The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

He had soared to new heights. Usually the feeling of being a foreigner would make him anxious. So often the ignorant churls wouldn’t understand what he was talking about, even when he was being as slow as possible, trying to explain every point clearly and concisely. And the mere act of careful enunciation highlighted his sense of strangeness, his alienness compared with the folk here. It made him feel this was a dangerous part of the country.

Country folk were the hardest, of course. They tended to stand by, surly and grim-faced, while he spoke, mistrusting the sight and sound of a different accent. Ach! They’d distrust a man who came from a vill two miles away, most of them. Give him a good city crowd for preference. They would admire his rhetoric, laugh at his sallies, and some would even pay him extra if his delivery had been good enough.

It wasn’t generally true of bumpkins. Where a city dweller appreciated that he would sometimes be fleeced, but still enjoyed the spectacle, the countryman would jealously guard his purse. The idea uppermost in his mind was generally that he was being rooked, and no villein liked to feel himself to be a gull.

Not so here, though. The people appeared uniformly cheery. There was nothing thrown at him. The boys, and even some of the women, heckled him good-naturedly, while the men openly laughed at his more risqué jokes. It was reassuring. Such attitudes spoke of money. And only the comfortably off could afford to commit sins, in his opinion. He always preferred wealthier crowds. The poor were too desperate for their next meal to bother with pardons.

When he lifted the parchment, all laden down with seals from bishops, damn his soul if a maid at the front didn’t swoon! It was the most perfect day he’d known in a long while. It was all downhill from there.

First the more easily swayed came to the front, some with their money all ready, others with rings or other tokens, and he’d passed out the vellum with enthusiasm. Each promised a period of thirty days, remission of sins after payment. Soon he’d have to buy some more vellum, if things kept going like this.

The second group arrived when the first were flagging. He had seen it all too often. While the first enthusiastic crush pressed forward, others would curl their lips, roll their eyes and otherwise demonstrate their contempt for the poor hopeful fools who were so keen to throw their money at a stranger.

That was when he would bring out his pride and joy. While the women and children snatched at their vellum, he slowly reached into his purse while watching the doubters at the back, and then bring out the feather. ‘Behold this! Granted to me by the Bishop of Bath and Wells!’ he roared, holding it aloft. Bath and Wells was far enough away, he reckoned, for it to be safe to tell a fib about the bishop down here.

‘What of it? A goose feather!’

‘“What of it,” you say? You dare suggest that this marvellous white plume is that of a common goose? Nay, friend. This is a feather from the wings of the angel Gabriel himself! Aye, but if you doubt my words, like Thomas, then you may leave well alone. Stay there at the back where you are safe, and see what miracles you miss!’

‘Get on! It’s a quill from the goose you stole – the one you ate last night, from the look of your gut, Pardoner!’

But the comment was jocular, not sour, and the sight was enough to bring a few more forward. Only a few. Others still waited at the back, several of them eyeing him with some admiration, like men who listened to the patter of a street seller, enjoying the atmosphere created.

That was when he brought out the bones, one by one, and let all see them, holding them in his cupped hands. And when he announced that they were King Arthur’s, the crowds were hushed in awe.

For a moment anyway, John reminded himself, contentedly rattling the coins in his purse. In his experience the longer the silent hesitation, the more money he would garner later. There was plenty here, and soon he would have more. He was a very happy man that night.

Which was good, because it was his last.

Hob of Oxford pulled the apron from his belly as the last guests left his little tavern. It had been a good day, all in all, what with the pardoner appearing and drawing in all the folk from the vill. They’d listened, and once he’d talked them out of their money they’d all come into Hob’s house to spend some more.

There were no two ways about it. The pardoner had made him a goodly sum of money. And while the fellow had taken some of Hob’s own in exchange for the little strip of vellum, that was not expensive. Especially for the peace of mind it gave him. He needed it.

Closing the door, he shoved the wooden peg into the wood above the latch to lock it before clearing the last of the cups and jugs from the floor where they had been discarded. He banked up the fire, kicking the embers into a small pile, and sank his backside down to rest on a stool nearby. It had been a long day, and his legs were killing him. A jug of ale at his side, he sipped contentedly, yawning and scratching at his beard while he considered the work he must do in the morning.

He was wryly contemplating an early morning’s start when he heard the faint noise. It was a scritching, scratching noise, and seemed to come from behind him.

This was not a large tavern. Two rooms only sufficed for the vill’s needs, and while Hob had a bed up in the rafters here, over the fire where it was warm, the room at the back was where he occasionally allowed travellers to sleep. It was where the pardoner was resting. Surely it was only that fellow, he told himself. Probably striking a light with flint and tinder. Needed a light to find his way to the pot. Not surprising, the amount the man had put away. Not many could drink so much. Of course, Hob was to blame. He shouldn’t have offered all the ale the man could drink in exchange for his strip of vellum.

Grunting, he rose, emptied the last of his jug over the glowing coals and stepped away as the steam fumed. Only when he was sure the fire was dead did he begin to make his way to the ladder that gave access to his upper chamber.

But there was a curious odour in the air. A scent of burning that was odd. It was not natural. All about him was the fug of his damp hearth, but for some reason he could also smell fresh woodsmoke. It was an abnormal smell. Peculiar, odd, out of place. It was enough to make him pause at the bottom of his ladder, frowning and peering about him. And then he heard another noise, some sort of clattering or something.

He didn’t want to check. The man was just soused, that was all. He’d probably fallen over. But if he’d collapsed and puked, he might die. And he could have knocked over his pot of piss. The smell of that would reek in a day or so if he had. Ach! Better to see what the dull-witted prickle had done.

Taking a rushlight from its holder on the wall, he used it to light a candle. There was no need for silence, not if the sot was so mazed he had fallen over. Hob threw open the door, and it was only then, as the light from his candle illuminated the chamber, that he realized what had happened, and Hob began to scream even as he fled, running from the appalled horror in John’s dead eyes.

Friday before the Feast of St John the Baptist, [5] Crediton

Sir Baldwin was accustomed to being woken early.

In his youth he had joined the great Crusade which set off from England to aid the city of Acre in its hour of need. A massive army of Mamelukes had overrun the kingdom of Jerusalem and all the city states which bounded the sea, and now only Acre itself survived. But in a short time the city fell, and Baldwin was one of a tiny number of wounded men who were rescued by the Templars and brought back to health in their care. It left him with an abiding sense of commitment to the order, and he joined the knights as soon as he could to repay his debt.