The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  Pushing the door up was a trial, but in time he succeeded, and then he clambered up after it, opening his pack and pulling out his book, and laying it reverently on the boards. Next was the blanket, wrapped about the first of the figures, and he took it out now, peering at it with some pride. Tomorrow it would serve its purpose.

  It was almost dark already when the three men were able to sit at the table at their inn and rest.

  ‘Not a sign of him,’ Baldwin muttered as he eased his legs out before him and leaned back against the wall.

  ‘He could have been swallowed by the earth,’ Coroner Richard agreed.

  Simon was more positive. ‘Perhaps he has left the city to escape? After seeing what Robinet did to that landlord, I’m not surprised.’

  They had gone to speak to Michael almost as soon as Baldwin and Simon had met the coroner in the tavern. Langatre had taken them at an urgent pace to the physician’s house where he had deposited him, and he had held back as they entered, as though fearing that Robinet might have been there before them and killed all in the house. ‘He’s a mad bastard, that one. He enjoyed cutting off Michael’s fingers. I swear it! He enjoyed it.’

  The tanner was little help. ‘I don’t know where he is. I rented him a room, and then he came to ask for another. That’s all.’

  ‘You were renting the undercroft to this man, weren’t you?’ Simon pressed him. ‘You knew he was planning to murder the bishop, didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell the beadle? It was your duty.’

  ‘I didn’t dare. I thought he was a powerful wizard, and it looks as if he is, doesn’t it? I mean, where is he? If he was a man, someone would have seen him by now, and yet he’s disappeared. He must be a necromancer with a lot of power.’

  ‘He could just be hiding in a room somewhere where the landlord is not fussy,’ the coroner commented. ‘Come, now, where could he have gone?’

  ‘I tell you, I do not know!’

  Thinking back to his terrified expression, Simon reckoned that if he had even a remote inkling as to where this ‘John’ had got to, he would have told them. Apart from anything else, it was clear that he wanted someone else to suffer for the pain he had endured that day.

  ‘And he didn’t have any more idea where Robinet could have gone,’ Baldwin observed. ‘Where can he have got to?’

  ‘In God’s name,’ the coroner grunted, loosening his boots, ‘I confess I find these disappearances baffling. Each time someone finds the wizard, he seems to slip away. And now that damned fool Robinet has gone too.’

  ‘Perhaps the pair of them have killed each other,’ Simon mused. ‘What do you reckon, Rob?’

  ‘Me? I don’t know anything, do I? I just get sent to walk about in the cold and stare at people, I do. No brain at all, me. Except I was able to help tell you about the sheriff, of course.’

  The coroner had an amiably bovine face, but it concealed a sharp mind, and there was nothing wrong with his hearing. ‘Eh? What’s this?’

  Baldwin sighed and closed his eyes. ‘If you continue to speak out of turn, Rob, you will learn that life can be unfair and more than moderately painful. Coroner, this was some information that came to us. It would seem possible that the bishop has some strong concerns about the sheriff, and has even gone so far as to put them to the king.’

  The coroner whistled low. ‘That could cost the sheriff dearly.’

  Simon yawned. ‘His ballocks would be off, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I do not like to speculate about matters like this when the man himself has no opportunity to defend himself,’ Baldwin said. ‘I should like to know what has led the bishop to leap to this conclusion. There must be some reason for it.’

  ‘I have not noticed many bishops who need good reason to jump to conclusions,’ the coroner said sourly.

  Baldwin smiled, but only fleetingly. He soon reverted to his frowning contemplation, which he maintained as Simon and Coroner Richard ordered food for them all. Before long steaming plates filled with pies and boiled pigeons appeared before them, along with a loaf of heavy bread. The sight and smells persuaded Baldwin to turn his attention to the table, and he slapped Rob’s hand away from the food quickly, making him wait until the coroner had filled his own plate. Then he motioned to Rob to continue, watching the lad while he sipped at a strong wine.

  When they had eaten their fill, and even the coroner declared himself satisfied, Baldwin returned to the matter. Simon had often thought that his friend was rather like a dog which would return to worry at a bone until all was gone.

  ‘I cannot help but believe that a man so determined to attack the king and others would not have run far. But why? If the fellow is determined to commit murder by means of a demon or some other form of wizardry, surely he could be anywhere. What would be the point of proximity? If I were an assassin, and I wished to kill a man, would I not do so from a distance?’

  ‘He’s mad. That’s the thing. Like this girl killed the sheriff’s servant. Same thing. Quite potty. She even returned to the sheriff’s hall for some reason.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I don’t know!’ the coroner declared testily. ‘You’d have to be insane to comprehend her motives. Same with this sorcerer.’

  ‘From what you said, the maid was in love with the sheriff.’

  ‘No accounting for tastes.’

  Baldwin gave a faint grin. ‘True. But the fact is, she thought she would be receiving a generous welcome from her lover, from the sound of things. In reality, she petrified the poor fellow. There can be little similarity between her and this John from Nottingham.’

  ‘Unless there is something unique about the murderer, of course,’ Simon considered. ‘Perhaps it is simply that he hates the bishop and wants to be there when the bishop is struck down?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. He stifled a yawn. ‘But after a lack of sleep last night, and all the exertions of searching for the fellow today, I think I must to my bed. I shall see you in the morning.’

  It was later, as Simon entered the room to go to his own bed, that his words returned to Baldwin. Something about the idea of a demented assassin being in a specific place to witness the effectiveness of his murderous sorcery that stuck in Baldwin’s mind. Yet even that could not prevent him from slipping into unconsciousness before Simon had even begun to snore.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Exeter Gaol

  Jen woke to a thin, grey light that scarcely managed to illuminate the far wall of the cell.

  It was freezing down here. She tried to hunch herself into her clothing to conserve some heat, but it did little good. Not that it would matter. She was going to die down here, no matter what happened.

  There was a part of her that wanted, oh, so desperately wanted, to think that this was all a clever scheme on the part of her Matthew to lull his wife into a sense of false security, so that he could remove her, and then install Jen as his lover. Perhaps it was only a plan whereby he would remove her from the public’s gaze, and put her in a small cottage of her own near the castle, so he could visit her each morning, and his wife know nothing more of it? There were women who lived like that, and although she didn’t think it was completely honourable …

  No! She had to stop that line of thought! He didn’t love her. It had been in his eyes yesterday when he had told his men to bind her. It was not love in his eyes, it was not even feigned indifference; it was hatred … disgust – terror, perhaps – but not love. The sight of her repelled him.

  ‘Sweet Mother, holy Mother Mary, save me!’ she whispered. It was like having two lives: one in which she and her lover plotted to remove the sole obstacle to their happiness, a second in which she herself was the evil impediment to his joy, and the two lives constantly in dispute with each other inside her head. She didn’t know which was telling her the truth at any moment. Just now it felt as though the story that she herself was at fault, that the sheriff had never desired her, let alone planned to leave his wife for her, was the more trut
hful, but in a moment she knew that the other side of her would return and scornfully remind her of the look in his eyes when they had passed in the screens corridor, or that time when he had met her at the top of the stairs and they had flirted … Which was true?

  The door opened without warning, and she fled to the wall at the farthest side of the room. It was only a man-at-arms with a bowl of food, though, and he set it down near the door, as far from her as possible, before swiftly turning and leaving again.

  It wasn’t only the sheriff. All his men were terrified of her too.

  Sunday, Feast of St Catherine9

  Exeter City

  John was already awake. He was bitterly cold, wrapped up in his clothes and with his blanket over him, but today would see the culmination of his efforts, with good fortune.

  Others would have sat in the background and avoided any danger. That was not his way. It was important that he learned what happened. A man who kept away from the results of his work would never truly reach the highest level of knowledge. No. Far better that he should go and perform the operation while he could see the victim. Learn what he could from the work. Witness the result.

  Robert le Mareschal had understood that. That was why he had agreed to go and view the last agonies of de Sowe. It wasn’t perfect, though. The man had largely undergone his suffering out of sight of Robert and John. Better by far that the experiment should be nearer to hand, so that he could see what happened stage by stage.

  The light was grey and dull. A good day to die, he reflected as he rolled over, trying to stop his teeth chattering, and let himself down from his attic with a small bump. In his hand he held the one figure. The others would lie up in the roofspace he had left. Later he would come and fetch them, when he was sure that he understood the impact of his magic. Outside, he stood a moment wrapping the waxen figure in a fold of his cloak.

  Did he say a good day to die? No: it was a good day to kill. Especially that misbegotten son of a whore, Walter Stapledon.

  ‘So you slept a bit better, eh?’

  Baldwin lurched to wakefulness, his eyes widening in shock as he heard Simon’s voice. There was a chuckle as the bailiff walked round the room pulling on his shirt and hosen. ‘If you want some breakfast before visiting the cathedral, you’d best hurry.’

  ‘I’ll be ready in a moment,’ Baldwin said, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt rough and unrested, for all that he had slept long beyond dawn. He needed more sensible exercise, that was it. Less of this sitting in smoky taverns where the highest aspiration to hygiene was the annual replacement of the rushes on the floor; more riding his horse and practising with his sword. That was what he needed.

  Not much chance of it here, though. Certainly not today. He had to get to the cathedral church to avoid insulting the bishop, and with his intention to refuse to accept the bishop’s offer to become a member of the parliament, insulting him in any other way was beyond contemplation.

  He got up from his bed, scratching idly at the bites under his armpit where some bug had got to him overnight, and gazed about him at the room, a wave of dissatisfaction washing over him.

  In the last year or two he had spent too much time away from his own bed. He had a young child whom he wanted to see growing, and his wife had another baby in her womb even now. It was wrong for him to be here, miles away in Exeter, when she was alone at his manor. That was where he belonged, with her.

  If he were honest, though, he should not be here in any case. His life was a fraud. Although he held the position of Keeper of the King’s Peace, if his background as a Knight Templar became known the king would remove him from his post in an instant. And if the Templars had not suffered arrests and destruction, he would not be here. He would still be in the preceptory in Paris, a bearded knight ever training to return to the Holy Land to free it from the hordes of Moors who had overrun the Christian territories. Perhaps he would be dead, killed by a Muslim arrow or scimitar, in which case this new life was actually a rebirth of sorts. Perhaps he ought to think of new ways of working for the realm, to protect it from the ravages of barons like Hugh le Despenser. He had been saved from the pyre … was it possible that he was saved for something more important?

  ‘God’s teeth!’ he muttered, and completed his dressing. There was no more singular arrogance than that of a man who felt that his life had a mystical purpose to it. Clad in his red tunic, he went to join Simon and the coroner at their table.

  The fire was sparking fitfully in the corner, and the smoke was forming an unpleasant pall beneath the roof. Baldwin cast a look up at it. The trouble was, so often a householder in a city like this found himself being passed off with rubbishy wood for his fires. There was sometimes little to tell whether a bough was of good wood or rotten, whether it had been properly dried, or whether it was simply wood that was bad for burning, like elm.

  ‘I think that the good host of the tavern has been rooked by a deceitful woodseller,’ he muttered as he joined his friends.

  Rob looked at the fire. ‘It’s the fault of the boy who laid the fire. He ought to know what wood will burn and what won’t.’

  ‘And you’re the expert?’ Simon scoffed. ‘You are hardly out of your bed in time to see the fire being laid when you’re at home in Dartmouth.’

  ‘You let the boy lie in his bed?’ the coroner asked, his mouth full of bread. He cocked an eye at Rob. ‘Didn’t I tell you your duties last time I was in Dartmouth?’

  ‘And I do them, sir. My master is making fun,’ Rob said with a scowl at Simon.

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘Never let your servants get the better of you, Simon. If he’s lazy, give him a good beating every so often. That’s what he needs.’

  ‘You may not think it much, but it’s a lot better than other fires I’ve seen,’ the coroner said. ‘Anyway, you should pity those without a fire this fine morning.’

  ‘There can’t be many who survive without a fire at this time of year,’ Baldwin said. ‘I suppose that man Robinet may be without one, if he has taken refuge in some quiet little out-of-the-way place.’

  ‘True. I was thinking of the girl, though. The demented one in the gaol. She’ll be suffering for her illness.’

  ‘Which? The one who killed the servant outside Langatre’s house?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know? She’s in the sheriff’s gaol. Poor little thing. The devil’s got her, right enough.’

  ‘Is she really lunatic, then?’ Simon asked with a shudder. He hated the sight of the mad, drooling and shouting at people.

  The coroner was largely of the same opinion. ‘Yes. Thought the sheriff fancied getting inside her skirts so much that he’d appreciate her killing his wife to facilitate matters. Well, she’ll have a while to reconsider her foolishness in his gaol, and then he’ll have her neck stretched.’

  Baldwin shook his head, appalled. ‘That is barbaric, though. The poor chit has a demon in her, but the sheriff should be consulting people as to the best way to remove it, not trying to have her executed for something that is beyond her control.’

  ‘Baldwin, you can’t tell us that a mad woman who has killed her friend and now wants to murder the sheriff’s wife shouldn’t be kept secure.’

  ‘Secure, yes – in a hospital where her demons can be exorcised without harming her any more. She is no more responsible for her actions in harming the other servant than we are, if she has a demon inside her.’

  The coroner grunted affably. ‘You are too kind-hearted for your own good, Keeper. Look, she must be guilty of some gross sin to be afflicted with this. Either some perversion or a crime. Why else would God have visited this dreadful punishment on her? Better, probably, that she is simply hanged.’

  ‘What, would you punish the child for something she cannot be held responsible for? It is madness indeed to hang her for an act that was the responsibility of the demon inside her,’ Baldwin declared.

  ‘What would you do, then?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Why not bring her to the c
athedral with us? Ask the bishop whether he can do something to cure her?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You are joking!’ Coroner Richard said. ‘Think what harm she could do in the church with the congregation there.’

  ‘We could do her a great deal of good, with any fortune,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘The bishop should be able to drive out her demons and save her. After all, even if she did kill the servant, she cannot be held guilty. Remove the demon and see whether she could have done it on her own.’

  Coroner Richard drained his cup, then leaned back and considered Baldwin, chewing the last of the bread ruminatively. It was a bizarre idea, but no worse than flogging the girl. And he couldn’t help but remember how small and thin and frail she had looked when she had been knocked down. Little more than a child in reality. He swallowed and decided.

  ‘Well, if you’re serious, we’d best go to the castle and tell the sheriff that we want to try it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. And his eyes went to Rob.

  At least it was only a short walk to the castle. But it was ruddy freezing, Rob told himself bitterly. The weather was miserable, too. Not wet, but it was surely colder than a witch’s tits.

  ‘Hi, boy. You getting the keeper’s breakfast?’

  He looked up to see the beadle, Elias. ‘We’ve eaten,’ he snarled. ‘I’m just off to the gaol.’

  Elias shrugged as Rob explained about the girl. ‘Your master and his friends must be mad. Easier to just have her hanged. If there’s a demon inside her, that’d let it out fast enough!’

  Rob nodded as he carried on his way. Yeah, it would be better. At least he could have stayed by the fire then, rather than trudging through the cold and damp to the castle.