrity to go and help the dead man’s friend.
‘I need you to tell me what this man would have been doing in here.’
Langatre eyed the wild-eyed man uncertainly. Although he was a knowledgeable man, there were limits to what he could achieve, and he was close to the limit right here. ‘I don’t know how much I can tell you, friend. This place is in a mess.’
‘He was doing something in here. What can you see?’
Langatre sighed to himself and entered. There was a table-top on its back, two trestles nearby where they had fallen after being kicked, and all about a mess of broken pots and various tools. Some were no doubt used for maleficium, but in the main they looked like gardening implements. It was only as he tentatively lifted the table-top that he gave a little gasp.
‘What is it?’
‘My bloody knife, that’s what it is! He must have taken it … this must be the man who broke into my house and tried to kill me!’
‘He was desperate to achieve something with the things he took. What else did he remove?’
‘There were any number of things … mainly tools that a man might use in cleansing his soul before … Hey, that’s my leather hat!’
‘So?’
It was possible. There were plenty of magicians who attempted conjurations, as he had told Sir Baldwin and the coroner the other day while he was in the gaol. Yes, some had tried such things, but the chances of success were minimal, and the dangers …
‘Well?’
Langatre scowled at him. ‘I don’t know what you normally do, man, but my job is to be cautious. Leave me to work it out and I shall give you accurate information. Hurry me and you’ll get something that is less use than horseshit. Is that clear enough?’
Without waiting for the response, he started looking about him carefully. If Sir Baldwin had been right, and the stories were true, there may be some wax lying about in here. He searched, but there was nothing to be found. Shaking his head, he rose again and thought wildly. Then his face lightened and he hurried outside to the vegetable plots. At the side of one was a large rubbish heap, and he ran to it excitedly, prodding at it until he gave a little whistle of glee.
‘Here you are!’
‘What is it?’
‘Wax – like the stuff in my undercroft. The fellow has made some models of men out of wax, I’d guess. He’s going to try to kill someone.’
Baldwin was still glowering with concentration as he left the inn and began to make his way to the bishop’s palace.
Simon was with him. The coroner had been asked to visit the sheriff at the castle because a woman had reported a rape, or something, but Rob walked a few paces behind as usual, truculently glaring at all those about him as he went. At one point he was fairly sure that he saw one of the lads from his game the night before, but the face soon disappeared in the crowds, which was some relief.
Their path took them down Cooks’ Row, and thence to Bolehille and down to the Palace Gate, and it was as they entered Bolehille that Rob saw another face he thought he recognised. Hastily he turned his head slightly, and hoped that the simple subterfuge would serve. Fortunately he could hear the master talking to his friend the knight, and so long as they kept on their musings about the dead men and all that, he’d be all right. Yes, there was the Palace Gate. Only a matter of a few hundred yards, now. Easy enough.
As he sighed with relief, he felt his legs pulled from under him. ‘Aargh!’
Hands outstretched to break his fall, he felt stone on his palms, the scrape of flesh rasped away and the instant stinging pain. His knees were bruised, and his breath had been knocked from him.
‘We want our money, foreigner!’ he heard as he started to try to clamber to his feet. A kick at his legs made him fall again.
Then there was a chuckle, and he turned his head to see Simon and Sir Baldwin, both standing with arms crossed, Simon with a broad grin on his face. ‘Been upsetting people again, lad? I’ve warned you about this before.’
‘It was a fair game!’
‘You’re learning new concepts, are you?’ Simon asked unsympathetically.
‘I was doing it for you, master,’ he said hurriedly.
‘What?’
Now he had Simon’s attention, Rob spoke quickly. ‘They told me of a rumour while we played last night – it’s said that the bishop doesn’t trust the sheriff. Thinks the sheriff might be disloyal to the king …’
‘Quiet!’
‘It was this one, sir. He’s called Ben.’
Suddenly both his attackers were running away, swift as only rats or city-bred churls could go, Rob thought to himself.
Simon started as though to chase them, but then he stopped and looked back at Baldwin, then both stared down at Rob.
‘Why else would they run like that?’ Rob demanded reasonably.
‘Why should they?’ Baldwin asked. ‘All they need do was deny your story. It is foolish, perhaps, but not an offence to see a lad hanged, telling a tale like that.’
‘They got nervy when I asked them how they knew,’ Rob recalled. ‘It was when I asked whether the bishop had a spy in the sheriff’s house. They went quiet then.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘I doubt not that the good bishop has an ear in every important house in the city. Yet that is interesting. Yes, Simon, it is enormously interesting! If the good bishop felt that the sheriff was actively plotting something, he would have done all in his power to warn the king, would he not? And what better means than to send a messenger with a private, verbal message?’
‘But what could the sheriff be planning all the way down here?’ Simon said sceptically. ‘The king is many leagues away.’
‘Maleficium is supposed to know no bounds of distance,’ Baldwin mused. ‘I wonder if that is what they planned? To have the king assassinated from insignificant little Exeter?’
Simon was eyeing his servant doubtfully. ‘You are sure of this? How drunk was the lad?’
‘Ben? He was the one with the face like a ferret and the smell of a fox on heat. I don’t think he was drunk last night. He seemed all right.’
Simon looked at Baldwin. ‘Should we go and ask the bishop?’
‘I do not think so. The news that his affairs are common knowledge may not please the good prelate. No. Perhaps it would be better were we to keep this information private for now.’
Simon nodded, although he would have preferred to have asked the bishop about his concerns. Politics were becoming a mess, and Simon was trying still to see a way through. As a mere bailiff to the abbey of Tavistock, he was not involved, thank God, in national politics, but every man had to be aware of the currents of power. If a man were to upset even the lowliest servant of a man like Sir Hugh le Despenser, he could find himself either in a very painful place or dead. ‘Does that mean that the bishop’s loyalty is being tested?’ he wondered aloud.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 36