‘Do not blaspheme!’ Langatre hissed. ‘You have no idea how dangerous such behaviour can be in a place like this! I dependupon God’s good mercy to protect me when I am working. I will not have myself endangered because of a coroner’s insolence.’
‘Fine — but what is that smell?’
‘I have to fumigate all the instruments before I can conjure up … it is just to cleanse everything, that is all.’
‘It smells disgusting.’
‘I seem to remember I thought the same the first time I smelled it. When you become a wise man like me, you tend not to noticesuch things any more.’
‘Rots your nose, does it?’ the coroner observed, and walked about poking at things periodically, before grunting to himselfthat there wasn’t space for a man to hide in there, and leaving the room.
‘Is he always like this?’ Langatre asked, watching him go.
‘N-o-o. Today he is being well behaved and inclined to kindness,’ Baldwin answered honestly. He gazed about him. ‘Is thereanything missing in here?’
‘Look, what would a man take from …’ Langatre noticed Baldwin’s cold expression, and decided that his words could be saved. He made a show of walking about the place, casting aneye over the tables, but it was only when he was almost back at Baldwin’s side that his face took on a frown. ‘That’s strange…’
‘What is gone?’
‘My daggers. I have two knives — one black-handled, one white. They’re used in some of the magic preparations … they werehere, but … my hat! Where’s my hat? There was a white leather hat here when I was taken by that moronic beadle!’
He was at a table far from the door. Baldwin glanced at it, then at the mess on the floor where the alembic had smashed. ‘Youwere here? So after he attacked you, this man would have had to step over you to steal them? Could he have done?’
‘No! There is no possible way … but why would anyone want them?’
It took little time to search the rest of the house. The place was small, with a larder and buttery opposite the door to hismain room. At the far end of the building was a narrow wooden staircase which led up to the solar area. Warily, Baldwin lefthis sword sheathed, but pulled out his dagger, and cautiously ascended.
The chamber was a tiny space up in the eaves. Here the smoke from the fire rose and tainted all with the scent of charredlogs and tar. Gripping his dagger, Baldwin climbed quickly inside. There was a palliasse on the floor with some blankets thrownmessily to one side, and a small chest stood in the angle of the wall. Baldwin gazed about him, but there was nothing to see. No one could hide in this small space without being instantly spotted.
He returned to the ladder, and began to climb down again, but there was something that caught his attention: a faint odour catching at his nostrils. Stopping, he hesitated, and thenclimbed back.
‘What is it?’ the coroner called.
‘He was up here.’
Exeter Castle
Matthew was too unsettled to sit and drink. He went out into his court and, crossing over it, entered his kennels.
The dogs were slumberous after a long run with their master that afternoon, and although some eyes opened, and four tailstwitched, there was little more by way of acknowledgement.
It was impossible to concentrate. His wife was lying to him, going and visiting that damned magician, just at the time whenit was vital that they were quiet and avoided any such people. She was in enough trouble because of her family, and he wasin a potentially lethal position because of this affair of the necromancer from Coventry. There was little he could do tocontrol matters. They were controlling him.
At least there was one thing he could do. It would cause some anger when she heard what he had done, but he couldn’t explainwhy it was so perfect. He had ordered that fellow Langatre to be arrested on suspicion of killing his servant. That was fine,but the man wouldn’t be held for long, unless Matthew could continue to have him removed from the city entirely. And how betterthan to have him sent to the king to be questioned in case he had any part in the assassination attempt. Yes, Matthew wouldhave him gaoled here, and send a man to take a message to the king.
Where were they? Langatre should have been here by now. The sheriff walked to the door, but there was no sign of the beadles who should have been bringing him to the gaol. Nomatter. They wouldn’t be long. No. He turned back to his hounds and scratched a bitch behind the ears.
Send Langatre to the king, and it would divert attention. And his wife would not be going out to see him any more.
Two birds.
North-East Dartmoor
Simon gathered a massive pile of leaves by the simple expedient of kicking them into a heap. Here the wood was thickly ladenwith them so soon after the trees had shed them all, and in a short time he had several mounds ready to be used.
‘Are you finished?’ he called to Busse.
The monk was throwing fronds of fern atop the shelter, panting slightly with the unaccustomed labour. ‘Nearly.’
Simon walked to him and eyed the structure consideringly. It had grown into a shelter of some four feet wide by seven long,with a thick layer of greenery cast over it, so that it would be hard to see any of the wood that made up its walls and roof. He lined up some of the fronds more tidily, but then nodded to himself and started gathering great armfuls of leaves to bringback and throw over the shelter. He had to repeat the action many times before he was content, for he knew that to give themprotection from the chill the leaves must be a good three feet thick, if he could manage it.
‘That should be enough,’ he said at last.
‘Thanks be to God,’ Busse said, and flopped onto the ground.
By some great good fortune the snow had only fallen thinly so far, and now there was a fine crust over all, like a morning’s frost. It was a relief to Simon, because he stillhad time to make a fire. It was essential, as he knew, that they should have heat. All of them were shivering even with theirthickest clothes on. It was Rob in particular that Simon was worried about. He had little in the way of decent clothing, and Simon was anxious for him.
He had built a pile of twigs and branches, and now he pulled his tinder from his shirt and set it on a platform of thickertwigs. Taking his steel, he struck at it with the reverse of his knife’s blade, striking sparks and watching as carefullyas he might. It was hard work, for the sparks blinded him in the gathering darkness, and he was unable to see the gleam ofthe tinder catching. Usually he was quick to strike a light, but tonight, with his fingers frozen and his belly empty, ittook longer. Yet at last there was a small yellow-orange mote glistening, and Simon picked up the ball of tinder and beganto blow carefully, softly at first, then more strongly. It took some minutes, but then, suddenly, he had a small explosion,and the middle of the tinder flared.
Setting it down, he began to set small twigs over it, and as they glowed and flamed he set slightly thicker twigs over them,until he had to break twigs urgently to keep up. Then, at last, he started to use thicker stems and set them about the fireuntil it represented a cone, the outside twigs all pointing upwards. Now, he felt comfortable enough to let Rob see to it. The boy lit the fire each day in Simon’s house at Dartmouth.
‘Well done, Bailiff. I don’t know that I would have survived without your help.’
Simon yawned. All he knew was that as soon as the fire was roaring and he had toasted himself before it for a short while, he was going to settle down in the shelter and sleep. He was exhausted.
‘What did you say about the spirits of the rocks at that place on the moors?’ Rob asked after a few moments. He was feedingthe fire steadily, cracking smaller twigs between his fingers to build up a bed of ash. Already the first outer layer of twigswas burning through, and he must hurry to construct the second cone of larger twigs.