but when he went closer he saw that she had cut her forehead on a splinter or nail, and the wound was flyblown: maggots squirmed and wriggled. Baldwin felt his stomach heave and called the man over.
While the hackneyman tried to hold her head steady so he could pick the maggots out, Simon and Baldwin looked about them with near-despair; they had to have something. They settled for a couple of the less exhausted-looking beasts. Soon they were mounted and met the Coroner at the castle gate.
The Coroner had brought a man-at-arms with him, and Piers was seated on his wagon, his expression bitter as he thought of the dough he should even now be mixing. For all his insistence of hurrying to report the dead bodies, Baldwin noticed that his cart was empty of the flour he declared he had collected, and was sure that the baker had gone to his home and off-loaded it before going to seek the Coroner. It made Baldwin grin to himself. The baker was no fool – he knew he must report the murders, but that was no reason to ruin himself.
‘I should have taken a second apprentice,’ Piers mumbled disconsolately.
‘What’s that?’ Baldwin asked, kicking at his horse to urge it alongside. It wasn’t easy: he had picked a mare, and she resolutely fought every tug on the reins. Simon’s mount was no better – it preferred to wander off the road to the grasses that grew thickly nearer the riverbank.
Piers sighed and spread his hands. ‘An apprentice, Sir Baldwin. Mine is sick, and all the time I spend wandering down here, my business is wasting. I’ve got a cartload of flour sitting in the yard and if it rains it’ll be ruined. My wife does all she can, but without my apprentice or me she’ll never get it done. Oh God! I wish I’d never seen the bugger.’
‘The man who stopped you?’
‘Yes. If he’d missed me and found someone else I’d be indoors now, baking, all my flour safely locked away. Instead here I am, amerced and riding away again. Daft, I call it.’
‘The man who stopped you – was he a local?’
‘I didn’t recognise him. His voice was odd, too. Very strong accent.’
Casting a look ahead, Baldwin asked, ‘How much farther to the place where this stranger found you?’
Piers shielded his eyes. ‘About another half mile. You see where the trees follow the curve of the river over there? I think it was about there.’
‘I see.’ Baldwin nodded and was about to drop back when Piers nodded meaningfully at the Coroner ahead and said, ‘Sir Baldwin, I understand how these things are done. If I pay you as well as the priest and the Coroner there, will you speak for me?’
Baldwin’s voice was icy as he replied, ‘I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. I cannot be bought, you fool!’ He dragged viciously on the reins and went to join Simon.
‘What is it?’ Simon asked. He could see that his friend was peeved, but he hadn’t heard the baker’s quiet offer.
‘That idiot asked me to accept a payment. It is probably true that he needs to get back to work, but to offer me a bribe . . .’ His voice tailed off in disgust.
‘It’s common enough, isn’t it?’ Simon pointed out reasonably. ‘Especially for Coroners. How else are they expected to cover their expenses, always riding here and there, inspecting corpses along the way, and all for no pay?’
‘Hah! They get paid all right,’ Baldwin burst out. ‘They charge fortunes for looking at dead bodies, and if the people of the area don’t pay up, the Coroner won’t visit, which means the folk have to leave the corpse lying in the open, rotting, eaten by wild animals, until they agree to cough up. And then the Coroner will add a fresh fine as like as not, just to signal his displeasure.’
‘They aren’t all like that,’ Simon soothed.
‘No – some are worse! They gain their post as a result of a great magnate’s favour and use their position to serve his interests, releasing his servants and imprisoning his enemies.’
‘And you’ve
While the hackneyman tried to hold her head steady so he could pick the maggots out, Simon and Baldwin looked about them with near-despair; they had to have something. They settled for a couple of the less exhausted-looking beasts. Soon they were mounted and met the Coroner at the castle gate.
The Coroner had brought a man-at-arms with him, and Piers was seated on his wagon, his expression bitter as he thought of the dough he should even now be mixing. For all his insistence of hurrying to report the dead bodies, Baldwin noticed that his cart was empty of the flour he declared he had collected, and was sure that the baker had gone to his home and off-loaded it before going to seek the Coroner. It made Baldwin grin to himself. The baker was no fool – he knew he must report the murders, but that was no reason to ruin himself.
‘I should have taken a second apprentice,’ Piers mumbled disconsolately.
‘What’s that?’ Baldwin asked, kicking at his horse to urge it alongside. It wasn’t easy: he had picked a mare, and she resolutely fought every tug on the reins. Simon’s mount was no better – it preferred to wander off the road to the grasses that grew thickly nearer the riverbank.
Piers sighed and spread his hands. ‘An apprentice, Sir Baldwin. Mine is sick, and all the time I spend wandering down here, my business is wasting. I’ve got a cartload of flour sitting in the yard and if it rains it’ll be ruined. My wife does all she can, but without my apprentice or me she’ll never get it done. Oh God! I wish I’d never seen the bugger.’
‘The man who stopped you?’
‘Yes. If he’d missed me and found someone else I’d be indoors now, baking, all my flour safely locked away. Instead here I am, amerced and riding away again. Daft, I call it.’
‘The man who stopped you – was he a local?’
‘I didn’t recognise him. His voice was odd, too. Very strong accent.’
Casting a look ahead, Baldwin asked, ‘How much farther to the place where this stranger found you?’
Piers shielded his eyes. ‘About another half mile. You see where the trees follow the curve of the river over there? I think it was about there.’
‘I see.’ Baldwin nodded and was about to drop back when Piers nodded meaningfully at the Coroner ahead and said, ‘Sir Baldwin, I understand how these things are done. If I pay you as well as the priest and the Coroner there, will you speak for me?’
Baldwin’s voice was icy as he replied, ‘I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. I cannot be bought, you fool!’ He dragged viciously on the reins and went to join Simon.
‘What is it?’ Simon asked. He could see that his friend was peeved, but he hadn’t heard the baker’s quiet offer.
‘That idiot asked me to accept a payment. It is probably true that he needs to get back to work, but to offer me a bribe . . .’ His voice tailed off in disgust.
‘It’s common enough, isn’t it?’ Simon pointed out reasonably. ‘Especially for Coroners. How else are they expected to cover their expenses, always riding here and there, inspecting corpses along the way, and all for no pay?’
‘Hah! They get paid all right,’ Baldwin burst out. ‘They charge fortunes for looking at dead bodies, and if the people of the area don’t pay up, the Coroner won’t visit, which means the folk have to leave the corpse lying in the open, rotting, eaten by wild animals, until they agree to cough up. And then the Coroner will add a fresh fine as like as not, just to signal his displeasure.’
‘They aren’t all like that,’ Simon soothed.
‘No – some are worse! They gain their post as a result of a great magnate’s favour and use their position to serve his interests, releasing his servants and imprisoning his enemies.’
‘And you’ve
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