The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘Someone paid him a penny to tell me. He showed me the coin-it was real enough.’

‘The boy, where is he?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Art? Up at the market, I expect, the thieving little git. He’ll be up there scrounging something, same as usual.’

In Exeter, just as in the smallest vill, orphans tended to be protected. They could count on family or godparents to protect them and look after their property in trust. Masters would see to the needs of apprentices, sometimes neighbours the children of the family next door, with neither hope nor expectation of reward for their kindness, and in Baldwin’s experience such children often thrived. Cases of abuse were remarkably rare.

Apparently Art had been orphaned three years earlier. He was a scruffy urchin of twelve, with a shock of tawny hair that stuck up vertically from his head. His face was long, with intelligent brown eyes that considered Baldwin like an equal. The knight reflected that the fellow had probably experienced as much life as many men of Baldwin’s age.

‘You found a man yesterday, Art?’

‘Who says?’ he responded quickly.

‘The porter of the East Gate.’

‘I told him where he was, but I didn’t find him.’

‘Who told you about him?’ Simon asked.

Art stared at him and remained stony faced until the bailiff pulled a coin from his purse.

‘Don’t know him. He was all in black-black cloak, black hood, the lot.’

Simon sighed. ‘How tall? As tall as me?’

Art looked at him speculatively. ‘Maybe taller.’

‘And I’m almost six feet,’ Simon murmured.

‘What of his face?’ Baldwin tried. ‘Was he light haired or dark? Did he have a beard, a scar? Had he lost his teeth, had he all his fingers? Was there anything which could help us?’

‘He had bright eyes, and a cold voice. That’s all. Never took his hood off, so I never saw his face,’ Art said. ‘But I suppose he was like you. He had…you know.’ Art puffed out his chest and drew his mouth down into an aggressive line, scowling, clenching his fists and squaring his shoulders. ‘Your build. His arms were like yours. Strong.’

‘You saw all that under his cloak?’ Simon asked doubtfully.

The lad said scathingly, ‘It doesn’t take much to see how wide a man’s shoulders are, no matter how many cloaks he puts on.’

There was a cry from behind them, which Baldwin ignored as he leaned forward. ‘Are you saying he looked like a knight?’

‘Yes. But not some rich one like you,’ Art said, although with a trace of uncertainty as he took in Baldwin’s rather threadbare tunic with the red colouring faded from overuse.

Baldwin was about to defend his clothing when Simon murmured, ‘Baldwin!’

A man-at-arms was hurrying towards them with a pole-arm in his hands. ‘Sir Baldwin; Sir Baldwin! There’s been a murder, sir!’

In the early morning light Baldwin could see that the corpse had been a young man. He had blue eyes, fair to mousy hair, with eyes set rather close together, and a nose that was long; it had been broken. He was clad in dingy grey fustian with green woollen hose, from his leather belt dangled a short knife.

It was the tunic which caught Simon’s attention. The fustian was open from breast to cods, and his belly and torso had been slashed in a frenzied attack. His bowels spilled on to the alley’s filth, and the stench even so early was already repellent.

‘Christ Jesus!’ Simon muttered thickly.

‘He has been stabbed in the back,’ Baldwin said, after rolling the body over and studying the naked back. He saw Simon’s expression.

It was endearing to Baldwin that Simon was still squeamish; on occasion it could be annoying. Today, though, Baldwin could all too easily understand Simon’s reaction.

‘Why would someone open him like that?’ Simon demanded harshly.

‘A drunken brawl?’ Baldwin guessed. ‘Rage at some perceived slight? Whoever did this hacked at him like a madman.’ He turned to a sergeant. ‘Do you know who he is?’

‘I think his name’s Will Chard. He’s got a common fame as a draw-latch, I think.’

‘Where’s the First Finder?’ Simon demanded.

‘’Tis him over there, Bailiff,’ the sergeant said, jerking his chin towards a man slumped against a wall, his face in his hands.

They walked to him. Baldwin said, ‘What is your name?’

‘Rob, master. Rob Brewer.’

He was in his early twenties, Baldwin guessed, a scrawny lad in a faded green woollen tunic and heavy hose. About his neck was a worn cloak of some heavy but badly worn material. Once it would have been worth a lot of money, but now it showed its age. He looked terrified: his eyes kept returning to the body on the ground, to the blood all about.

‘You found this man?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘I was walking past and almost fell over him! Christ’s pain, but I’d have done anything to miss him!’

‘It is no surprise,’ Baldwin mused. ‘The sight…Exposing his entrails like that…’

‘Paunched,’ Simon said. ‘Like a cony.’

Rob whined, ‘Who’d do that to a man?’

‘Men will bait traps with rabbit’s guts, won’t they?’ Baldwin said. ‘Strew rabbit’s intestines about a field and wait, and soon a fox will arrive. Release the hounds and they’ll take the fox.’

‘You say this is a trap?’ Simon asked drily. ‘To catch what?’

Baldwin smiled thinly. A figure was hurrying towards them, a rotund shape clad in clerical black-a clerk from the cathedral sent to record their inquiry-and Baldwin beckoned him. ‘I doubt this was a trap. This looks like a vengeful rage…but revenge for what?’

‘I was up early to fetch bread from the baker’s, and found him on my way.’

‘Have you seen him before?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Never!’ Rob declared with a shudder. If he admitted he knew Will, they might decide he was a felon and arrest him. He had to protect himself, deny everything.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘In the Blue Rache,’ Rob said without thinking. Christ’s balls! He shouldn’t have said that! He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘I slipped on his entrails!’

Simon could all too easily imagine him; walking here just after dawn, down a dim alley with little light to show the way, and suddenly coming across this foul corpse. It must have been terrifying-although the lad must have been distracted not to have seen the mess, or smelled it, in even the dullest daylight. He leaned against a door, queasy, and had his weakness rewarded with a long splinter in his thumb. Swearing under his breath, he stuffed his thumb in his mouth.

Rob couldn’t help his eyes going to the pool of vomit near a doorway.

Baldwin continued, ‘You are sure you do not know him?’

‘Me? I…no.’

‘Which baker’s were you going to?’

‘Ham’s-behind Chef’s Street.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Out near the corner of Westgate Street and Rack Lane. There’s a little yard behind Elias’s stables. I live there.’

Baldwin glanced at the clerk and repeated: ‘Elias’s stables…You work there?’

‘Yes. I muck out and look after the horses. He lets me exercise them, sometimes.’

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully. He turned his back, staring at the cathedral’s towers. The workmen intent on rebuilding the place were like so many bees about a hive. ‘What were you doing here, then?’

Rob gazed at him. ‘Sir?’

‘This alley does head in the rough direction of the Westgate, but it’s hardly direct to or from the baker’s, is it?’

‘I wanted a walk-to clear my head after last night. I’d had a lot to drink, and I needed to clear my head.’

‘Were you alone in the tavern last night?’

‘Yes.’ Rob met Baldwin’s disbelieving eye with determination. No good could come from admitting he had been drinking with Will and Adam all night. It wouldn’t bring Will back.