Baldwin sighed with some exasperation. ‘Very well. Coroner, you will have searched the man’s clothing. What was in his pouch?’
‘There were messages there, but I did not feel free to rifle about in the king’s business. I didn’t look.’
‘What is in the document?’ Baldwin asked the bishop. ‘If you want me to find it, you have to tell me what I am looking for.’
‘Sir Baldwin, I cannot. You will know it if you find it. Just search the man and see if it is there. I must press you — itis enormously important to me!’
Chapter Eight
Warwick Gaol
The warder was back again. The crash of the great oaken door with the iron furniture was so loud, the noise of it echoed alongthe corridor. Even at the farthest end of it, Robert le Mareschal was stirred. He only prayed that the man wasn’t coming toquestion him again.
He had lost track of time. It was certainly a long while since he had gone to the sheriff and insisted on telling his story,how the figures had been made, whom they represented, how he and John of Nottingham had taken the figurine of de Sowe andpulled out the pin, then waited a moment and thrust it deep into the waxen figure’s breast. God, but Robert had been so scaredby then. He had almost fainted away with the fear. And then, when he heard of de Sowe’s death, there had been only an all-encompassingterror of what his master had achieved, and, together with that, a dread of his own fate.
The money was nothing. Money could buy nothing that mattered to him now. The whole affair had started with money, it was true,and then he had realised that it also gave him a chance to win his revenge on the faithless devils who had so ruined his father,but that was not enough, no, not by a long measure, to justify his own destruction.
It was when he heard that de Sowe was dead that he truly realised his peril, and only then did he take that terrible step, andgo to see the sheriff. And soon after he and all the others were taken and held in gaol. All twenty-five of the men who hadasked them to make the figures and kill the king and his favourites, as well as Robert and John of Nottingham. And John hadstared at him, and then smiled, as though he knew full well that the betrayal came from him, and Robert feared that more thananything: the knowledge that his master knew his guilt.
Because Robert knew — Christ Jesus, he knew! — that John of Nottingham was a truly evil man.
Exeter City
‘What do you think of this, Coroner?’ Baldwin said quietly as they made their way from the bishop’s palace, out through thepalace gate, and thence down to the southern gate of the city.
‘Me? I’d reckon he’s either lost a large part of his senses, or he has reason to know that there’s a dangerous document inthe messenger’s purse.’ Normally a man who would have a hundred filthy jokes to hand, the coroner was unusually quiet today. The seriousness of the matter had eradicated his sense of humour.
‘Is it likely that the messenger could have been killed for any other reason than the theft of his purse?’ Baldwin wondered. King’s messengers were almost never attacked or harmed. They were known by their small pouches with the king’s own arms onthem as much as by their uniforms.
‘A man might have seen him and desired to know what was held in his purse, I suppose. An off-the-cuff decision. A chance encounter. Man saw him, thought: “Nice little purse, wonder how much money’s in it,” ’ Coroner Richard proposed. He looked at Baldwin. ‘No. You’re right. He was murdered for this document,whatever it was.’
‘Which puts us in a very difficult position, old friend.’
‘Why?’
‘Because whoever killed that messenger must have known what was in his pouch, and desired it for his own reasons. And thatman therefore must be known to the bishop. He is probably in the bishop’s own household, because how else could a man havecome to know what was in the pouch?’
‘There was the messenger himself.’
Baldwin shook his head. ‘The messenger would be the last to know what was held in his pouch. He would only know the destinationof the message, not the content. No, it must have been someone in the bishop’s household who heard what was in it, and soughtto take it.’
‘Why?’
‘We cannot tell that until we have it in our hands. Perhaps blackmail, perhaps information that could be easily sold to someone?’ Such as the French king, he told himself. If Bishop Stapledon had written something defamatory of the queen, the informationcould be enormously useful to the king of England’s leading enemy.
‘Well, let’s go and check, then,’ the coroner said easily. They were already at the gate, and he motioned to their left, towhere the body lay, a beadle standing alert nearby.
Baldwin nodded, and crouched at the corpse’s side. The pouch was a small leather purse with the king’s arms painted carefullyon the side. It was well constructed, with a waxen coating to protect the contents against wind and rain, and the fasteningwas tight, so Baldwin found he had some difficulty in opening it at first. Inside were some small message rolls, each some four inches long, and two in diameter. He glancedover at the coroner, who stood now leaning against a wall, picking at his teeth with a small stick he had sharpened. He eyed Baldwin with a contented, untroubled look.
Sighing to himself, Baldwin carefully studied each seal before removing the pouch from the dead man’s belt and reinstallingall the messages in it.
‘Well?’ Coroner Richard demanded. ‘Was it there?’
‘No,’ said Baldwin, and he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder towards the bishop’s palace. This would not be a surpriseto the bishop, he felt sure, but no matter whether it was or not, the fact was that Baldwin was being asked now to seek outa roll even though he knew nothing about the contents.
Looking away from the palace, he found himself wondering how many people within the city walls could be carrying a roll justlike the one which had been stolen.
Dartmoor
‘I hope you do not mind my observing,’ Busse said, ‘that you seem to be rather reserved today, Bailiff. In the past you havealways struck me as a happy fellow, but today you are reluctant to speak to me.’
‘No, no. I am just thinking about my wife,’ Simon lied. ‘I had been hoping to go straight to her when I was called back to Tavistock. Being sent on this journey was not in my mind.’
‘I am sorry, Bailiff. I had no idea. I did not want company myself. It was only the insistence of others that led to my acceptingyour escort. I would much rather you returned home, if you wish to, than continued with me to a meeting you have no desire to witness.’
‘I am sure that it is best that you have company on such a long journey,’ Simon said shortly.
They had left the abbey and crossed the river by the old bridge, then taken the steep lane that rose from Tavistock headingeast and north up to the moors themselves. It was Simon’s intention to cross Dartmoor towards Chagford, and then head easttowards Exeter. They would probably have to take it relatively slowly because the monk was unused to such journeying, but Simon was hopeful that no matter what happened he should be able to return to his home within the week.
‘But why? Because I am elderly and infirm? I have been living here on the moors for more than twenty years, Bailiff,’ themonk declared with a look of bafflement.
Simon could have snarled with annoyance. The sole reason for his being here was the one which he could not admit: that hewas spying. ‘The moors can be dangerous. You know that.’
‘There are many dangers in the world,’ Busse commented, looking about him. There was a furze bush nearby, and he trotted toit, reaching down and picking some of the brilliant yellow flowers and popping them into his mouth.
Simon agreed with that, glancing at Busse from the corner of his eye. He had no intention of admitting that he was afraidof no earthly dangers quite so much as the supernatural, but even as he watched the amiable monk at the gorse bush he wasaware of the spirit of the moors, the spirit of old Crockern. If a man treated the moors disrespectfully, Crockern would takehis revenge. There were many stories of how farmers would seek to change the moorland to suit them, but the moors would alwaysrevert, and the farmers would be ruined. No man could beat Crockern.