Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

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

By good fortune, from where he now stood, he could see the figure of the dead messenger in the roadway. A guard stood watchfullyover the corpse, and Robinet could not help himself. He walked over to the body and stood peering at it while the guard leanedagainst the wall and watched the people running past. The urgency and terror was already abating, and there were already morepeople laughing than screaming. Children had arrived to see what was the cause of the uproar, and the watchman was chucklingat 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 knowswhy. 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 longto 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 walkedaway 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 throatcut — a simple theft by some scrote who happened by the dead man while hard up for money. It was a common enough event. Theother was very different: he was a king’s messenger, and as such should have been safe from any kind of attack. The fact thatsomeone 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 ashe could. He would go to the sheriff and advise him of the messenger’s death.

The Bishop’s Palace

‘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 stoopedback, and all too often a frown on his face. Just now his expression was welcoming, but as Baldwin bent to kiss the episcopalring, 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. Itwas the natural effect of so many years studying religious books, and more recently keeping a close eye on the detailed reportsof the nation’s finances. He was Lord High Treasurer, close adviser to the king, and recently he had become friend and allyof 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 perfectfoil 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 amafraid 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 thecountry. I have no interest in lengthy journeys to London, York or Winchester to attend meetings with bishops, barons andlords. And the help I could give would be minimal. Look at me! I’m a rural knight with an interest in rural affairs, not thoseof 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 parliamentis there to bring to the fore all the views of all the king’s subjects. He is as interested in the affairs of the lowliestchurl 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 fartoo 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 destroyedthe king’s honour and dignity. If it were not for his influence, I doubt that the Lords Marcher would have dared to rise inrebellion.’

In his heart Baldwin disagreed. The Lords Marcher had risen against the Despensers, the acquisitive and ruthless father andson who had enriched themselves by robbing others up and down the country, depriving widows of their estates, bearing falsewitness against those whom they considered their enemies, and preventing any from petitioning the king without paying them bribes. There was none who daredstand against them, not since the king had brutally executed his own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, in their support. Theirhold on his affection was so strong that to murmur against the Despensers could be viewed as treason. And Baldwin hated himselffor 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 Stapledonmany 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 acquiesceto 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 memoryof bodies burned and unrecognisable lying in the smouldering ashes of a large fire, and the sight of Jacques de Molay standingproudly 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 fluidin 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 nearthe king who enjoy his trust and whose words he will accept over all others?’