Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

However, as he crawled backwards into the shelter, his blanket and cloak in his hands, as he wrapped himself up in them andclosed his eyes, all he could see was Busse’s calm, affable face offering him the chance of throwing over life in Dartmouthand returning here, to the moors he loved. He could live with his wife again in Lydford, see their daughter, see his littleson growing …

For that he would support any contender, no matter what John de Courtenay felt.

Exeter Castle

The sheriff’s chamber at the castle was a small, comfortable affair, but there was nothing kindly or welcoming in the sheriff’sexpression as Baldwin and the coroner entered, Langatre behind them.

‘I hear you released this man? On what grounds?’

‘Sir Matthew, it is delightful to meet you again,’ Coroner Richard declared.

‘And you. What is the meaning of releasing this man when I had ordered him arrested and brought here?’ He had stood now, andwalked past the two knights to stand staring at the wilting Langatre.

Baldwin glanced at Sir Richard, but he could see that the coroner was as bemused as he by this display of anger. ‘You hada man ordered arrested on the basis that he had killed his servant. After a brief investigation, it was clear not only thathe had not killed his servant, but that he was himself the victim of a fierce assault, and would have died were it not for the fact that he defended himself with vigour.’

‘And he convinced you of that, did he?’

‘Show him your neck, lad,’ Coroner Richard rumbled.

Langatre obediently lifted his hands to his throat, but the sheriff knocked them away.

‘I don’t care what fatuous evidence you have given these two good knights. I know who you are and what you do, man. I won’thave your kind in this county, and for now I want you held in my gaol until the little matter of your guilt or innocence hasbeen confirmed to my satisfaction. Take him down, sergeant!’

Baldwin protested. ‘Sheriff, this man is innocent. You cannot seriously believe that he could have killed his servant. I haveseen the scene myself, and it accords in every detail with this man’s evidence. If you hold him here, the people in his roadwill assume that he is guilty, and his life will become impossible.’

The sheriff watched his sergeant ungently pulling the shocked Langatre through the door and closing it after them. ‘You mayfeel that this is unjust, Sir Baldwin, but it’s only the latest in a series of insanities, so far as I am concerned. However, I have a writ from the king himself demanding that people such as this Langatre should be arrested and presented to him.’

‘Where is this writ?’ Sir Richard grated.

The sheriff looked at him with surprise — although Baldwin was not sure whether it was because the coroner had questionedhis veracity, or merely that he didn’t think the coroner could read. Whatever the reason, he had soon pulled out a small parchmentwith the king’s seal broken on it. He passed the small cylinder to Sir Richard, who unrolled it, his eyes all the while onthe sheriff, as though doubting that the man was safe.

‘Good God in heaven!’

‘Yes,’ the sheriff said. ‘Dated the sixth of November at Westminster.’

‘What does it say?’ Baldwin asked at last, frustrated beyond tolerance.

‘There has been an attempt on the life of the king and the Despensers. All those who could have had anything to do with itare to be held.’

‘You say that this pathetic little man who pretends to be able to make magic — that this little fellow might be involved inassassinating the king?’ Baldwin asked.

‘According to the king’s messenger, the dead man, the fellow responsible for this attempt to assassinate them was a man called John of Nottingham, who was living in Coventry at the time,’ the sheriff admitted. ‘But that does not mean others were notthemselves involved.’

‘You mean even a man so far away as here in Exeter?’ Baldwin said, and chuckled.

‘You find it amusing?’

‘I find the idea that you could think him guilty very amusing!’

‘Langatre had sold his services to many clients. He is known to conjure spirits to tell him the future, as well as summoningdemons to do his bidding.’

‘And yet an assassin could almost have his head off with a string?’

‘There is little to laugh about,’ the sheriff said. He took the parchment from Sir Richard’s hand. ‘This message was delivered,ordering me to arrest those who could have had a part in a magical attempt on the lives of the king and his favourite companions,and a short while later the messenger was found throttled. That, to me, seems a great coincidence. And in matters of the law, I don’t like coincidences, Sir Baldwin. Especially when they affect my lord the king.’

Exeter City

Walter drew a large jug from the barrel of strong ale at the rear of his buttery, and poured two pottery drinking horns full. Passingone to Robinet, he lifted his own and they clashed them, the ale inside splashing about and spattering the floor.

Drinking deeply, Walter eyed his old friend over the brim. ‘So, come, now. What is all this about? Who’d want to kill thatyoungster?’

‘I don’t know. He wasn’t known here in Exeter.’

‘He was hardly known anywhere, was he?’

‘This way, no. He tended to get the circuits north of London, rather than the longer ones westwards.’

Both men knew how the messengers tended to work. There were two groups: the nuncii regis and the cursores . The former were the men on horseback, the latter the men on foot. Both would cover the same distance in a day, about thirty-fivemiles, because a man with a horse would have to allow the beast a certain amount of rest, while a man on foot could keep goingall day.

‘Was he booted or horsed when you knew him?’

‘When he was under my wing, he was mostly on horseback. He didn’t start out like me.’

‘Those fellows have it too easy,’ Walter said, refilling their horns. After another toast, he glared at the floor thoughtfully.

‘It is strange for a messenger to be harmed in any way whatever. You know that.’

‘Aye, I do. I’ve only heard of one being molested, and that was by the Scots, I think.’

‘Few would dare cause such offence to the king himself.’

‘Yet someone did.’

Newt nodded, and leaned his elbows on his thighs. ‘What is odd is that when I woke up this morning, I was in a small stable,and my knife was beslobbered with dried blood.’

‘He bled?’

‘I heard he was strangled, but later stabbed as though to make sure. And someone had cut off a finger or two.’

Walter scowled. ‘This grows more and more unpleasant.’ Yes, confusing. The messenger was a pathetic little fellow — he’d seenhim with Newt on that first day, when he walked straight into Newt. Walter wasn’t impressed by the fact that he stood up to Newt. That could well have been terror rather than courage. Walter had seen it before, with men who were startled. When theyreacted, they could sometimes behave as though bold as a knight in a tournament, when in truth they were simply acting.

Newt shook his head. ‘There’s something about this. He didn’t deserve it. He screwed me, I know, but he didn’t deserve tobe throttled and left out there.’

‘No one does, Newt. No one ever does,’ Walter said, and his eyes were black wells of memory as he spoke.

It was very late when they returned to the Suttonsysyn, and the innkeeper was not welcoming, but the coroner made full useof his size and anger, and soon they had a table in a quiet corner with a jug of the inn’s best ale and two large cups, whilea servant was sent to see what food was still available.