The Traitor of St. Giles Read online

  ‘Evil. The people are sick of a King who spends his time with actors and the like.’

  ‘What of Lancaster? Any news?’

  ‘Badlesmere has tried to join him, but I heard Lancaster wants nothing to do with him. A man like that, who’ll change his alliances almost at a whim – it’s hardly surprising if Earl Thomas ditches him.’

  ‘You must be tired. Would you like some food?’

  ‘I could eat a team of oxen and still chew on their harness,’ agreed Toker with a grim smile.

  Sir Peregrine walked to the door with him. ‘It was lucky you came from the northern road,’ he said as they went down the stairs. ‘A man was murdered on the Exeter Road.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Some knight, apparently,’ Sir Peregrine said dismissively as they came into the sunlight. He waved Toker to the table near the kitchen where others were already chewing at cold meats and swilling the castle’s best ales.

  If he had known of Toker’s meeting with the Templar in London, he might have found out that Sir Gilbert of Carlisle had been seen travelling with a chest containing riches of some sort. Thus he would have been alerted, and might have been able to rescue the gold, but he didn’t know to ask. As for Toker, he had already forgotten the man with the intriguing little chest. There had been too many things to watch, listen to and remember since then.

  Baldwin rolled Sir Gilbert over. The back of his tunic was cleanly punctured where a sharp knife had been shoved in, and when Baldwin lifted the cloth, he found that directly beneath was a thin slit in the man’s flesh. It had wept scarcely a drop of blood.

  ‘One stab and his life was ended,’ Baldwin reflected, resting on his heels. Sir Gilbert’s sword now lay sheathed beside the knight’s body, but Baldwin was interested to see that where his purse had once dangled, there were only two thongs hanging, both with cleanly slashed ends. They matched those of the purse. The knight’s spurs were valuable, as was the belt and sword from the look of them, but his dagger’s sheath was empty. When Baldwin pushed the knife found by the other body into the sheath, it fitted. Must have been a straightforward theft that had gone wrong. Someone had had time to take the purse and dagger, but had then run off empty-handed.

  He turned his attention to the dead dog. It lay a short distance away, and there was a goodly-sized stab-wound in its chest, at the front beneath its neck. When he opened the jaws, he saw no cloth or anything to link the dead beast with who had killed it.

  ‘You poor brute,’ he said sadly. ‘You tried to save your master but you had no chance, did you?’

  Chapter Ten

  At the gate to the church, Father Abraham stood with arms akimbo watching people arrive for St Giles’s Fair. Folk travelled from many miles away to come to a place like this, and he could see many rich-looking merchants; not that they were alone. Jugglers, actors and other good-for-nothings were tagging along. Gamblers, barbers, quacksalvers trailed past, all hoping to enjoy a few days’ holiday, perhaps also making profits from some of the more foolish people in the town.

  Father Abraham muttered a short prayer, avoiding the eye of Felicity, the whore from Cock Lane, who stood at the other side of the road with her arms folded, eyeing the crowds with a similar professional measurement in her gaze, but with a view to a more immediate reward than that which Father Abraham could offer.

  He shook his head. That poor man Father Benedict had died late in the evening the previous day and Father Abraham had sat up with him until after dark. Fortunately the boy who had come to fetch Father Abraham that morning had returned with his mother, and the priest had commanded them to sit up with the body all night.

  It was a great shame, though. And a waste. The man had been devoted to his damned chapel, that centre of heresy, sodomy and sinfulness, but he was still a Godly man in his own way. He personally lived the pure life of a priest – and was now dead, while the whore Felicity lived on. Father Abraham sighed. Truly God’s way was sometimes difficult to comprehend.

  He turned and almost tripped over Hick, the rat-catcher. ‘What is it?’ he demanded testily.

  ‘Father, I’m sorry, but it’s Emily. She’s awful sick and the midwife asked if you could come and see her. Give her the last rites.’

  He had noticed her looking unwell recently, but she had a brood of eleven children. ‘She’s too old for another. I did tell her,’ he pointed out.

  The rat-catcher agreed hastily. Emily wasn’t his wife and he had no wish to irritate the priest. This was a man who could add a few words to tip the balance in favour of a dying person, someone who could either help a soul on its way to Heaven or – God forbid! – aid the angels in tumbling it down to Hell.

  Father Abraham went to his church and fetched a small bottle of holy water to take with him, picked up his wallet and set off, reminding himself that he must send a cart to collect Father Benedict’s body at some stage.

  Emily was a foolish woman, Father Abraham knew that. She was too much the victim of her passions. That was the trouble with so many women today, they thought they could indulge their most sinful whims with impunity. With all those children, Emily was surely the prisoner of her lusts.

  The house was one of the shabbier places out to the north of the town, one of a line straggling along the road near the marsh, and Father Abraham stood back with a disapproving expression on his face as he considered it: small, only perhaps some ten feet square, with no second storey, a hole for a door with a piece of tattered and threadbare cloth to cover it, and a window that had a broken shutter. The thatching was holed, green, and compacted in a thin layer over the roof.

  Sighing, he walked to the door. Her husband had deserted her some years before. He had never controlled Emily when he was still with her. Always drunk, feckless by nature, he was rarely at home when he had money to spend in an alehouse.

  Inside the hut, the air was filled with the rank odour of twelve bodies living in close proximity. A ladder stood at one corner, leading up to a series of rough planks nailed to beams to provide a little space free of mice or rats, but apart from that everything was set out on the floor or on the table formed by a plain board resting on trestles.

  The earthen floor held a fire, whose dull flames shed a small amount of light and showed the family’s belongings. Scraps of cloth and straw made the communal bed; all shared the same blankets to keep each other warm. There was a single large pot by the fire, the only cooking utensil they owned.

  It was near this that he saw Emily, lying in the corner gripping the forearms of the midwife. Her face was waxen and yellow in the gloom, and sweat glistened on her brow as she clenched her teeth on the leather strap, whimpering with the pain as it washed over her in waves.

  Father Abraham looked enquiringly at the midwife, who wiped her brow with exhaustion and motioned towards a tiny object lying in the corner of the room. A cat was sniffing at it. He crossed the floor, aiming a mistimed kick at the cat, and squatted.

  Death came in many forms. This was sad, and he felt the small cheek with a sense of awe that so small a creature could have been created so perfectly, only to be ruined and die in the fight for birth. But it was not for Father Abraham to try to gauge God’s reasons, and a grunt from Emily brought him back to the present. He slowly got to his feet and walked to the midwife’s side.

  ‘Emily hasn’t yet produced the afterbirth,’ the midwife whispered, stepping away a moment and rubbing at her temples. She had been with Emily since the previous day when the labour had begun, and now she was close to the end of her tether. Occasionally a woman would have a difficult birth; sometimes a baby would die – but this time the midwife knew that her patient was fighting for her life and she had no idea how to help her.

  Spitting out the strap, Emily shouted, ‘It’s tearing me apart – I can feel it! Oh God, have pity!’

  Father Abraham recoiled. There was little he could do. The midwife was professional; he could see the scrap of paper tied to Emily’s upper thigh where it must do th
e most good: all good midwives knew they must write down prayers and bind them close to the woman’s groin to ease her pain. There was nothing else to be done for her. She was in God’s hands. He bent his head and prayed before enquiring of the midwife in an undertone whether she had been able to baptise the child before it died.

  ‘He came out already dead, Father,’ she said sadly. ‘There was no chance.’

  ‘I shall pray for it.’

  ‘What about me?’

  Grumbling to himself, Father Abraham shot a look at the midwife. She shook her head again, mouthing the word, ‘No.’ Resignedly he began the seven questions.

  ‘Do you believe in God and the Holy Scriptures and reject heresy?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ the dying woman moaned.

  ‘Do you recognise that you have offended God?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Are you sorry for your sins?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Do you desire to make amends and, if God grants you time, will you do so?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Do you forgive your enemies?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Will you make all satisfaction?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And finally, do you believe that Christ died for you and that you may never be saved except through the merit of Christ’s passion, and do you thank God with all your heart as you should?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He could see the muscles at her temples clenching and the perspiration breaking out over her face. Swiftly he gave her Extreme Unction and touched her forehead with oil. She had not been confirmed so he couldn’t anoint her temples, but as his cool fingers touched her brow she closed her eyes in obvious relief, the proof to him, if he needed it, that she was a true Christian as she professed, eager for the life to come. Murmuring the viaticum, he reflected that she could be buried in his churchyard. He wasn’t sure where her child could go; unbaptised, it could be installed anywhere. There was no need to worry about protecting it in hallowed ground.

  ‘Oh God!’

  As Father Abraham watched in horror, a stream of bright blood spurted from between Emily’s legs. He stumbled back as the midwife rushed to her side, wringing out a damp cloth and draping it over her brow while Emily tensed, arching her back, clutching her still swollen belly, and screaming again and again. Father Abraham remembered his vial of holy water. He grabbed it from his wallet, pulled off the stopper, hesitated irresolutely, then sprinkled it over her stomach. Even as the water touched her, she appeared to relax, slumping back.

  ‘Save your water, Father,’ said the midwife sadly, closing Emily’s mad, staring eyes.

  It took a little time to carry the two bodies to the wagon ready to be carted back to Tiverton.

  ‘Well?’ Simon said when Baldwin came back to the road, the dog still on his leash.

  ‘His purse was stolen, but what thief would take that and leave the spurs and belt?’ Baldwin asked, patting the dog’s head.

  ‘A thief who was interrupted.’

  ‘And who arranged the dead man in that manner?’ Baldwin wondered aloud. ‘Laid out like a corpse under a hearse. One stab in the back: a professional job. The fact that one blow was struck is significant.’

  ‘Someone who knew how to kill.’

  ‘Yes. A soldier. Or perhaps a sailor.’

  Simon nodded. Both had seen too many corpses in their time. An inexperienced murderer stabbed several times to make sure of his victim; only a man who knew what he was doing selected the correct place carefully, killing with one blow.

  Harlewin joined them. ‘Not much to learn here. It’s getting late – we may as well return to the castle.’

  Simon looked at Baldwin.

  ‘William, you will need to pack your things,’ Baldwin said. ‘We will wait for you. Coroner, you carry on.’

  Harlewin le Poter glanced at the sailor. ‘If you wish . . . but first I need a surety. Come, master Mariner. Open your purse there!’

  ‘I only have four pennies,’ William said mournfully, holding his wallet open in proof.

  ‘Give me them. That will do.’ Harlewin gazed back at the trees, his mouth askew with dissatisfaction. ‘It’s a bad day; a bad thing! Two men dead, and little enough for the King.’ He nodded to the man-at-arms, who already sat waiting on his horse. ‘We’d best return to town. We can hold our inquest there, before the town’s jury.’

  The doleful Piers clicked his tongue and the wagon jolted off behind the Coroner. Baldwin found his attention fixed on the bodies jerking in the back of the cart as it rattled and clattered over the ruts in the road. He was convinced the head would bounce out long before they got to Tiverton.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ William asked.

  ‘He was hoping for more money, I expect,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘The murdrum fine.’

  ‘So? You think he won’t be able to charge murdrum now?’

  ‘The murdrum is levied where no one can swear to the corpse being that of an Englishman,’ Simon told him. ‘If my Lord de Courtenay knows this man, how could the Coroner refuse to accept his word? A dead felon is free of fines anyway, he doesn’t rate. No, only the knight matters and now the Coroner can get nothing for him. Most galling.’ He looked about him. ‘Did Sir Gilbert say he had been here recently?’ he asked William. ‘You mentioned that he knew Lord Hugh.’

  ‘No. He told me it was the first time he had been here in almost thirteen years.’

  ‘Thirteen years?’ Baldwin asked. ‘That’s interesting. Tell me, this dog appears unhurt, yet he looks a sturdy enough creature. Why did he not protect his master?’

  ‘He was with me in the camp. Sir Gilbert only took Merry with him.’

  ‘Take us there and on the way you can tell us what happened.’

  William nodded and led the way to the riverbank. ‘We’d been travelling for ages when we got here three days ago. We stopped here latish and made camp. Then the day before yesterday, in the morning, I remained here while Sir Gilbert rode off.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’ Baldwin asked.

  William gave him a steady look. ‘He said he was meeting friends in Tiverton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘How should I know?’ William said with exasperation. ‘He went, that’s all I know.’

  ‘But he returned?’

  ‘Yes. During the night. He seemed in good spirits, as if he’d heard good news. Reeked of cheap wine too. In the morning he said we should wait a day longer before going to town. And no, he didn’t tell me why! I didn’t care, it was good to take a day to rest. Dogs didn’t like it, though.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The pair were restless. Unsettled. Kept barking at the trees.’

  They had arrived at a small enclosed area of grass inside a stand of young oaks and sycamores which formed a natural windbreak. At the other side of the greensward was the river, swift-flowing here, and William had laid out their camp in a natural hollow near the water.

  Baldwin walked to the horses. Two were tethered, one strong-looking mount, the other a packhorse. ‘You had only the two horses?’

  William blinked. ‘I . . . No, my master’s never came back last night.’

  ‘It probably ran off. I daresay it will be found sooner or later,’ Simon nodded. ‘You were talking about the dogs.’

  ‘Oh . . . um, yes. Sir Gilbert cuffed them and pulled them back, but they’d settle a moment, then stare at the trees again.’

  ‘Weren’t you afraid of outlaws?’

  ‘Look how far it is to the trees there,’ William said. ‘Anyone wanting to attack would have to cover the verge, the road, and then the grass to get to us here. If they tried it, the dogs’d be loosed and me and Sir Gilbert armed before they got halfway.’

  Simon nodded and the sailor continued. ‘Anyway, in the afternoon two men rode past heading for Exeter. Didn’t think about them at first, but . . . What with the dogs being uneasy, I’d kept an eye
on the trees and after a while I saw a man peering at us. He realised I’d seen him, and ducked down out of sight. I was about to tell Sir Gilbert when we heard hooves approaching fast. It was the same two men I’d seen earlier. Both well-seated on expensive mounts.’

  ‘Names?’ Baldwin pressed.

  ‘One was called Andrew. A big fat man, red-faced and enormous girth. Bigger than the Coroner himself. The other was thinner, but with really dark, nasty eyes. When he fixed those eyes on you, you could feel them.’

  Baldwin found himself recalling Andrew Carter and his brother Nicholas from the castle. The descriptions fitted both.

  ‘And you say they approached from behind you? From Exeter?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘They stopped and asked whether we’d seen a felon on the road, an abjurer. Said they were there to make sure he didn’t run and hide in the woods. I told them I’d seen a fellow in the trees. Soon as I did that, they were all set to be off after him, but the thinner man, he called the other one back, said: “Andrew, slow down! We don’t want to get separated”.’

  ‘They went off together?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Yes, but Sir Gilbert was fretful afterwards. It’s every man’s duty to help the Hue and Cry chase down a felon, yet I think he was dubious about them.’

  ‘Why so?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘He said that the two looked more bent on murder than on justice. If an abjurer is forced to leave the road given to him against his will, it’s the same as forcing him to leave his sanctuary. It’s not his fault and he should be protected. Sir Gilbert fancied that these two men would give their victim little sympathy. He told me to stay here, released Merry and set off after them on his horse.’

  ‘Why take only the one dog?’ Baldwin mused.

  ‘Perhaps because Aylmer hasn’t a good nose? He hunts by sight.’

  Baldwin glanced at Aylmer, who lay with his head on his forepaws watching them. ‘Why take a dog hunting when the animal doesn’t know which scent to follow? To hunt the two from the road?’ He shrugged. ‘Continue.’