Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

Where were they? Langatre should have been here by now. The sheriff walked to the door, but there was no sign of the beadles who should have been bringing him to the gaol. Nomatter. They wouldn’t be long. No. He turned back to his hounds and scratched a bitch behind the ears.

Send Langatre to the king, and it would divert attention. And his wife would not be going out to see him any more.

Two birds.

North-East Dartmoor

Simon gathered a massive pile of leaves by the simple expedient of kicking them into a heap. Here the wood was thickly ladenwith them so soon after the trees had shed them all, and in a short time he had several mounds ready to be used.

‘Are you finished?’ he called to Busse.

The monk was throwing fronds of fern atop the shelter, panting slightly with the unaccustomed labour. ‘Nearly.’

Simon walked to him and eyed the structure consideringly. It had grown into a shelter of some four feet wide by seven long,with a thick layer of greenery cast over it, so that it would be hard to see any of the wood that made up its walls and roof. He lined up some of the fronds more tidily, but then nodded to himself and started gathering great armfuls of leaves to bringback and throw over the shelter. He had to repeat the action many times before he was content, for he knew that to give themprotection from the chill the leaves must be a good three feet thick, if he could manage it.

‘That should be enough,’ he said at last.

‘Thanks be to God,’ Busse said, and flopped onto the ground.

By some great good fortune the snow had only fallen thinly so far, and now there was a fine crust over all, like a morning’s frost. It was a relief to Simon, because he stillhad time to make a fire. It was essential, as he knew, that they should have heat. All of them were shivering even with theirthickest clothes on. It was Rob in particular that Simon was worried about. He had little in the way of decent clothing, and Simon was anxious for him.

He had built a pile of twigs and branches, and now he pulled his tinder from his shirt and set it on a platform of thickertwigs. Taking his steel, he struck at it with the reverse of his knife’s blade, striking sparks and watching as carefullyas he might. It was hard work, for the sparks blinded him in the gathering darkness, and he was unable to see the gleam ofthe tinder catching. Usually he was quick to strike a light, but tonight, with his fingers frozen and his belly empty, ittook longer. Yet at last there was a small yellow-orange mote glistening, and Simon picked up the ball of tinder and beganto blow carefully, softly at first, then more strongly. It took some minutes, but then, suddenly, he had a small explosion,and the middle of the tinder flared.

Setting it down, he began to set small twigs over it, and as they glowed and flamed he set slightly thicker twigs over them,until he had to break twigs urgently to keep up. Then, at last, he started to use thicker stems and set them about the fireuntil it represented a cone, the outside twigs all pointing upwards. Now, he felt comfortable enough to let Rob see to it. The boy lit the fire each day in Simon’s house at Dartmouth.

‘Well done, Bailiff. I don’t know that I would have survived without your help.’

Simon yawned. All he knew was that as soon as the fire was roaring and he had toasted himself before it for a short while, he was going to settle down in the shelter and sleep. He was exhausted.

‘What did you say about the spirits of the rocks at that place on the moors?’ Rob asked after a few moments. He was feedingthe fire steadily, cracking smaller twigs between his fingers to build up a bed of ash. Already the first outer layer of twigswas burning through, and he must hurry to construct the second cone of larger twigs.

Busse smiled to himself. ‘It is a sad tale of the misbehaviour of children, I fear. One winter’s Sunday, the children fromthe area went out there to play at a game of some sort. Well, we all know that playing games on a Sunday is frowned upon by God, don’t we? So He came to them, and struck them all into stone. All the little boys from a whole vill. Just think of it!’

Rob was thinking of it. His face wore a look of shock.

‘Keep feeding the fire,’ Simon called, and Rob quickly jerked back into action.

‘But why were there two circles of stones there, then?’

‘Oh, the Grey Wethers are the first circle — the second was not the children, that was some youths who also went there toplay on the Sabbath,’ Busse said. ‘And God was no more pleased with them than he was with the others.’

An owl called from deep in the woods, and Rob’s head spun towards it.

‘Don’t worry, though,’ Simon said. ‘There are no rocks in this wood. Not that I know, anyway.’

‘Oh. Good,’ Rob said, and then edged a little closer to Simon. He continued to set twigs on the fire, but now Simon couldsee that his eyes were as often on the woods all about them as on the flames.

Simon, nodding already, was only relieved to think that Rob would stay awake and keep the fire going for longer.

Exeter City

Robinet was soon at Master Walter’s house, where he knocked quietly. After a short period, there came the sound of bolts being drawn,and then the door opened a crack.

‘So you decided to come back?’

‘Walter, may I enter, please?’

‘I suppose. What’s happened to your old friend, then?’

Newt swallowed. ‘Someone murdered him out by the South Gate.’

Walter had been walking back into his hall, but on hearing that he stopped and turned slowly to Newt. ‘You kill him?’

‘Of course not!’

Walter gave him a sour look. ‘You leave here a day and a half ago, saying you were going to see the little shite, and nowhe’s dead, right? And where were you last night, then?’

Robinet held out his hands, palms up. ‘You know me well enough. Would I have grabbed him from behind and strangled him witha cord?’

‘Christ no! That would have been my way, not yours.’ Walter chuckled grimly. ‘You were always the kindly fellow who sought to placate people, and when you failedyou just drew your sword and stabbed them while looking them straight in the eye. I was the devious bastard who made people disappear.’

‘So did you do it?’

Walter of Hanlegh turned to face him, a man slightly shorter than Newt, with a sharp, narrow face and close-set black eyes. As he met Newt’s stare, there was sadness in them, an expression almost of wistfulness, as though he missed his past calling. It had certainly paid him well over the years, as was proved by his house, a smart, new building with tiles on the floor,a brick fireplace and his own chimney, and even a solar chamber for his bed. His clothes were finely embroidered, the shirtmade from the best linen, his hosen soft lambswool, his tunic bright and unfaded.

‘No, Newt. It was not me.’

‘Thank Christ for that, at least,’ Newt said with relief. ‘I thought you’d killed him just to save me from my stupidity.’

‘I would have — but a man has to make his own mistakes.’

‘Yes,’ Newt agreed. It did not help him learn who had killed James, but at least Walter had not succumbed to temptation just to help a friend. Not many men would have consideredmurder purely to aid a companion, but then not many men had been assassins in the pay of the king.

They were still in the house when the beadle appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir Baldwin? Sir Richard? There’s a man here for you.’

There was a tone in his voice that Baldwin instinctively disliked: a leering, amused note that jarred.

Sir Richard was not the sort of man to notice a subtlety like that, and he shrugged, grunted, and went to the door. Baldwinglanced at the still-anxious Langatre, and followed him. Outside stood a sergeant, but not one of the city’s men. This was one of Sir Matthew’s.