Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘And we should all be most reluctant to see you buried for lack of protection,’ Baldwin said as gently as he could. ‘And now, Sheriff, there is another matter which we needs must ask you about.’

It had been damnably cold at the gate when she stopped, but Maurice had steeled himself to kill Jen. The bitch had tried tokill his sister, and he would spill her blood for that.

Standing there, he’d had a stirring of revulsion at the thought of slaying a young woman, but the memory of the great blowaimed at Sarra was enough to drive away any compunction he might usually have felt. The blood … he could scarcely believe that the girl who had smiled at him andflirted as she relayed messages from her mistress, his sister, had been slaughtered like a hog in the street. Her sightlesseyes returned to haunt him now, as though reproving him for doubting the justice of his revenge.

She had been there in front of him as he began to make his way towards her. With her back to him, she made a very temptingtarget. Easy enough to throw a knife at her, except in a crowded street it would be too obvious. No one could miss the sightof a man hurling a missile. Better by far to slip a knife between her ribs from closer.

As he approached, she lifted a hand to wave, and following the line of her sight, he saw the man whose attention she was tryingto catch, saw the sheriff on his horse suddenly spur his mount on, and saw him clatter along the roadway and out through thegate.

Suddenly Jen’s shoulders dropped. Even from behind she presented the very picture of dejection. It was little enough, butsufficient to make Maurice hesitate.

Turning, she stumbled blindly away, a hand at her face, the other clutching at the breast of her tunic.

It was that which stayed his hand. She came closer and closer, and he stood still, waiting, his hand on his knife, until shewas before him, and then he saw the misery in her features, and his hand left his dagger sheathed. It was impossible to harma child in such despair. And that was what she was: a child barely ready to be loosed from her mother’s apron-strings.

She looked at him, her eyes unseeing, and then continued on her way, sobbing with deep, racking shudders of her entire frame, and he couldn’t do it. A man, yes, he could kill any man — but not this child.

Wonderingly, he followed her to a little tavern, but although she went inside, it was plain enough that she had little enoughmoney, and soon she was out again, reeling from one wall to another. Although occasionally she would look about her, it wasclear enough to him that she didn’t recognise him when her eyes passed over him. She had no thoughts for anyone else; shewas entirely focused on her own deep depression.

He was past making an attempt on her life, and yet he would not give up his pursuit. As she walked along a narrower street,then turned into a lane near the South Gate, he trailed along behind her. Soon he saw her test a gate, and enter a small yard. She crossed it, and climbed some steps to a hayloft. With the door open, she looked about her once, and then threw herselfinside, pulling the doors closed behind her.

Walking in after her, he stood a while staring at the doors. They were designed to be locked shut. There was a simple, hingedbar that rotated about a bolt in one door. The two ends of this fitted into wooden slots set into the doorframe on eitherside of the door. Maurice considered the doors for a long time, before quietly stepping up to them and turning the bar tolock her inside.

Exeter City

Art had spoken to his friends at the two taverns he knew, but this one was a much worse place.

It stood a short way down the little alleyway that ran from Combe Street southwards to the wall. The alley itself was foul,stinking of piss and shit, and filled with refuse from all the shabby buildings in the area. It was no surprise to Art thatthere was no chapel or church in this whole quarter of the city. No vicar would want to penetrate too deeply into this part.

Much happened here. The wall was always a convenient boundary, but where there was a wall there were also men with ladders,and often in the morning, after a good gambling session with dice or a little contest between fighters, a fresh body wouldbe found thrown over the wall to lie beneath near the stews or the quay. A man who asked too many questions was also likelyto end up down there, as Art knew. Still, he had been promised money to find out all he could about this unknown necromancer,and he wasn’t going to turn his nose up at good money. So here he was, trying to breathe the revolting air sparingly so hedidn’t catch a disease from the miasma that lurked all about.

The tavern itself was only a single room with a low ceiling, little better than an undercroft. At the farther wall was a trestletable with four barrels of ale racked ready. Over it, splashes had struck the ceiling where the barrels had been over-lively,and there was a reek of stale ale that had seeped into the earthen floor over years. Men stood about with their horns or cups,for this place had no need of tables — it was not a relaxing alehouse for a worker to repair to after a hard day’s effortand toil. No, it was a place to stand and drink until a man could no longer stand. Then he would merely sit or fall prostrate,and others might leave him alone, or might take their sport with his body. Art had seen one man bound and scarred by the knivesof three men who took a dislike to him as he lay snoring.

He felt eyes upon him as he entered. It was unsettling, and he almost turned about and told the man that he couldn’t learnanything, but then he thought again of the money and he squared his shoulders and marched to the trestle.

‘Strong ale.’

A horn was filled, and he paid before taking a gulp. ‘You know of this man been killed today? They say it may be the sameman killed the king’s messenger. I know a man will pay for news of the killer.’

‘You think we’d be likely to help someone like that?’

Art could hear the voice and thought he knew the man. It was a fellow who had once been a trader in the market, but had beenthrown from his pitch by the pie-powder court which found he had set fire to a competitor’s wares. Arson was looked uponas one of the most serious crimes in this largely wooden city, and he was thrown out. Having lost his livelihood, he resortedto his native cunning and his dagger to earn a penny when he could, and it was said that old Hob was as willing to gut a man as a rabbit.

‘Look, all he wants is to try to catch the man killed his friend, that’s all.’

‘I think he wants us to turn traitor to our own, that’s what he wants. It’s one thing to ask us to see whether we can fingerthe man who killed the king’s messenger, but now he wants a fellow who’s only looking to earn a crust, eh?’

There was a ripple of laughter about the room. Art carefully controlled his shaking hand as he took a long pull at his drink. It would not do to let people think that he was afraid of them. They could work like a pack of dogs when someone showed atrace of fear, all of them helping to pull down their quarry that they might tear him to pieces on the floor.

He finished his horn and set it down. ‘I’ll tell him no one here knows anything, then,’ he said, and turned towards the door. The man he knew as Hob was in his way.

Hob was heavy-set, with a massive paunch that was held in by a broad belt, and he had a rough scarlet tunic and faded cowland hood. He had only the one eye, for the second had been lost long ago in a fight, and now he peered at Art with it as thoughweighing him up like a dog for a fight. ‘I don’t think I like the way you come in here asking questions for others, boy. Ididn’t like it the other night, and I don’t like it now. You’ll be telling the beadles all about us next, won’t you? And thenyou’ll be telling stories about us in the sheriff’s court, I dare say.’