The Malice of Unnatural Death: (47 page)

‘You the girl?’

It was a voice she didn’t recognise, but then she heard Will talking respectfully, and realised he must be important. Then
he said something about the Rolls and called the man ‘Sir Richard’, and she realised it must be the coroner. Of course – he
would have to be present at any enquiry into a rape.

Suddenly she felt a panic welling up inside her. Of course her man would support her – Sir Matthew could hardly deny their
love, could he? But he might find it difficult to explain her arrival in front of another important official of the king.

So be it! She would show them all how much she loved him.

At long last the steward came and spoke to the man at her side, and he seemed conscious of her condition, speaking kindly
and warmly to her. It took some while for her to understand that he meant her to follow him into the hall, for she was panicked
by the sound of his voice, but then she realised he was talking quietly and understandingly, and simply had not recognised
her.

It was astonishing. Only yesterday she had been petrified of this man. After the sheriff, he was the most powerful man in
the castle, and he ruled it with an iron rod. Any maid found slacking in her duties would soon be evicted, and she would never
be permitted to return while he lived. That was her belief, anyway. He had been so stern always. Yet now he was treating her
as an honoured guest, and she could do nothing but follow him dumbly as he took her arm and
brought her into the hall.

‘Well, maid? You have been raped?’

It was
him
! He didn’t recognise her either. Ah, blessed Mary, Mother of …

‘
It’s her, husband! Can’t you recognise her? It’s
her,
I say!
’

Jen recognised that voice, right enough. She threw her blanket aside and stood straight again, seeking her enemy. There she
was, up at the far end of the dais. With a snarl, Jen leaped up towards her, but even as she drew her knife and raised it
to stab, there was a stunning crack over her skull, and she fell to her hands and knees.

Groggily, she looked up. From here all she could see at first was a shimmering vision of boots and hosen. Her vision swayed
and wobbled out of focus as she tried to hold her head still, but it was impossible. And then she saw the face of her beloved. Sir Matthew was peering down at her with an expression of … not love, but horror, as though she was a devil or a witch
… She glanced about her, and saw that the men in the hall had formed a ring about her as though they all feared her. They
had weapons ready, as though they meant to slay her there and then. They all feared her.

She wanted to shout at them, to declare that they were mad, it wasn’t her, it was the poisonous whore’s whelp who stood there
behind Sir Matthew and held his shoulder, the picture of matronly virtue – but she wasn’t! It was she, Jen, who loved him,
she who should be there now, with her man. But she couldn’t work her mouth. It was too hard. She was so tired.

Letting her head droop, she panted and waited for the blow to come that would end her misery.

Ivo was tempted to run through the house and grab some friends to come and capture this man, but courage was never his strongest
suit. Having seen how the man had dispatched Michael, he was reluctant to test his own skills as a fighter against him.

‘What is it?’

‘Didn’t you hear me, fool? He’s gone. And so have the figures, from the look of it.’

‘What figures are you talking about?’

He had approached to the doorway now, and could peer in as the foreigner kicked at tables and benches, overturning them all
and hunting high and low for something. The dust was rising, and he chewed at his lip as he went about the room, prising with
a knife at some of the stones, seeing if they could be moved, then carefully inspecting the floor as though there could have
been a trap door hidden there, but soon he stood, breathing heavily and staring about him. A shelf dangled from the ceiling,
attached by ropes. He slapped his hand underneath it, sending everything atop flying, and kicked at a small phial lying on
the ground. It flew away and smashed into pieces on the wall.

Only then did he seem to calm a little. Standing staring at
the wall, he nodded to himself, and then called to Ivo. ‘Fetch me Richard Langatre. Right away.’

Ivo was nothing loath. He turned and hurried from the barn, through the house, where Michael sat huddled on the floor with
a bloody rag tied about his ruined hand, being tended to by a maid, and out into the street with a feeling of distinct relief. Up the road he hurried, and pounded on the sorceror’s door.

Langatre had been sitting before his fire and thinking of the man lying dead beneath him when the banging came on his door,
and now he agreed with alacrity to go and help the dead man’s friend.

‘I need you to tell me what this man would have been doing in here.’

Langatre eyed the wild-eyed man uncertainly. Although he was a knowledgeable man, there were limits to what he could achieve,
and he was close to the limit right here. ‘I don’t know how much I can tell you, friend. This place is in a mess.’

‘He was doing something in here. What can you see?’

Langatre sighed to himself and entered. There was a table-top on its back, two trestles nearby where they had fallen after
being kicked, and all about a mess of broken pots and various tools. Some were no doubt used for
maleficium
, but in the main they looked like gardening implements. It was only as he tentatively lifted the table-top that he gave a
little gasp.

‘What is it?’

‘My bloody knife, that’s what it is! He must have taken it … this must be the man who broke into my house and tried to
kill me!’

‘He
was desperate to achieve something with the things he took. What else did he remove?’

‘There were any number of things … mainly tools that a man might use in cleansing his soul before … Hey, that’s my
leather hat!’

‘So?’

It was possible. There were plenty of magicians who attempted conjurations, as he had told Sir Baldwin and the coroner the
other day while he was in the gaol. Yes, some had tried such things, but the chances of success were minimal, and the dangers
…

‘Well?’

Langatre scowled at him. ‘I don’t know what you normally do, man, but my job is to be cautious. Leave me to work it out and I shall give you accurate information. Hurry me and you’ll get something that is less use than horseshit. Is that clear enough?’

Without waiting for the response, he started looking about him carefully. If Sir Baldwin had been right, and the stories were
true, there may be some wax lying about in here. He searched, but there was nothing to be found. Shaking his head, he rose
again and thought wildly. Then his face lightened and he hurried outside to the vegetable plots. At the side of one was a
large rubbish heap, and he ran to it excitedly, prodding at it until he gave a little whistle of glee.

‘Here you are!’

‘What is it?’

‘Wax – like the stuff in my undercroft. The fellow has made some models of men out of wax, I’d guess. He’s going to try to
kill someone.’

Baldwin
was still glowering with concentration as he left the inn and began to make his way to the bishop’s palace.

Simon was with him. The coroner had been asked to visit the sheriff at the castle because a woman had reported a rape, or
something, but Rob walked a few paces behind as usual, truculently glaring at all those about him as he went. At one point
he was fairly sure that he saw one of the lads from his game the night before, but the face soon disappeared in the crowds,
which was some relief.

Their path took them down Cooks’ Row, and thence to Bolehille and down to the Palace Gate, and it was as they entered Bolehille
that Rob saw another face he thought he recognised. Hastily he turned his head slightly, and hoped that the simple subterfuge
would serve. Fortunately he could hear the master talking to his friend the knight, and so long as they kept on their musings
about the dead men and all that, he’d be all right. Yes, there was the Palace Gate. Only a matter of a few hundred yards,
now. Easy enough.

As he sighed with relief, he felt his legs pulled from under him. ‘Aargh!’

Hands outstretched to break his fall, he felt stone on his palms, the scrape of flesh rasped away and the instant stinging
pain. His knees were bruised, and his breath had been knocked from him.

‘We want our money,
foreigner
!’ he heard as he started to try to clamber to his feet. A kick at his legs made him fall again.

Then there was a chuckle, and he turned his head to see Simon and Sir Baldwin, both standing with arms crossed, Simon with
a broad grin on his face. ‘Been upsetting people again, lad? I’ve warned you about this before.’

‘It was a fair game!’

‘You’re
learning new concepts, are you?’ Simon asked unsympathetically.

‘I was doing it for you, master,’ he said hurriedly.

‘What?’

Now he had Simon’s attention, Rob spoke quickly. ‘They told me of a rumour while we played last night – it’s said that the
bishop doesn’t trust the sheriff. Thinks the sheriff might be disloyal to the king …’

‘Quiet!’

‘It was this one, sir. He’s called Ben.’

Suddenly both his attackers were running away, swift as only rats or city-bred churls could go, Rob thought to himself.

Simon started as though to chase them, but then he stopped and looked back at Baldwin, then both stared down at Rob.

‘Are you sure of this?’ Simon frowned.

‘Why else would they run like that?’ Rob demanded reasonably.

‘Why should they?’ Baldwin asked. ‘All they need do was deny your story. It is foolish, perhaps, but not an offence to see
a lad hanged, telling a tale like that.’

‘They got nervy when I asked them how they knew,’ Rob recalled. ‘It was when I asked whether the bishop had a spy in the sheriff’s
house. They went quiet then.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘I doubt not that the good bishop has an ear in every important house in the city. Yet that is interesting. Yes, Simon, it is enormously interesting! If the good bishop felt that the sheriff was actively plotting something, he would
have done all in his power to warn the king, would he not? And what better means than to send a messenger with a private,
verbal message?’

‘But
what could the sheriff be planning all the way down here?’ Simon said sceptically. ‘The king is many leagues away.’

‘
Maleficium
is supposed to know no bounds of distance,’ Baldwin mused. ‘I wonder if that is what they planned? To have the king assassinated
from insignificant little Exeter?’

Simon was eyeing his servant doubtfully. ‘You are sure of this? How drunk was the lad?’

‘Ben? He was the one with the face like a ferret and the smell of a fox on heat. I don’t think he was drunk last night. He
seemed all right.’

Simon looked at Baldwin. ‘Should we go and ask the bishop?’

‘I do not think so. The news that his affairs are common knowledge may not please the good prelate. No. Perhaps it would be
better were we to keep this information private for now.’

Simon nodded, although he would have preferred to have asked the bishop about his concerns. Politics were becoming a mess,
and Simon was trying still to see a way through. As a mere bailiff to the abbey of Tavistock, he was not involved, thank God,
in national politics, but every man had to be aware of the currents of power. If a man were to upset even the lowliest servant
of a man like Sir Hugh le Despenser, he could find himself either in a very painful place or dead. ‘Does that mean that the
bishop’s loyalty is being tested?’ he wondered aloud.

Baldwin threw a casual look at Rob, and, seeing he was far enough away, drew nearer to Simon. ‘Old friend, do not even wonder
aloud about such things. Simply listen and draw your own conclusions. This country is grown too dangerous for musings in public. For now, assume that his
lordship the bishop will stay loyal to Despenser and the king, for it is in his interests to remain so. His star has waxed
with the Despenser’s, and Despenser has grown fat on the largesse of the king. Yet there are many who do now question the
king’s management, and who detest the overweening arrogance and greed of Despenser. Perhaps this sheriff is one such? I do
not know.’

They had reached the Palace Gate, and Baldwin nodded at the porter as they entered the bishop’s precinct again. And I hope I learn to read the signs correctly too, he said to himself.

Will was appalled to see how the girl was thrown to the floor. ‘Wait! Don’t hit her! She’s been raped!’

‘Sorry, man, but this little innocent slaughtered another maid from the castle yesterday,’ the coroner said. ‘She’s not as
sweet as she looks.’

‘I didn’t kill her,’ Jen said. She spat in the direction of Lady Alice. ‘She’s right there!’

‘You killed your own friend, maid!’ Sheriff Matthew stated. ‘You killed Sarra.’

‘Me? I couldn’t have hurt her! She is my best friend.’

‘It was witnessed by many people,’ the coroner said calmly, bending to pick up her knife.

‘She was asleep in my hayloft,’ Will said stupidly. ‘I just thought she’d been attacked and went there to hide.’

‘You did well to bring her here,’ the sheriff said.

There was a note of dismissal in his voice, though, which Will recognised. He nodded sadly, walking to the doorway. Yet he
could not help but turn and give her one last look before leaving. She was so much like the girl his daughter
might have grown into, and the thought made him want to weep.

‘A good day to you,’ the bishop said as he marched into his main chamber. He peremptorily demanded wine from his waiting steward,
and sent him on his way. Rob scuttled after him in a hurry, knowing when it was best to make himself scarce.

‘My lord,’ Simon said hesitantly, ‘you seem a bit vexed this morning. Do you prefer that we leave you for a little, or come
back tomorrow?’