The Malice of Unnatural Death: (19 page)

‘Well done, Bailiff. I don’t know that I would have survived without your help.’

Simon yawned. All he knew was that as soon as the fire
was roaring and he had toasted himself before it for a short while, he was going to settle down in the shelter and sleep. He was exhausted.

‘What did you say about the spirits of the rocks at that place on the moors?’ Rob asked after a few moments. He was feeding
the fire steadily, cracking smaller twigs between his fingers to build up a bed of ash. Already the first outer layer of twigs
was burning through, and he must hurry to construct the second cone of larger twigs.

Busse smiled to himself. ‘It is a sad tale of the misbehaviour of children, I fear. One winter’s Sunday, the children from
the area went out there to play at a game of some sort. Well, we all know that playing games on a Sunday is frowned upon by God, don’t we? So He came to them, and struck them all into stone. All the little boys from a whole vill. Just think of it!’

Rob was thinking of it. His face wore a look of shock.

‘Keep feeding the fire,’ Simon called, and Rob quickly jerked back into action.

‘But why were there two circles of stones there, then?’

‘Oh, the Grey Wethers are the first circle – the second was not the children, that was some youths who also went there to
play on the Sabbath,’ Busse said. ‘And God was no more pleased with them than he was with the others.’

An owl called from deep in the woods, and Rob’s head spun towards it.

‘Don’t worry, though,’ Simon said. ‘There are no rocks in this wood. Not that I know, anyway.’

‘Oh. Good,’ Rob said, and then edged a little closer to Simon. He continued to set twigs on the fire, but now Simon could
see that his eyes were as often on the woods all about
them as on the flames.

Simon, nodding already, was only relieved to think that Rob would stay awake and keep the fire going for longer.

Robinet
was soon at Master Walter’s house, where he knocked quietly. After a short period, there came the sound of bolts being drawn,
and then the door opened a crack.

‘So you decided to come back?’

‘Walter, may I enter, please?’

‘I suppose. What’s happened to your old friend, then?’

Newt swallowed. ‘Someone murdered him out by the South Gate.’

Walter had been walking back into his hall, but on hearing that he stopped and turned slowly to Newt. ‘You kill him?’

‘Of course not!’

Walter gave him a sour look. ‘You leave here a day and a half ago, saying you were going to see the little shite, and now
he’s dead, right? And where were you last night, then?’

Robinet held out his hands, palms up. ‘You know me well enough. Would I have grabbed him from behind and strangled him with
a cord?’

‘Christ no! That would have been
my
way, not yours.’ Walter chuckled grimly. ‘You were always the kindly fellow who sought to placate people, and when you failed
you just drew your sword and stabbed them while looking them
straight in the eye. I was the devious bastard who made people disappear.’

‘So did
you
do it?’

Walter of Hanlegh turned to face him, a man slightly shorter than Newt, with a sharp, narrow face and close-set black eyes. As he met Newt’s stare, there was sadness in them, an expression almost of wistfulness, as though he missed his past calling. It had certainly paid him well over the years, as was proved by his house, a smart, new building with tiles on the floor,
a brick fireplace and his own chimney, and even a solar chamber for his bed. His clothes were finely embroidered, the shirt
made from the best linen, his hosen soft lambswool, his tunic bright and unfaded.

‘No, Newt. It was not me.’

‘Thank Christ for that, at least,’ Newt said with relief. ‘I thought you’d killed him just to save me from my stupidity.’

‘I would have – but a man has to make his own mistakes.’

‘Yes,’ Newt agreed. It did not help him learn who
had
killed James, but at least Walter had not succumbed to temptation just to help a friend. Not many men would have considered
murder purely to aid a companion, but then not many men had been assassins in the pay of the king.

They were still in the house when the beadle appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir Baldwin? Sir Richard? There’s a man here for you.’

There was a tone in his voice that Baldwin instinctively disliked: a leering, amused note that jarred.

Sir Richard was not the sort of man to notice a subtlety like that, and he shrugged, grunted, and went to the door. Baldwin
glanced at the still-anxious Langatre, and followed
him. Outside stood a sergeant, but not one of the city’s men. This was one of Sir Matthew’s.

‘Well?’ Sir Richard snapped. ‘Be quick, man! I have been working too long already today and need my rest and relaxation. You
are delaying me!’

‘Coroner, I have been told to come here to bring the necromancer to the sheriff. He is not to be tolerated any longer.’

‘He isn’t, eh?’ Sir Richard said with a sidelong look at Baldwin. ‘He is in my custody at this moment, and he’s staying with
me.’

‘Sir Matthew wants me to take him. There are some matters about him which make the sheriff demand that you turn him over to
his personal custody, sir.’

Coroner Richard’s face underwent a rapid change. The benevolent expression with which he had been surveying the world suddenly
became as bellicose as a Bishop of Winchester’s whore’s when she learns her client has no money.

‘You tell me that you are demanding this fellow when I have already said he’s safe with me?’

Baldwin quickly interjected. ‘Sir Richard, this fellow has no responsibility in the matter. He is only the messenger. Perhaps
we should go with him to see the sheriff.’

‘That man?’ Sir Richard muttered with a leery glare at the sergeant. ‘Very well.’

The sergeant walked to Langatre and took his upper arm in his fist. ‘Try anything and I’ll brain you,’ he said.

Baldwin shook his head. ‘At the moment, sergeant, he is in my and the coroner’s custody, not the sheriff’s, and not yours. You will release him now.’

‘I have my orders, sir.’

‘I have
no doubt you do. However, my orders to you are to release him. This fellow is innocent of the murder, and I for one want to
know what the sheriff wishes to speak to him for, but I will not have him paraded through the streets like a common felon. I hope that is clear.’

In the event, it was Rob who succumbed to the cold first and went into the shelter to sleep.

They had set off travelling light, but Simon always ensured that he was prepared for foul weather. He could still remember
one of his earliest experiences on the moors, when he had ridden out on his old bay rounsey and been caught by a sudden mist.

The fogs could appear from nowhere, and when they came down a man was hard pressed to know anything: the compass, his direction,
even whether he was going up-or downhill. It was disorientating to be so completely lost, and for a lad as young as he had
been, perhaps only nine years or so, quite scary.

Ever since then, he always took more clothing and provisions than he thought he might need when he crossed the moors. Usually
there was no problem for him. After all, he knew all the miners and where they lived, so in the worst case he could usually
find someone to provide him with a refuge, but every so often, like today, that was not possible. And here he was now in a
rude shelter with two others who had little experience of such affairs.

Rob’s feet looked all right in the firelight, although Simon would be happier when he had checked them again in the morning,
but he was anxious enough about the lad to give him his thicker blanket and his spare riding cloak for
protection. Rob wearily crawled into the shelter, and Simon could see him wrapping himself up before resting his head on a
thick pile of leaves. In a short space of time there was regular snoring from inside.

‘You are a very capable man,’ Busse observed after a few moments.

‘A man does what he must. Only a fool is unprepared on the moors.’

‘I can quite understand why the good Abbot Robert, bless his memory, put so much trust in you.’

‘I am grateful, but I have done nothing that any other Devon man used to the moors would not have done.’

‘Do not belittle your skills, my friend. It is plain to me that you see and understand much about this land. More than most.’

Simon shrugged. ‘I have spent a lot of time on the moors since I was a child.’

‘I have been spending as much time up here as I can since I arrived too, of course, but I’ve only been here – what? maybe
twelve, thirteen years? I have nothing like your experience.’

‘Yes, well, you are a monk. You can hardly expect to gather as much knowledge about the moors as someone who’s worked on them
for as long as me,’ Simon said uncomfortably. After all he had heard from John de Courtenay, he didn’t feel he could trust
this man, no matter that he had such an apparently amiable disposition, or that his behaviour so far had given Simon no reason
to mistrust him.

‘What would you like to do when the new abbot is installed?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.
From all I’ve seen of you, you aren’t a man suited to sitting in a customs house and counting coins. When you are in the town,
you have an appearance of frustration, as though you want to be away, but here … here you look like a man in his element.’

Simon had to control himself. It was too tempting to let his jaw drop. No one else had ever noticed his irritation and dissatisfaction
with the job in Dartmouth, he was sure. ‘I certainly like the moors,’ he said cautiously.

‘So I always believed! I never thought you were ideal for the post of keeper of the port. So, if I were to become abbot, would
you prefer me to put you back up here as bailiff? It is entirely up to you, but if you wish it, let me know and I’ll do what I can.’

‘Do you think you will win the election?’

Busse was blowing on his hands. Now he stopped and held them to the fire, looking away from Simon as he did so. His eyes were
crinkled at the corners, and he smiled faintly as he spoke.

‘Oh, don’t listen to what others say, Bailiff. Just because a man is born to a noble family doesn’t mean that he is himself
very noble. I know the sort of rumour that brother John has been spreading against me, and I will not allow it to upset me. Better, I think, for me to behave as a real monk should, and continue to perform my duties to the best of my ability, rather
than sinking to low political rumour-mongering.’

‘I didn’t mean …’ Simon began, distressed to think that he had been so transparent.

‘Of course you did, and you would be right to worry about me, too. If I were to become the new abbot, and if I were a thief
or an untrustworthy soul in any way, I would
merit caution from any man. Naturally. But I say this, Bailiff,’ and now he turned and faced Simon, still with the little
smile on his lips, but with shrewd, serious eyes, ‘I say this: I am no liar, fraud or thief. I seek only to do the best I
may for the abbey and for God. I have no other interests. However, I am driven by one consideration, one motivation that urges
me on with ever greater determination.’

Simon nodded. ‘And that is?’

‘Dear God in heaven! To keep that blasted idiot de Courtenay out of it, of course! You know how the abbey was when Abbot Robert
was first elected?’

Simon could smile at that. Abbot Robert had taken on an abbey that was collapsing under its debts. His first act had been
to borrow money to maintain the fabric of the place. And now? At his death it was probably the wealthiest institution in the
whole of Devon.

‘Precisely. The abbey is safe for now – but if brother John takes on the abbacy, how long would that last? He would spend
all he could on his wine and his hunting. Under him, I could imagine Tavistock having the best bloodlines of every rache,
alaunt and rounsey in the country, but no money to buy candles or bread! God forbid that that spendthrift and fool should
ever be in charge of the place.’

A little while later, he apologised to Simon, but begging the age of his bones and his inexperience of such long days he crawled
into the shelter and rolled himself up in his own blanket, close to Rob.

It was hard to know what was best to do in these circumstances, Simon told himself. De Courtenay had been right when he told Simon that Simon had a loyalty to the family. His father had been so devoted, it was hard for Simon to consider being even
remotely disloyal. And yet
Busse had hit the nail on the head when he spoke about the man’s interests. Simon didn’t know de Courtenay intimately, but
he was quite sure that the man would be an unmitigated disaster if he was responsible for the abbey’s finances.

However, as he crawled backwards into the shelter, his blanket and cloak in his hands, as he wrapped himself up in them and
closed his eyes, all he could see was Busse’s calm, affable face offering him the chance of throwing over life in Dartmouth
and returning here, to the moors he loved. He could live with his wife again in Lydford, see their daughter, see his little
son growing …

For that he would support any contender, no matter what John de Courtenay felt.

The sheriff’s chamber at the castle was a small, comfortable affair, but there was nothing kindly or welcoming in the sheriff’s
expression as Baldwin and the coroner entered, Langatre behind them.

‘I hear you released this man? On what grounds?’

‘Sir Matthew, it is delightful to meet you again,’ Coroner Richard declared.

‘And you. What is the meaning of releasing this man when I had ordered him arrested and brought here?’ He had stood now, and
walked past the two knights to stand staring at the wilting Langatre.

Baldwin glanced at Sir Richard, but he could see that the coroner was as bemused as he by this display of anger. ‘You had
a man ordered arrested on the basis that he had killed his servant. After a brief investigation, it was clear not only that
he had not killed his servant, but that he was himself the victim of a fierce assault, and would have died were it not
for the fact that he defended himself with vigour.’