King Arthur's Bones (25 page)

Sir Richard de Welles was one of those rare creatures, a king’s coroner who was uninterested in corruption. In the years since Baldwin had begun investigating felonies, he had known many of them, and most were little better than felons themselves: mendacious, devious and out to line their own purses. Men with honour and integrity were rare, but Sir Richard was one such. He didn’t reject corruption so much as live in a state of blindness to the possibility of it. So long as there was ale, wine and food, he was happy. But woe betide the man who did not see to the coroner’s needs.

It was his appetites for wine and ale which had served to make Baldwin’s close friend, Simon Puttock, regret ever meeting the coroner. For some reason, the coroner had taken a liking to Simon which had led to hangovers of a virulence that was quite unlike anything Simon had known before.

Baldwin had seen little of Simon recently. They had both been together much of the year so far, but now the two had been separated for some weeks. Simon had once lived near here, over at the farm north of West Sandford, before he had been given the post of bailiff on Dartmoor, but that had necessitated a move to Lydford. Baldwin missed his company.

Still, no matter what Simon thought of him, Baldwin respected the coroner’s judgement and enjoyed his good nature. And did not drink with him.

Not that he would be here yet, Baldwin knew. The journey from Exeter would take him all the morning.

Canon Arthur was anxious when he received the message as he returned to the church. Still, he must obey his master, and he bent his steps towards the dean’s house.

‘Dean? You asked for me?’

Peter Clifford was seated at his table while a dark-haired, bearded man clad in a threadbare red tunic chewed at a little bread and cold ham. The canon recognized him as the knight who had arrived to calm the crowds when Henry’s wife Agatha had been soiled in the roadway. It made him panic for a moment to see the man there.

‘Canon Arthur, I am glad you could come here so swiftly,’ Peter Clifford said. ‘Sir Baldwin here was wondering who might know of the people over at Sandford. Could you help him?’

With that, the dean offered Godspeed to them both and left them alone.

‘I feared you might have been here to complain about the dispute the other day,’ Arthur said with a slight grin.

‘No. These little matters will happen,’ Baldwin said. ‘Please, will you not be seated?’

His questions were concerned entirely with the running of the little vill of Sandford, the quality of the men there, and especially the reeve, Arthur was pleased to learn. He furnished Baldwin with a full list of the senior men of the vill. ‘Ulric the reeve is a strong fellow. Hob is a strange fellow: I cannot ever get away from the impression that he is embarrassed about something when I meet him.’

‘You go there often?’

‘I am responsible for the manors about there which provide us with much of our foods.’ He nodded. ‘I often travel up there and beyond to the granges and barns to ensure that all is well. Hob runs the tavern in the vill, and I stop there for lunch on occasions.’

‘I see. I trust you avoid West Sandford though.’

‘Hmm? Why?’

‘Surely you would keep away from Henry of Copplestone’s house?’

‘Oh, him. Yes. Well, I do for now. But he is a reasonable man, generally. As a merchant, he and I will do business occasionally. I am sure that this affair will blow over.’

‘The matter of Henry’s wife’s dress?’

‘No! That was a mere accident. No, I was thinking of this problem about the sheep. A small flock of mine was allowed to wander, and it ate all his pea crop in an afternoon before anyone saw.’

‘That was why the dispute, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘Yes.’

It was a short ride.

Baldwin’s road followed the River Creedy, curling around eastwards for some way, before leaving the manor’s park and rising up again. The church was prominent before him, with a scattering of little cottages about it, some with smoke rising from holes in the thatch to give a welcoming appearance in this thin rain. It pattered on his cloak as he rode, and he pulled his hood over his head, musing on the dean’s words as he left the church.

‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Baldwin had said, tugging on gloves while waiting for his horse.

‘You are always welcome here.’

‘One thing, though. You have heard of the matter of Henry of Copplestone’s troubles. Why do you not compensate him for his losses?’

Peter had been still a moment, and he would not meet Baldwin’s eye. ‘What did you think of young Arthur?’

Baldwin was baffled, but if his friend chose to change the subject he would not embarrass him by harping on. ‘He seemed a pleasant enough fellow. Quite efficient and organized.’

‘One must always be aware of younger canons,’ Dean Peter said. ‘They can be more prone to temptations than older men. And he is very aware of his name.’

It had been a curious comment to make, but Baldwin’s horse was being brought to him even as Peter spoke, and in a few minutes Baldwin had mounted and was trotting from the church’s precinct.

The journey was mercifully short. Sandford was fortunate in its location. The lands to the south and west were fertile, with the good, red soil of the area, not that much could be seen now. Everywhere was smothered with plants. Beyond there were orchards, with apples, pears, some cherry trees and others. Here at the side of the road was the vill’s coppice, and men were in there in the rain, hacking away, and only stopping when they saw him. Some stood still and eyed him suspiciously, dark eyes peering from beneath brims.

The road rose up the next hill, but before the crest was a track that passed off to the left. This was a narrower way that suddenly widened into a broad triangular market space. Uncobbled, it was muddy where the grass had been trampled. A road led up to his right from here, up the hill to the church, while another wound off to the left. That, he knew, led to West Sandford and beyond. Simon’s old farm was itself off in that direction. But directly ahead of him was the tavern.

It was not a large building. Little more than a cottage built of cob and thatch on top of a raised mound that sloped steeply down to the muddy roadway. Once it might have been a longhouse, a Devon farmhouse with one area for family living and a second for animals. No longer, though. From the piles of broken timbers and the heap of small stones, it looked as though there had been a structural failure, and the end wall replaced with fresh stones and cob to seal it.

Even had he not known where the murder had been committed the day before, Baldwin would have been able to guess. All about the door to the tavern were the vill’s men and women. Baldwin rode to the edge of the road where a small oak stood, and tethered his mount to a low branch before making his way to the men.

The reeve here was a quiet, usually cheery fellow of middle height, with an open, red face like a ripe apple. Unusually for this area, he had blue eyes and straw-coloured hair, which he kept wedged under a woollen cap, but now he removed it as Baldwin approached, holding it in his two hands. ‘Sir Baldwin, I hope I find you well?’

‘I hope I see you well also, good Ulric.’

‘I am well enough, Sir Knight.’

‘And your wife?’

‘She thrives, Sir Baldwin. And yours?’

Baldwin continued with the lengthy introductions, although he was keen to see the body. There was much for him to be working on when he returned home, and the unpleasant dampness dribbling down his back was a reminder that it would be good to get indoors and out of this downpour, thin though it may be. And yet he would need this man’s help. Ulric was the reeve for a wide area about here, responsible for the vill here at Sandford, and the hamlets at West Sandford, and some five miles all about. Ulric knew all the men personally within that area, and he would be essential as a helper. But Baldwin knew that Ulric had one failing: the man was a menace for the correct behaviour. He would panic if there was the faintest hint of impropriety. For him, to hurry through the greetings would be an insult to him and to the visitor.

At last, when Baldwin felt the man should be content with the health of his wife, his children, his hounds, hawks and stables, he felt ready to ask where the body lay.

‘He’s not been moved, Sir Baldwin. Just in here, if you please.’

He led the way into the tavern. It was a small room, only shoulder height at the walls, but rising up into the thatch overhead. At the middle was a series of planks laid over the beams that held the roof trusses together, which Baldwin knew would be the tavern-keeper’s bed. It was a scant foot over his head, and Baldwin only hoped it was safe. It didn’t look it.

Ulric continued through the building to where a second low door stood ajar.

Inside was a small storeroom and brewhouse. The further wall held a waist-high furnace, with a copper fitting tightly into the stonework over it. A series of barrels lay off to the left, while sacks of grain hung from rafters nearby, off the ground to prevent them growing damp or getting attacked by rodents. The room held the warm, sweet odour of malt, mingled with the more obvious scents of death. And the smell Baldwin recalled so well – burned human flesh.

Baldwin had seen deaths of all kinds in his life. He had witnessed the easy deaths of older men and women, he had witnessed executions, he had seen the slow, agonizing death throes of those dying of starvation, and brutal slaughter during ferocious battles before he began to investigate murders. But when he saw who had died here, he felt a pang of regret. It was rare that he would meet a murder victim only a short while before his death, and when Baldwin met this man, all he had done was insult him.

‘Where’s his friend?’ he said as he squatted near the body.

‘He had none here,’ Ulric said. ‘He came here alone, and died alone.’

‘No? I saw him in Crediton, and there he was travelling with a Welshman.’ Baldwin looked down again. ‘It was a hard death.’

Ulric shook his head sadly. ‘There are few easy ways to die, but whoever did this . . .’

The body was lying near a wall. Gagged with a cloth, his cheeks were distended, his eyes staring madly in a face that was grey and bloodless in the cold light. His left hand had scrabbled madly in the dirt of the floor, while his legs had been held still by a sack of grain dropped on to them. A trickle of malt had run out and now mingled with the blood that had puddled on the ground.

But the right arm was what took Baldwin’s attention.

‘Have you seen his hand?’ Ulric asked in a fearful undertone.

Baldwin glanced at him. Where the hand had been there was only a bloody stump. Nothing more. ‘Where is it?’

‘Sir Baldwin! Hah! In God’s name, I am glad to see you. How is your wife, eh? The daughter still growing strong and fit? I’ll be bound your little boy’s nothing less than a chip off the old block, eh? Let’s hope the little devil doesn’t have to rest his head on one himself before he’s twenty, though, eh? Ha! No need for the headsman’s axe there, eh?’

This was all delivered at a volume that would have drowned the hucksters at Exeter’s market. Baldwin could almost feel the words assaulting his ears as Coroner Sir Richard de Welles threw his reins to a boy, lifted his leg over his horse’s neck, kicked his other foot free of the stirrup and sprang to the ground as lightly as a man fifteen years younger.

Sir Richard was not so young. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that was made to smile, he was a powerful man who wore a thick beard and moustache. He was a kindly soul, though, who had seen much of life. He was often surprisingly sympathetic to victims, because he had seen sadness in his time, losing his young wife when he was still very young, yet he always attempted to see the best in life. There were few situations in which he would not find a grain of humour, and for that if nothing else Baldwin was fond of him. His other traits, bellowing at people as though all peasants were deaf, telling appalling jokes and playing practical jokes when he could, were less endearing.

‘Where’s the stiff, then, eh?’

‘Through here,’ Ulric said starchily. He had not yet been introduced, and he felt that this was an insult to his reeve’s dignity. A reeve was the most senior representative of his area, and for Ulric to be ignored was bound to have been noticed by some of the local villeins. They would make fun of him for this.

‘You are?’

‘I am Ulric, reeve of Sandford.’

‘Master Ulric, you have my apology. I have travelled far today, and was so glad to see my friend Sir Baldwin that I entirely forgot myself. Master, would you do me the honour of showing me the corpse? And if you could let me know his name and anything else you know of him, I would be most grateful. And while we are viewing the unfortunate, if you would be so good as to suggest to the good alewife here that a man who’s ridden close on twenty miles for a sight of a body is likely to have a parched throat, I’d be even more glad. A man could die of thirst here and lose his voice before a body stirred to help him, I dare say.’

Ulric hesitated, overwhelmed by the effusive friendliness as much by the bellowing voice, before waving to Hob and hurriedly leading the way into the back room.

‘Not pleasant,’ Sir Richard said, peering down at the body. ‘Who did it?’

Ulric shook his head. ‘We have no idea.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A pardoner, sir. He arrived here yesterday, no earlier, and came alone. Nobody in the vill knew him, so far as I know. His accent was not local. And I’ve travelled.’

Sir Richard tilted his head to one side and cocked an eye at Baldwin.

‘I think he is right,’ Baldwin intervened quickly before Sir Richard could make a joke about a reeve’s potential journeys. Few would see more than a radius of some twenty miles about their vill in their lifetime, but he knew that Ulric had fought in the king’s wars. ‘I have myself met this fellow, only the day before yesterday. He was in Crediton then. I noticed that he had an accent from the north. I would think he might have hailed from Bristol, or somewhere about that way.’

‘You get his name?’

‘I think it was John.’

‘No need to worry about proving he was local, then. Just a murdrum fine and the usual amercements,’ Sir Richard grunted.