The Malice of Unnatural Death: (9 page)

The smile on Sir Richard de Welles’s face grew brittle. ‘He is working, is he? And a fine thing to be doing, too. Is there
any here who knows this man? What is he called? John Currier? Excellent. Excellent. Now, my fine friend Will …’ Sir Richard
placed his hands on his hips and smiled, leaning down to the petrified watchman. ‘Will, I would like you to go to this marvellous
man, right now, if you don’t mind, and when you see him, you
tell that benighted excretion of a minor demon that whether or not I hold the inquest here today, I am working too, and if
he doesn’t want his balls separated from his body and spread over my roasted bread before the full inquest tomorrow morning,
he had best get his arse over here RIGHT NOW!
’

‘I’ll bring him,’ Will bleated anxiously, all but tripping
over his staff in his hurry to escape that fearful face with the blazing eyes. He stumbled once on the rough cobbles, and
then hared off as fast as his ancient legs would carry him.

The coroner, satisfied that the man had an appreciation of his need for urgency, turned away from him and studied his audience. All male, their ages ranging from some twelve or thirteen years, the jury ringed him, their faces registering their own displeasure. None was happy to be there, especially when a body had been found so near to them. A corpse meant one thing: punishment. They
all knew that if this man had been murdered, they would all be amerced.

Sir Richard allowed his eyes to range over the jury, and then he selected two to pull the man from the pile, his eyes going
to the body as the men grabbed a wrist and an arm and tugged.

The man at the wrist was a younger fellow, and the churl was as ineffectual as a damned maiden in the way that he pulled at
the hand which had been all but chewed away by the hog, but Sir Richard’s attention was not focused on him, or on the hand
with the missing fingers. Rather, his serious gaze was fixed on the uniform of the dead man. Particoloured: half blue, half
blue striped.

‘Sweet mother of Christ,’ he muttered. ‘The man’s a king’s messenger.’

Watching from a short distance away, the man sucked his teeth as the messenger’s body was tugged from the garbage heap, and
then, having seen enough, he turned away and crossed the street towards the tavern at the top of the Cooks’ Row. From there
he could watch the streets east and west, which gave him some comfort. He didn’t want to be arrested without seeing her.

Maurice
had spent too much time running. His boots were almost worn through, his hosen frayed and ripped from crossing too much wild
land through bracken and bramble, and his cloak was scarcely any use as protection from the weather. Although he still carried
a small riding sword, it was concealed beneath his cloak where men would not see it so easily. A man of his condition should
not carry a noble weapon like that. It attracted too much attention.

He bit into a loaf of bread and ate it ravenously, his eyes going about all the men in the room. No one appeared to be taking
too much notice of him, and he felt moderately sure that his sudden departure from Evesham had gone unnoticed. In any case,
he had covered the distance quickly, and even mounted men would have taken longer. Riders had to bear in mind the condition
of their horses.

Finishing his meal, he rested his left hand at his thigh, feeling the comforting weight of the sword beneath. He had one thing
to do here, and he would do it, no matter what.

In the alley, Robinet was marching at a rapid pace. First thing was, to get out of the city. There were plenty of places where
a man like him could hide, but the first thing was protection. While he remained here in the city, there was the danger that
someone might have seen him with the dead man and report him. In his shabby clothing, he was scarcely conspicuous, but with
his luck the man who saw him would be a fellow with a perfect memory for detail. Better by far to leave the city and put as
many miles between it and him as possible.

How could he have been so
stupid
! It was insane to kill the man. Yes, he had been a complete bastard to Robinet,
and betrayed his trust entirely, but that was no excuse for such a mad act. He must have been beastly drunk to have done something
like that. Anyway, he thought they’d been getting on fine by the third quart of strong ale. Had they argued late in the night?

The memory of the blade at his belt, smothered in a slick coating of gore, was enough to make his belly clench, and he was
close to heaving as he reached the end of the alley. His pack was made of his cloak, rolled and tied with thongs to keep everything
inside, and now he slipped his arm through one and threw the parcel over his shoulder, gripped his staff, and let his head
hang as he walked towards the southern gate.

As always the way here was blocked with the crowds coming into the city. Exeter was so busy now, the four key gates were always
hectic. Today the southern gate was blocked by what looked like a solid mass of people marching towards him, all carrying
wares on their heads or yokes about their necks. A woman with a bucket of fish had dropped it and was wailing as she tried
to gather up her merchandise; a short distance behind her a tranter on his cart was hurling abuse at her for holding up everyone
else, and when she remained there in the road the man swore loudly, whipped up his old nag, and tried to ride around her. His wheel caught between a pair of loose cobbles, and although the horse tugged for all it was worth, the cart rocked but
wouldn’t rise from the small gulley. In a fury, the carter jerked the reins, and the poor brute, trying to obey, twisted to
pass across the road. One hoof caught the woman a slashing blow on her arm, and she screamed as the sharpened metal of the
shoe tore down her upper arm and opened the flesh for six inches. The horse, panicked by her
scream, reared and plunged, and terrified people screamed as they saw those metal-shod feet flailing.

People were shouting and pushing, and the man’s hoarse bellowing helped little. Robinet stood gaping as the people hurried
past him. Two barged into him, but he scarcely noticed. There was no point in joining the confusion. Rather, he fell back
with the people, gradually slipping to the edge of them, so that he could gain the protection of a house’s wall, and wait
there.

By good fortune, from where he now stood, he could see the figure of the dead messenger in the roadway. A guard stood watchfully
over the corpse, and Robinet could not help himself. He walked over to the body and stood peering at it while the guard leaned
against the wall and watched the people running past. The urgency and terror was already abating, and there were already more
people laughing than screaming. Children had arrived to see what was the cause of the uproar, and the watchman was chuckling
at the antics of the tranter as he clambered down from his cart and tried to pull his nag forward, out of the little gulley.

‘This man. Has the coroner given his verdict on the death?’ Robinet asked.

‘Yes. He was throttled some time recently. Didn’t want us to take him away yet, said someone else had to see him. God knows
why. Clear enough what happened.’

‘What, a robbery?’

‘Yeah. Course. Someone found him here drunk, and pulled him out from the road with a cord round his neck. Wouldn’t take long
to kill him like that.’

Robinet nodded, but his mind was far away. He wasn’t even looking at the body now. Instead he stared down towards his belly,
at the knife that dangled there.

So
if he had been strangled,
whose
blood was it on his knife?

Coroner Richard was loud, bullying and ferocious when he thought it necessary, but he was not a fool, and now, as he walked
away from his brief investigation of the body, he wore a frown.

The man had been murdered, that was plain. As had the other fellow. But the first had been robbed after having his throat
cut – a simple theft by some scrote who happened by the dead man while hard up for money. It was a common enough event. The
other was very different: he was a king’s messenger, and as such should have been safe from any kind of attack. The fact that
someone dared to assault him was worrying.

He entered a tavern and bawled for ale while he considered the matter. One thing was clear – he must report it as soon as
he could. He would go to the sheriff and advise him of the messenger’s death.

‘Sir
Baldwin, I am glad to see you once more. You are well, I hope?’

The Bishop of Exeter sat coolly as Baldwin entered his chamber. Bishop Walter II was a tall man, with peering eyes, a stooped
back, and all too often a frown on his face. Just now his expression was welcoming, but as Baldwin bent to kiss the episcopal
ring, he was quite sure that before long that cheerful smile would fade.

Their greetings over, the bishop sat back and toyed with his spectacles. Baldwin knew that Walter was very shortsighted. It
was the natural effect of so many years studying religious books, and more recently keeping a close eye on the detailed reports
of the nation’s finances. He was Lord High Treasurer, close adviser to the king, and recently he had become friend and ally
of the Despenser family.

‘Sir Baldwin, I was very sad to hear that you were unhappy with the idea of becoming a member of the king’s parliament. No!’ He held up a hand as Baldwin tried to interrupt him. ‘Please let me finish. My feeling was, and is, that you would be a perfect
foil for some of the more foolish people who presently advise the king. There are many who would be better employed elsewhere. A man such as
yourself would bring more experience and sense to many of the discussions.’

‘My Lord Bishop, I am very mindful of the honour you do me by suggesting me for this,’ Baldwin said with a smile, ‘but I am
afraid I think that it is a step too far for me. I am at bottom a simple knight who is happy with my quiet life here in the
country. I have no interest in lengthy journeys to London, York or Winchester to attend meetings with bishops, barons and
lords. And the help I could give would be minimal. Look at me! I’m a rural knight with an interest in rural affairs, not those
of great moment in the nation’s politics.’

‘That is precisely the point,’ the bishop said, pouring a goblet of strong red wine and passing it to Baldwin. ‘The parliament
is there to bring to the fore all the views of all the king’s subjects. He is as interested in the affairs of the lowliest
churl steeping a hedge as in the doings of a great lord.’

Baldwin said nothing as to the peasant steeping a hedge. There were strong rumours that the king enjoyed such activities far
too much. It was hardly the occupation of a man who would lead barons into battle. ‘You mean a great lord such as Thomas of Lancaster?’

Bishop Walter looked at him coldly. ‘Earl Thomas was a traitor. He spoke treason, and supported those who would have destroyed
the king’s honour and dignity. If it were not for his influence, I doubt that the Lords Marcher would have dared to rise in
rebellion.’

In his heart Baldwin disagreed. The Lords Marcher had risen against the Despensers, the acquisitive and ruthless father and
son who had enriched themselves by robbing others up and down the country, depriving widows of their estates, bearing false
witness against those whom they
considered their enemies, and preventing any from petitioning the king without paying them bribes. There was none who dared
stand against them, not since the king had brutally executed his own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, in their support. Their
hold on his affection was so strong that to murmur against the Despensers could be viewed as treason. And Baldwin hated himself
for not saying as much to the bishop.

‘There has never been more need of cool, calm advice than now,’ the bishop continued. ‘The threat from the French king… if we were to lose Guyenne, the crown would be greatly damaged. We have to protect the king’s lands over there, but how? You are a man experienced in war. Your advice could be invaluable.’

‘My fighting days are long past,’ Baldwin said shortly.

‘I did not say you should fight, Sir Baldwin, but that you ought at least to be prepared to share your knowledge of battle. You were involved in the last great battle of Acre, I recall?’

‘It was a long time ago, my lord.’

‘Perhaps. Much has happened since then, naturally.’

Baldwin felt his blood thicken. There was a sudden emptiness in his belly as he absorbed the bishop’s words. He had told Stapledon
many years ago about his experiences in Acre, but surely he had never mentioned the fact that he used to be a Knight Templar? Yet there seemed to be an edge to Bishop Walter’s voice that implied he knew – and more, that if Baldwin didn’t acquiesce
to being elected, the bishop might tell others of his position. To be known as a renegade Templar could cost him his life. Those who were found after escaping the original arrests were still potentially at risk of a pyre.

His
mind flashed with scenes of his life today: his daughter and pregnant wife at their home near Cadbury. Then came the memory
of bodies burned and unrecognisable lying in the smouldering ashes of a large fire, and the sight of Jacques de Molay standing
proudly before the Cathedral at Notre Dame and declaring that the accusations were baseless, unfounded, and malicious… He could see himself in a burst, his clothes on fire, his mouth wide in a scream of agony so intense it curdled the fluid
in his veins just to think of it.

And then the anger flooded him. ‘You say I should go to advise? And what good would that achieve when there are so many near
the king who enjoy his trust and whose words he will accept over all others?’

‘We have a truce with France, but there is no guarantee that this time next month, or even next week, we shall not be at war
again.’

‘The king is fortunate enough to have a ready-made ambassador. He married her,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘Perhaps he ought
to enquire of her what the best action would be?’

‘Come, now, sir knight!’ Bishop Stapledon snapped. ‘You think that the sister of the French king would be an impartial counsellor? She may well seek to return to her mother land. What better ally could the French hope for than a spy within the king’s own
household? She is too dangerous.’