Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘Nothing! I swear! All I have ever done is try to earn a small living. That’s all. There’s nothing secret about my work. Sir Baldwin, you saw that I was robbed — my knives, my hat, all gone!’

‘You have been said to have been involved in telling the future,’ Baldwin said.

‘Oh, that! It’s mainly a knack of letting people tell me what they want me to say, and then telling them what they want ina different manner. Easy, that is. But there are many in town who profess to be able to do the same — even one of the monksin St Nicholas’s Priory is supposed to be able to do that.’

‘Is there something in particular that could have irritated the good sheriff? Anything you have done recently?’

‘Nothing I know of. What is this all about, anyway?’

‘Someone has attempted an attack on the king and his friend Despenser, from all we’ve seen,’ the coroner rumbled. ‘I shouldtake it that the king is not happy with anyone supposedly associated with the magical arts.’

Langatre stared about him helplessly. ‘Oh, cods!’

‘So if there is anything — anything — you can tell us that might help,’ Baldwin prompted seriously, ‘it might just assist us to help you.’

‘Oh, God in heaven!’ Langatre gazed from one to the other. ‘You want me to be honest?’

Exeter City

Master John of Nottingham was happy with his work so far. The models were taking on their own appearances already, and hefelt sure that they would be as successful as the originals.

He put the final touches to the first of them, using his knife to remove a small flaking of wax from the little crown he hadplaced on its head, and setting it upright on the table before him, then bowing his head and pinching at the top of his nosewhere the headache seemed to be starting.

It was one of the problems he had suffered from for a long while now: he was sure that his eyes were beginning to fail him. In the past he had been graced with perfect eyesight, and there would have been little difficulty involved in doing this kindof work by candlelight, but more recently it had started to take its toll. Perhaps it was just that he was still tired fromhis long journey down here from Coventry. It had been a hard effort. A sore, hard effort.

He had not expected to be released. The sudden opening of his cell door in the middle of the night had been a terrible shock. At first he had been convinced that he was about to be dragged out to be tortured. Or pulled out to the gibbet and hangedwithout an opportunity of putting his own case. When he was grabbed by the arms and dragged out, he could not command evenhis voice. The words he tried to utter pleading innocence were stifled by his terror. There were steps, harsh orange lightfrom the flickering torches, then a long corridor, and he was brought out into the open air. It made him want to shriek. As soon as he arrived out in the open, he saw a tall post, and the sight made him begin to swoon,his head pounding, his heart thudding as though trying to break free.

Before the post he saw the tall figure of Croyser.

The Sheriff of Warwick was standing by a huddled mess on the ground, and as he was pulled forward John saw that it was a man,a man of John’s own age, his face white, his lips blue in death. That was when he became sure that he was being brought hereto be killed.

‘Master John,’ Croyser said. He was pulling on gloves, and John automatically thought of a murderer covering his hands sothat no blood should pollute them.

The hold on him was released, and John fell on all fours, where he remained with his head hanging, waiting for the blow tofall. He daren’t look up into the eyes of the man who was to kill him.

‘Get up, fool! Do you want to die here? Get up, I said.’

John hesitated, fearing a trick, but then he noticed that the two men who had brought him had left. Their feet were not athis side any more. Hardly daring to hope, he looked up.

Croyser pointed at the body beside him. ‘See him? Do you know him?’

‘I have never …’

‘He is Master John of Nottingham. Do you understand? I’m going to put him in that cell, and when the gaoler arrives in themorning, he will swear on his mother’s grave that it was you. Or who you once were. You are safe. You are free.’

‘I …’ John’s mouth hung open, and then he slowly closed it. ‘What do you seek, sir knight?’

‘You were paid to perform a task, were you not? There are many in the land would like to see that mission completed. If you have the stomach for it, man, fly from here and complete it. You were paid for it, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, but the money is lost. How can I start afresh?’

‘Here!’ Croyser tossed a purse to him. It was heavy, a ponderous weight, and John dropped it. Picking it up, he could feelthe coins inside. Croyser nodded. ‘Yes, the balance of your twenty pounds. The money you were promised. The same men who paidyou before want you to succeed, but you will have to leave Coventry. Go somewhere else, where you may be safe. But in God’sname, be quick. The country cannot survive much longer with this corruption at its heart.’

John had needed no second bidding. There was a pack of food and drink with a blanket and heavy cloak against the weather,and he had taken them, stammering his thanks while the sheriff gave him some instructions for his own safety. There was nodoubt that he was risking much, for if John was discovered, it would be the sheriff’s own neck that would be stretched.

‘One thing I do need, though,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘My book … without that I cannot do my work,’ John had said despairingly.

He looked over at the waxen image once more, remembering that night, flying from the gaol and the city of Warwick, guidedby a man wearing the sheriff’s own livery. The man took John out by a small postern, and then led him along filthy, dark streetsuntil they reached the road south. There the man gave him his book and left him. John attempted to thank him, but in returnthe man merely spat at the ground and turned on his heel.

It had been a terrible flight, but at least he had escaped. And now he would do as he had promised, and make these models. Four pounds of wax. Enough for four images.

One of the king, one each for the two Despensers, and one for the Bishop of Exeter.

They would all die.

Exeter Gaol

Master Richard of Langatre looked from one to the other, and he finally gave in with a grunt. This was not the way he’d foreseenhis own future.

‘Look, I am no necromancer. Let us be quite sure of that. All I do is try to use some of God’s own power to help those whoneed it. For a fee.’

‘So you divine their futures?’ Baldwin asked with a mild smile.

‘Well … yes, I suppose. Although the most important thing is to gain their confidence, and then tell them what they wantto hear. Usually.’

‘How so?’ Coroner Richard asked. He was leaning down like a great cat preparing to pounce.

‘Well, there are ladies who come and ask if their love is in vain, for example. I cannot always give them the answer theywant.’

‘Why?’ the coroner demanded.

‘Sir, if you heard a maidservant who was convinced that her master was in love with her and would run away with her to starta new life elsewhere, would you want to let her continue in her delusion, or would you try to help her come to terms withthe fact that the bastard had been pissed and fancied a tumble with a well-proportioned wench? At least, told carefully, that story could have power: the wench was attractive,after all. But there was no possibility of the … man’s leaving his wife.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said. ‘This has happened recently?’