Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘Yes,’ she said, but she wasn’t listening. She had another aspect on her mind. ‘Did you recognise him? He looked familiar.’

Ivo knew better than to make fun of her memory. ‘I think I have seen him recently about the market or somewhere. Why?’

‘No … this was longer ago.’

‘Well, you can recall many things that happened long before my birth, mother. How would you expect me to remember all yourlovers?’

She aimed a clout at his head. ‘Fool. You concentrate on winning his money. You’d not be foolish enough to try to take it on your own, and then claim I did no work for it, eh?’

‘The thought wouldn’t cross my mind,’ Ivo said lazily as he pulled on a thick jerkin against the cold night air. He set hiscap on his head and smiled at her again as he walked from the room.

She sighed. Her son was an idiot, but an engaging one. She had given birth to him three-and-twenty years ago, and althoughher husband was already dead by the time of his birth, he had been some consolation to her. As a child he had been difficult,obstinate and surly, but now that he had reached a more mature age, he was endearing to her and others. His good looks andapparent shyness could disarm any, and his carefully learned, hesitant speech made all think that he was a borderline cretin.

As a watchman he was perfect. He would keep his eyes and ears open for any infractions of the city’s rules — unless it wasto the benefit of himself and his mother. And being a city’s officer meant that he could always be counted upon to learn ofthings sooner than others.

This matter of the dead friend was interesting, though. And there was the other thing: the necromancer. She didn’t approveof meddling with people’s lives in that way. A sharp blade was enough for her. Killing with supernatural nonsense was forthe rich. She found that for her purposes cold steel was adequate.

Edie did wish she could remember where and when she had seen that face before, though.

Only a few tens of yards away, in the little room which Michael had made available for him, John of Nottingham smiled as heset the last of the characters down on the table and rubbed his tired eyes. All was ready now.

He stood and eased himself upright to his full height of six feet and one inch, lifting his arms over his head and feelingthe bones of his back settle into their more usual position. The last days of hunching over his work had not been good forthem, but now the figures were completed he could rest a little. Already fasted and prepared mentally for the ordeal, he couldstart his conjuration, and with a task such as this the sooner he began it the better.

Cleanliness was important. He took up the besom and started to sweep the floor of the dirt lying all about. With his arm,he swept the shavings of wax from the table, careful not to disturb the four statues. They looked good. Almost his best. Theking stood so regal, especially with the crown. Beside him, the two Despensers were easily distinguished, with their fineryon display, the one taller and younger, the father fatter and shorter, just as they were in real life. And then there wasthe bishop. An evil, grasping man who would do anything to increase his wealth, no matter who else was forced to suffer thathe might win advantage. All of them disloyal, untrustworthy men who had conspired against his lord.

When he had been advised to come here and seek a safe place in the tranquillity of this small, rural city, he had been happyto do so not only for the benefit of his clients, so that he could continue to carry out their bidding and earn the balanceof the payment they had offered, but also for his own reasons.

There were many who would applaud the removal of this king with his cruelty, treachery and pathetic interests; more stillwould celebrate the demise of the Despensers. But most would be no less delighted to hear of the death of that foul thief and tyrant, the Lord Bishop Stapledon of Exeter.

For years he had tried to show himself as a moderating influence on the king. He had displayed a political liberality thatwas appealing to all men of conscience, but then, by degrees, his true colours had been revealed. In place of the man whotried to negotiate peace between the king and his barons, there appeared a man who would oust all of the king’s older confidants,who would even presume to evict the queen herself, in order to acquire ever more power and wealth. There was nothing thisevil chancre in the heart of government would not dare, so that he might gain more himself. The strength of the realm, thegood of the people — they meant nothing compared with his intolerable pride and arrogance.

It was performing a sacred duty, removing these people — especially the arch-villain himself, Bishop Walter of Exeter.

It was the bishop who had stolen lands from all over the realm, impoverishing others as he lined his own purse. He was asevil as the Despensers … No! He was worse! They did not conceal their rapacity: he took what he wanted by more subtlemeans, persuading the king to deprive the queen of her manors and income, and to help — ha! — volunteering to take over hermining ventures and any other profitable opportunities while professing to do all for the good of the realm, not his own self-interest.

There was too much to be done, though, to worry about that man.

John retrieved his book — the one item he had been able to rescue from Coventry — and wiped its cover. The lettering was quiteworn already, but he could feel the letters under his fingers on the embossed leatherwork: Book of the Offices of the Spirits . This was his own copy, written out in his own hand when he was studying in Oxford.

Satisfied with the cleanliness of his room, he sat down and began breathing carefully. He was no Satanist, and didn’t seekto worship the evil lord. No, he was a cautious, pious and Christian man, who sought to control demons to do his bidding. All magicians knew that no enterprise could succeed without utter confidence in God and belief in His power.

The tools were all fumigated and asperged. Now he consecrated them, before reciting the psalms and beginning the first ofthe many prayers. He washed himself carefully, itself a part of his ritual, first from the bucket, and then more slowly withholy water.

It was very late when he was ready to don his robes. Standing in the cold room, his arms held high over his head, he beganthe invocation, the thrill of fear setting his belly quivering as he dared once more to summon the demons to obey his will.

‘In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I summon you: Sitrael, Malantha, Thamaor, Falaur and Sitrami …’

Saturday Next after the Feast of St Edmund 8

Exeter City

Simon woke several times that night. There was the insistent call to the chamber-pot, a natural result of Coroner Richard’s repeatedpurchases of ale the previous night, and then his snoring, which was enough to make a man commit violent murder; and then,long before the sun rose and illuminated the outline of the shutters, he saw Baldwin, fully dressed, sitting in the open windowand staring out to the south.

It was not unusual for his friend to sleep badly every so often, and Simon wondered if he had been suffering from a bad dream. Once in a while, so he had told Simon, he would have a mare come to him in his sleep and plant hideous dreams of the foulend of Acre in his mind. There were children and women … but beyond that Baldwin would not speak.

Simon knew full well that the confession of this weakness pained Baldwin, so he made a conscious effort to forget that his friend had mentioned his dreams. However, sometimes it was impossible to ignore Baldwin’s behaviour, and when Simon woke properly a while later, when the sun was almost over the roofs to the east, he raised himself on one elbow, tuggingthe blankets up over his nakedness against the cold air.