Where had the murderous bastard got to? He had thought he could get some answers from Michael, but the interference of thatpathetic imitation sorcerer had put paid to that. If he’d been able, he could have silenced Langatre, but there was no tellingwhat Ivo would do while he was making the man shut up. Anyone with a stout staff was a threat to be considered when his loyaltywas in doubt. And there was certainly no love between him and Ivo. No, none.
Where was John? With any luck he had fallen into a ditch and his decomposed remains would be found late in the summer. Butthere was no way to tell whether he was dead or not. Better to assume he was still alive for now, and find him. There wasnothing he wanted more than to see John’s head on a spike outside the city wall as a warning to all those who dared kill hisfriends.
If he didn’t know where John was, perhaps the Watch had been luckier. A beadle could have stumbled over his corpse in thenight. And if he hadn’t, a beadle could maybe tell him what the city’s officers had been doing overnight to hunt the bastarddown.
He drained his cup and left the alehouse quietly by the little side door. Soon he was walking down the alley where Ivo andhis mother lived, and when he came to it he stood in a doorway some distance away and surveyed the street, making sure thatthe measly little prickle hadn’t thought to protect himself with a couple of roughs who would look for him in case he returned again.
No. There was nothing. Confident that the alley itself held no threat to him, he sauntered to the door and knocked.
It opened quickly, and Ivo stood gaping before him. A hand planted firmly on his breast gave him the hint, and he walked backwards,still silent.
When the door was shut, Ivo’s mother, who had been huddled by the fire, turned and scowled. ‘What do you want here?’
‘Mother, I only want to learn what happened yesterday. Ivo? Did they get him?’
‘No. After you disappeared we spent the afternoon searching high and low for him, but none of us had any luck. Half the timethe coroner seemed to want us to find you more than the stranger.’
‘Fortunately no one did, though. What are they going to do today?’
‘They’re not. They’re fetching a demented girl to take to the bishop to see if he can exorcise her demons.’
‘That would be worth seeing.’
Ivo nodded. He had seen plenty of exorcisms in his time. The shrieking and screaming was quite entertaining in its own way. As good as a hanging. This way, perhaps they’d have the exorcism and then the hanging later, both from the same girl. He wasso taken up with his thoughts for a moment or two that he didn’t notice the man’s expression change suddenly.
‘What day is it?’
Ivo shot a look at his mother. ‘St Catherine’s Day?’
All knew of St Catherine of Alexandria. The noblewoman who refused to marry the emperor of Rome and defended her Christian faith even when they threatened to kill her on the wheel. She had disputed her religion with fifty philosophersand won, and had stood up for …
Robinet stood as the realisation struck.
‘We must get to the cathedral!’
Chapter Forty-Three
Exeter Cathedral
Baldwin and Simon had a leisurely walk to the cathedral after their breakfast. Already the grounds before the great church had startedto fill with city folk ready to join the Sabbath celebrations.
Practically every day of the year had its own saint to revere, and Baldwin knew that keeping abreast of which was due forhonour on any day was a task that exercised some of the finest minds in Christendom. At the cathedral there was a good manwho was paid a gallon of wine to call out all the different relics that were held there on the Monday after Ascension eachyear. It was a task that demanded a degree of perseverance on the part of the annueller concerned, calling out the piece of Mary’s pillow, the splinter of the True Cross, the oil of St Catherine and all the other bits and pieces that made up thegreat treasury owned by the cathedral. The number of relics made Exeter a place of pilgrimage for people from all over thewest country.
All too soon Baldwin saw the first of the black-robed canons appearing in his doorway as the bells began to ring, and thenall the houses in Canon’s Row disgorged their occupants. Entire households stood in the road, with the processions being decided by rank and authority: canon first, then vicars, annuellers, novices, servants, all clad in theirrobes ready for the service. They stepped over the open sewer that ran between their houses and the cemetery, and began tocross the grassy plain. A hog and two horses moved out of their way as the men passed around the new building work, avoidingthe great stones lying all about, and making their way to the southern entrance. Only when all the choir had already entereddid the rest of the congregation follow.
Inside it was serene, an odd silence compared with the anticipated noise of a working building site. None of the workmen wasallowed to continue on the day of rest.
Baldwin and the others made their way to the northern side of the cathedral, where there was the altar dedicated to St Catherine,and stood about while the incense wafted and the singing of the choristers rose to the heavens.
Bowing his head beneath his hood, Baldwin listened to the service in the choir. The music was marvellous, as always. Althoughhe had travelled widely and knew the forms of celebrations in the more modern and contemporary churches of France, Galiciaand Portugal, he still felt most at home here in English churches, with their more restrained, simple services. In other countriesthere was too much extravagance, he felt. The plainer customs in English services were more suitable.
As always, the people standing all around were hooded and hatted respectfully. When the bishop came to raise the host up onhigh for all to see, they would bare their heads. There was a group of women near him, under the watchful gaze of a chaperon,while beyond them an older couple were sitting on folding chairs with leather seats and reading a book of hours together. The sole irritant to him was the woman behind him, who would keep up a relentless prayer for a son who had disappeared some years ago, which spoiled his concentration.
And then he saw the man: Robinet.
He was over at the southern wall with the watchman, Ivo. Baldwin recognised him immediately, and was angry to see the manhere, flaunting his freedom in a church of God. It was shameful.
‘Look, Simon,’ he breathed. Simon followed his pointing finger and Baldwin saw his neck stiffen.
‘Where’s Sir Richard?’
Ivo had tagged along reluctantly, but he wasn’t sure he understood what his companion was on about. There was some story aboutthe man they’d tried to find yesterday actually being an assassin who was going to try to kill the bishop, which caught hisattention, naturally enough. Where there was a job to be done saving a bishop’s life, there was also a good fee to be earnedas reward. He was sure of that.
But apparently the killer wouldn’t have to be nearby. Would not be getting up close with a knife or anything. No, he wouldbe a little distance away — but near enough to see the bishop.
‘What, he going to use a bow in the cathedral?’
‘Not a bow, no. But something quite as deadly.’
‘As deadly as a bow?’ Ivo said doubtfully, squinting up at him.
He didn’t answer. The necromancer had to be here somewhere. Not in with the congregation, not if he was going to strike rightnow … and he had to strike now. It was the only thing that made sense, attacking during this special celebration.
There!
It was a fleeting glimpse of blackness up at the top of the wall, where the new construction joined the older section of thebuilding. A flash of black clerical cloth, nothing more, and it was that very movement that told him he was right. Any otherman would have stood still and watched the service. Only a man seeking concealment would disappear like that.