The Malice of Unnatural Death: (20 page)

‘And he convinced you of that, did he?’

‘Show him your neck, lad,’ Coroner Richard rumbled.

Langatre obediently lifted his hands to his throat, but the sheriff knocked them away.

‘I don’t care what fatuous evidence you have given these two good knights. I know who you are and what you do, man. I won’t
have your kind in this county, and for now I want you held in my gaol until the little matter of your guilt or innocence has
been confirmed to
my
satisfaction. Take him down, sergeant!’

Baldwin protested. ‘Sheriff, this man is innocent. You cannot seriously believe that he could have killed his servant. I have
seen the scene myself, and it accords in every detail with this man’s evidence. If you hold him here, the people in his road
will assume that he is guilty, and his life will become impossible.’

The sheriff watched his sergeant ungently pulling the shocked Langatre through the door and closing it after them. ‘You may
feel that this is unjust, Sir Baldwin, but it’s only the latest in a series of insanities, so far as I am concerned. However, I have a writ from the king himself demanding that people such as this Langatre should be arrested and presented to him.’

‘Where is this writ?’ Sir Richard grated.

The sheriff looked at him with surprise – although Baldwin was not sure whether it was because the coroner had questioned
his veracity, or merely that he didn’t think the coroner could read. Whatever the reason, he had soon pulled out a small parchment
with the king’s seal broken on it. He passed the small cylinder to Sir Richard, who unrolled it, his eyes all the while on
the sheriff, as though doubting
that the man was safe.

‘Good God in heaven!’

‘Yes,’ the sheriff said. ‘Dated the sixth of November at Westminster.’

‘What does it say?’ Baldwin asked at last, frustrated beyond tolerance.

‘There has been an attempt on the life of the king and the Despensers. All those who could have had anything to do with it
are to be held.’

‘You say that this pathetic little man who pretends to be able to make magic – that this little fellow might be involved in
assassinating the king?’ Baldwin asked.

‘According to the king’s messenger, the dead man, the fellow responsible for this attempt to assassinate them was a man called John of Nottingham, who was living in Coventry at the time,’ the sheriff admitted. ‘But that does not mean others were not
themselves involved.’

‘You mean even a man so far away as here in Exeter?’ Baldwin said, and chuckled.

‘You find it amusing?’

‘I find the idea that you could think him guilty very amusing!’

‘Langatre had sold his services to many clients. He is known to conjure spirits to tell him the future, as well as summoning
demons to do his bidding.’

‘And yet an assassin could almost have his head off with a string?’

‘There is little to laugh about,’ the sheriff said. He took the parchment from Sir Richard’s hand. ‘This message was delivered,
ordering me to arrest those who could have had a part in a magical attempt on the lives of the king and his favourite companions,
and a short while later the messenger
was found throttled. That, to me, seems a great coincidence. And in matters of the law, I don’t like coincidences, Sir Baldwin. Especially when they affect my lord the king.’

Walter
drew a large jug from the barrel of strong ale at the rear of his buttery, and poured two pottery drinking horns full. Passing
one to Robinet, he lifted his own and they clashed them, the ale inside splashing about and spattering the floor.

Drinking deeply, Walter eyed his old friend over the brim. ‘So, come, now. What is all this about? Who’d want to kill that
youngster?’

‘I don’t know. He wasn’t known here in Exeter.’

‘He was hardly known anywhere, was he?’

‘This way, no. He tended to get the circuits north of London, rather than the longer ones westwards.’

Both men knew how the messengers tended to work. There were two groups: the
nuncii regis
and the
cursores
. The former were the men on horseback, the latter the men on foot. Both would cover the same distance in a day, about thirty-five
miles, because a man with a horse would have to allow the beast a certain amount of rest, while a man on foot could keep going
all day.

‘Was he booted or horsed when you knew him?’

‘When he was under my wing, he was mostly on horseback. He didn’t start out like me.’

‘Those
fellows have it too easy,’ Walter said, refilling their horns. After another toast, he glared at the floor thoughtfully.

‘It is strange for a messenger to be harmed in any way whatever. You know that.’

‘Aye, I do. I’ve only heard of one being molested, and that was by the Scots, I think.’

‘Few would dare cause such offence to the king himself.’

‘Yet someone did.’

Newt nodded, and leaned his elbows on his thighs. ‘What is odd is that when I woke up this morning, I was in a small stable,
and my knife was beslobbered with dried blood.’

‘He bled?’

‘I heard he was strangled, but later stabbed as though to make sure. And someone had cut off a finger or two.’

Walter scowled. ‘This grows more and more unpleasant.’ Yes, confusing. The messenger was a pathetic little fellow – he’d seen
him with Newt on that first day, when he walked straight into Newt. Walter wasn’t impressed by the fact that he stood up to Newt. That could well have been terror rather than courage. Walter had seen it before, with men who were startled. When they
reacted, they could sometimes behave as though bold as a knight in a tournament, when in truth they were simply acting.

Newt shook his head. ‘There’s something about this. He didn’t deserve it. He screwed me, I know, but he didn’t deserve to
be throttled and left out there.’

‘No one does, Newt. No one ever does,’ Walter said, and his eyes were black wells of memory as he spoke.

It was very late when they returned to the Suttonsysyn, and the innkeeper was not welcoming, but the coroner made full use
of his size and anger, and soon they had a table in a quiet corner with a jug of the inn’s best ale and two large cups, while
a servant was sent to see what food was still available.

‘What do you think?’ Baldwin said as soon as they were alone.

‘Me? That prickle has something on his mind. This is nothing to do with the poor sod found dead, or I’m not from Welles. Ballocks
to that! No, the blasted idiot thinks that he can gain advantage with the king if he holds that poor dolt, and if the good
sheriff sees profit in it, he’ll do it. I know him of old.’

‘So do I, and I hate to think that I might one day be at his mercy,’ Baldwin said. ‘If there has truly been an attempt on
the king’s life, and that of his … friend, then you may be assured that our little necromancer here will be sent to the
king.’

‘I would not reckon his chances, were he to be sent before the Despenser, not if it’s true that the Despenser thought his
life had been endangered by a magician,’ Sir Richard said.

‘I think not,’ Baldwin said, with a sense of inner relief. It was always a fearsome thing to talk openly to another about
the king and his favourite. The rumour was that the King and Despenser were lovers, but that could well have been nonsense. However, the power and authority of Despenser was something that could not be forgotten. He had a long arm, and an infinite
ability for hatred, so Baldwin had heard. Merely discussing him was hazardous, for if another overheard their conversation,
and they were derogatory about him, he could be expected to seek them out. And Despenser did not seek mere punishment: he
sought to destroy his enemies and take all their treasure for his own, impoverishing the families for ever.

‘Of
course, it is none of our business,’ the coroner muttered. ‘We were asked to help investigate the murder of a king’s messenger.’

‘Why were you here?’ Baldwin asked. Coroner Richard was not usually in Exeter. He hailed from Lifton.

‘The Sheriff asked me here for a case before the Justices of Gaol Delivery, and when the body was found I was asked to come
and view it. I suppose it was known that I was a coroner for the king’s estate, so it was fitting that I should hold inquest
on a king’s messenger.’

‘So it was known that he was a
nuncius regis
before you had even come to view him?’

‘No … at least, no one told me. I realised he was a messenger when I saw him – no one warned me that he was.’

‘Whereas I happened to be here in the town, so the bishop thought to engage me to help him,’ Baldwin mused. ‘It is peculiar
that he should seek to ask me to aid you.’

‘Means the man thought the theft of this roll could be embarrassing either to the Church or to him personally.’

‘What could be so embarrassing, I wonder?’

‘Be careful that your wonderings don’t catch you out!’ Coroner Richard laughed drily. ‘You know what they say: if you wish
for something too much, you might just win it … and live to regret it! This thing must be something of great importance
to the bishop, whether it involves national or Church matters. Either way, if you learn what is in the roll, you will surely
come to regret the fact!’

‘We must find the roll. That is the charge laid upon us.’

‘Aye. But if we want to learn what has happened to that, we have to find the murderer of the messenger. The man who killed
and mutilated him must know about the thing.’

‘I wonder. I wonder.’ Baldwin sat with his chin cupped in
the palm of his hand as he stared at the dying embers of the fire.

‘I should think that the fellow was most likely unfortunate, that he ran into some desperate footpad, and was killed.’

Baldwin slowly raised his eyes and stared at him. ‘You believe that? This messenger was caught by a stranger who knew nothing
about him, was held, had his finger cut off, and was then throttled while he scrabbled, even with his mutilated hand, to save
himself? And then, when the murderer had concealed his body and rested, he went to that necromancer’s house and killed his
servant in an attempt to kill Langatre too?’

‘Think of the alternative, Baldwin,’ the coroner said quietly, leaning forward and meeting Baldwin’s serious stare. ‘The alternative
to this being an unfortunate mistake is that it was intentional. Someone knew that this messenger was carrying a secret, urgent
roll that could seriously embarrass the bishop, if no one else. And then the same fellow went to the necromancer to execute
him for some reason.’

‘That is how I read the riddle.’

‘It supposes that the young fool in the sheriff’s gaol had an insight into matters far above his station, Baldwin. It means
that fool has an understanding of national or Church affairs. Can you really believe that?’

‘Not for a moment.’

‘Nor can I. However, if the murderer thought that he was being pursued, he could have entered a house to escape? Perhaps he
was hurrying past the necromancer’s house, saw a man following him, and walked inside. He saw the servant, killed him, and
then heard that fellow Langatre in his room, so slipped in to do away with him too. The pursuers ran
on …’

‘They could have assumed he was heading for the city’s gate. Stepecote Street leads down to the West Gate,’ Baldwin considered.

‘And then he hoped to escape. Except the neighbours heard something and ran to the house, and found one corpse and the necromancer
standing over it looking guilty. There you are! A simple story, well told.’

‘True. And it chimes well, but for one problem. As soon as the pursuers reached the gate, they would know he had not been
that way. And they would have doubled back to seek him, and in doing so, they would have passed by a house outside which there
was a large crowd gathering. They would have thought to find their man inside.’

‘Perhaps. Yes, that is possible. And why not? Perhaps they did indeed find him?’

‘And there was no sound of a posse, either.’ Baldwin frowned. ‘If there were, we should have heard of it. So no. I don’t believe
your tale. In which case, there is still a murderer loose in our city.’

Simon shivered himself awake at regular intervals through the night. It was freezing, and although he was relieved, each time
he woke, not to have the added misery of rain, he was conscious of the soft hissing sound of snow falling gently on the trees.

In their shelter, there was so little space, it was hard to imagine that any of the three could roll over without hitting
the others, or knocking down a wall, but Simon was relieved to see that there was no sign of any gaps in the thatch over his
head. It seemed that nobody had knocked the shelter’s
walls so far.

However, he was also aware of a growing sensation of pressure in his bladder. He hunched his shoulders, turned away from the
other two, and faced the wall. Then he turned back and faced in to the middle. He lay on his back. No matter what he did,
or how he lay, the pressure seemed to grow, like a wineskin that was sat upon. By degrees, the wine would leak from it… and that was how Simon felt now. That the building discomfort must find release.

At last the inevitability of his position became clear, and he grunted quietly to himself as he unwrapped his cloak and blanket
and crawled from the entrance.

The fire was glowing gently, but there was no flame now, and when he looked up at the sky he could see only white-rimmed clouds. There was no way to tell what time of day it might be, and at the moment he hardly cared. All he knew was, it was the sort
of hour of the night that was only good for monks. He grunted as he felt the chill of the cold air at his cheeks, and pulled
his cloak from inside the shelter. Wrapping it about his shoulders, he walked a short distance from their camp, and with enormous
relief opened his hose to empty his bladder.

As he retied the thongs that held his hosen up, he glanced about him. The snow had fallen, although mercifully not too heavily. From here, although the sky was clouded, he could still make out the moors just beyond the fringe of the trees. The top of
the nearer hill gleamed with a light of its own, the snow shining grey.