King Arthur's Bones (24 page)

Ach! In his heart John had hoped Huw would have followed on after him, hopefully meeting him again at Sandford, but Huw hadn’t turned up. John would have to get used to walking about the country on his own in future. Well, he’d done it often enough before. Huw had suggested that they stay together because two men on the road were safer than one alone, but down here in the wild country west of Exeter, it was Huw who would be most in danger. At least the folk here were John’s countrymen, even if they did sound a little outlandish to his ear. It was a pity, though. Huw had been a good travelling companion.

John had had a good afternoon. The parish priest, an older man with grey hair fringing his tonsure, had appeared to be glad to meet him when he had arrived at the tiny little hamlet of Sandford. He had known he was on to a good thing long before he met Father William, though, as soon as he saw the great church up ahead of him on the rise. A church like that was a guarantee of cash in a pardoner’s pocket.

It was a good day for a walk. Made a nice change after some of the weather he’d endured in his time. Sweet Jesu, the march from Wales had been God-cursed. Lousy weather, rain in his face the whole way, his hat, the one he’d bought in Chartres, blowing away and snagging in a tree near a cliff so precipitous he’d not dared attempt a rescue, because all the while he was overwhelmed by the fear that his pursuers might catch him. That was petrifying.

But they hadn’t. He had survived again, and reached this delightful little vill with the red-sandstone church. Such a prosperous-looking church it was, too. The sort of place where a man might find people in abundance with money to throw about.

And from his reception, clearly there were more than the average number of sinners there.

He had taken his position with some care, standing before the alehouse with his cross, once he had spoken to the priest. The man was utterly content to have him there, naturally. His eyes had lit up like candles when he heard the proposal. And from that moment, John knew his fortune was made, even if the priest wouldn’t let him preach from his own pulpit. The bishop was not eager to have pardoners make use of his churches, but this was only a chapel of ease. This was a fine distinction, John knew, but any distinction was better than none.

Leaving the chapel, he saw an urchin standing with some friends. He was a scruffy, grubby little boy with the face of a demon and the manners of a stoat, but at the sight of a clipped penny the brat took John’s drum and began to beat a steady rhythm, following John down the little hill to his post outside the alehouse. Soon he had a small audience with him, and John could begin his sermon.

He had soared to new heights. Usually the feeling of being a foreigner would make him anxious. So often the ignorant churls wouldn’t understand what he was talking about, even when he was being as slow as possible, trying to explain every point clearly and concisely. And the mere act of careful enunciation highlighted his sense of strangeness, his alienness compared with the folk here. It made him feel this was a dangerous part of the country.

Country folk were the hardest, of course. They tended to stand by, surly and grim-faced, while he spoke, mistrusting the sight and sound of a different accent. Ach! They’d distrust a man who came from a vill two miles away, most of them. Give him a good city crowd for preference. They would admire his rhetoric, laugh at his sallies, and some would even pay him extra if his delivery had been good enough.

It wasn’t generally true of bumpkins. Where a city dweller appreciated that he would sometimes be fleeced, but still enjoyed the spectacle, the countryman would jealously guard his purse. The idea uppermost in his mind was generally that he was being rooked, and no villein liked to feel himself to be a gull.

Not so here, though. The people appeared uniformly cheery. There was nothing thrown at him. The boys, and even some of the women, heckled him good-naturedly, while the men openly laughed at his more risqué jokes. It was reassuring. Such attitudes spoke of money. And only the comfortably off could afford to commit sins, in his opinion. He always preferred wealthier crowds. The poor were too desperate for their next meal to bother with pardons.

When he lifted the parchment, all laden down with seals from bishops, damn his soul if a maid at the front didn’t swoon! It was the most perfect day he’d known in a long while. It was all downhill from there.

First the more easily swayed came to the front, some with their money all ready, others with rings or other tokens, and he’d passed out the vellum with enthusiasm. Each promised a period of thirty days, remission of sins after payment. Soon he’d have to buy some more vellum, if things kept going like this.

The second group arrived when the first were flagging. He had seen it all too often. While the first enthusiastic crush pressed forward, others would curl their lips, roll their eyes and otherwise demonstrate their contempt for the poor hopeful fools who were so keen to throw their money at a stranger.

That was when he would bring out his pride and joy. While the women and children snatched at their vellum, he slowly reached into his purse while watching the doubters at the back, and then bring out the feather. ‘Behold this! Granted to me by the Bishop of Bath and Wells!’ he roared, holding it aloft. Bath and Wells was far enough away, he reckoned, for it to be safe to tell a fib about the bishop down here.

‘What of it? A goose feather!’

‘“What of it,” you say? You dare suggest that this marvellous white plume is that of a common goose? Nay, friend. This is a feather from the wings of the angel Gabriel himself! Aye, but if you doubt my words, like Thomas, then you may leave well alone. Stay there at the back where you are safe, and see what miracles you miss!’

‘Get on! It’s a quill from the goose you stole – the one you ate last night, from the look of your gut, Pardoner!’

But the comment was jocular, not sour, and the sight was enough to bring a few more forward. Only a few. Others still waited at the back, several of them eyeing him with some admiration, like men who listened to the patter of a street seller, enjoying the atmosphere created.

That was when he brought out the bones, one by one, and let all see them, holding them in his cupped hands. And when he announced that they were King Arthur’s, the crowds were hushed in awe.

For a moment anyway, John reminded himself, contentedly rattling the coins in his purse. In his experience the longer the silent hesitation, the more money he would garner later. There was plenty here, and soon he would have more. He was a very happy man that night.

Which was good, because it was his last.

Hob of Oxford pulled the apron from his belly as the last guests left his little tavern. It had been a good day, all in all, what with the pardoner appearing and drawing in all the folk from the vill. They’d listened, and once he’d talked them out of their money they’d all come into Hob’s house to spend some more.

There were no two ways about it. The pardoner had made him a goodly sum of money. And while the fellow had taken some of Hob’s own in exchange for the little strip of vellum, that was not expensive. Especially for the peace of mind it gave him. He needed it.

Closing the door, he shoved the wooden peg into the wood above the latch to lock it before clearing the last of the cups and jugs from the floor where they had been discarded. He banked up the fire, kicking the embers into a small pile, and sank his backside down to rest on a stool nearby. It had been a long day, and his legs were killing him. A jug of ale at his side, he sipped contentedly, yawning and scratching at his beard while he considered the work he must do in the morning.

He was wryly contemplating an early morning’s start when he heard the faint noise. It was a scritching, scratching noise, and seemed to come from behind him.

This was not a large tavern. Two rooms only sufficed for the vill’s needs, and while Hob had a bed up in the rafters here, over the fire where it was warm, the room at the back was where he occasionally allowed travellers to sleep. It was where the pardoner was resting. Surely it was only that fellow, he told himself. Probably striking a light with flint and tinder. Needed a light to find his way to the pot. Not surprising, the amount the man had put away. Not many could drink so much. Of course, Hob was to blame. He shouldn’t have offered all the ale the man could drink in exchange for his strip of vellum.

Grunting, he rose, emptied the last of his jug over the glowing coals and stepped away as the steam fumed. Only when he was sure the fire was dead did he begin to make his way to the ladder that gave access to his upper chamber.

But there was a curious odour in the air. A scent of burning that was odd. It was not natural. All about him was the fug of his damp hearth, but for some reason he could also smell fresh woodsmoke. It was an abnormal smell. Peculiar, odd, out of place. It was enough to make him pause at the bottom of his ladder, frowning and peering about him. And then he heard another noise, some sort of clattering or something.

He didn’t want to check. The man was just soused, that was all. He’d probably fallen over. But if he’d collapsed and puked, he might die. And he could have knocked over his pot of piss. The smell of that would reek in a day or so if he had. Ach! Better to see what the dull-witted prickle had done.

Taking a rushlight from its holder on the wall, he used it to light a candle. There was no need for silence, not if the sot was so mazed he had fallen over. Hob threw open the door, and it was only then, as the light from his candle illuminated the chamber, that he realized what had happened, and Hob began to scream even as he fled, running from the appalled horror in John’s dead eyes.

Sir Baldwin was accustomed to being woken early.

In his youth he had joined the great Crusade which set off from England to aid the city of Acre in its hour of need. A massive army of Mamelukes had overrun the kingdom of Jerusalem and all the city states which bounded the sea, and now only Acre itself survived. But in a short time the city fell, and Baldwin was one of a tiny number of wounded men who were rescued by the Templars and brought back to health in their care. It left him with an abiding sense of commitment to the order, and he joined the knights as soon as he could to repay his debt.

Sleeping in the Temple had always been an austere experience, but sleeping here was if anything a little more . . .
rugged
, for want of a better word.

It was the spare bedchamber in his friend Dean Peter Clifford’s house in Crediton. Peter, a tall, stooped, white-haired cleric, was always pleased to provide hospitality for Baldwin when the Keeper had a need to stay in Crediton. And he was often about the town – occasionally in his capacity as Keeper, sometimes as a Justice of Gaol Delivery, occasionally for some social reason.

The banging on his door made him frown quickly though. This was not the patient, subtle knock of a servant seeking to gently arouse a sleeping guest. It was the panicked thudding of a servant who thought there was overriding need.

‘Sir Baldwin! There has been a murder. A dreadful murder!’

The canon hastened his way along the road from the church, his black robes flapping in the wind. It was cool this early in the morning, but the canon scarcely noticed, his cloak was drawn so tightly about him. In any case, when he saw his breath steaming on the morning air, it did not make him pause. A man in holy orders tended to see too much of stone slabs and tiles, usually in the middle watches of the night, and cool air held no fears for him.

He knew the way as well as he would if it were a part of the church’s lands. Up the high street, along the alleyway to the left, and then back on himself along the little track that led up the hill, before turning right again down the little lane. It ended in the large house.

It was a rough place, this. On the outskirts of the town itself, this area was the haunt of some of the poorest, and few would dare to approach without a group of men about them. Canon Arthur knew better than most how dangerous it truly was. He had been visiting this site for some months. Ever since his profitable little arrangement had begun.

The last time he had come he had felt sure that he had been followed. Afterwards the dean had grown frosty towards him, and he felt sure that his little secret was known – but there was no proof. He was sure of that.

He knocked on the door, glancing about him. Soon it opened, and he saw the narrow features of Edward of Newton, the servant of Henry of Copplestone.

It was all over in less time than a man would need to flay a rabbit. The canon hurried away from that evil place with his heart in his mouth, hoping against hope that no one saw him.

‘Well, Peter?’

The dean had been up for some while already, and he beckoned Baldwin into his little hall, asking, ‘Please, Baldwin, old friend, I am glad to see you well. You slept comfortably?’

‘Peter, there has been a crime, this lad tells me.’

Peter Clifford motioned to the boy to leave. ‘There has been a message to say that a man has been found dead in the Black Lamb at Sandford.’

‘Hob’s place? Who was it? A local?’

‘No, a foreigner, I heard. He was staying overnight with Hob, and someone killed him.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Very well. I must go there, I suppose.’

Peter nodded and called to his servant to bring breakfast for them both. As Keeper of the King’s Peace, it was Baldwin’s duty to try to seek out felons. When a crime was committed, his writ commanded him to seek the man ‘from vill to vill, hundred to hundred, shire to shire’, with all the posse of the county. ‘You will eat first?’

‘I’d rather not fall from my saddle from hunger,’ Baldwin said, smiling.

‘I should warn you that the coroner has also been called.’

‘That is good.’

Peter lifted his eyebrows and gazed pensively at the jug as his bottler poured two mazers of wine. ‘Ah. Perhaps. It is Sir Richard de Welles.’

There were few names that would strike such a reaction in a man’s breast, Baldwin reflected later as he jogged along the muddy trail from the church, up the steep hill behind and down past the Creedy manor house to Sandford itself.