Baldwin was not superstitious, and he often laughed at Simon Puttock’s credulity, but even in broad daylight, with the noiseof people pushing and shoving their way past him on the road only yards away, he suddenly felt a sharp chill at the thoughtthat there could be a sorcerer working here in the city.
Chapter Nine
Exeter City
John was exhausted after all his efforts the previous day and night. He had many of the implements, but he still needed some more. Only a complete fool would try to conjure a demon without adequate protection, after all, and he had desperate need of allthe requisite tools of his trade. Sadly, almost everything had been left behind in his flight.
It was enough to make a man spit with fury. To know that all his tools, gathered carefully over the years, were sitting probablyin that idiot sheriff’s chamber in Coventry was infuriating. But complaining over that which could not be altered was at bestfutile. Better that he should forget it and find something similar.
There must be somewhere he could get hold of the things he needed.
Baldwin shook his head. There was something unpleasant — he would not use the word ‘evil’ — about this affair. He stood bythe messenger’s body, studying the area all about.
Once, when he had been at Acre, he had seen a man hit by a crossbow bolt, and he had been transfixed with panic and fear. The man was a burly fellow, clad in mail for the most part, with a shining helm which he had taken from another man who had died in an earlier attack. Somehow, Baldwin had felt that the fellow radiated invincibility, and he hadedged nearer and nearer to him, hoping that if there was an attack this man’s aura of authority and power might give Baldwintoo some protection. And then, suddenly, the man had gasped as though punched in the chest.
Baldwin had turned in time to see him flung backwards, arms flailing, under the impact of a massive bolt. It passed almostall the way through his body, and hurled him back to be slammed against a wall some yards behind and pinned to it.
Such a large bolt must have been fired from an enormous crossbow. Yet there was no sign of the man who had fired it, no signof the weapon’s presence.
Time, for a while, seemed to stand still for Baldwin. Struck mindless with terror, he was paralysed, and all he could do wasstare about him with his mouth agape, as though waiting to be executed. And then a Welshman behind him gave him a shove, andas he stumbled forward he heard a swift thrumming, and saw three, no four, arrows fly up over the castle’s wall at a windowin a tower. And he heard the scream, saw the fresh bolt fly from the window, and thump harmlessly into the wall above the Welshman, some yards over the dead man’s body.
He had the same impression of danger here as he had felt that day. Something was not right here. It was almost as though hewas being watched, and someone was lining up a great siege crossbow bolt with his chest even as he stood here.
To distract himself from these unpleasant reflections, he pointed up another alley. ‘What is that man doing there?’
The coroner followed his pointing finger. ‘Him? He’s a watchman. There’s another dead man up there. He can’t be anything to do with this fellow, though. He was dead the day before.’
Baldwin’s brow furrowed, and he glanced down at the body at his feet, then back at the alley again. It was a strange coincidencethat on consecutive evenings men should have been murdered in this area. ‘Were the neighbours all asleep for both deaths? Was nothing heard?’
‘Both late at night. I’ve found men and women who walked past that spot, for example, quite late at night, and no one appearsto have seen him lying there.’
‘Nor this messenger?’
‘No, not him either. They were attacked by thieves who wandered about late at night.’
‘One of them was a man who enthusiastically robbed a messenger of an important letter,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘Let us go andview the other body as well.’
‘Hah! You don’t care that the bishop has commanded us to find his roll?’
‘If we are to find it, we’ll need some hints as to who took it, and why, and if the bishop won’t help us, maybe that man will.’
The coroner nodded amiably. ‘You know, there are times I think you must be soft in the head, old chap. The fellow’s dead.’
Langatre was a serious practitioner of the mysterious arts, and when there was a knock at his door he would always insistthat his servant Hick should go and answer it. It was not dignified for a man of Langatre’s status to perform such a menialtask. Far better that he should have his boy go. Apart from anything else, it enhanced his position in the mind of many of his clients if they could see that he was able to afford his own staff.
This afternoon he was trying to brew some potions. When the door was struck, he was in the middle of straining the fluid froma concoction made from roots and yew berries. It stank, and he was not keen to handle anything made from yew, because allwas poisonous, whether the bark, the sap, or the leaves. Still, the mixture smelled very potent, and he had often found thatthe efficacy of his spells was aided by the odours of the mixtures he sold with them.
They were worthless, of course. He knew that perfectly well. The real benefit to those who paid him was in the chanting thathe alone understood. When a woman came to him and begged for help in keeping her man’s love, or winning it, he would use asweet-smelling fluid; when it was a farmer who wanted a neighbour’s herd to suffer, the odour was not so pleasant. Eitherway, it was not the liquor that achieved the result: it was his intellectual efforts later. His prayers would work adequatelywithout hoaxes designed to fool people, but some didn’t believe in his efforts unless they had concrete proof in the way ofa small bottle of foul-smelling and probably poisonous juice to go with it. He sometimes despaired of people, he really did.
‘It’s a man to see you, master,’ Hick called from the front door.
Langatre grunted and shook his head. There was always an interruption of one sort or another. He had an alembic bubbling nicely,and he eyed it doubtfully, wondering whether he could afford to leave it alone for a consultation, but then shrugged. He didn’tdare to leave an expensive piece of equipment lying about here to boil dry and break. Instead, he bent and blew at the flames,putting them out.
As he did so, there was a rattling knock at his door. ‘Yes, yes,’ he called testily. ‘I am coming, in God’s good time. Wait amoment, Hick.’
The knocking stopped on the instant, and Langatre picked up a cloth. He doubled it quickly, and used it to pick up the alembicby the snout. As he did so, to his surprise, he heard a step behind him. Someone had entered his chamber without permission!
‘What do you …’
His voice was cut off as a fine leather cord whipped round his throat and was yanked tight, cutting off all air. With hisleft hand, he grabbed for it, his fingers trying to prise their way behind it to loosen it, but there was nothing he coulddo. He tried to grab his attacker, poke at his eyes, anything, but the man was out of his reach. At last, desperate, as he felt a rising mist begin to smother him, he swung the alembicover his shoulder.
There was a crack as the alembic smashed. The shards, fresh from the flames, were extraordinarily hot, and he heard a muffledshriek as the pieces of clay scorched his assailant, and then a piercing scream as the boiling, poisonous liquid sprayed.
The cord was dropped, and Langatre fell to the floor gasping, grabbing for a knife on his table. There was no time to useit. As his fingers fell on the hilt, his belly was kicked with main force, and his back arched as he felt the air gush fromhis breast in a great moan of pain. It was so intense, he could not breathe for some moments, and all he could do was rollinto a ball to evade any further punishment. When at last he was able to take notice of his surroundings once more, he heardhis door slam, and then there was silence.