Michael Jecks: The Malice of Unnatural Death

He had a fertile brain for planning. Now he sat back in his chair and bent his mind to the question of how he might best usethe killer for the greater good, and by degrees a scheme occurred to him, one in which he could protect himself from riskwhile also ensuring that others would receive the full weight of any danger.

And he began to smile to himself — until there came a crash of metal from outside.

‘What the devil …?’

A red-faced man-at-arms peered in apologetically from the screens passage. ‘Sorry, Sir Matthew — I dropped my bill.’

‘Be more careful!’ Matthew snapped, and then returned to his contemplation. Gradually his annoyance dissipated, to be replacedby a certainty that his plan was not only workable, it was perfect.

Exeter City

It was late afternoon when John of Nottingham at last reached the city. From the wide flood plain, he could see it from far awayas a smudge in the sky. He had to stop and rest, his sore feet aching and blistered from his hastening march.

His had been an arduous journey. Thanks to Christ that he had learned of his danger and escaped quickly, because otherwisehe’d be dead already. It was only the speed with which he had made his escape that had saved him.

In part it was the example of his master that had given him the spur. When Lord Mortimer of Wigmore had been captured, hehad little opportunity to resist; to have defended himself would have meant instant conviction for treachery to his liege-lord,the king. All through the war, Mortimer had been careful to avoid raising his own standard against the king’s, but insteadhe’d held up the king’s standard while razing the Despenser lands so that when he explained himself later as only having theking’s interests at heart, none would find it easy to reject his assertion.

He had been forced to surrender when the long hoped for support from Thomas of Lancaster never arrived. That cowardly sonof a diseased sow stayed in his castle and refused to make the leap to defend his own comrades — with the result that the king destroyed Mortimer’s armies, and thenturned on Lancaster himself. And when Lancaster was caught, he was condemned out of hand with no opportunity to defend himselfagainst the charges, and executed — the first of hundreds to be slaughtered by that vengeful, vicious king. The man didn’tdeserve his throne. He didn’t deserve his life.

To remove him had been the most precious desire of so many, and yet only so few could have achieved it. And it had been soclose. But when the assassination plot had been discovered, all were taken. All but John of Nottingham.

He eased the staff over his shoulder, his pack an almost unbearable weight. Few enough possessions: mostly it was his oneheavy book. That was all, wrapped up together with some clothes in his blanket, but they had rubbed the flesh in a broad swathe,and now he spent much of his time trying to forget the pain. Still, better to be foot and shoulder-sore than dead, or heldand tortured.

Exeter was a new town to him. He had never been here before, which was itself an advantage, but it had the additional meritof being far enough away from all central sources of power in the realm for him to be perfectly secure. And there was a port,which meant that if he needed, he could escape over the water, too. For now, though, all he sought was a warm fire, a bed,and some hot wine to ease his chilled bones.

The smudge in the distance began to acquire definition as he followed the old roadway and found himself skirting a high plateau. Now he could see that it was composed of many fires throwing their fumes up into the air. And then, as he continued, he foundhimself face to face with a broad city wall, all red stone, with ditches raised before it as additional defences. There were houses lining the route now, some well built with little garden plots before them where straggling plantsgrew in the chill: spindly stems of rocket with the last few tiny leaves, and some harsh-looking cabbages. Not much stillgrew at this time of year.

From close to, the gates were enormous, and he stood before them with relief to know that here at last he would be able tosleep indoors. He marched in, and soon found where he could take a drink or two. After asking advice, he chose a place calledthe Suttonsysyn, which was only a very short distance from where he stood. And it was while he was there, looking about himself,that he saw him again.

It was a shock. He had been ready to relax, take a drink, and then retire to his cot, but now here was this fellow, one ofthose guaranteed to remember him — the king’s messenger from Coventry. There was nothing for it: he must leave the city, escape,run away again. Perhaps head straight for the coast, take a ship to Guyenne … Lord Mortimer had done just that, afterall: he’d fled the land, and was now living with the French king, so they said.

But to run now might mean he could never achieve the destruction of the king and his favourites. The thought was unbearable. He had to stay.

It had taken him four days to march here. Four days of walking without halt except at night, avoiding people as far as possible,and now he had arrived here and already his safety was at risk. He sank onto a low wall, thinking desperately about his mission. It was enough to make a man weep, seeing an agent of his destruction so soon after arriving in a town where he had thoughthimself secure. Perhaps there was nowhere which was entirely safe. This, maybe, was to be the tenor of his life from thismoment forth: to wander the lands, ever seeking safety, only to discover at every vill yet another familiar, and dangerous, face.

But he was not the man to accept defeat. Other churls might whine and complain at the way that fate would play hazard withtheir lives, but that was not for him ! He was stronger than that: he made others change their situation to suit him ! It was he who was in control. Events were so constructed by him that they guided others to obey his whims.

He would not be thwarted. Standing, wincing, he watched the man disappear down the street ahead of him, and squaring his shouldershe set off after him, his hand pulling at the little weighted cord under his tunic. With that, he could defend himself.

And then, as he stepped out, he saw another man follow him, a short, dark man who watched him closely with wide-set, darkand serious eyes.

John took a closer grip on his cord.

Tuesday, Feast Day of St Edmund 4

Exeter City

It was Will Skinner, the watchman at the South Gate, who first noticed the body slumped just inside the alley on that Tuesdaymorning.

Will was one of the older night watchmen. When he first took over duties down here near the gate, he had been middle-aged,but that was six years ago now. Felt like a lot longer. At the time he had only recently lost his house and everything he loved.

Poor Margie had never recovered from that fire. Badly burned, seeing their bodies drawn from the house, she’d lost her mind. They’d both doted on the little mites, all three of them. They’d had seven children born, but they’d had to bury the otherfour only a short while after their births. Not many children lived to four years old.

Bob had been twelve, Joan eight, and Peg six when they died. That damned fire had rushed through the house like … likeanything. Will had been speaking at a small meeting, telling his audience they should fight to reject the latest demands forextra taxes, when the woman came to get him. She was herself distraught, and he gaped at her, not really comprehending whatshe was saying. It was like a dreadful nightmare, hearing her talking about his children, his wife badly burned …