The Malice of Unnatural Death: (13 page)

‘I’ve only ever witnessed wounds like that on men who were attacked by those who had grudges. It’s the sort of cut that a
man who is serious about murder would inflict. No doubt about his intention, eh?’

Baldwin shook his head. He hunkered down again and studied the body carefully. ‘Did you know him yourself?’ he asked the watchman.

‘Quite well.’

‘Is there anything about him that strikes you as odd? Anything at all – his clothes, his flesh – anything?’

The guard drew down the corners of his mouth and stared at Baldwin a moment, then gazed down at Mucheton. ‘Well, there is
one thing. All the years I’ve known him, he’s always had a pin in his cloak. A big one, you know, like a brooch. He said it
was his good luck pin. He made it when he was an apprentice.’

‘And
it’s not here.’

‘No, sir.’

Rising, Baldwin stared down at the ground, at the pool of vomit, the man’s body, the blood, and once again he had that unpleasant
feeling that he was exposed here, and in danger.

John of Nottingham heard the men before he reached the front door. His shriek of agony as his shoulder was scorched had attracted
the attention of people outside. He looked about him coolly, then rushed up the stairs and found a small bed chamber. It was
adequate. He could hide here.

The chamber was tiny, much like his own grim room. That was a pathetic little cell, in reality. Probably only half the size
of his last place in Coventry, but adequate for all that. Illumination came from a shaft in the ceiling, over near the road,
and because there was a wide space before his building there was a fair amount of light entering. It was unnecessary for him
to have candles down there until dusk came, and then he must shut up the space under the shaft as he lit them so that anyone
walking past wouldn’t notice him.

Damp walls; two rotten tables, their tops scrubbed and salted to clean them of the filth of the years; a single stool for
him; a low truckle bed in the corner, with a palliasse set atop; a box full of the essentials.

Men were rushing about downstairs now. He grimaced, listening. There was little for him to do. Instead he gingerly settled
himself on a stool and began to tease his clothing from his shoulder, wincing and drawing in his breath as he did so, shivering
with the pain. Only fear of discovery could give him the strength to do so without a whimper and as he
gazed at the terrible mess of his shoulder beneath his shirt, he closed his eyes.

The fierce heat of the shards of pottery had burned his robe and then the foul concoction within had soaked into the material,
searing his flesh. It was red and weeping already. There would be a terrible soreness there, he knew. Without medications,
he must simply endure it, though.

He must not sit here all day. He had to return to his own little chamber and get on with his project. There was much to be
done: the wax must be shaped and moulded, and then he would have to begin his period of fasting and prayer before taking the
necessary steps to ensure the success of this venture. It would be difficult, strenuous even, but he was sure that it would
be worth it. After all, his new patrons had offered the same money as that which he had been promised in Coventry – another
twenty pounds to add to the deposit given by the men up there.

Grunting to himself, he rubbed his stomach. The fasting would begin today. There was no point in delaying matters. He had
to get on with the job. Especially now he had won the tools he needed so badly.

As soon as the noise below had abated, he would get out of this place and back to his own. There was much to be done.

The
sheriff’s wife, Madam Alice, was a willowy blond woman, with the body of a girl hardly out of her teens. All who saw her were
impressed by her gentle, soft demeanour, her excellent manners, her flawless pale complexion, the eyes of clear grey with
little flecks of hazel, and her steadiness. There was a stillness about her as she listened to others, as she spoke to them
– as she did anything – that was almost unworldly.

Women would mutter grimly about her, saying that there was something ‘not right’ about her. For a woman who was nearly into
her thirty-first year, such calmness and cool beauty, such an unmarred figure, seemed frankly
wrong
. She looked as though she had made use of spells to keep herself young.

Their husbands would agree with their wives. They would look at Madam Alice sternly, eyeing her perfect oval face with the
little rounded chin, her soft, slightly pouting lips that somehow always contrived to look moist, and they would turn back
to their own women with gestures of concern. But in their minds they had all undressed that youthful figure, they had weighed
her heavy breasts in their hands and kissed her flat stomach.

Alice
knew that she was the source of jealousy amongst the women of the city, and she knew that their menfolk desired her. It was
nothing to her. She was content with her man, and if none of the women wished for her friendship, that was no matter. There
were plenty of others who enjoyed her company. The difference was, they were not the rather tatty women from this little provincial
city, but the wives of noblemen. She had even been introduced to Queen Isabella herself on two occasions. No, she had no interest
in other men.

The castle was a hotbed of intrigue. She rather supposed it was like the household of the king himself, if a copy in miniature. There were other places which might have been the same size, with similar enormous expenditure in food and drink and cloth
– the household of Sir Hugh Despenser sprang immediately to mind – but few could rival Exeter for the sheer enthusiasm of
her disputes. Arguments ran on between the city and the cathedral, between the cathedral and the friars, between the friars
and the monks, between the friars and the city … there was no aspect of city life which was not constantly running contrary
to another.

It was a source of amusement to her that so many people strove so hard to make their little marks on the world. Surely any
one of them could see that it was pointless. Great people carved out great lives, and little people from a place like this
were correspondingly dull and little in comparison. She was born to greatness because she had come from a great family. Her
father was the famous Lord Maurice Berkeley.

From her earliest years she had been highly aware of her position. It was impossible not to be. Her father ranked amongst
the most powerful in the realm, and his army was
one of those which was most often called upon to support the king. Every year, so it seemed, while she grew up, the family
had a ritual sending off of the young men, the knights, esquires, men-at-arms and all their servants, as they answered the
call to help the king defend his realm or attack his enemies. Each year the army would gather, and then drift off, more commonly
than not heading northwards, the sprawling mass of men and horses consuming hundreds of yards of roadway, churning the surface
into a foul mixture of mud, discarded bones and broken pots, dung and human faeces. Once, when she was very young, she had
overheard her mother exclaim that it was a relief to see them all go: there had been scarcely enough food to keep the men
fed at the castle and estates, and now that they were gone they could steal provisions from the vills through which they passed
and leave the household’s stores alone.

It had been a militaristic upbringing. She had known how to wield a sword and dagger from an early age; she learned both at
the same time as her brother. Although her father had no sympathy for women who sought to equal the prowess of their brothers,
he was content to see his child learn how to protect herself. There were few enough defences for a woman in this rough world. Teaching her skill with arms was one of the best methods of seeing his child safe.

Not that there was much safety these days even for her family. Poor Father! He was in his castle much of the time now. Once,
only four years ago, he had been so trusted that he had been given the post of seneschal of Gascony and the duchy of Aquitaine
– the king’s own representative and commander-in-chief of the king’s forces there in his absence. It had been a wonderful
time for the whole family. Ah! She had been so proud.

Not
now. Since the king appeared to have lost his mind – not a happy thought, and not one which could safely be repeated to anyone
now that his spies were everywhere, but true, nonetheless – and had provoked the war against the Lords Marcher, her father’s
fall from grace had been inevitable. The only source of consolation was the fact that her father had surrendered and avoided
involvement in the battle of Boroughbridge. So many of his friends and their sons had perished either at the battle itself,
or in the reprisals that occurred up and down the country afterwards. Even here at Exeter there were the remains of one or
two knights who were thought to have been involved, still hanging from a post outside the South Gate. Almost all the cities
in the land had their own reminders of the king’s brutal retaliation.

She had known King Edward II. The man had never struck her as particularly cruel. It seemed strange to think that he could
have so changed. Unless it was those devils in human guise, the Despensers. It was much easier to think of them as being responsible
for the killings. They, father and son, were so avaricious, they would take a widow and torture her to have her sign away
her rightful possessions to them. Like poor Madam Baret.

But no matter who was responsible for it, the fact remained that her father stayed in his castle. He was under suspicion because
a few of his knights
had
gone to Boroughbridge: Sir Thomas Gournay and Sir John Maltravers, to mention only two, had been forced to fly the realm
and find new lives abroad as free-lances. At least there were always places for a man to fight and earn a living, thanks be
to God.

What was less pleasant was to reflect on the fate of her
brother, also called Maurice. He had been implicated in the looting of Despenser lands and estates, and as soon as the Despensers
had survived the last wars they had returned filled with wrath to avenge themselves on those who had taken their plate and
plundered their treasure-houses. Maurice had simply disappeared, and although it was rumoured that he was hiding somewhere
in the country, no one could find him.

She walked into the main hall of the castle, where her husband sat working with his steward, the undersheriff, and his keeper
and returner of writs. Madam Alice nodded to her husband, but paid no attention to the scribblers with him. They were only
servants of one kind or another, when all was said and done.

‘Wife.’

She smiled at him. ‘I shall be walking about the town shortly, husband. Do you wish for anything from the market?’

He waved a hand in bland denial. ‘No, I have all I need, my love.’

‘Then I shall see you later.’

She turned and left the hall, and behind her heard the sound of the men talking again, the gruff tone of the keeper and returner
of writs, the laugh of the undersheriff, but there was nothing in her mind, as she walked from the hall down to the courtyard
and out into the open, grassed area between the castle and the city, other than her coming meeting.

If she had seen the expression of black distrust on her husband’s face, she would have paused to wonder what might have caused
it.

Before
they left, Baldwin sucked at his bottom lip and took one last look at the body of Mucheton.

‘Was he married? A sweetheart?’

‘I think he was married, yes, but I don’t know the woman myself.’

‘Send someone to find her, and bring news of her to me at the Talbot’s Inn.’

‘I can’t leave my place here, though’.

‘I will send a man to replace you here,’ Baldwin said. ‘You need to be rested.’

He walked slowly after the coroner. Sir Richard took him down the alley towards the South Gate. As they reached the messenger’s
body once more, Baldwin shook his head, eyes narrowed.

‘I find it very peculiar that the bishop could not tell us his name. And it is more strange still that the fellow should die
within a short while of being in receipt of a message from the bishop. But for now, what we need to do is speak to all those
who have had anything to do with his fellow’s death. As soon as you have held the inquest, I should have him carried away
to the nearest church ready for his burial, poor soul.’

‘HOI!’
the coroner boomed back at Thomas. ‘You! What is the name of the man who found this fellow? Older man, looked like a hare
that’s been chased by the hounds too long?’

‘It was Will Skinner, the watchman from the gate.’

‘Does he live there?’ Baldwin glanced at the gatehouse and again felt like a man about to enter an ambush. It made a chill
wash through his frame, and he had to wrap his arms about his breast to calm the shiver that threatened. And then
he saw something. In a low window to the left of the main gate, he was sure that he caught a fleeting glimpse of a pale face. He kept his eyes on that little gap as he listened to the response.

‘Next to it, in that small cottage, aye. But he’ll be asleep by now, I reckon.’

‘Really?’ the coroner said. ‘How quaint.’

His manner was one of simple amusement, but Baldwin did not feel the same lightness of spirit. The sun was being smothered
by some grey, unwholesome-looking clouds as they made their way to the gate, and Baldwin kept his eyes on the window all the
way until the opening was out of sight, wondering who had been watching. It didn’t matter: surely it was only a child watching
the two king’s officers at work, or perhaps a servant.

No, he must put the thing from his mind. Feeling a pattering on his head, he looked up to see a fine spattering of hail falling
from the leaden clouds. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the day, he thought as they reached the door. The keeper of the
gate lived in the rooms built into the gateway itself, but the watchman had directed them to a small building to the right
of the roadway, a ramshackle affair that was almost a lean-to shed with a thick roof of thatch sorely in need of patching
or renewal.