The Malice of Unnatural Death: (6 page)

But Simon adored this landscape just as much as any lord would love his deer park. For Simon it was the picture of a modern
working environment, with the smoke rising from the miners’ camps, great trenches dug to show where the peat was being harvested,
and rubble all about where great hunks of moorstone had been dug up and roughly cut to size. All over the moors people worked
the land. It might not be so fertile as some of the valleys nearby, but to Simon these open, rolling hills were as near perfection
as anywhere in the country.

Not that he would ever admit to such thoughts in front of
his old friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, of course. Baldwin would merely scoff at such views.

‘Where’s the nearest inn?’ Rob demanded, gazing about him with unconcealed disgust.

‘Probably about ten miles west.’

‘Christ’s ballocks, what a privy!’

Simon clenched his jaw and dismounted. He would lead his old horse for a while to rest him.

They had left Dartmouth as the sun rose. The night before, Simon had introduced his clerk to the new Keeper of the Port, and
told Rob about his impending departure, and to his considerable surprise Rob had insisted on leaving with him. There was little
chance of refusing him. The mere thought of trying to persuade Rob’s mother that it would be a good idea for her to keep him
with her at Dartmouth was enough to persuade Simon that he might as well accept the lad’s company. She was not a greatly maternal
woman, and as soon as she heard that her firstborn was leaving her she’d be out of her house and into the nearest tavern to
meet another man. She had only ever looked on Rob as an unwelcome nuisance at the best of times. He got in the way of her
search for a husband.

Besides, having an additional servant was always a good idea. Simon had no idea how his household was faring just now. It
was always possible that one of the other servants had been taken ill or died. Yes, bringing Rob was almost certainly a good
idea.

He had brought a skin of wine, some cheese and a loaf of bread for the journey. Others might look upon a ride of ten leagues
across the moors as dangerous at best, and more probably near suicidal, but Simon had covered these moors regularly in the
last eight or nine years, and he knew the
different parts better than he knew his garden at Lydford.

They stopped in the lee of a hill and lunched together, drinking the wine and chewing lumps of cheese with the loaf, a harsh
brown one which proved to have more fragments of grit from the millwheel than actual grain, judging from the foul crunching. Several times Simon had to search out shards of moorstone and discard them. Still, it was enough to fill their bellies, and
once the horses were watered they set off once more, Rob muttering under his breath all the while.

‘Why did you ask to join me, if you are so bitter?’ Simon demanded at last, exasperated.

‘I didn’t know you were bringing me up here. Thought we’d be going on a real road, stopping off at a tavern for the night. Thought it would be a laugh.’

‘Now you know the truth,’ Simon said unkindly. ‘So shut up, or take yourself to the main road south of here and meet me in Tavistock tomorrow.’

‘I can’t go alone! I’ll get lost!’

‘Let me dream,’ Simon muttered.

Master
Richard de Langatre was a comfortably-off man. In his early thirties, he had the paunch of a man considerably older, and his
cheery smile won the attentive gazes of many mothers of unmarried daughters who saw in him a potential son-in-law. After all,
the man from Lincoln was fortunate enough to have a good business and a near-monopoly in Exeter.

He was not the most handsome man in the world. The round features and fleshy jowls showed his financial position, but did
not add to his charm. However, the shock of mousy-coloured hair and his grey eyes offset the appearance of unbending probity
and financial expertise. The eyes were too prone to laughter, and the hair would never submit to a comb or brush, always ending
up unruly and discreditable no matter what the barber did to it. The first impression was that this man would be pleasant
company for an evening in the tavern.

Today he had been shopping, a task which he viewed as essential not only to the efficacy of his mixtures, but also to his
reputation. There were some hideous concoctions he had made in the past which now he recalled with fondness. The more foul
the medicine, the more the patient valued it, he
believed, and provided that he didn’t kill too many with his potions – and none had died as a direct result of taking his
medicines, so far as he knew – he should find his reputation improving and his purse growing heavier.

This year, ah, this year had been a good one. First the consultation with the sheriff over the little matter with his woman,
then some woman who had been nervous about her husband’s learning of her infidelity – she had paid well for the correct answer!
– and finally the man who wanted to be abbot. He had been willing to pay well, thank the Lord! Yes, this year had been good
to Master Richard. A good necromancer was always in demand, he reflected happily.

He was back at his room as the sun began to dip towards the west. After shopping he had betaken himself to Suttonsysyn near
the Guildhall. In there, near the great fire, he had warmed his hands and feet from the chill outside, and partaken of a quart
of good strong ale warmed and spiced and sweetened as he liked it with honey. Afterwards he bought himself a few honeyed thrushes
from a stall, and chewed them standing at the street corner, watching the passers-by.

You could tell much by watching and observing how people walked and talked, he always thought. And just now, people were wary.

It was no surprise. He had been discussing it this morning at the inn. Michael Tanner had been there, and the two had sat
together as they drank, as was their wont. Michael had a friend who was working in the cathedral close, and he was often one
of the first to get news, but today everyone was alert to the latest gossip.

‘It is true, then?’ Richard had asked.

Michael nodded grimly and set his pot aside. He was a
short, dark man with a square face and a thin salt and pepper beard. His eyes were sharp and grey, always darting about, watching
to see if anyone was listening to them. ‘Absolutely. I heard it from the steward himself. He was there in the room when the
king’s messenger arrived, and heard every word he spoke. The queen has had her household broken apart, her income is slashed,
and even her dower has been taken from her. They leave her nothing. It is hard to believe, but my friend tells me that the
messenger spoke of the king’s children.’

‘What of them?’

‘All taken from the queen. All being looked after by trusted maids – those trusted by the king, I mean.’

Master Richard whistled low. ‘He must
hate
her. Do you think he could suspect her of treason?’

It was a proof of their closeness that such a word could be used. Michael and Richard had grown to know each other because
the latter rented his house from Michael, but they had soon developed a mutual regard. Richard appreciated that. It was not
often that others would respect a man who was a dabbler in magic.

Michael pulled a face. ‘How could a man trust a woman like her? She has French blood, my friend. Her loyalties are split. It’s hardly fair to blame her – but if you were the king, how could you trust a woman who was sister to the French king just
at the time that the French are threatening to steal King Edward’s remaining lands?’

Master Richard shook his head at the thought. Since the fight over the French attempt to build a fort at Saint Sardos, the French and the English had been at loggerheads. A truce had been agreed, but that would only last a number of months. And
once it had expired, the French king Charles IV
could all too easily take over all the remaining English lands in France. ‘It is a terrible thing when a man and a woman fall
apart. The marriage vows should hold them together.’

‘You can’t expect an Englishman to cleave to a flighty French wench,’ Michael said harshly. He finished his drink and bade Master Richard farewell. Then he leaned down quickly and whispered in Master Richard’s ear. ‘You know, there’s talk that she
paid a man like you to remove her enemy and her husband. That would make a husband think carefully about her, wouldn’t it?’ He winked and was gone, leaving Master Richard with a full pint remaining in his pot, and a delicious rumour to absorb.

The uppermost thought in his mind as he walked homewards was that he would dearly love to meet the queen and see what he could
learn from her … it was never likely to happen, but she must be a fascinating woman. Especially when she was being dispossessed
like this. Could she really have hired someone to kill off her own husband? If she had been involved in an act like that,
it was no surprise that she should be considered a malign influence on her children. A woman who plotted her husband’s murder
was surely inadequate as a mother. She might raise them to hate her husband as much as she did herself.

It said much about her, though, if she was prepared to hire a necromancer like him to remove a king, he thought. Then, as
he opened his door to enter, he was shocked from his reflections by the hand at his shoulder.

‘Master? Are you Master Richard of Langatre?’

Stilling his anger, he smiled. ‘Yes, mistress. Can I be of service?’ After all, it wasn’t so often that the sheriff’s wife
came to see him.

Simon
reached the abbey in good time, with at least an hour of daylight remaining. Overall, a pleasing journey, apart from the whining
behind him. The only cure for that was to ride on a little faster, so that the lad’s legs couldn’t keep up.

‘Are we there now?’ Rob was staring at the great moorstone walls with trepidation, eyes wide like a rabbit watching a hunter.

‘Yes. This is it.’

‘Oh, thank Christ for …’

Simon winced. Rob had been raised in Dartmouth, and his language was designed more for the tavern than an abbey. ‘Try to be
careful with your words, Rob. The monks in here expect respect. If you use language like that, you could be thrown into their
gaol and left there for a week. I won’t pay to get you out if you are guilty of embarrassing a monk.’

‘God’s teeth.’

‘That’s enough!’

There was a lay brother at the gate who volunteered to take Rob and the horses to the stable. Simon was happy to pass over
the reins, taking his pair of bags from the saddle before he bade the beast farewell. It was not his own, but one of those
rounseys which the abbey purchased and kept for the use of its workers. When Simon left tomorrow to see his wife, he hoped
to be able to borrow another horse and packhorse for the journey. For now, though, there was more urgent business, if Stephen
of Chard was to be believed.

Rob was somewhat pathetic, staring at Simon like a boy bidding farewell to his father before going to sea. Simon waved him
off irritably, then turned on his heel and made his way across the main court to a door which had been pointed out to him. A novice opened it for him, beckoning him to
enter.

Over the years Simon had come here many times to meet his abbot, but those encounters had always been held in the abbot’s
own house overlooking the gardens and the river. Many were the pleasant meals and drinks Simon had enjoyed there while supposedly
briefing the abbot on matters pertaining to troubles on the moors, or more recently the affairs of Dartmouth. However, the
last few meetings they had had were more sombre. It was clear to Simon that the abbot had known he was dying. The death was
long and slow, but the good man endured it with equanimity. He was glad to be leaving the world, Simon was convinced. Abbot Robert had done all he could to serve God and the abbey, and he knew he deserved his final rest.

‘Bailiff. Good. Come in here.’ It was John de Courtenay, the son of Baron Hugh de Courtenay. He was standing in a narrow passage,
and he opened a door as Simon approached, motioning him inside. Seeing the novice, he jerked his head. ‘You! Fetch us wine,
and be quick!’

The room had clearly been used for some while as a working area. It was not large, but there were two tables set up inside,
with a series of rolls of parchment set out on them. A few were weighted flat with stones, and it looked as though John de Courtenay had been studying them. He walked in behind Simon and stared down at the nearest parchment with distaste, before
removing some of the stones and allowing the skin to roll itself up again gently as he seated himself on a stool beside it.

Between the tables stood a large brazier half filled with glowing coals. Simon walked to it and held his hands to it while
he wondered why he had been called here to see the baron’s son. It was only after a short period that he suddenly
felt a sinking sensation in his bowels.

There were many in the abbey whom Simon would have been delighted to see take over: the cellarer was a kindly, well-intentioned
man; the sacristan was astute, worldly wise and effective; even the salsarius was more than capable – but this man was the
very last whom Simon would wish to see in charge of the place.

John was no fool, it was true, but that only added to Simon’s concern now as he turned and warmed his backside. Once, while
he was discussing fathers and sons with his friend Sir Baldwin, the knight had observed that it was a general rule that if
a strong-willed man sired a son, the son would be as feckless as his father was brilliant. Not always, of course, but there
were many examples of weakly sons who followed potent parents. At the time, Simon recalled, they had been alluding to the
king himself. No man would have thought that so jealous, foolish and incompetent a man could have followed Edward I.

No, he didn’t think that this John de Courtenay was a fool, but that did not make Simon feel any better. When Simon was a
boy, his father had been steward to the de Courtenays, and Simon had grown to know John moderately well. Where his father
was cautious and aware of the machinations necessary to protect his estates and treasure in the confusing modern world of
politics, John was devious to a fault, determined, frivolous, vain and a spendthrift. It was no surprise that Hugh had supported
his eldest son in his ambition to go into the church rather than take over the vast family estates. God forbid that he should
ever grab the reins of power of the abbey.