The Malice of Unnatural Death: (49 page)

He was still cursing under his breath as he reached the gate, and turned northwards again, pulling his hood over his face. In this cold weather, most people were doing the same, conserving their warmth as best they might, and he did not stand out. It was ideal.

Yes. It was annoying that his refuge had been lost, but perhaps it was all for the best. Now he had but one night to worry
about, and for that he knew exactly where to go. In the north-western angle of the wall was the old Franciscan abbey, but
the brothers had moved from the city a few years ago, to a new location outside the walls near the river. Since then, the
place that had held their cloisters and dormitories had become the province of various poverty-stricken families. There would
be space there for a poor wanderer like him, and no one would be the wiser. It was only for one evening, after all.

It
took him little time to find the place. Soon he was traversing the muddy, icy paths, and looking for a dwelling that could
accommodate him. There were several near the outer wall, but he didn’t want to be too close to the edges. Better to be entirely
immersed. He would keep on going until he felt sure that no one following him would be able to find him with ease.

At last he saw it. A rough lean-to, much of whose thatched roof had long ago disintegrated. However, a section of it still
functioned, and when he peered in through the doorway he saw that beneath the straw there was a good space in among the rafters,
and if he pushed the door up there he would be able to lie snugly off the floor, secure from the wet and hopefully warm enough.

Pushing the door up was a trial, but in time he succeeded, and then he clambered up after it, opening his pack and pulling
out his book, and laying it reverently on the boards. Next was the blanket, wrapped about the first of the figures, and he
took it out now, peering at it with some pride. Tomorrow it would serve its purpose.

It was almost dark already when the three men were able to sit at the table at their inn and rest.

‘Not a sign of him,’ Baldwin muttered as he eased his legs out before him and leaned back against the wall.

‘He could have been swallowed by the earth,’ Coroner Richard agreed.

Simon was more positive. ‘Perhaps he has left the city to escape? After seeing what Robinet did to that landlord, I’m not
surprised.’

They had gone to speak to Michael almost as soon as Baldwin and Simon had met the coroner in the tavern.
Langatre had taken them at an urgent pace to the physician’s house where he had deposited him, and he had held back as they
entered, as though fearing that Robinet might have been there before them and killed all in the house. ‘He’s a mad bastard,
that one. He enjoyed cutting off Michael’s fingers. I swear it! He enjoyed it.’

The tanner was little help. ‘I don’t know where he is. I rented him a room, and then he came to ask for another. That’s all.’

‘You were renting the undercroft to this man, weren’t you?’ Simon pressed him. ‘You knew he was planning to murder the bishop,
didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell the beadle? It was your duty.’

‘I didn’t
dare.
I thought he was a powerful wizard, and it looks as if he is, doesn’t it? I mean, where is he? If he was a man, someone would
have seen him by now, and yet he’s disappeared. He must be a necromancer with a lot of power.’

‘He could just be hiding in a room somewhere where the landlord is not fussy,’ the coroner commented. ‘Come, now, where could
he have gone?’

‘I tell you, I do not know!’

Thinking back to his terrified expression, Simon reckoned that if he had even a remote inkling as to where this ‘John’ had
got to, he would have told them. Apart from anything else, it was clear that he wanted someone else to suffer for the pain
he had endured that day.

‘And he didn’t have any more idea where Robinet could have gone,’ Baldwin observed. ‘Where can he have got to?’

‘In God’s name,’ the coroner grunted, loosening his boots, ‘I confess I find these disappearances baffling. Each time someone
finds the wizard, he seems to slip away. And now that damned fool Robinet has gone too.’

‘Perhaps
the pair of them have killed each other,’ Simon mused. ‘What do you reckon, Rob?’

‘Me? I don’t know anything, do I? I just get sent to walk about in the cold and stare at people, I do. No brain at all, me. Except I was able to help tell you about the sheriff, of course.’

The coroner had an amiably bovine face, but it concealed a sharp mind, and there was nothing wrong with his hearing. ‘Eh? What’s this?’

Baldwin sighed and closed his eyes. ‘If you continue to speak out of turn, Rob, you will learn that life can be unfair and
more than moderately painful. Coroner, this was some information that came to us. It would seem possible that the bishop has
some strong concerns about the sheriff, and has even gone so far as to put them to the king.’

The coroner whistled low. ‘That could cost the sheriff dearly.’

Simon yawned. ‘His ballocks would be off, wouldn’t they?’

‘I do not like to speculate about matters like this when the man himself has no opportunity to defend himself,’ Baldwin said.
‘I should like to know what has led the bishop to leap to this conclusion. There must be some reason for it.’

‘I have not noticed many bishops who need good reason to jump to conclusions,’ the coroner said sourly.

Baldwin smiled, but only fleetingly. He soon reverted to his frowning contemplation, which he maintained as Simon and Coroner Richard ordered food for them all. Before long steaming plates filled with pies and boiled pigeons appeared before them, along
with a loaf of heavy bread. The sight and smells persuaded Baldwin to turn his attention to the table, and he slapped Rob’s
hand away from the food quickly,
making him wait until the coroner had filled his own plate. Then he motioned to Rob to continue, watching the lad while he
sipped at a strong wine.

When they had eaten their fill, and even the coroner declared himself satisfied, Baldwin returned to the matter. Simon had
often thought that his friend was rather like a dog which would return to worry at a bone until all was gone.

‘I cannot help but believe that a man so determined to attack the king and others would not have run far. But
why
? If the fellow is determined to commit murder by means of a demon or some other form of wizardry, surely he could be anywhere. What would be the point of proximity? If I were an assassin, and I wished to kill a man, would I not do so from a distance?’

‘He’s mad. That’s the thing. Like this girl killed the sheriff’s servant. Same thing. Quite potty. She even returned to the
sheriff’s hall for some reason.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked.

‘
I
don’t know!’ the coroner declared testily. ‘You’d have to be insane to comprehend her motives. Same with this sorcerer.’

‘From what you said, the maid was in love with the sheriff.’

‘No accounting for tastes.’

Baldwin gave a faint grin. ‘True. But the fact is, she thought she would be receiving a generous welcome from her lover, from
the sound of things. In reality, she petrified the poor fellow. There can be little similarity between her and this John from Nottingham.’

‘Unless there is something unique about the murderer, of course,’ Simon considered. ‘Perhaps it is simply that he
hates the bishop and wants to be there when the bishop is struck down?’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. He stifled a yawn. ‘But after a lack of sleep last night, and all the exertions of searching for
the fellow today, I think I must to my bed. I shall see you in the morning.’

It was later, as Simon entered the room to go to his own bed, that his words returned to Baldwin. Something about the idea
of a demented assassin being in a specific place to witness the effectiveness of his murderous sorcery that stuck in Baldwin’s
mind. Yet even that could not prevent him from slipping into unconsciousness before Simon had even begun to snore.

Jen
woke to a thin, grey light that scarcely managed to illuminate the far wall of the cell.

It was freezing down here. She tried to hunch herself into her clothing to conserve some heat, but it did little good. Not
that it would matter. She was going to die down here, no matter what happened.

There was a part of her that wanted, oh, so desperately wanted, to think that this was all a clever scheme on the part of
her Matthew to lull his wife into a sense of false security, so that he could remove her, and then install Jen as his lover. Perhaps it was only a plan whereby he would remove her from the public’s gaze, and put her in a small cottage of her own near
the castle, so he could visit her each morning, and his wife know nothing more of it? There were women who lived like that,
and although she didn’t think it was completely honourable …

No! She had to stop that line of thought! He didn’t love her. It had been in his eyes yesterday when he had told his men to
bind her. It was not love in his eyes, it was not even feigned indifference; it was hatred … disgust – terror, perhaps
– but not
love.
The sight of her repelled him.

‘Sweet Mother, holy Mother Mary, save me!’ she
whispered. It was like having two lives: one in which she and her lover plotted to remove the sole obstacle to their happiness, a second in which she
herself was the evil impediment to his joy, and the two lives constantly in dispute with each other inside her head. She didn’t
know which was telling her the truth at any moment. Just now it felt as though the story that she herself was at fault, that
the sheriff had never desired her, let alone planned to leave his wife for her, was the more truthful, but in a moment she
knew that the other side of her would return and scornfully remind her of the look in his eyes when they had passed in the
screens corridor, or that time when he had met her at the top of the stairs and they had flirted … Which was true?

The door opened without warning, and she fled to the wall at the farthest side of the room. It was only a man-at-arms with
a bowl of food, though, and he set it down near the door, as far from her as possible, before swiftly turning and leaving
again.

It wasn’t only the sheriff. All his men were terrified of her too.

Sunday, Feast of St Catherine
⁹

John was already awake. He was bitterly cold, wrapped up in his clothes and with his blanket over him, but today would see
the culmination of his efforts, with good fortune.

Others would have sat in the background and avoided any danger. That was not his way. It was important that he
learned what happened. A man who kept away from the results of his work would never truly reach the highest level of knowledge. No. Far better that he should go and perform the operation while he could see the victim. Learn what he could from the work. Witness the result.

Robert le Mareschal had understood that. That was why he had agreed to go and view the last agonies of de Sowe. It wasn’t
perfect, though. The man had largely undergone his suffering out of sight of Robert and John. Better by far that the experiment
should be nearer to hand, so that he could see what happened stage by stage.

The light was grey and dull. A good day to die, he reflected as he rolled over, trying to stop his teeth chattering, and let
himself down from his attic with a small bump. In his hand he held the one figure. The others would lie up in the roofspace
he had left. Later he would come and fetch them, when he was sure that he understood the impact of his magic. Outside, he
stood a moment wrapping the waxen figure in a fold of his cloak.

Did he say a good day to die? No: it was a good day to
kill.
Especially that misbegotten son of a whore, Walter Stapledon.

‘So you slept a bit better, eh?’

Baldwin lurched to wakefulness, his eyes widening in shock as he heard Simon’s voice. There was a chuckle as the bailiff walked
round the room pulling on his shirt and hosen. ‘If you want some breakfast before visiting the cathedral, you’d best hurry.’

‘I’ll be ready in a moment,’ Baldwin said, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt rough and unrested, for all that he had slept
long beyond dawn. He needed more sensible exercise,
that was it. Less of this sitting in smoky taverns where the highest aspiration to hygiene was the annual replacement of the
rushes on the floor; more riding his horse and practising with his sword. That was what he needed.

Not much chance of it here, though. Certainly not today. He had to get to the cathedral church to avoid insulting the bishop,
and with his intention to refuse to accept the bishop’s offer to become a member of the parliament, insulting him in any other
way was beyond contemplation.

He got up from his bed, scratching idly at the bites under his armpit where some bug had got to him overnight, and gazed about
him at the room, a wave of dissatisfaction washing over him.

In the last year or two he had spent too much time away from his own bed. He had a young child whom he wanted to see growing,
and his wife had another baby in her womb even now. It was wrong for him to be here, miles away in Exeter, when she was alone
at his manor. That was where he belonged, with her.

If he were honest, though, he should not be here in any case. His life was a fraud. Although he held the position of Keeper
of the King’s Peace, if his background as a Knight Templar became known the king would remove him from his post in an instant. And if the Templars had not suffered arrests and destruction, he would not be here. He would still be in the preceptory in Paris, a bearded knight ever training to return to the Holy Land to free it from the hordes of Moors who had overrun the Christian
territories. Perhaps he would be dead, killed by a Muslim arrow or scimitar, in which case this new life was actually a rebirth
of sorts. Perhaps he ought to think of new ways of working for the realm, to protect it from the ravages of barons like
Hugh le Despenser. He had been saved from the pyre … was it possible that he was saved for something more important?