Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

As he had this thought, there came another shrill, shuddering cry on the wind, but this time, for all Simon’s level-headedprotestations and explanations, a freezing shudder ran down his spine and trickled into his bones. He threw a last log onthe fire, and hurriedly returned to the shelter.

He did not feel comfortable lying in the same tiny space as Busse, but he liked still less being out in the open on his own.

Exeter Castle

And in the sheriff’s bedchamber, although Matthew had rolled over and was soon asleep, content with a hard day’s work satisfactorilycompleted, his wife lay on her back at his side and stared at the ceiling.

Langatre had nothing to do with anything dangerous, she was sure. He was an innocent man. A fellow like him did not deserveto be caught up in the mess that was English politics.

She had been astonished when her husband accused her of trying to use necromancy again. He was desperate for children — surelyhe must understand her despair? But no. He said that she must not visit such men ever again. Better that she remain barrenthan that she risk their souls.

Yes. It was a shame. She would try again tomorrow to use her influence on him to have Langatre released. His imprisonmentcould help no one.

At least it had taken her mind off the other man and her fear that he, a genuine traitor, could be found and captured.

Thursday Next after the Feast of St Edmund 6

Exeter City

In the cool of the early morning, Robinet woke with a tongue that appeared to have been expertly employed in cleaning the streetovernight. It was thick, foul-tasting, and rough, which seemed to match perfectly his feeling of general nausea, as thoughhe had been drinking too much for several days.

He opened his eyes with some reluctance, wondering what he might find. If the previous day was anything to go by, he couldexpect to be in a strange room, with no sign of his friend, and perhaps a knife fouled with another man’s blood.

Fortunately, there was nothing of the sort when he peered about him. Instead he saw his old companion at the fire, a cauldronalready warming, filled with a fresh porridge that scented the room with the delicious aroma of oats and barley.

‘You slept well. It’s past dawn now,’ Walter said, stirring the pot. ‘Thought I was going to have to kick you or eat it all myself.’

Robinet grinned as he drew the blanket away. Sweet Christ, but it was cold enough to shrivel his cods to the size of hazelnuts! He pulled on his shirt and tunic in a hurry to cover his nakedness, and took time to pull on his old hosen.

In the past, he would have proudly clad himself in the blue and striped particoloured uniform of one of King Edward II’s messengers. Those had been glorious days. He had lived with the king’s household, eating and drinking at the king’s expense, all againstthe day when he might be sent post-haste across the country with messages held in his little pouch, bound by his oath to deliverthe king’s letters until he was released or death took him.

If a messenger was ill, the king would send his own physician to help them. King Edward was always a compassionate, friendlyman. He enjoyed the company of his men, and they loved him for that. So what if barons said he oughtn’t to hedge and ditchwith the churls on his estates, or act, or sing? He was the king, in God’s name!

‘Any nearer an idea what happened the night before last?’ Walter demanded.

‘I swear, all I know is, we were in a tavern for the night, and then I woke in a stable. Someone had looked after me wellenough. I had a comfortable straw bed, and apart from a headache, I was perfectly well.’

‘Headache from the wine?’ Walter asked.

‘I don’t know. It still hurts now, but that’ll be your ale last night.’

Walter set the spoon down and walked over to him, studying him with his head on one side. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘All over the back of my head — but it’s not a bruise. It just hurts as if I had too much to drink.’

Walter ran his hands over Robinet’s skull, ignoring his protestations, but as his fingers ran over the area above and behindthe left ear Newt had to wince and draw in his breath quickly. ‘That hurts!’

‘I’m not surprised. There’s a lump like a duck’s egg there. No, old friend. You’ve been knocked down. Perhaps it was the winethat saved your life. You fell so quickly, you were no threat to anyone else.’

‘But that’s mad! Who would knock me down?’

‘Someone who wanted to kill James? If they were happy to kill him, perhaps they knocked you down first?’

‘That would be stupid. Would you have done that?’

‘No. I’d have killed you too, just in case,’ Walter said, and his eyes had that quality again which Newt had seen before whenthey discussed murder: a quality of emptiness. ‘Better always not to leave witnesses behind. They can be messy.’

‘There is more to it than expediency, old fellow; if they were content to strike me down, they would have left me where theyhad hit me: in the street. Who would have carried me into a stable and left me there, nice and comfortable? Certainly notthis assailant who murdered James.’

‘True enough.’

‘No, I think it must be more simple,’ Newt asserted with a frown. His head was painful still. ‘Perhaps I was merely horriblydrunk, and rather than carry me home James saw a stable and installed me comfortably there.’

‘Perhaps — although what were you both doing out in the open at that time of night anyway? Weren’t you drinking in the tavernwhere he stayed?’

‘Yes. In the Noblesyn.’ Newt frowned.

‘But he was down at the South Gate, and you were near the Palace Gate yourself when you came to, weren’t you? What were you bothdoing down there?’

A flash of memory came back to Robinet. ‘There was a man at the inn who made James anxious. He said something …’

If only he could remember. The whole of the evening had been a blur, but now he knew his head had been struck, at least therewas an explanation for that. And perhaps if he could concentrate, he might remember something. ‘There was a man in there. That was it. And when he left the inn, James wanted to follow him. I went too.’

‘What then?’

He was frowning now with the effort. ‘I thought he was mad. I wanted to get away, anyway. Meant to come back here. So I leftwith him …’

In his mind’s eye he was there again. He could see the streets, wet with the thin sleet falling, smell the woodsmoke froma hundred fires, but the whole was tilting as he stared. The wine he’d been drinking was strong, and there had been plentyof it, and now he felt sickly as he stumbled over the cobbles.

At his side, James, who seemed more competent on his legs. Watching all about them as though fearing an attack — althoughperhaps it was only the natural caution of a man who feared that the watch might see them and try to arrest them for beingout after curfew.

‘He was carrying a message from the bishop. It was a reply to a message from the king, I think. He’d have left that nightif he’d had a chance, but the bishop was so slow in composing his note that he only received the message as dark was falling. Too late to do anything then. He had been going to ride off at first light. And then, I think, I was hit on the head. I seem to remember it now, a blow, and then Iwas falling.’

‘To get here from the Noblesyn you’d have gone along the High Street, and then carried on westwards,’ Walter pointed out.‘You woke up nearer the South Gate, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Perhaps I’d got lost … or James led me the wrong way?’

‘Perhaps he did, at that. Where was he when you fell?’