‘But why?’ John said, a smile still on his lips, but a faintly anxious expression in his eyes.
‘If he was leaving a message for a baron who was a sodomite, that might be the way he’d do it,’ Simon guessed.
Baldwin gave a chuckle. ‘I think that’s more than a little far-fetched, Simon. No, I feel sure that this is a reflection on the man found dead, and his lifestyle. It’s surely a little extreme to think that someone could find the right assassin, kill him, and decide to leave a message for the man who could be his paymaster. Now — what else is there?’
And while Simon was left feeling ruffled at the way the two men had dismissed his suggestion, the Coroner and Keeper bent to study the corpse once more.
‘Distinguishing marks — a large scar over his breast here, as though a sword has taken away a flap of skin. He’s had that arm damaged, too. Look at it!’
Baldwin nodded. At some time the limb had been badly crushed, the bone broken and reset, as was so often the case, slightly crooked. There was a great deal of scar tissue about it, too. ‘He must have suffered every day from that.’
‘I wonder how he did it?’ Sir John murmured. ‘And now, let us roll the fellow over and see if there’s anything else to be learned, eh?’
The two men completed their careful investigation and when they were both satisfied that there was nothing more to be gleaned from the man’s body, they pulled a sheet over him and wiped their hands on a few rags they found nearby.
Baldwin was first to leave, but when Simon tried to follow him, he found the Coroner in his way: the man had sprung into his path. ‘I am very interested in your idea about the dead man, Bailiff. Perhaps we could meet to discuss it further?’ he said, to Simon’s surprise.
Simon gave a grunt of agreement. The two men had so clearly indicated their lack of interest in his suggestion, yet now the Coroner wished to talk about it. It made no sense.
In the stables, Baldwin and Simon found Rob, sulking at the horses. ‘The Bishop said for you to follow on to his house. Told me to wait here for you.’ He gave a long-suffering sigh.
Baldwin nodded, glancing at the activity in and around New Palace Yard. As the sun was sliding down in the west, people were starting to make their way homewards. Some were already installed on benches at the taverns, while the hawkers and vendors were packing up their wares and making for the gatehouse.
‘Come on, you two,’ he said. ‘It’s time we copied them.’
Chapter Eighteen
It took some little while for them to reach the Bishop’s house, and on the journey Simon found himself gaping at all the fine buildings, for it seemed to him that every few yards there was a palace.
‘This road is called King Street,’ Baldwin said. ‘It leads us north for a while, and then we head east on the road called Straunde.’
Rob frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘A “straunde” is a beach, and this is the old line of the Thames, I think,’ Baldwin said. ‘When I was first here, many years ago, there were still some areas of marsh over there towards the river. It appears all is covered now. They have drained most of the marsh and dumped soil and gravel on top so that they can build on it.’
Rob gazed about him. ‘Why bother? Couldn’t they go a bit further away and build there?’
Baldwin smiled. ‘This is the main road from the kingdom’s greatest city to the Palace where the King makes his laws. Courtiers, bishops, innkeepers and pie-sellers all want to be near the seat of power, my friend. It is where the money lies … and that is all anyone is interested in nowadays,’ he added more sadly.
‘What is that?’ Simon asked. He was pointing at a great open space with low buildings behind it. Before it, stood a magnificent construction. Some five-and-twenty yards tall, it was a spire, with ornately carved sides. In arches on each face were figures, heads bent in mourning.
Baldwin sighed. ‘The King’s father, Edward the first, put that up, and eleven others, to commemorate his beloved wife, Eleanor of Castile. She was so dear to him, that when she died, he brought her body in procession back here to London. There is a great tomb for her in the Abbey, back there on Thorney Isle.’
‘He must have loved her dearly to have that built.’
‘Not just that, Simon, it is only one of twelve. She died in Nottinghamshire, and the King had one of these crosses built at each place where the procession stopped each night. And when they returned here, he had her heart buried in the Dominican House in London so that it was near the heart of her son Alfonso. He had died some years before her.’
‘A terrible thing for any mother or father,’ Simon said quietly. He had lost his own first son.
‘Yes. That is a useful marker for us, though,’ Baldwin continued, seeing his mood and trying to lighten it. ‘Because for us it indicates the end of King Street. Where that cross stands is the royal mews.’
Simon said, ‘Ah!’ The wide open space behind the cross was where the royal falcons and hawks would be exercised, then, and the buildings beyond were the houses where the birds could ‘mew’ or moult, as well as housing their falconers. From the sound of baying, he thought that some hounds must also be kept there.
‘The King enjoys his hunting, then?’ he said, his mind on happier things, just as his old friend had intended.
‘He enjoys mostly alternative pursuits, Simon. He likes to go hedging and ditching, or rowing boats or swimming,’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘Not that that is the worst, sadly. Do you know, he has been known to enjoy acting? There are many scandalised barons who have mentioned that. The thought that a king should enjoy such frivolous pastimes is enough to send some of them into the vapours.’
‘Acting, eh? How low can a man sink,’ Simon laughed.
‘From here, at Charing, the road becomes known as Straunde. It runs from here to the city of London itself, and there it becomes the Fleet Street.’
‘Why so many names?’ Rob grumbled. ‘Can’t they make do with one, like other towns?’
‘Because this is not like other towns, boy,’ Baldwin said, adding with a slightly sarcastic edge to his voice, ‘It is too great for one name to suffice. The people here adore display above all else.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Simon asked. He was staring at a large building on their right. ‘Look at that! It’s as big as the Bishop’s house at Bishop’s Clyst!’
‘It’s a Bishop’s London home,’ Baldwin said absently. He gazed at it a moment, brow puckered with the effort of memory. ‘Ah yes, I think that is the Bishop of Norwich’s place. He is nearest Charing and the cross. Then comes the Bishop of Durham’s house, I think. And after that, the Bishop of Carlisle’s home. What I meant about display was that here in London, I always had the feeling that people like to make an impression, above all else. In Exeter or Salisbury or Winchester, or anywhere else, people take pride in beauty for beauty’s sake. They would have a wonderful building because they like beautiful things. A Bishop might commission a painting on his walls to make his cathedral more lovely, a merchant may do the same in his hall — but here, the aim seems to be sheer ostentation. They want to instil a sense of inferiority — or fear — in visitors. It is a harsh, dangerous city. Be cautious when Londoners congregate, that is my advice to you both.’
Simon could see that he was musing on other things, but knew better than to press his old friend. And to be truthful, he was more keen on looking at the huge manor houses which lined this great road. Ostentatious or not, he found them fascinating.
‘This is it,’ Baldwin said shortly.
Simon followed his pointing finger to a range of small dwellings, mostly little shops and some houses, with an inn. In the midst of them was a grand arched gateway, with a small door to one side. Baldwin rode to the gates and dropped from his horse. This late, for it was almost dark now, the gates had been closed, and he rapped sharply on them with his knuckles.