The Malice of Unnatural Death: (33 page)

Robert Busse nodded, and glanced at his companion. ‘So you see what importance there is in being forearmed? If you make use
of Richard Langatre’s skills, you will be better able to protect yourself from her. Make no mistake, that woman would need
but a little prompting to take after you with a knife. I have seen it before, and I am sure that I will see it again. I only
pray it will not be here and with your blood and gore open to the roadside. That would be a tragic
end to one who has spent his life in service.’

‘Don’t overdo it,’ Sir Matthew growled. ‘I was born three and forty years ago, Brother Abbot, and I can tell when I am being
cozened. You! Wizard! Tell me what it is that puts my life in danger.’

‘You expect me to summon a demon here, before your eyes? Do you not realise the preparation and effort that must be put into
such a conjuration?’ Langatre said with feeling. ‘Dear God, as I live and breathe, I swear that such a service must be accompanied
by the strictest fasting and prayer. Do you think such knowledge as I possess can be called upon at a moment’s notice?’

‘I thought you fellows could hold a demon in a ring, or have demons change their appearance into the mould of a cat so that
they might be with you at all times,’ the sheriff asserted, trying to appear casual but quickly surveying the man’s ringless
fingers.

‘Yes. However, I have no cat and, as you observe, no rings either. No, if you wish for my expertise, you will have to give
me time to prepare. However, I should have thought that the young woman’s outburst just now proves that you already have enemies.’

‘One woman? Pah!’

‘One woman who enters the city and spreads the malicious story that you were after her fine young body and deflowered her
here in the castle would be all that was needed to make a certain kind of youth wish to test himself against you. She would
not lack for champions.’

‘Sweet Christ!’ Sheriff Matthew muttered. It was all too true. ‘You seem to have the ability to understand women better than
men like me who’ve been married for years.’

‘I am fortunate that many of them wish for the advice that
only a man of God like me can give,’ Langatre admitted.

‘Has my wife been to see you?’

Langatre hesitated only a moment. ‘Your wife would have no need of my services, I am sure.’

The sheriff peered at him closely. ‘Very well. I am convinced. You are free, but only if you swear that you will deal honourably
with me. Understand? If I learn that you have been dishonest, I will have your lying tongue torn out and your throat cut. Clear?’

It was easy to find the place, and Robinet was about to walk to the door when his friend took his arm ungently and drew him
away to the farther side of the street.

‘Are you absolutely without brains?’ he hissed. ‘If this is where the murderer is staying, we don’t actually want him to know
we’re here, do we?’

Robinet nodded. ‘Er, no. So what are we doing here, then?’

‘Watching, old friend. Watching. So that if a man comes here whom we recognise, we can follow him, perhaps knock him down
and call the hue and cry to have him attacked, or maybe see to it that he never rises again. Whatever strikes you as the best
option at the time, I suppose. Whatever else, though, we want
him
, and that means we have to find him.’

‘Yes. Of course.’

It was while he had been a messenger that he had first met Walter. Back then Walter had been a dour, stolid character, with
a black expression much of the time, but Newt had early on seen that there was another side to the man. He was entirely trustworthy,
for one thing. Under the old king, and this one, he had been unswervingly loyal, and that was more
than could be said for most of the king’s own household.

They had first met because Walter had been in Winchester, and Newt had been surprised to be sent to him with an urgent message. He found the man in a dark alehouse, a foul, noisome little place with nothing to recommend it, and as soon as the message
was delivered Walter had read it and burned it at a nearby candle. Then he stood and left the room without a word. The fact
that such a churlish fellow should be in receipt of messages from the king himself made him fascinating to a young
cursor
, and when they next met, this time at the king’s household while it was at Eltham, Robinet had been further impressed by
the firm, unsmiling man. Others muttered darkly about him, but none dared to speak directly to insult him. There was a certain
aura about him that dissuaded men from being too forthright in their criticism.

It was that which had made Robinet feel he ought to befriend the man. That and an aggressive ambition. A man who was so favoured
by the king was a man whose friendship was worth fostering. Accordingly Newt sought him out, being so unsubtle in his methods
that Walter was instantly on his guard. Then, one morning while walking out, Newt found himself grabbed from behind, a knife
held at his throat, and a cold, ferocious voice demanding what he was after.

When he confessed, Walter was quiet for what felt, with that knife at his neck, like a very long time indeed, and then Newt
grew aware that the knife was moving. It terrified him for a moment, until he realised that it was not drawing a line across
his jugular, but wobbling as the holder laughed silently.

From that moment on, Walter appeared to look on Newt in the same way that a man might view a small pet dog. He
was tolerated so long as he never made a mess. Then, as the two aged in the service of the king, Walter’s tolerance became
a genuine affection, and it was reciprocated. The future Edward II himself once told Newt to be wary, that the man he was
befriending was much more dangerous than he could ever know, but Newt was too sure of himself to be warned. He trusted his
own judgement, and he had never had cause to regret it. Walter was his closest friend.

Now that the two men were retired from their past occupations, it was interesting to look back on their history. It gave a
man more perspective, Newt thought.

Walter was certainly a most dangerous man. If ever a fellow wanted a lethal and resourceful opponent, Walter was the ideal. Newt had no interest in upsetting him or causing him grief, but he had seen others who had succeeded in exactly that, and
generally they regretted it. Some of them for only a very short period.

Any king had need of a man like Walter. He was the ultimate control for the king over his population. Completely focused, Walter would ensure that the king’s most embarrassing problems were removed. When a man preached treachery, or threatened
the king’s life in some other way, Walter would see to it that the annoyance was soon eradicated. There was nothing personal
in it, and he did not kill all the king’s enemies. Often there was no need if the target knew of Walter. Then all he needed
to do was make it clear that the king had asked him to speak. That in itself was perfectly adequate for almost all situations
and most men. However, there were occasions when more forceful arguments were required, and when they were, Walter was an
expert with a dagger. He always said that it took only an inch or two of steel to silence for ever an irritating voice.
Newt had no idea how many irritants had been stilled in that way by Walter, but he knew it was many tens over a career that
lasted more than twenty years.

When he had been a
cursor
, eating at the king’s expense, he had always been well fed. No matter what else happened, the king’s messengers had to be
given their fill of the best of all viands. They had been good days for him. For them both.

‘Now, I am proud of my pottage, but there’s no doubt that a little meat sets a man up for the day, is there? And just now,
a bit of meat would be good. If there’s going to be some knocking about later, we’ll need our strength.’

Robinet couldn’t argue with that. For all that his belly was filled, he yet felt a little hungry, as though the pottage had
been unnourishing, and the thought of a minced beef pie beneath his belt was most attractive.

‘One of us will have to stay.’

‘Aye. You want the head or the tail?’ Walter asked as he flipped a coin.

It was some little while later that Alice’s brother Maurice returned and stood eyeing the dilapidated building over the road
with a frown of some perplexity.

If he was not outlawed, he would have already blown his horn and chased after the man, but not in his present situation: that
would be suicidal. And yet he wanted to. It was rare that a man witnessed a robbery or murder, and for him, a man of noble
birth, to watch and allow a felon to go free was at best galling.

He had been here, hoping to see something of Alice again, when he saw the furtive-looking man stand at the way to the rear
of the building. Maurice’s attention was taken immediately as the fellow sidled down some stairs which appeared to lead down
into the undercroft, only to disappear in the dark.

Maurice was not the only man who had noticed him. Only a short while afterwards he saw another man, cloaked and hooded against
the cold, armed with a good staff, move to the top of the stairs and stare down. He descended quickly enough, and Maurice
glanced about him, satisfied that the thief – he must be a draw-latch because from his demeanour he could have had no
legitimate business down there – would soon be caught.

For a little while he waited to hear the inevitable sounds of arrest, the blasts of a horn or the hoarse demand for assistance,
but to his surprise there was nothing. Instead he saw, after some time had passed, the second man reappear and set off briskly
towards an alley.

Maurice watched him for a moment or two, torn between the undercroft and the hurriedly departing man, and then, his interest
piqued, he set off after him.

The alley was narrow and dingy, but at least there was less breeze. In Stepecote Street the wind whistled about a man and
drew all heat from his body, or so it seemed. Here in the darkened alley, Maurice felt warmer. The buildings reached out overhead
and almost touched, and there were many little corners and narrowings, so he kept losing sight of the man, but then, as he
came to a wider stretch, he caught sight of him again a short distance away. The man drew off his cloak and let it drop to
the floor. Then he pulled off his surcoat and stared at it as though with revulsion, before balling the cloth and using it
to wipe at his arms and feet. He dropped it into the cloak and wrapped it up tightly, before throwing them over into a corner
and striding away.

Maurice waited until he was gone, then trotted to the clothing where it lay. He unwrapped the cloak and felt the stickiness
of the blood at the same time as his nostrils warned him. Quickly he drew his fingers away.

He could not remain here with that incriminating evidence. Turning, he hurriedly walked back to the street. There, he could
not help but notice that there was no shouting or calling. The hue and cry was unaware of the crime.

And then, as he stared about him, he saw another figure come back up the stairs, glance about him and cross the road
with slow, pensive steps.

Maurice watched with a frown, then leaned against a wall to watch. He had no idea what was happening here, but he was intrigued
enough to risk staying and seeing what happened.

Baldwin and Simon met the coroner a short way from the Palace Gate, and all three turned south towards the great city gate
and Will Skinner’s house.

His wife was there, sitting on their stool at the table. ‘What do you want here again?’

‘Where is your husband?’ the coroner demanded.

‘Fetching food. What do you want with him?’

‘We have questions for him. How long will he be?’

‘Not long. Not long.’

She was as good as her word because very soon there was the tramp of feet outside, and the door opened. In the doorway stood Will Skinner, and he shot a look at his wife, then stared at the three men. To Simon it looked as though the older man shrivelled
at the sight of them, and he felt a certain sympathy for him. He was old, weary, working ridiculous hours in the attempt to
earn some money, and now he was being questioned by three officers as though he was himself a suspect in their enquiry. Which Simon supposed he was, if an unlikely one.

‘Skinner,’ Baldwin said, ‘I want you to tell us again what happened on the night you found the first body.’

‘Why? Do you think he lied to us all?’ his wife cackled.

‘There, Margie, my love, be still,’ Will said. He tried to pat her hand, but she snatched it away, her eyes blazing with hatred.

It had been the same every day since that terrible one
when he had got home in time to see the walls collapse. Even from the road the heat had been appalling, and he had felt as
though his brows were going to be scorched away. It was a scene from hell. Margie had done all she could, running inside to
try to rescue the children, because as the fire took hold they could be heard inside, screaming for help. But no one could
get near them. By the time Will got there, thank Christ for His mercy, the screams had already been stilled. If he had heard
his little children pleading for help and rescue, he wasn’t sure that his mind could have coped with the strain.

Just as Margie’s hadn’t.

‘I was there in the lane that night. I often stop there, just to look at my house.’ And to pray for my dead children, he added
to himself. ‘While I was there, I saw the man lying on the ground. I thought he had a great cloth about his neck. It looked
like it. But when I approached him, I saw that it was blood. So much blood from one man … it was terrible.’

‘And no surprise,’ his wife added.

‘Why would it be no surprise, woman?’ the coroner pressed her.

‘Because in a place like that, where God could let my little babies burn to death, any man is likely to be murdered. If the
sweet innocents were killed, why not an older man whose life is full of sin and corruption?’ she wailed, and now she had her
arms wrapped about her misshapen torso, and was rocking back and forth, her eyes fixed on the distance – or perhaps the past.