The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘That and anything else we can,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve often found murders were committed in hot blood because of arguments about money or a woman. Perhaps someone from the place can point us in the direction of the murderer.’

‘I see. Is that it?’

Baldwin had stopped at a low, thatched, dilapidated building with a tired-looking bush of furze tied to a horizontal pole over the door. The knight turned with a grimace to Simon and rolled his eyes. ‘This looks like your sort of den, Simon. I doubt whether they’ll have Guyennois wine fit for a knight.’

‘Don’t judge the ale by the tun,’ Simon said loftily.

Jonathan sniggered and, boosted by his appreciation, Simon shoved at the door.

Simon had visited many alehouses and taverns when his father was steward of Okehampton Castle. When he travelled with his father they would stop at places like this to refresh themselves and ensure their road ahead was safe. Alehouses were cheap drinking halls in which a man could consume as much rough ale as he wanted before collapsing. Food was rudimentary if available, and company was of the lowest sort; if a peasant wanted a place in which to sing and dance, however, there was nowhere better, and Simon had fond memories of many small alehouses.

Expecting this to be rough, Simon was not disappointed. It was the sort of hovel where people would assume that a foreigner was worthy of contempt and deserved to be considered an enemy. This was not Simon’s city, but that mattered little to the people inside. He could have been a man from one street away and they would have studied him in the same mistrustful manner. Because he was not of their own parish and lane, he was a foreigner to be scorned.

He walked inside and the room’s noise was hushed in an instant. Where before there had been excited chatter and arguments, now there was a menacing stillness. Unabashed, Simon strolled to the bar, a simple board laid over two barrel-tops, and leaned on it.

The chamber was perhaps fifteen feet by twenty, and the bar was at the far end. Along the walls were three benches, and in the middle of the room was a fire, which threw up a sullen flame every so often in the midst of a rank smoke. There were two barrels upended to serve as tables, and about these were some rough stools, three of them simple cylinders sawn from large logs. On the floor was a fine splintering of ancient rushes, their stalks long since mashed by the passage of so many feet, and the whole place reeked of urine and sourness.

In all there were some fourteen men in there. Simon took in their faces as he leaned against the bar. Some were vacant with ale even at this early hour, but two or three looked belligerent enough. Simon smiled at them easily. There was a mixture of folk: nearer Simon stood a pair of sailors, who brought the stench of tar and the sea into the place, their hands stained black, their faces burned the colour of old oak. Behind them was a carter, chewing slowly at a straw while he toyed with a jug of ale. Farther back was a group of three men playing at knuckles, rolling the bones enthusiastically and seeming to pay Simon little attention. In short, it was the usual mix of people who had come to Exeter to make use of the market, some to buy, some to sell.

One of the sailors curled his lip and spat, but as he did so there was a shivering ring of steel, and all eyes turned to the doorway where Baldwin stood, his sword held negligently in his fist. Suddenly everyone found merit in a study of the contents of their cheap pottery drinking horns. Jonathan nervously stepped around Baldwin to take his place at a bench, where he smoothed a sheet of vellum and readied pens and ink.

While he prepared himself, Simon faced the ale-wife. ‘There’s a man murdered up the lane from here. First Finder was called Rob Brewer, who was in here last night.’

She was a pretty girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, and with bright golden hair almost concealed under a cotton cap. Green eyes with hazel flecks met his unflinchingly. She shrugged and cast a glance over the drinkers. ‘Loads in here last night.’

‘The dead man was young, two or three days of beard, some inches shorter than me, fairish hair cut short, long nose, eyes set close, pointed chin-do you know him?’

‘Was he wearing a grey fustian tunic?’ asked a man.

‘Aye, and green hose,’ Simon agreed.

The speaker was thirty or so, with a face scarred from the pox and a great shining burn scar that ran from left to right temple over his brow.

‘Did you know him?’

‘If it’s the same lad, it was Will from Chard.’

‘Did he get into a fight last night?’ Baldwin called.

‘He was here with some friends. They argued a bit. Who doesn’t?’

‘We have to find his killer,’ Simon said. ‘Who was he with? What happened?’

‘There were two men with him. One was a youngster works up near West Gate. I thought he was Rob Brewer. The other’s heavier, fellow by the name of Adam.’

Another spat at the floor. ‘Bastard should be called Cain.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked, glancing at Baldwin. He had noticed that name, Simon saw. Brewer had told them he didn’t know who the dead man was.

This man was dark skinned with a cast in one eye and a bruise on his right temple. He spoke with a slight lisp, as though a tooth was giving him pain. ‘He’s dishonest. He’d rob his mother for profit, then beat her if there wasn’t enough.’

‘Get on, Tad. You’re sore ’cos he knocked you down,’ commented the first.

‘Shut your noise, Ed. You don’t know the little shite.’

Simon raised a hand to silence them both. He nodded to the man with the cast in his eye. ‘Why did he hit you?’

The man looked shifty, as though he didn’t want to discuss his affairs with a law officer. ‘He was making trouble.’ Seeing Simon’s expression, he glowered, then added, ‘Look, he was in here with his friends, Rob and Will, and they were making a load of noise. I sort of asked him to shut it. That’s all.’

‘No, it’s not all,’ Simon said. He leaned against the bar. ‘Where can we find these men now?’

Tad shrugged and turned away. ‘Who gives a…’

Suddenly the knight in the doorway was in front of him and the sword was under his chin. Tad clenched a fist, but before he could think of swinging, he found himself grabbed by the shirt and thrust back against the wall. The sword’s point was pricking the soft flesh of his throat.

Baldwin grinned wolfishly. ‘I do, friend: I do. And I intend to find out.’

The knight looked as grim as a mercenary. Tad had no doubt that he’d skewer him in an instant, and enjoy doing so.

‘Adam, Rob and Will,’ Simon said patiently. ‘What were they doing; what caused your fight with Adam- everything .’

Tad was tempted to tell him to go and swive his horse, but the sword’s point was sharp. There was a trickling under his chin, and he had an unpleasant suspicion that it was blood. He daren’t move his head in case he impaled himself. Someone had once told him that an easy way to kill was with a thrust under the chin, straight up, through the tongue, the palate, and into the brain. He had a sudden vision of his body on tiptoe, the point of that evil-looking blue blade buried in his skull…

‘All right!’ he gasped. ‘But take that sword away.’

To his relief, the pressure subsided a little.

‘What do you know of this man Rob?’ Simon asked.

‘He’s a stableman. If it wasn’t for his brother, he’d never have started their game.’

‘He’s pathetic,’ Ed agreed. He belched.

‘Who is his brother?’

‘Andrew. But he didn’t come in last night,’ Tad said. ‘I didn’t see him.’

‘Wasn’t here,’ Ed agreed. ‘Probably out with his wench.’