The Malice of Unnatural Death: (7 page)

‘Where is that wine?’ de Courtenay grumbled. He was a powerfully built man, with a square face and thinning fair
hair about his tonsure. That he kept himself moderately fit was entirely due to his passion for hunting, which was not actually
permitted, although he didn’t allow that to stop him. Recently, though, his belly had started to grow, and Simon noticed that
since he had last seen him his posture had changed. Whereas before he had always stood dignified and erect, now he was beginning
to bend his back to support his growing paunch, and he sat with his neck thrust forward in a vain attempt to conceal the growing
pouch of flesh beneath his chin.

Simon waited silently. He was anxious. Whatever had occasioned his recall to Tavistock, he felt sure it would not be to his
benefit.

At last the novice returned with a thin, old monk who entered, nodded kindly to Simon, and then glowered at his brother. ‘Perhaps
you forget, John, that you should not command the novices to fetch and carry for you? You may do that if you ever win the
abbot’s seat, but until then you should leave the boys alone. And if you want wine, come and ask me to provide it for you. Since we are lucky enough to have a guest in our midst, I suppose this once it will be all right.’

‘We have matters to discuss here, Reginald,’ de Courtenay said sharply. ‘You may leave us.’

‘Oho!’ Reginald said, and passed Simon a jug of wine, winking as he did so. He handed a second to de Courtenay, who took it
suspiciously. Then the old monk gave them both goblets, and Simon tasted his wine with pleasure. An excellent vintage, strong
and fruity; meanwhile de Courtenay peered into his own goblet with an expression of doubt.

As soon as they were alone again, de Courtenay shook his head. ‘I am sorry about that old fool. The churl has little in
his head any more. I am sure the vindictive old brute watered this wine. It’s like piss!’

Simon hurriedly agreed, pulling a face, before de Courtenay could think of taking a taste of his own jug. ‘Why did you ask
me to come here?’

De Courtenay looked at him for a long period without speaking. Then he set his goblet on the table beside him and leaned forward,
his elbows on his knees. Motioning towards another stool, he waited until Simon was seated.

‘Since poor Abbot Robert has gone to a happier place, it will be up to the brothers here to elect a new abbot. There must
be a vote early in the new year. Now when that happens, naturally I shall be selected. There is no one else who can lead our
little community. And yet there are one or two misguided fellows here who might seek to prevent my taking my proper place
in the abbey. They could try to put another in my stead, if you can believe it!’

Simon could very easily believe it. ‘That has nothing to do with me, though.’

‘Not directly, no. But I remember you from when we were lads. You always followed your father, and he was a good, loyal servant. How is he?’

‘Dead these last nine years,’ Simon said shortly.

‘Amazing. Still, you’d want to continue in his footsteps, wouldn’t you?’

‘How exactly do you expect me to do that?’ Simon asked warily.

‘There is one brother here who could be a threat to me … the fool Busse. Robert Busse. He is not a serious contender,
of course. I mean, I’m the son of a baron, and he?’ He gave a dismissive shrug and wave of his hand. ‘No. No one in their
right mind would vote for him. And yet he’s a crafty
old devil. Perhaps he might threaten some, or bribe others. You never can be sure with that devious old … anyway, I want
someone to keep an eye on him.’

‘Wait! You are asking me to spy on a brother of yours? I cannot wander about the abbey trailing after this fellow. I am no
brother.’

‘Calm yourself. I merely want you to go with him when he leaves to visit Bishop Stapledon. All it will involve is travelling
with him to protect him on his way, and then ensuring that no danger comes to him – or
me
– when he reaches the city.’

‘No. Now, if you do not object, I shall leave and visit my wife. I haven’t seen her in some weeks.’

‘Wait one moment, Bailiff.’ John de Courtenay’s voice was as smooth as a moleskin. ‘Before you decide to rush off in a sanguine
humour because I have requested that you help me in this matter, you should be aware of something.’

‘What?’

‘You do not like me, Master Bailiff. I know that. You and I have never been particularly close. Do not protest! Please, we
are both sensible men. I am frivolous and enjoy the trivial. Yes. However, I do serve Our Lord, and I am determined to do
all I may to succour the souls of the people who live here. Not all monks are like that. I know some who would be happy to
leave their paths of service and instead follow the path of knowledge. Some are so determined to learn as much as they may
that they have left the sensible courses of learning and sought out more … curious routes to knowledge.’

Simon stood. ‘I have no part in the election of the next abbot, and want nothing to do with it.’

‘What? Money wouldn’t tempt you?’

‘I
shall take my leave,’ Simon said coldly. He had never been open to bribery.

‘Simon, I was only teasing. It is my habit, when I am anxious, to be light about my concerns. Look: sit a moment and listen. Please?’

He waited until Simon was seated once more, and then turned to the parchment on the table baside him. His eyes were floating
over the words, and Simon had the impression that he was reading from it as he spoke.

‘I know some little of Busse. He is a man of lowly birth. Did you know that? I have learned that he was the son of a priest,
a man called Master Robert de Yoldeland. That was how he acquired his Christian name. His surname came from his mother, a
concubine of his father’s called Joan Busse. He is not the sort of man we want as abbot here, Simon.’

‘I have always found him to be a fair and sensible man,’ Simon said coldly.

‘Would you say that if you thought that he had made use of a magician? That he was asking someone to use
maleficia
to help him become abbot?’

Simon shivered. Everyone knew of sorcerers and witches –
maleficus
and
malefica
– who could use their evil spells to harm others or cause benefits to accrue. Some would use a witch to win a woman’s love,
while others would seek a sorcerer to help enhance their prospects.

‘I see from your expression that you have as much liking for such people as I do, Simon. Aye, well, Busse has been using a
necromancer. He has already made enquiry of Master Richard de Langatre. You know of him? He is the chief fortune-teller in Exeter. Busse came here from Lincoln. They say he consulted unclean and malignant
spirits while he was there. Do you really think he would make a better abbot than me? Even the most biased fellow must wonder
whether he would be a safe and sensible master of a place such as this … a place constructed to save souls and protect
the people of the area. Simon, you must follow him. I need a man who is responsible, and I can think of no better man than
the son of my father’s own best and most faithful steward.’

The
traveller had reached a tavern early on to try to get some heat into his bones. He had a simple requirement, now he was here:
to find as many as possible of the materials he would need to continue with his experiments.

Here he was, a master of the secret arts, and he was constrained by the lack of simple tools. It was infuriating. He had money,
he had the knowledge, and yet he still lacked those basic requisites. Even a piss-swilling brewer had them, but not he. Not
just now.

He had the one, of course. Cautiously, from beneath his robe he brought out the small bone needle. It was perfect: smooth,
thin, elegant and ideal. There were other items he needed, though: sickle, wax and linen would be easy to find … but the
daggers, the hat, the other bits and pieces, would be harder to procure. And of course he would need peace in which to pray
and fast and prepare mentally for the task. Ideally he ought to have a servant, but that was too much to hope for. That had
been made clear.

It was as he reached this conclusion that he saw the two lurching inside. Plainly the pair of them had already enjoyed a good
evening, and they were ready to continue a little longer, until they fell down in a drunken stupor. Well, so
much the better. If only he weren’t staying here, he would be happy to go to them and slip his dagger between the ribs of
the younger one. One good turn deserves another, he mused as he turned to his drink.

Their conversation was loud, as such conversations often are, and he could hear snatches.

‘You ought to come back to my place, Jamie. It’s not far from here. Walter would like to see you again.’

‘I wouldn’t want to see
him
, though …’

There was some quieter murmuring, then: ‘Come on, Jamie, let him be. He’s no worse than me.’

‘I remember what he used to do.’

‘That’s a long while ago.’

‘Not long enough.’

For all the brashness of the younger man, this Jamie could plainly hold his ale better than his companion.

‘And besides, I must be off in the morning. I have urgent messages for my master,’ he said with a significant tap at the pouch
on his belt.

And at that moment, John of Nottingham glanced up and saw Jamie’s eye on him, and he felt a lurch in his belly to think that
he could be discovered so easily.

Wednesday, Morrow of St Edmund’s Day
⁵

It was cold, a freezing night, and thoroughly miserable for a watchman.

Of those who spent their nights pacing the territory trying
to ensure that, so far as was possible, draw-latches and robbers were prevented from plying their trade and the rest of the
population could sleep easily in their beds, all had their own lists of the worst kind of weather. For Will, his list had
once been topped by the autumnal showers that drifted over the city every so often. They would appear from nowhere, and in
moments he would be drenched. There was something almost unnatural about them, the way that with just a mild breeze behind
them they could seep through even a leather jack and leave a man sodden and uncomfortable. Yes, in the past he had hated those
nights more than any other. The cold hadn’t bothered him.

Now, though, as the years went by, he had learned to detest the ice that came with weather like this. He was that little bit
older, and whereas in the past he had been able to avoid slipping on frozen cobbles, now he was wary of anything that could
unbalance him. He was not so secure on his feet as once he had been.

‘Evening, Thomas.’

‘Will.’

Thomas atte Moor had a brazier going to keep him from joining the puddles all about here and becoming iced. He was a younger
man, perhaps only four-and-thirty, so but half Will’s age, but even one so young could be chilled to the core in this weather. Set to guard the body Will had found yesterday, the last thing he wanted was to be stuck outside in this weather, but when
the coroner commanded, only a fool would disobey. Especially this coroner!

Leaving Thomas, Will went on to the end of the alley. Here he was almost at the South Gate. The alley opened out to show the
pile of rubbish which was waiting to be cleared
just in front of the Church of Holy Trinity, the mound lying almost against the wall.

A hog had been rootling in the heap, and as Will watched it shoved with its short, stubby snout at the pile, hauling at something. Will was just eyeing it speculatively, wondering whether, if he killed it, he could persuade a butcher at the shambles to
help him joint and sell it for a share of the profit, when he caught sight of a flash of blue. It was strange to see a piece
of material in among all the rubbish left out there, most of it ancient food and rubble. After all, cloth was expensive. A
watchman could hardly afford to see it thrown away.

He thrust with his staff at the hog, who eyed him angrily at being pushed from his feast, and Will was anxious for a moment
that the beast might attack him, but then the animal snorted and backed away, looking about for other morsels. Not before
he had snatched another quick mouthful, though.

And Will saw that behind it, under the blue material, was the remains of a chewed hand. A human hand.

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a man of certain habits, and as the light breached his shutters he was already awake.

After so many years of soldiering, he was used to being up with the dawn. In the past it was because his order, the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, demanded rigorous training. Woe betide the knight who remained
in his bed when his horse needed grooming or his weapons sharpening. For Baldwin, all his life this period after dawn had
been a time of intense effort. There were masses to be celebrated, equipment to be checked, and, of course, his exercises.

A
Templar who sought to serve the order must spend many hours each day in training, and Baldwin was a keen exponent of the most
stringent efforts possible. It was only by striving for perfection that a knight might achieve the degree of excellence which
was sought for by all. He used to rise early from his bed and stand outside in the chill morning air, often bare-chested,
sword in hand, practising defensive manoeuvres, retreating on his feet, stamping flat-footed as he gripped the hilt with both
fists, then suddenly moving to the offence, his sword stabbing forward to strike an imaginary foe, then rising to block a
sudden hack, before swirling round smoothly to strike another.

Yes, every day of his life for thirty years or more he had been a devout exponent of practice, and now … well, it was
cold outside, and he was growing older. An experimental hand reached out to stroke his heavily pregnant wife’s flank, and
he listened to her muffled groans as she protested against his advances, but then he found the junction of her thighs, and
her complaints became less urgent. She straightened a leg so his hand could be more easily accommodated, and as his other
hand found her breast she rolled over, one arm over her head, eyes still closed, lips parted. She turned to him, her head
thrusting forward slightly, her naked body tensing luxuriously under his hands. She arched her back and spoke breathily into
his ear.