The Malice of Unnatural Death: (31 page)

Bishop Stapledon looked at him again. He gave a slow nod.

‘Very well, Sir Baldwin. I shall take you at your word. I was asked to advise on some matters a little while ago. One such
matter was the likely threat from Mortimer while he lives abroad.’

‘The man has escaped barely with his life,’ Baldwin commented. Simon looked puzzled, so he explained briefly, ‘Lord Mortimer
was the man who escaped from the Tower of London last year. He was one of the leaders of the Lords Marcher who lifted their
standards against the king and his allies.’

‘He is a greedy, dangerous warrior,’ Stapledon said. ‘Crafty and sly. He has already made one attempt upon the king’s life. Did you know? Only a year ago a man was captured in London – he had been paid by Mortimer to assassinate the king! And there
have been other attempts on the king’s life, and those of his friends, since then, too. This is not an isolated incident.’

‘What of it? If a man is captured trying to kill the king, he will be caught and killed,’ Baldwin said.

‘But what if the enemy is within his own orbit? What if the person whom he should fear most of all is actually nearer to him
than any other?’

Baldwin shot a look at Simon, who returned his glance with an expression of happy incomprehension.

For Baldwin the bishop’s words could mean only one thing: that the bishop had at last realised, along with most of
the population of the country, that Despenser was a malign influence at the heart of government. With the power that Stapledon
held, surely there could be some means of removing Despenser before he caused any more hardship to the people of the realm.

‘Yes. I fear that the king is in great danger,’ Stapledon finished. ‘His wife is too untrustworthy.’

Baldwin felt the breath leave his body in a great gasp of horror. He stared at the bishop dumbfounded.

Stapledon continued thoughtfully. ‘There are many who mistrust her. I have myself been anxious about her for some while, especially
since that nonsensical affair over Saint Sardos in the summer. The French are trying to provoke us. The matter could have
grown much more dangerous. Fortunately, cooler counsel prevailed, but we cannot be assured that it will again in future. I
have already had to propose that the queen’s household should be disbanded, and all her French friends have been arrested
and are held, but she can still write to her brother. Who can tell what sort of dangerous information she may provide? Perhaps
her brother might decide to come and support Mortimer in an attack on our country? If he did, what could we do to protect
ourselves against his host? And if he was being warned in advance of our lack of defences in different parts of the realm,
that would itself be of signal benefit to him. Thus I advised the king in my message. And in addition I advised him, through
the sealed lips of the messenger, to put his mind most boldly to the idea of an annulment of his marriage.’

‘You suggested that?’ Simon blurted. ‘But what good could that do? The king and she both made their vows before God!’

‘Simon,
you have no understanding of international business,’ the bishop snapped. He was himself most concerned, Baldwin saw, and
biting the head off another man was a simple means of assuaging his own feeling of guilt at having exposed himself so gravely.

‘But I do,’ Baldwin said. ‘So, this must mean that you have a spy who can keep an eye on the queen at all times, so that when
she begins to write a letter there is someone there to read it, or who can open it and read it later, perhaps?’

‘I do not know, nor do I care, what procedures have been imposed upon her,’ the bishop said. ‘All I do care about is that
the message I sent to his majesty remains entirely confidential and secret! It must never become exposed to all!’

It was some while later that Baldwin realised that the bishop had never admitted whether the message he was so concerned about
was the one in the messenger’s mind, or the one put in his hand in writing.

The
sheriff was keen to fetch his horse and go for a ride when he was distracted by a guard.

‘Yes? What is it?’ he demanded testily.

‘There is a man here to see you from the cathedral, sir.’

‘What of it? Tell him to be here again later when I may be able to see him for a little while. I am busy.’

‘I do not wish to wait, Sheriff, not when I can see you right away,’ Robert Busse said firmly.

The sheriff groaned inwardly. He didn’t know this old man from the cathedral, but he recognised the type all too well: he
looked the sort who would consider any necessary restrictions of the church’s powers as a personal affront. There were all
too many of them about the city. When a murderer ran from the scene of his offence and into the cathedral close, the men there
would close ranks and do anything in their power to obstruct the city’s men in their attempts to arrest him. Even though,
by harbouring a murderer in their midst, they were risking their own lives as well as those of all the men around them. It
was lunacy, in his mind, to allow such ridiculous abstract demarcations as borders of cathedral responsibility compared with
those of the city, when the result was that known felons could evade
justice. Bloody sanctuary! It was a mad way to organise things, and gave people an escape when they had committed the most
outrageous crimes.

Not only menfolk from the city made use of the church to escape their rightful punishments, either. Christ in chains! It was
only a little while ago that one of the canons from the cathedral, that thieving scrote John Dyrewyn, broke into a painter’s
house and stole five pounds’ worth of goods. Not because he was owed money or anything, but because he was a thief. No better
than a common draw-latch. He was seen, the crime was witnessed, and yet there was nothing the city could do to bring him to
justice because, oh dear, the man was a canon, and therefore answerable only to the Church court. And you knew what sort of
judgement he’d get from his own kind.

Then there was that foul, venal piece of dog-turd, the Rector of St Ive. He kidnapped the wife of John de Thorntone and robbed
him as well, adding simple theft to the brutality of his treatment of the woman. And he blankly refused to return his ill-gotten
gains or apologise to the lady. Sweet Jesus, you couldn’t invent some of the crimes these supposedly ‘godly’ men were guilty
of.

The memory of all these past offences, and more, made his tone chill. ‘I am very busy just now.’

‘Ah yes. Going hunting?’ Busse said sarcastically. ‘You have a man of mine in gaol for no reason, and you are going to leave
him there just because you wish to enjoy a good day’s hunting? I scarcely think that to be honourable behaviour for a Christian.’

The sheriff bridled. ‘You suggest that I am holding someone unfairly? Let me tell you …’

‘You have a member of the Holy Catholic Church held in
your gaol. That itself is illegal, for you took him without informing my lord bishop. He is aware now, and may seek damages
from you.’

‘You will not threaten me, Brother. Are you from the cathedral? I do not recognise you.’

‘I am Abbot of Tavistock, Sheriff,’ Busse said with as much pomposity and presumption as he could manage. It was shortly to
become true, anyway, he told himself. And to console the twinges of guilt still further, he reminded himself that he may be
telling a technical untruth, but it was in order to release one of God’s clerks, and that could not be wrong. The greater
good demanded that he did so. ‘As such I have responsibility for God’s flock.’

‘I am sheriff, and I have a writ from the king himself demanding that all those who practise necromancy be arrested and sent
to him.’

‘Then why have you taken Langatre?’

‘Because, Abbot, I …’ Sheriff Matthew stopped. There was a glint in Brother Robert’s eye that he didn’t like. It was like
the glint of steel in a bush at the side of a road: warning of an unexpected ambush. He quickly recovered himself and his
conviction. ‘Because he is known to practise magic, and is thought to have murdered his servant. You in the church may have
a different view on such matters, but, for me, to commit manslaughter is a crime – and I don’t care whether his servant answered
him back or not. If he was guilty of something, his master should have brought him to his own tithing, not wrung his neck
like a chicken.’

‘If I thought he was guilty, I would bring him to you myself,’ Busse said with asperity. ‘I am not considered an easy judge. It was only two years ago I had a man hanged for stealing oxen.’

The
sheriff’s eyes narrowed. He recalled that case. The judge at the time had overstepped his authority, having a man sent to
the gallows without referring the matter to his local coroner. Even the Church was supposed to have the approval of a coroner
before execution, and the coroner should always be invited to be present at the hanging to ensure that it was legal. In that
case the justice was remarkable for its swiftness. The church did not approve of people who took its own goods, no matter
how assiduously they would protect those who stole from others. Hypocrites!

‘David de Cornilii? I remember that. I seem to recall that the judge had to be reprimanded for his decisions. Was it not that
same judge who had a man’s ears cut off for a petty offence?’

‘Those tales are vastly overblown. But I am not considered to be a gentle, mild fellow when it comes to criminals. I am known
to be enthusiastic when it comes to punishing those who merit it. This man, however, is innocent. I know him personally.’

‘Then you may speak for him in the king’s court when he comes before the justices,’ Sir Matthew said dismissively, and would
have continued on his way, but Busse stepped nearer, blocking his path.

‘Langatre is a good man who has been of great use to me. I think he will be again. He is not guilty of any
maleficia
, but rather has saved people from the effects of them. And you should know, Sheriff, that he can see into a man’s future.’

‘What of it?’ Sheriff Matthew grinned. ‘You going to tell me that I need his help now?’

Busse did not blink. ‘I spoke to him last night, Sheriff, in your gaol. I wanted to consult him about my future, but the spirits
and demons who aid him needed to tell him about the
dangers to others. I have been at risk in my life, but there is nothing in my immediate future that could put me in danger
… whereas, Sheriff, you are in great, mortal peril even as we speak.’

The sheriff tried to respond, but although his mouth opened, no words would come. There was a deep sincerity in Brother Robert’s
eyes, and the sheriff knew he had much to fear always. Sheriffs were never popular, and had never been held in more contempt
than they were now. There were always those who objected to the way that men like Sir Matthew lined their purses through demands
for cash in order to swing a court judgment one way or another, and victims would complain bitterly when they saw convicted
criminals released in exchange for a small contribution. Yes, there were always those who sought to bring retribution to a
sheriff. Not to mention the other matter. He was aware of a curious sensation, as though he had a lump in his belly. A lump
of lead.

Busse watched him closely, and then nodded. ‘You know, don’t you? You know that your life is in peril even as we stand here
debating the future of this young idiot Langatre. And yet while you hold him, he will not explain to you how he might help
you. You are punishing unnecessarily the only man who might save you.’

Robinet woke with his head less painful than it had been since the attack. For the first time he felt as though he could eat
something almost as soon as he awoke, rather than suffering the queasiness which had afflicted him yesterday.

Walter was not about yet, so Robinet lay back under his thick blanket. He put one hand behind his head, but
incautiously allowed the other to fall onto the blanket itself, and winced. It was always the same: when the weather was cold,
a man’s blanket would be covered with a thin layer of moisture in the morning, just like the dew on the grass in summertime. He wiped his hand on the bundle of clothes under his head.

No, he couldn’t lie here all day. He had work to do. Rising, he dressed quickly and walked to the pot dangling over the fire. Yesterday Walter had muttered about the quality of his latest wood, and Newt could see why as soon as he put his head over
the fire – Walter had run out of good burning wood, his oak and beech, and this birch was foul. It burned with an acrid stench
that caught in a man’s throat and lungs, and Newt was forced to slam his eyes closed and turn away as it seared them.

The bowl’s handle was hot, so he took a fold of his robe to carry it away, and sat on a stool to eat a bowlful of the pottage. At least the smoke hadn’t made that too foul.

‘Up, eh?’ Walter said when he walked in a short time later.

Newt had already finished his first bowl and was sitting nursing a second, feeling the food slipping down his gullet and warming
him. It was one of those rare pleasures, this sensation of heat as a man ate. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Out seeing if I could learn more than you. I don’t know if I have succeeded,’ the older man admitted, leaning against a wall. Over the years, he had gradually saved enough money for stools and a bench, but he had spent much of his early life as a poor
churl living without such luxuries, and he had grown accustomed to standing. Now, even though he had the items about his room
to enable him to sit, he still preferred to stand. There was a sense in him that to sit was
to be more of a target, and he had no desire to be that. No, it was better that he should stand and be ready to fly or attack
in a moment.

‘Where have you been?’

It was easy to see how Robinet was affected by James’s killing. Robinet was so easy to read, it was astonishing. Of course,
that was how he got himself into trouble, because he was such a transparent fellow. The damned fool. Others would have been
much more circumspect, but not him. Even here, in the dim light of the house, Walter could see Newt’s pallor. Perhaps it was
in part the effect of his ordeal, when he was knocked down so violently. Some men would keep their wounds better than others,
it was true, but Walter reckoned it was nothing to do with that. No. It was James’s death.