The Malice of Unnatural Death: (42 page)

‘Boy, I need help.’

‘It’ll cost.’

‘It always does, boy. It always does.’ He smiled, and then the smile was wiped away. ‘I want you to find me a necromancer.’

Sir Matthew was back in the city in the late afternoon, a little weary, but elated after a fine ride. The rounsey was still
full of spirit, and if he’d wanted to, he felt he could have ridden the beast all the way to Winchester and back!

Not today, though. There was too much to be done. This was a busy time of year, and there was still the matter of the writ
about the murder attempt on the king and the Despensers.

He had heard a rumour from a friend in court that the Lord Despenser had himself written to the pope asking for special protection
against such attempts at assassination using supernatural means – but the pope had written back to tell him to mend his ways
and stop abusing his powers, beg forgiveness for his past sins, and nothing more would be needful. Apparently the Despenser
had raged up and down the corridors of his house for hours after reading that.

At the moment, though, Matthew thought he had enough on his own plate. There was the matter of his wife, then the mad maidservant,
not to mention this trouble with sorcerers. It was all getting to be a little too much for him. He needed time to focus and
concentrate. Stop being blown about by events.

The
castle came into view, and he found himself peering about him, half expecting to find himself confronted at any moment by
a mad woman with foaming mouth and rolling eyes. Christ in a cave, but that wench scared him. Madness was akin to leprosy
– both were obviously unhealable, and both left the sufferer revolting to all men of good sense. And madness was the worse
in some ways. It meant that the victim could not herself see why she had become the object of revulsion.

He rode in through the gate and tossed the reins to a waiting groom, then dismounted and stood watching while the man began
his work. If there was one thing that Sir Matthew would not tolerate, it was any laxity in the care of his mounts. A stable
boy or groom who displayed laziness or incompetence would not last any time in the castle. No one received more than the one
chance to do things right in Sir Matthew’s stables.

‘Sir Matthew? There are some men here to see you, in your hall.’

Sir Matthew gazed distastefully at his steward. ‘I have not invited anyone to visit me today.’

‘These were most insistent, sir. The Keeper of the King’s Peace, a coroner, and a bailiff from Tavistock. They are trying
to catch the woman who killed your wife’s maid.’

‘My wife’s …’

‘Your wife was there, sir. It is thought that the woman wanted to harm her too.’

Sir Matthew’s mouth fell wide. He recalled glancing back from the gate, seeing Jen with her hand raised, the fist and forearm
painted with blood … he left the steward in the court and bolted to the hall’s door. He threw it wide and hurried inside.
‘My wife, where is she?’

‘I
am here, husband,’ Alice responded. She lay on a bench near the fire, while a girl soothed her brow with a cool cloth and
passed her a large gobletful of wine.

‘My darling, I only just heard – your servant is dead?’

‘Yes. She was stabbed by that little bitch we removed this morning.’

‘It is true that it was her, then. And you saw it all?’

‘If Sarra had not sprung in between us, I should be the one lying dead on the cobbles instead of her,’ Alice said.

‘We would like to speak to you about this,’ Coroner Richard said.

Sir Matthew lurched, startled by the voice over his shoulder. In truth, he had been in such a hurry to speak to his poor wife,
he had forgotten that he had visitors. Now he spun and saw that there were three men seated at the table at the other end
of the hall. ‘Who are you all?’

Baldwin snapped curtly, ‘Come, now, Sir Sheriff! You know me at least, and my good friend here the coroner. And if you do
not know my companion Bailiff Simon Puttock, one of my lord abbot of Tavistock’s most trusted servants, it is about time you
did.’

Peering into the gloomier reaches of the hall, away from the fire, the sheriff could make out their faces more clearly. He
could also see that although the keeper and Simon had risen to their feet, the coroner still remained sitting at the bench. He waved a hand airily while in the other he held a salmon’s head.

Matthew nodded to them, bowing as graciously as he might as Coroner Richard sucked loudly on the head. ‘My apologies, lordings. You were in the gloom there – after the sunshine in my courtyard. I did not recognise you.’

‘Now, Sheriff, can you tell us aught about the woman
who left your service this morning? We understand she may have come from Silverton. Is that right?’

‘I have no idea. Perhaps the steward would know?’

‘He thought Silverton,’ Baldwin said, reflecting on how little interest some people took in the lives of those upon whom their
comfort depended. ‘We have sent a man to the vill to see whether she might have tried to escape in that direction, but have
had no luck.’

‘She must be in the fields, then.’

‘I doubt it,’ Lady Alice said weakly. ‘Why should she leave the city? If she had somewhere to go where she would be free,
that would be one thing, but if she’s got nowhere else to go, then why should she leave? I think it more likely that she waits
somewhere nearby.’

‘Why, my darling?’ Sir Matthew asked.

Baldwin responded. ‘Sir, we have been discussing this affair since we arrived here. It seems clear that the wench is infatuated
with you …’ He was tempted to add an acerbic comment about his own surprise at the thought, but curbed his tongue. ‘It
is possible that she fled after her crime, but it is equally likely that she has remained here, in which case you will have
to do all that is needful to protect your lady.’

Sir Matthew felt as though he might be sick. This morning he had contemplated the grateful thanks of the king for his swift
and efficient apprehension of the magician, and instead he was being advised to exercise great caution on behalf of his wife.
‘Why would the child think I could desire her? It’s insane.’

‘Did you ever give her cause to think you might love her?’ Baldwin pressed. ‘Anything at all?’

‘Never, on my heart! I love my wife, Sir Baldwin. Adultery would never sit easily on my soul.’

‘I
have heard of young wenches who gain a false impression of another’s love,’ Baldwin admitted doubtfully. ‘They have such an
intense fascination with the object of their desire that they convince themselves that their adoration is reciprocated. I
have never witnessed such a one, though. Are you quite sure that you never gave her cause to believe that you might …’

He could not continue. One look at the sheriff’s face told him all he needed to know. This was not a man ruled by his heart
on most occasions, but seeing him now, Baldwin was forced to admit to himself that unless the fellow was a consummate actor,
he was no adulterer. To Baldwin, who had once submitted to his passions and betrayed the love he felt for his own dear wife,
it was plain enough that this man had never committed the same sin.

‘This wench is very clearly dangerous. The men must be told to redouble all their efforts in the city to find her, and in
the meantime you, Lady Alice, must not leave the castle grounds.’

‘I would be most reluctant to become a prisoner in my own house,’ she said sharply.

‘And we should all be most reluctant to see you buried for lack of protection,’ Baldwin said as gently as he could. ‘And now, Sheriff, there is another matter which we needs must ask you about.’

It had been damnably cold at the gate when she stopped, but Maurice had steeled himself to kill Jen. The bitch had tried to
kill his sister, and he would spill her blood for that.

Standing there, he’d had a stirring of revulsion at the thought of slaying a young woman, but the memory of the great blow
aimed at Sarra was enough to drive away any
compunction he might usually have felt. The blood … he could scarcely believe that the girl who had smiled at him and
flirted as she relayed messages from her mistress, his sister, had been slaughtered like a hog in the street. Her sightless
eyes returned to haunt him now, as though reproving him for doubting the justice of his revenge.

She had been there in front of him as he began to make his way towards her. With her back to him, she made a very tempting
target. Easy enough to throw a knife at her, except in a crowded street it would be too obvious. No one could miss the sight
of a man hurling a missile. Better by far to slip a knife between her ribs from closer.

As he approached, she lifted a hand to wave, and following the line of her sight, he saw the man whose attention she was trying
to catch, saw the sheriff on his horse suddenly spur his mount on, and saw him clatter along the roadway and out through the
gate.

Suddenly Jen’s shoulders dropped. Even from behind she presented the very picture of dejection. It was little enough, but
sufficient to make Maurice hesitate.

Turning, she stumbled blindly away, a hand at her face, the other clutching at the breast of her tunic.

It was that which stayed his hand. She came closer and closer, and he stood still, waiting, his hand on his knife, until she
was before him, and then he saw the misery in her features, and his hand left his dagger sheathed. It was impossible to harm
a child in such despair. And that was what she was: a child barely ready to be loosed from her mother’s apron-strings.

She looked at him, her eyes unseeing, and then continued on her way, sobbing with deep, racking shudders of her
entire frame, and he couldn’t do it. A man, yes, he could kill any man – but not this child.

Wonderingly, he followed her to a little tavern, but although she went inside, it was plain enough that she had little enough
money, and soon she was out again, reeling from one wall to another. Although occasionally she would look about her, it was
clear enough to him that she didn’t recognise him when her eyes passed over him. She had no thoughts for anyone else; she
was entirely focused on her own deep depression.

He was past making an attempt on her life, and yet he would not give up his pursuit. As she walked along a narrower street,
then turned into a lane near the South Gate, he trailed along behind her. Soon he saw her test a gate, and enter a small yard. She crossed it, and climbed some steps to a hayloft. With the door open, she looked about her once, and then threw herself
inside, pulling the doors closed behind her.

Walking in after her, he stood a while staring at the doors. They were designed to be locked shut. There was a simple, hinged
bar that rotated about a bolt in one door. The two ends of this fitted into wooden slots set into the doorframe on either
side of the door. Maurice considered the doors for a long time, before quietly stepping up to them and turning the bar to
lock her inside.

Art
had spoken to his friends at the two taverns he knew, but this one was a much worse place.

It stood a short way down the little alleyway that ran from Combe Street southwards to the wall. The alley itself was foul,
stinking of piss and shit, and filled with refuse from all the shabby buildings in the area. It was no surprise to Art that
there was no chapel or church in this whole quarter of the city. No vicar would want to penetrate too deeply into this part.

Much happened here. The wall was always a convenient boundary, but where there was a wall there were also men with ladders,
and often in the morning, after a good gambling session with dice or a little contest between fighters, a fresh body would
be found thrown over the wall to lie beneath near the stews or the quay. A man who asked too many questions was also likely
to end up down there, as Art knew. Still, he had been promised money to find out all he could about this unknown necromancer,
and he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at good money. So here he was, trying to breathe the revolting air sparingly so he
didn’t catch a disease from the miasma that lurked all about.

The
tavern itself was only a single room with a low ceiling, little better than an undercroft. At the farther wall was a trestle
table with four barrels of ale racked ready. Over it, splashes had struck the ceiling where the barrels had been over-lively,
and there was a reek of stale ale that had seeped into the earthen floor over years. Men stood about with their horns or cups,
for this place had no need of tables – it was not a relaxing alehouse for a worker to repair to after a hard day’s effort
and toil. No, it was a place to stand and drink until a man could no longer stand. Then he would merely sit or fall prostrate,
and others might leave him alone, or might take their sport with his body. Art had seen one man bound and scarred by the knives
of three men who took a dislike to him as he lay snoring.

He felt eyes upon him as he entered. It was unsettling, and he almost turned about and told the man that he couldn’t learn
anything, but then he thought again of the money and he squared his shoulders and marched to the trestle.

‘Strong ale.’

A horn was filled, and he paid before taking a gulp. ‘You know of this man been killed today? They say it may be the same
man killed the king’s messenger. I know a man will pay for news of the killer.’

‘You think we’d be likely to help someone like that?’

Art could hear the voice and thought he knew the man. It was a fellow who had once been a trader in the market, but had been
thrown from his pitch by the pie-powder court which found he had set fire to a competitor’s wares. Arson was looked upon
as one of the most serious crimes in this largely wooden city, and he was thrown out. Having lost his livelihood, he resorted
to his native cunning and his dagger to earn a penny when he could, and
it was said that old Hob was as willing to gut a man as a rabbit.

‘Look, all he wants is to try to catch the man killed his friend, that’s all.’