The Malice of Unnatural Death: (24 page)

The coroner looked blank. ‘How many names does he have?’

‘Many,’ Baldwin said. He spoke quietly, meditatively, as he recalled his education with the Templars. ‘There are Jehova, Adonay, Elohim, El … very many are given in the Gospels.’

‘That is right,’ Langatre said approvingly. ‘And then the celebrant would perform the conjuration itself.’

‘Which would be to have a demon do his bidding?’ Coroner Richard asked. His voice was growing quieter and more thoughtful.

‘Yes … or not. Sometimes a powerful man might be able to take a demon and confine it. Perhaps in a crystal, or in a mirror
… anywhere, really. So long as he uses the right words to bind the foul creature, it will remain under his control and
must do his bidding.’

‘So
if a man were to want to kill another,’ Coroner Richard said slowly, ‘he would have to have one of these creatures there ready
to do it for him?’

Up until that moment Langatre had been enjoying his exposition on the theory and practice of the magical arts. Now there was
a sudden leaden sensation in his belly and bowels. ‘I’ve done nothing like that.’

‘I should hope not!’ Coroner Richard said.

‘You are accused of nothing by us,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘We only seek to learn what we may about other methods of magic. Would the necromancer need the assistance of a demon necessarily?’

‘I should think so – at least, in all the arts I’ve heard of … Unless he used some other form of magic.’

‘What other sort could there be?’ Baldwin asked.

‘There are many types of magic. Some is good, but some is … less so. All magic is simply harnessing God’s power to do
what we wish. It’s only when a man turns to its misuse that there is a problem.’

‘So how else might a man kill another?’

‘There are probably many ways. I do not profess to know them,’ Langatre said warily. He was not going to condemn himself out
of hand by merely admitting that he knew too much about the arcane arts.

‘Come! This is no time to grow diffident, Master Langatre,’ Baldwin said. ‘This is the crime you will be accused of and questioned
about. Questioned professionally by the king’s men. You know what that would mean.’

Langatre swallowed. ‘I have heard of men who compose models of the man they wish to kill. They perform the preparation as I have explained, with much fasting, prayer, celibacy, and invocations to bring God’s power down upon
them, and then they have a ritual at which they will ceremonially kill the image.’

‘How so?’ Coroner Richard rumbled.

‘They will stab it with a splinter, or a pin, or perhaps just shatter it. If the preparation is right, and the likeness is
good, I dare say, then the attempt should succeed.’

‘And this thing, this model, would be made of something rare and valuable?’ the coroner asked hopefully.

‘No.’ Langatre smiled. ‘It could be made from candle wax if need be, although …’

‘What?’ the coroner demanded irritably. He was growing bored with this recitation.

‘Well, for something like that to work, the man would need to have something of the man he intended to kill.’

‘Not the finger of another man?’ Baldwin asked.

‘No.’ Langatre smiled. ‘That would only confuse things. Only a little hair, or skin from the man whom the wizard wished to
see dead. Not much. It would be mixed in with the wax to give it identity.’

‘Who would be able to do such a thing?’

‘Very few have the skill.’ Langatre shrugged. ‘There are few enough men in the city who can manage even the most simple tasks. To take on control of a demon powerful enough to kill a man – that would be a great task indeed.’

‘I am not interested in your self-congratulation on your own skills. Just tell us: who here in Exeter could do it?’ Baldwin
rasped.

‘In honesty … I do not think any necromancer in this city could attempt such a work of
maleficium
. It would be the work of a great magician. You would have to go to London or York for a man like that.’

Baldwin nodded, and tried to feel comforted.

‘Keeper,
you look like a man who’s bitten into a medlar and found it was a sloe!’ the coroner said as they both tramped up the stairs
from the gaol. ‘What is it? Surely it’s good to know that there are no more fools like him in the town?’

‘Yes. Of course it is.’

‘So why the long face?’

‘Because a man can always walk or ride from one place to another. Just because Langatre knows no one who could attempt such
a business does not mean that someone has not arrived here recently who would be interested in trying it.’

Sir Matthew rode back to the castle gate in the middle of the morning, famished. He threw himself from the saddle and left
the reins dangling for a groom. It was his usual way of returning. If the horse was to be left too long, and ambled back out
of the gate, the grooms would learn to regret their laxness, and that was that. For his part, Sir Matthew expected his men
to be prepared for him at all times, and when they failed him they paid for it.

The morning’s ride down to the bishop’s house at Clyst St Mary had been enough to make him start to sweat, and he was just
thinking that he ought to arrange a fresh hunt when he caught sight of the new servant girl. Strange chit: she’d taken to
staring at him, slightly goggle-eyed, like a fish just pulled from the water. He had wondered whether she might be a little
dull-witted, but the child seemed to be all right in all other ways. There was nothing to suggest that she was a cretin, only
that curious expression on her face.

She was there now, at the top of the stairs to the main hall, just standing and gazing at him. It was disconcerting, having
her up there, but Sir Matthew was no fool, and it was safer for a man to maintain a calm attitude before the people who worked
for him in the castle. Punish those who were disobedient, froward, or felonious, by all means, but it was hard to have a servant
girl beaten for merely looking at him. Actions like that might start to upset the staff. They would grow sulky and petulant,
and that was no good to anyone.

He crossed the yard, pulling off his thick riding gloves as he went, and climbed the stone stairs. She waited at the top,
as though expectantly, her bright face turned to him the whole while.

It was damned uncomfortable. The girl was staring as though there was something wrong with him. It made him wonder whether
his cods were untied, or his tunic was rucked up under his belt or something. Damn the child! What was the matter with her? He could feel his face reddening as he came close to her, and the knowledge made his voice harsh and brusque.

‘Do you want me?’ he asked.

She gaped, and then turned away, flushing scarlet, he saw.

The fool had been wool-gathering. Nothing more than that. She didn’t even realise it was him she was staring at. That was
the meaning of it all: she was in a daydream and hadn’t known she was insulting him. That was a relief, anyway, he told himself. For a moment there … but no. That would be daft.

‘Sir Matthew?’ his steward called quietly from his table near the door.

‘Well?’ he responded testily. ‘I haven’t much time. I need my dinner.’

‘It is only that the good keeper and his friend the coroner were here today. They visited your prisoner. I thought you
should know.’

‘Did they?’ Sir Matthew’s face turned dark. ‘What did they want with him?’

‘I took the precaution of having a clerk follow them and listen as best he could. They were talking all about the methods
of having a necromancer fashion figures in the likeness of a man, and have that man murdered by means of it.’

Sir Matthew clenched his jaw. ‘I want that man kept locked up. No one is to see him without my express permission. Ensure
that it is so.’

‘Yes, Sir Matthew.’

‘And now, if you don’t mind, I should like to enjoy my meal!’

Baldwin
and Coroner Richard had enjoyed a leisurely meal in a tavern near the castle while they absorbed Langatre’s tale of how a
necromancer might summon up a demon.

‘To me, it sounds half-baked. Stodgy in the middle like a poorly cooked pie,’ the coroner said with satisfaction as he finished
his own meat pie. The crumbs and gravy on his beard were wiped away with a massive hand and brushed onto the table. Some fell
into his quart pot of ale, and he glared at the pot as though it was the pottery’s own fault that it had been polluted. He
fished out a couple of crumbs, then shrugged. ‘Ah well, it’s all going down the same hole! I didn’t like the idea that a man
might confine a demon in a chip of glass or diamond, either.’

‘The whole thing sounds extremely unlikely to me,’ Baldwin said. ‘If it were not for the poor fellow in the dungeon, I should
treat the whole thing as a joke, but clearly for Langatre it is deadly earnest.’

‘Aye. If the king and Despenser believe that a man like him has been making models to murder them, Langatre can look forward
to a warm end over a couple of cartloads of faggots. Reminds me of a story I heard …’

Baldwin hastily interrupted. ‘He is in trouble, yes, but we
also have the bishop’s paper to find. I am still struck by the matter of that other man dying there. I wish to speak to his
wife. What was her name? Ah, yes, Madam Mucheton.’

‘You’ll almost certainly learn that he fell to a footpad, Baldwin. That message has been taken and it will appear in some
place which is entirely guaranteed to embarrass the good bishop. We can do nothing about it, and nor can he. There’s little
point worrying about it.’

‘I agree, but I dislike coincidence when it is so blatant,’ Baldwin said. He sipped a little ale and his face twisted with
distaste. ‘What is this stuff?’

The coroner peered into his pot. ‘Tastes good to me.’

Baldwin gave him a long, sour look. ‘Anyway, I have a feeling that there is something about that first murder that will help
us. The idea that there could be two murders in the same area that were entirely unconnected is fatuous. There must be something
about them both.’

‘Perhaps. If you say so. Hmm. Personally, I think that the main thing will be to hold the inquests as soon as possible.’

‘You have them arranged?’

‘I had planned on holding them this afternoon.’

‘Very well. So we have a little time.’

‘To see this woman?’

Baldwin pushed his ale away. It was undrinkable, it was so vinegary. ‘Yes, briefly, and then to go on and speak to the watchmen
as well. I want to learn where all the other alleged necromancers are.’

Simon had been careful all morning to keep his conversation to a minimum. Busse appeared content to sit upon his mount and
continue on his way with an expression of pinched
coldness on his features. Somehow in the last day his face appeared to have lost much of its chubbiness. Where he had been
red-faced and cheerful, now he was pale, almost blue, with a faint pinkness at his cheeks, his head hunched down into his
robe, his hood up and over his head.

For Simon, the more important of his charges was young Rob, though. The boy was on his feet again now, having argued that
even with the snow he was more comfortable walking because it kept him warmer.

They had found a homestead soon after leaving the moors. The farmer, a young man with two toddlers at his legs, had been suspicious
at first, until he saw the state of Busse and Rob; upon seeing whom, he called urgently to his wife, and helped the three
into his little yard. They had been able to pause in front of a great fire, drinking hot spiced cider with honey to give them
strength. Although Simon had offered money, the kindly farmer and his wife had refused to accept anything. They both agreed
that it was their duty to help weary and chilled travellers out on the moors, and helpfully provided the three with replenished
wineskins and a loaf to keep them going for the rest of their journey.

After that, though, as they began to make their way downhill and head out towards Exeter, their passage became a great deal
easier. Before long the snow was noticeably thinner, and they found that they could move much more swiftly.

Simon was only glad that Busse appeared to be happier to remain on his horse and reach Exeter than to stop and pray like the
day before.

Baldwin and the coroner reached the widow Mucheton’s house as the sun began its slow descent to the west. Its
passage high overhead took Baldwin’s mind far from here, to his youth in the Mediterranean.

At this time of year, the keeper was all too often reminded of the delights of sitting in warm sunshine and drinking warm
wine as the sun glinted off the sea. That was when he had lived as a novice Templar on the island of Cyprus, immediately after
the fall of Acre, when he had offered his sword in the continued struggle to protect pilgrims going to the Holy Land. First,
though, they must win back the Crusader kingdoms, and for that Baldwin must learn to fight as a Templar, a single member of
a greater host.

The training had been hard, both mental and physical. Even though he had been learning the arts of a warrior from an early
age, there was a difference between a single mounted man in hand-to-hand single combat and a knight who responded instantly
to the command of his master, wheeling into attack, turning to hasten away at the order, only to strike together again at
another point. This discipline, and learning how to wield swords, maces and war-hammers in unison, was exhausting. It was
not the physical work that tired, it was the constant repetition, having to learn a whole new method of fighting, that wore
out the recruits.

Then came the proudest day of his life. He was at last accepted into the order. The ritual was ancient: fasting, a night of
prayer, then the ceremonial robing in the uniform of the Templars, and the oaths. And all had been made to sound evil and
foul in the accusations made by the French king.

Baldwin would only ever remember that man with loathing. Driven by his own intolerable greed, he had seen the most holy order
destroyed, her members harried and tortured, many burned at the stake, and all for his own self-aggrandisement.
All to make him appear more holy as he tried to create a new crusading force – fused from the Templars, the Hospitallers, and all other orders – that would be mighty enough to win back Jerusalem. Under his own leadership, of course. Such power could never be left by the French king in the hands of others. With a force like that, he would be invincible.