There was no need to explain why. All too often, a man who discovered a body would do nothing. The ‘first finder’ was required to appear at the subsequent inquiries, on pain of a fine. So many preferred to walk past.
Oddly, it led to a small market in discovering bodies. Once a man had found one body, he would have to turn up to describe what he found to the justices. He would not be amerced again for the second body, so many took the pragmatic approach and would tell the man in the area who had already found one body, so that he could ‘discover’ any subsequent ones. First finders often had a monopoly in their areas.
Clearly this man had not been found by anyone who knew a first finder.
Simon eyed the body again. ‘You seriously suggest that someone killed him and threw his tabard over him before riding off?’
Baldwin had conducted a careful examination of the ground immediately near the body. Now he stood and wiped his hands on his old tunic. ‘There is one thing for certain, old friend: whoever this was, whoever killed him, the oil is nowhere near. So the killer, or someone else, took it.’
‘Unless, of course, this fellow had nothing to do with the matter at all,’ Simon pointed out.
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. Now, let’s get back to the Bishop. This place makes me uncomfortable.’
‘Very well.’
Baldwin was about to set off with Simon when something on the dead body caught his attention. Stuck in the fold of his shirt, hard by his neck, there was a gleam, and Baldwin bent to peer closer. He could see something shining there, and when he moved the head to the side, he could pull it free. ‘Aha! So this is what Joseph saw!’
‘What is it?’
‘A necklace formed of pilgrim badges,’ Baldwin said, handling the lead badges with care. ‘They may help find the dead man’s identity.’
‘If we can find someone who knew a man who carried a string of badges about his neck like beads,’ Simon said as they started to walk to where their horses were tethered, but then Baldwin stopped and glanced back.
‘When you said “uncomfortable”, you were right, Simon. And you saw how that messenger was affected by the woods. They are fearful, aren’t they? Just imagine how that poor man must have felt, riding in here, all alone, and then feeling the blow that killed him. All alone, and the one man in the world whom he didn’t want near him was there, and he killed him.’
‘And you call me fanciful and superstitious!’ Simon said.
Joseph trotted much of the way through the trees, his eyes flitting nervously from one side to the other as he rode along, until he was close to the outside of the woods. There, a blackbird squawked at his horse’s hooves, and made the beast shy, while the blackbird pelted along an inch from the ground, calling out his warning song.
It was enough for him. Joseph set spurs to his mount and burst from the woods and into the open in a flurry of dirt and dust, crouching low as though thinking that all the French host was after him.
He hurried on for a long way, hardly taking any note of the distance, but when he reigned in, he found he was a long way from the edge of the trees. They stood some half-mile distant, looking like a ruffled green blanket, with the swirls of the treetops. They were almost beautiful.
His heart was still thrilling, though. The thought of the dead man lying in there … that was enough to make his belly try to empty again. Those hideous eye sockets, the trail of ants to the wounds … he had to think of something else.
There was smoke ahead. He was cautious, but it was possible that there was a cott up there through the trees. If there was a small house, a pot of ale would help him feel a little more normal.
He could see it through the trees, a small, low, thatched property, built of crucks and with wattle and daub to fill the spaces. It would be warm, in the winter, and with all the wood about here, plentifully supplied with heating. There was a man, a shortish, thickset peasant, who was using his bill to split saplings for firewood. For an instant, Joseph thought he knew the man: something about the cast of his head, the way he swung his arms while chopping the wood …
‘Who are you?’
The woman appeared from nowhere, staring at him with fear.
‘Good wife, I’m just looking for some ale. I found a body in there in the woods, and it made me feel unwell. I’m a king’s messenger, and I’d be glad of something to help settle my belly, if that is all right.’
He glanced back to where the man had been, but he was gone now.
She looked behind him, along the way he had come. ‘A man?’
‘A King’s man. A herald.’
It didn’t strike him at the time, but afterwards, he was quite sure that she was relieved to hear it. She probably just didn’t want to think that a neighbour had died, he thought.
Second Friday after Easter14
Beaulieu
It was all to no avail. As the sun gradually began to sink in the west, the friar was forced to accept that his mission had failed, and there was little point in extending his stay here. The King would not see him.
Nicholas of Wisbech was about to leave the precinct when he saw a bench, and overwhelmed with a sudden lassitude, he sank gratefully on to it and rested his legs.
As a friar he was perfectly well used to walking up and down the country, but these last days of standing about, waiting and hoping to be able to see the King, had been not merely tiresome but also enormously exhausting. It was fortunate that a kindly clerk had found him a berth in the great tithe barn, for without that, with the rain of three days ago, he might have died of cold and exposure. All the friars were aware of the dangers of lying out in the damp and cold of an English night. For others, for peasants with thick jerkins and warm hosen, it was less of a trial, but for a friar who was never overly well-fed on his diet of begged bread and pottage, it was indeed a hazard. He had seen his own companions catch chills and hasten their souls away to heaven in that manner.
Yes, he was safe from that gloomy ending, being discovered one morning under a hedge hard and cold as ice, like his old friend Walt. It was discovering Walt that had made Nicholas seek a more reliable occupation than mere preaching.
It had not been an easy transition, but he had ever been fortunate. Nicholas had been sent to college when he was still young, and had proved a shrewd academic and philosopher already. It took little persuasion of his prior to win a place at Oxford when he had shown his abilities, and once there his intellect made him rise above so many of his peers. There was no point concealing the fact that he was remarkably fast to understand complex concepts, and the fact that the masters and tutors were occasionally behind his own reasoning was enough to prove that he was possessed of an unnatural brilliance. And so he was elevated, and found himself soon employed in researches of some arcane material. Such as the oil of St Thomas.
Now he could curse the day he found that reference, for it had led to so much hardship for him, even this present disaster, in truth, but at the time he had instantly comprehended the potential of the marvellous fluid.
The King, Edward II, had been widely respected and adored when first he came to his throne almost twenty years ago, but that had instantly changed when the character of his friend, Piers Gaveston, was better understood. Suddenly the barons began to withhold their favour, and tried to impose restrictions on the King himself that would control his rule. He could not comply with those who sought to clip his wings — and why should he? He was King, anointed by God. If God chose him, Nicholas was content with God’s choice.
But his reign went from bad to worse. While the Scots destroyed the Royal Host in some foul backwater called Bannockburn, while they invaded his Irish colony and imposed the reign of Edward Bruce on an unwilling population, his own barons grew more fractious. And then it was that Nicholas found the reference to the oil. St Thomas’s oil.