The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

Sleeping in the Temple had always been an austere experience, but sleeping here was if anything a little more… rugged , for want of a better word.

It was the spare bedchamber in his friend Dean Peter Clifford’s house in Crediton. Peter, a tall, stooped, white-haired cleric, was always pleased to provide hospitality for Baldwin when the Keeper had a need to stay in Crediton. And he was often about the town – occasionally in his capacity as Keeper, sometimes as a Justice of Gaol Delivery, occasionally for some social reason.

The banging on his door made him frown quickly though. This was not the patient, subtle knock of a servant seeking to gently arouse a sleeping guest. It was the panicked thudding of a servant who thought there was overriding need.

‘Sir Baldwin! There has been a murder. A dreadful murder!’

The canon hastened his way along the road from the church, his black robes flapping in the wind. It was cool this early in the morning, but the canon scarcely noticed, his cloak was drawn so tightly about him. In any case, when he saw his breath steaming on the morning air, it did not make him pause. A man in holy orders tended to see too much of stone slabs and tiles, usually in the middle watches of the night, and cool air held no fears for him.

He knew the way as well as he would if it were a part of the church’s lands. Up the high street, along the alleyway to the left, and then back on himself along the little track that led up the hill, before turning right again down the little lane. It ended in the large house.

It was a rough place, this. On the outskirts of the town itself, this area was the haunt of some of the poorest, and few would dare to approach without a group of men about them. Canon Arthur knew better than most how dangerous it truly was. He had been visiting this site for some months. Ever since his profitable little arrangement had begun.

The last time he had come he had felt sure that he had been followed. Afterwards the dean had grown frosty towards him, and he felt sure that his little secret was known – but there was no proof. He was sure of that.

He knocked on the door, glancing about him. Soon it opened, and he saw the narrow features of Edward of Newton, the servant of Henry of Copplestone.

It was all over in less time than a man would need to flay a rabbit. The canon hurried away from that evil place with his heart in his mouth, hoping against hope that no one saw him.

‘Well, Peter?’

The dean had been up for some while already, and he beckoned Baldwin into his little hall, asking, ‘Please, Baldwin, old friend, I am glad to see you well. You slept comfortably?’

‘Peter, there has been a crime, this lad tells me.’

Peter Clifford motioned to the boy to leave. ‘There has been a message to say that a man has been found dead in the Black Lamb at Sandford.’

‘Hob’s place? Who was it? A local?’

‘No, a foreigner, I heard. He was staying overnight with Hob, and someone killed him.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Very well. I must go there, I suppose.’

Peter nodded and called to his servant to bring breakfast for them both. As Keeper of the King’s Peace, it was Baldwin’s duty to try to seek out felons. When a crime was committed, his writ commanded him to seek the man ‘from vill to vill, hundred to hundred, shire to shire’, with all the posse of the county. ‘You will eat first?’

‘I’d rather not fall from my saddle from hunger,’ Baldwin said, smiling.

‘I should warn you that the coroner has also been called.’

‘That is good.’

Peter lifted his eyebrows and gazed pensively at the jug as his bottler poured two mazers of wine. ‘Ah. Perhaps. It is Sir Richard de Welles.’

There were few names that would strike such a reaction in a man’s breast, Baldwin reflected later as he jogged along the muddy trail from the church, up the steep hill behind and down past the Creedy manor house to Sandford itself.

Sir Richard de Welles was one of those rare creatures, a king’s coroner who was uninterested in corruption. In the years since Baldwin had begun investigating felonies, he had known many of them, and most were little better than felons themselves: mendacious, devious and out to line their own purses. Men with honour and integrity were rare, but Sir Richard was one such. He didn’t reject corruption so much as live in a state of blindness to the possibility of it. So long as there was ale, wine and food, he was happy. But woe betide the man who did not see to the coroner’s needs.

It was his appetites for wine and ale which had served to make Baldwin’s close friend, Simon Puttock, regret ever meeting the coroner. For some reason, the coroner had taken a liking to Simon which had led to hangovers of a virulence that was quite unlike anything Simon had known before.

Baldwin had seen little of Simon recently. They had both been together much of the year so far, but now the two had been separated for some weeks. Simon had once lived near here, over at the farm north of West Sandford, before he had been given the post of bailiff on Dartmoor, but that had necessitated a move to Lydford. Baldwin missed his company.

Still, no matter what Simon thought of him, Baldwin respected the coroner’s judgement and enjoyed his good nature. And did not drink with him.

Not that he would be here yet, Baldwin knew. The journey from Exeter would take him all the morning.

Canon Arthur was anxious when he received the message as he returned to the church. Still, he must obey his master, and he bent his steps towards the dean’s house.

‘Dean? You asked for me?’

Peter Clifford was seated at his table while a dark-haired, bearded man clad in a threadbare red tunic chewed at a little bread and cold ham. The canon recognized him as the knight who had arrived to calm the crowds when Henry’s wife Agatha had been soiled in the roadway. It made him panic for a moment to see the man there.

‘Canon Arthur, I am glad you could come here so swiftly,’ Peter Clifford said. ‘Sir Baldwin here was wondering who might know of the people over at Sandford. Could you help him?’

With that, the dean offered Godspeed to them both and left them alone.

‘I feared you might have been here to complain about the dispute the other day,’ Arthur said with a slight grin.

‘No. These little matters will happen,’ Baldwin said. ‘Please, will you not be seated?’

His questions were concerned entirely with the running of the little vill of Sandford, the quality of the men there, and especially the reeve, Arthur was pleased to learn. He furnished Baldwin with a full list of the senior men of the vill. ‘Ulric the reeve is a strong fellow. Hob is a strange fellow: I cannot ever get away from the impression that he is embarrassed about something when I meet him.’

‘You go there often?’

‘I am responsible for the manors about there which provide us with much of our foods.’ He nodded. ‘I often travel up there and beyond to the granges and barns to ensure that all is well. Hob runs the tavern in the vill, and I stop there for lunch on occasions.’

‘I see. I trust you avoid West Sandford though.’

‘Hmm? Why?’

‘Surely you would keep away from Henry of Copplestone’s house?’

‘Oh, him. Yes. Well, I do for now. But he is a reasonable man, generally. As a merchant, he and I will do business occasionally. I am sure that this affair will blow over.’

‘The matter of Henry’s wife’s dress?’

‘No! That was a mere accident. No, I was thinking of this problem about the sheep. A small flock of mine was allowed to wander, and it ate all his pea crop in an afternoon before anyone saw.’

‘That was why the dispute, then,’ Baldwin said.