Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘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 youngerman, 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 whenthe 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 thepile 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 tohelp 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 pieceof material in among all the rubbish left out there, most of it ancient food and rubble. After all, cloth was expensive. Awatchman 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 momentthat the beast might attack him, but then the animal snorted and backed away, looking about for other morsels. Not beforehe 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.

Furnshill, near Cadbury

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 remainedin his bed when his horse needed grooming or his weapons sharpening. For Baldwin, all his life this period after dawn hadbeen 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 moststringent efforts possible. It was only by striving for perfection that a knight might achieve the degree of excellence whichwas 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 bothfists, then suddenly moving to the offence, his sword stabbing forward to strike an imaginary foe, then rising to block asudden 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 wascold outside, and he was growing older. An experimental hand reached out to stroke his heavily pregnant wife’s flank, andhe listened to her muffled groans as she protested against his advances, but then he found the junction of her thighs, andher complaints became less urgent. She straightened a leg so his hand could be more easily accommodated, and as his otherhand found her breast she rolled over, one arm over her head, eyes still closed, lips parted. She turned to him, her headthrusting forward slightly, her naked body tensing luxuriously under his hands. She arched her back and spoke breathily intohis ear.

‘Isn’t it time you were up? You haven’t forgotten today you have to go to the bishop?’

There were words he could have used about the bishop that morning, but instead he gripped her a little more urgently. ‘Notuntil later.’

And it was much later that he managed to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed and make his way down the stairs of his solar, and out to his hall, all the while rehearsing in his mind how he might be able to refuse the offer whichthe bishop had made to him.

‘Offer? Hah!’

No, it was no offer. It was an ultimatum. Bishop Walter wanted Baldwin to go to London for his own reasons. Baldwin had noidea what those reasons were, but Walter Stapledon had decided that he wanted Baldwin to attend parliament, and the good bishopwas determined. It was rare that he was ever thwarted in his aims. As Baldwin knew only too well, Stapledon, once a closeand trusted friend of his, was at the very centre of power in the realm, and as one of the king’s key advisers, the Lord High Treasurer. That was enough, in Baldwin’s eyes, to make him less trustworthy.

Since the destruction of his order by an avaricious and unscrupulous French king and his lackey the Pope, Baldwin had beenless prepared to place his trust in the hands of such men. His faith in politics and the Church itself had been ruined byhis experiences as a Templar. Recently, since his friend Simon had introduced him to Bishop Stapledon, he had begun to changehis opinion, but then he had been forced to accept that the bishop had misled him intentionally, and now he was unable totrust the king’s closest adviser.

The bishop wished him to become a knight of the shire in London’s parliament, and Baldwin was determined that he would avoidthat fate. The idea of being sent away from his wife and child for weeks or months was unbearable. Only last year had he beenoff on pilgrimage with Simon, and the sense of loneliness and desolation at being cut off from his wife was still a weighton his soul when he thought of it. Better by far that he should not leave her again. Remain here in Devon, where he was content. He had no interest in or need of politics and its practitioners.

Unusually for him, he demanded a warmed and spiced wine as he sat at his table, and sipped it slowly as he chewed on a slabof meat, listening to the thundering of small feet from the solar behind him as his daughter woke and ran about the place. It was inconceivable that he could be tempted away from this house and his little girl again, he thought, and grinned to himselfas she burst through the door, her accustomed smile leaping to her face as she caught sight of him.

He took her up in his arms and cuddled her closely. The two year old always enjoyed being hugged, and she threw her arms abouthis neck, shoving her face into the point of his jaw.

There was nothing, Baldwin told himself, nothing that could tempt him to volunteer for a parliamentary career. And fortunatelythere was little likelihood that the freemen of Exeter would be willing to help the bishop in his ambitions anyway. No, Baldwinreckoned himself safe enough.

Exeter City

Robinet woke with a head that felt as though a man had taken to driving a hole through his skull by the simple expedient ofusing a small awl and twisting it with determination, slowly.

He cautiously opened his eyes and stared about him. The room was unfamiliar: a high ceiling, bare, white wooden beams, a smellof fresh hay. It was no room in which he had slept before, clearly. The place was too new.

Sitting up quickly, he winced at the pain at his temples, and reached up with a hand. As he felt his skull, he was aware of a soreness and swelling above his ear, but then a rolling wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he retched withoutrelease for a few moments.

There was nothing new about this. Someone had cracked his skull last night. Quickly he reached for his essentials: his littlewallet, in which he had stored his spoon and the pewter badge of St Christopher from when he went on pilgrimage long ago. His knife was still at his belt, and his few coins were not stolen. All seemed in their place. And there was this place, too. Where , in God’s good name, was he?