Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

The roads were quiet, but she was oblivious. Her despair was so acute, she would not have noticed if the road were paved withburning coals. There was nothing which could ever ease her torment. Not now — not ever. Her life was a long stretch of greymisery without redemption. Nothing could ever give her joy again.

When Busse and Langatre had entered the house, they strode straight through to the main hall.

‘Very well — tell me! What was that all about?’ Busse demanded as soon as they were inside the door.

‘I couldn’t tell you in the street, Brother,’ Langatre said. ‘When you asked me, we were inside the castle still, and it wouldhave been dangerous to talk. No, I was anxious when I heard the sheriff ask whether his own wife had visited me, because shehad — several times.’

‘Why?’ Busse asked with the eagerness of a man to whom an entire sex was a mystery.

‘She was anguished, for her husband and she having no children,’ Langatre admitted reluctantly. ‘She came to ask me whethershe ever would bear children, and I had to tell her that I thought she would not. It is a sad problem, but the conjurationwas entirely convincing to me, as a professional. She will have none.’

‘Why would that make you so anxious?’

‘She did not want her husband to hear of her visits to me. If he were to learn, just think how he might react. Knowing that shewas barren, and learning that she’d been here and had told me about their problems … it is not the sort of news that aman would appreciate, much less when it means a man’s wife has been consulting a known magician — especially just now . You have heard of this suspected conjuration with the intention of harming our own noble king?’

‘Sweet Christ on the Cross!’ Busse said, crossing himself hurriedly.

‘Yes. So we should be cautious, Brother. I must not see her again. Perhaps I could send a message to her, explaining, but I do not know how.’

‘By sending her a note, of course!’

‘And who would open it? Probably her husband or his steward!’ Langatre said scathingly.

Busse nodded distractedly. He could quite see that this was a matter of some delicacy. A mistake, and thereby letting herhusband know her business, would inevitably lead to recriminations. And Busse had no intention of losing Langatre — not whenhe was still so useful. ‘Give me writing tools. I shall write to her and have a priest deliver the note to her alone. Thatwill be best.’

‘Of course. No one would open a letter sent from a priest,’ Langatre agreed with delight. He fetched a small square of parchmentand a quill and ink, and watched as Busse scrawled laboriously. Then, when it was done, Busse melted some wax from a candleand thrust his ring into it to seal the note. He went to the door and walked the short distance to the church of St John Bow. Soon he was back again.

Langatre spun on his heel, startled by Busse’s abrupt return.

‘What is it, man? Do you think to be taken again when I have only just had you released?’ Busse said acidly.

‘Brother, I have been attacked in here, my servant murdered, and then I have been arrested for harming him, and all the whilethe killer stood upstairs in my chamber. I am nervous in the place!’

‘Perhaps so, but you have work to do!’ Busse snapped. ‘I cannot afford to be here too long. I must return to the abbey andmake sure that my rival doesn’t steal my supporters away from me by the use of heavy bribery or threats. All the time youstand here gazing around like a lovesick owl, you are wasting time. Get on with it!’

Langatre nodded disconsolately. There was a large cauldron in the corner of the room, and he went to fetch it. The brazierwas gone out, of course, and he must take scorched cloth and flint to start another fire, blowing hard to light it. Soon hehad a spark caught on the cloth, and could set it amongst some light tinder: feathers and hay. These he placed in the brazier,and as the flames sparked and crackled he began to set twigs about them, and then reached for his little pail of coals. ‘Oh!’

‘What now?’

‘My pail’s empty. I need more charcoal.’

‘Good God! Then get it, man!’ Busse barked.

Langatre set his jaw, but did as he was bid. The coals were down in the alley that ran from the street to the garden, andhe took the pail with him as he left the room, walked into the street and thence to the alley.

It was always dark here, but today it felt very close, as though the weather was about to change. A strange smell reached him, and he twisted his features at the odour. Something was different — odd.

The little sack of charcoals sat deep in the alley, away from the wet, and he lifted it and poured the contents into his pail,cursing quietly as some coals missed the pail and fell to the ground. One or two toppled over the edge and slipped down tothe entrance to the undercroft. There they splashed in the rainwater by the door.

He peered down, tutting to himself. No doubt the new lodger there would complain if he stood in Richard’s discarded waste. Some tenants about here were astonishingly fussy, and would moan to the landlord at the slightest infraction of whatever rulesthey felt supreme. He considered, then tutted once more. Carrying the pail to the top of the stairs, he walked down, collectedthe offending coals from the strangely viscous pool, and carried them up. He set them in the pail and picked it up, wipinghis hand on his gown as he walked to his door and entered.

The little fire was burning merrily, and he began to set more dry sticks on it, building up the pile before setting a ringof coals about it, putting more and more on top until he had a small, smoking pyramid. Then he began to blow at it until thecoals spat and gleamed.

Busse had been wandering about the room as he prepared his fire, but now, as Langatre stood again, he peered at him. ‘What’sthat?’

‘I dropped some coals,’ Langatre said absently. ‘I had to pick them up, so I wiped my hand. Why?’

‘What were they lying in?’

‘Just some rainwater.’

‘ Red rainwater?’

Busse led the way. Soon they were in the street, and Busse saw the steps at the front of the alley. He approached them nervously,and stood studying them before tentatively putting his foot on the top step and descending.

It was cool down here, and well shaded, and soon he found that the noise of the street was left behind him. The steps weregood sandstone, moving but little with his weight, and he was soon at the bottom. Here there was a pool of liquid, which inthe dark was merely a puddle. It had no apparent colour, and it could easily have been water, were it not for its apparentthickness and the odour of tin. It seemed to run from beneath the door, a good, board door to the right, that had a latch. He set his thumb to the latch and pushed.

He burst from the undercroft like a rabbit before ferrets, and it was his sudden appearance which caused the first ripplesof delicious interest through the people in the street.

‘You all right, Brother?’ a man asked, and Busse stared at him wildly.

‘Get away from me!’

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ another said, and there was a little laughter, but it was stilled when someone noticedhis hands.

‘Have you cut yourself?’

‘That’s blood!’

Busse felt his heart pounding like a wild deer’s at the hounds’ approach. He was distraught, confused, desperate, uncertainwhat to do for the best. He should have taken a horn and blown the hue and cry, bellowed for men … but the first ideato come into his head was to fly from here. He couldn’t now. He’d been seen, and even as thoughts of flight came to him, hefelt hands grip his rough tunic. ‘Release me!’