Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

Closing his eyes in relief, he carefully set it down again. It would have been terrible if it had become contaminated withdirt from the floor, because then all that time spent in cleaning the damned thing would have been wasted.

No, the fingers of a man killed a few moments after they were removed were far too important to be allowed to get dirty.

Art was no fool. When he saw the knight talking to his father out there in the space by the roadway, he knew that the man musthave guessed about him, and he was half inclined to bolt. The door to the yard was in plain view, but Art was fairly confidentthat he could beat a knight carrying a sword over a short distance, let alone a longer one. This man, the Keeper of the King’s Peace, didn’t live here in the city. He was just an occasional visitor, that was all. All Art had to do was run now, and thencome back in a week or two when things had calmed down. Or maybe he should just go. There was little enough to keep him herenow. The bleeding city was a prison to a man like him with ideas and schemes. He had a good mind, him.

There was no love between him and his old man. Hal didn’t understand him at all. Never had. He seemed to reckon that a boylike Art should be well behaved all the time, like Hal always was. But Art wasn’t some crusty old wrinkled shell like hisfather. He was young, and his blood fizzed with energy. Hal? He was a worn-out old husk, he was.

He could see his father talking with that self-righteous manner he had, like he was always so perfect. Well, he wasn’t anybetter than Art himself. Art had heard tell of the scrapes his father used to get into when he was a lad, too. Which was whatmade it all the more galling that he tried to beat Art when Art went out and had a good time.

When he heard them discussing the figure Hal had seen, Art gave a wry grin. Old fool! The thing was just a trick of the light,that was all. There’d been nothing there. Nothing at all. If there had, Art would have seen it too, wouldn’t he?

Art leaned out to peer at his old man again, and saw the knight’s gaze fix on him. ‘Shite!’

If he was going to run, he’d best get on with it right now. He took a deep breath, dropped his head to his breast, and wasabout to set off when he heard a step very close — too close.

‘So you are Art? I would like to speak to you.’

‘Why?’

‘The night that the messenger died you saw someone. Your father told me about it. I want to know all about it.’

The Bishop’s Palace

Robert Busse had completed the business he had with Bishop Stapledon, and was glad to be able to take his leave.

It had been an excellent idea to come here, he thought with satisfaction as he walked from the palace into the close. Thatdunghill rat John de Courtenay would find it hard, very hard, now that Busse had already won the bishop’s ear.

His rival was a fool, that was the thing. He never understood the simplest point of organisation, he couldn’t manage an accountto save his life, and his sole interests were his damned hunting animals and his clothing. Had to follow every damned fashion- as soon as the court altered the length of their hosen, so did he. Under him, the abbey would collapse. Busse was convincedof it.

Still, the good thing was, Busse was ahead of him now. There could be no doubt in the mind of any of the brothers that thebetter was going to win the throne, and it wouldn’t be de Courtenay. And one of the first instructions that Busse would give,when he had the abbacy, would be to command that all brothers adhered to the rule’s commands, and all hounds, raches, alaunts,whatever the blasted slobbering mutts were, would have to go. If de Courtenay wanted, he could send them all back where they came from, his father’s household. Personally Busse had nothing against them; it was only that de Courtenay was flaunting his wealth for no reason. And whenthat God-cursed monster had come into the refectory last month and taken the food from Busse’s very bowl, Busse had known,absolutely for certain, that he would rather die than see the poor abbey fall into that man’s hands.

There had been many things to be done, of course. Busse had managed to deal with many of the other brothers long before poor Abbot Robert, God save his soul, had died. He’d already won the agreement of Richard de Wylle (he would become prior under Busse); Roger de Pountyngdon (who would become sacristan); William de la Wille (almoner); Alexander … the list was endless. All had agreed, though, to vote for him at the election, rather than for de Courtenay.

But now he had just one last little task to ensure that all was done. He’d already checked with Langatre, and now he wantedto make sure once more. Just to see that his future was as secure as he thought it should be. Langatre was competent enoughto read the signs for him. Not that it was necessary, of course. But it would make him a teeny bit more comfortable … John de Courtenay was a powerful man, after all. His father was a baron …

The roads were clearing now in the gathering dusk, and he could smell the delicious odour of cooking pies and meats as womenprepared their last meals of the day. During the summer months, they would do so at this hour, and he somehow much preferredthe summertime, and smelling the cooking in daylight. There was something wrong about the odours in the darkness, he always felt. When it was dark, people should be in their beds. God! As he ought to be now, he thought,pulling his robes tighter about him. The thought of rising for Matins was most unappealing. But Langatre was never about muchduring the day. He reckoned that most of his work was achieved in the dark, and slept for much of the morning. Probably aload of old guff, so far as Busse was concerned, but the man was a competent fortuneteller, so who cared. Let him think hewas convincing. The main thing was, he helped clear Busse’s mind and allow him to think logically.

His path was in darkness, and he almost fell full-length at a loose cobble, but managed to save himself at the last moment. Still, it left his ankle giving him gip, and he hobbled the rest of the way.

Passing a man leaning against the wall, he nodded and absently made the sign of the cross, before walking to the door andknocking on it.

‘He’s not there, Father,’ the man said.

‘Hmm?’ Busse grunted enquiringly.

‘The man used to live there. He’s been taken by the sheriff’s men. Held up at the castle, so I heard. If you want to see himup there, you’d best pray your hardest. The sheriff’s not minded to let him have visitors, so I reckon!’

‘Langatre taken! Sweet Christ! Why?’

‘He’s been dabbling with evil magic, they say. Getting demons to obey his command. I heard tell that he’s been trying to killmen with waxen images. Maleficium! ’ Elias said solemnly, as though it was a word he had known all his life, and not something he had heard for the first timethat morning.

Busse muttered a hasty ‘Thank you. God speed!’ before turning and hastening as fast as his limp would allow, back up the road towardsthe cathedral. And all the way he could only think that God was sending him a sign. With his fortuneteller arrested and heldfor summoning demons, all of a sudden Busse felt that his plans were beginning to collapse about his ears.

He could have wept.

Exeter City

Baldwin was sure that this was the same boy. Yes, he had the same pale, rather unhealthy-looking face that he had glimpsedwhile standing over the dead messenger, and, as he eyed Art, Baldwin was impressed by just how shifty a lad in his late teenscould appear.

There was none of the arrogant self-confidence he would have expected in a lad this young, only a kind of anxiousness. Baldwinhad seen that in the faces of others: it was a natural result of someone’s realising that they were in the company of a manwho, after the sheriff, was one of the most powerful in the country. Often, of course, the lads he met were those who hadsomething to hide, he reminded himself, and wondered about Art. It was natural for a keeper to suspect everyone, though, andhe tried to put his suspicions aside.