The Traitor of St. Giles Page 12

  It wasn’t enough that the Despensers had lost it all: they had escaped into exile. If Toker could have had his way, both Despensers would have been hanged, drawn and quartered. They were an abomination: power-crazed thieves whose robberies were all the more obscene in the light of their already enormous wealth.

  Toker spat and took a long draught of ale; William was completely forgotten now. The waste of the Despensers’ lands was good to hear. It proved that the tyranny of that deplorable family was ended. No Despenser would ever again be able to hold the kingdom in his hand. Even the King must recognise the damage done to his realm.

  The attitude of people up towards Bristol had surprised him. They appeared to think the Lords of the Marches were acting from self-interest and were no better than the Despensers. Toker was convinced they were wrong. Without the Despensers, the country could be ruled once more by the King with wise and pragmatic advisers: men who looked more to the chivalric codes than to their own advantage; men who could be trusted. Perhaps he might even be able to find a little honour and forget the lawless period of his life. That thought brought a wry smile to this face, for he knew that when he had the chance he couldn’t help but return to his felonious ways. In London he had joined his men in looting a shop during a riot; on another occasion, while bonfires lit the night sky, he’d slipped inside a merchant’s house and walked away with a good collection of plate. The instinct to take what he could was too strong; the urge to serve himself in case he lost his lord again.

  Toker knew himself. He would always tend to resort to theft when he could. He needed a war, a means of winning money. If the Despensers returned – then, Toker thought, he would be able to get enough to set himself up for life. He’d never have to work again; he could just sit in a tavern all day and drink.

  ‘Whose dog is that?’

  It was Perkin; he was staring at the hound. Aylmer lay in a doorway out of the sun, but Perkin glared at him with loathing.

  ‘I’ve seen that mutt somewhere,’ Perkin said.

  As he spoke Wat walked towards Aylmer. His foot caught a stone, which flew through the air and hit the dog’s shoulder. Instantly Aylmer woke and rose fluidly into a menacing crouch, his head below his shoulders, his legs bent ready to spring, while a low, vicious growl rumbled from deep in his throat.

  Wat froze in fear. ‘Christ!’

  A groom laughed: a maid from the kitchen cried, ‘Don’t touch him – he must be rabid.’

  ‘Yeah, mind out, dog!’ someone called with a laugh.

  Toker’s men sniggered as Wat nervously retreated. ‘I only wanted to get to the storeroom. Someone call the dog off.’

  ‘Who owns the thing?’ shouted Owen.

  Toker listened but didn’t look at him. The little Welshman was always nervous, and the anxiety in his voice was proof, if Toker had needed it, that the man was unreliable. Sir Peregrine had foisted him on Toker before going to London saying he was a good archer, but so far he’d been useless in fights. Anyway, why call the dog off ? Toker was like his men – he was interested to see how the dog would see off the brat. Yet the dog’s stance looked familiar . . .

  ‘He doesn’t like being kicked,’ said William. He lounged at the door to the hall, a large pot in his hand, leaning on the rough wooden handrail. The sun was warm on his face and he felt good. He didn’t notice Toker or his men, he was watching Wat with an amused grin. Taking a deep, contented gulp of ale, he said, ‘Aylmer gets angry when people prod him.’

  Toker lifted his eyes to stare. It was that man again, and his voice was familiar . . . and then Toker remembered a street in London, two dogs, two servants and a knight.

  ‘He’s going to bite me – can’t you move him?’ Wat cried, close to tears.

  ‘Alymer – move!’ William shouted without looking.

  Instantly the dog circled warily around Wat and walked to a patch of scrubby grass where he lay down. It was at the same time that Toker felt the burst of excitement in his breast as he remembered that interesting little chest. Slowly he made an oath, pulled out his dagger and kissed the blade.

  Jeanne could see that her husband was astonished at the Coroner’s words.

  Baldwin blinked and stammered, ‘How . . .? But who?’ Harlewin was evidently delighted to see how his words had stunned the knight. The Coroner chuckled fruitily, drained his jug of ale and tossed it towards Edgar, who just managed to catch it.

  ‘Fill that, man. Well, Sir Baldwin, the beheaded man, Philip

  Dyne, was an abjurer.’

  Jeanne raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Edgar, who stuck his nose in the air and sniffed scornfully before walking out.

  Harlewin continued without noticing: ‘Philip Dyne had raped and murdered a girl here in Tiverton – Carter’s daughter. Caused quite a stir. Managed to get to St Peter’s and hide in the sanctuary. Of course I went and demanded that he should give himself up, but he wouldn’t: demanded his forty days of sanctuary. So that was that. I posted guards, hoping that one of them would sleep and give him a chance to escape so we could hunt the bastard down, but he knew he was safe in there. So, we held a formal ceremony of abjuration and off he went.’

  ‘Carter’s daughter?’ Simon cried.

  ‘Yesterday. Didn’t get very far, did he?’ He looked up as Edgar passed him a jug. It was filled, but the Coroner winced at the taste. ‘God’s bollocks, man! This is practically undrinkable!’

  ‘It is the normal ale, sir.’

  Jeanne looked away, trying not to giggle. Edgar’s distant manner, his offhandedness, was as near to an open insult as a servant could go.

  Baldwin frowned. ‘But so what? If the man made his confession and left, he was protected. He should not have been killed.’

  ‘No, Sir Baldwin, he shouldn’t. Unless, of course, he tried to commit another felony. Or left the road ordained.’

  ‘And that is what you think happened?’

  Jeanne watched Harlewin as he drank. An unmannered man, he belched and wiped his mouth with his hand before picking his ear with an enquiring finger, studying the wax adhering to his nail with interest. Jeanne had the impression that he wouldn’t be capable of any flights of intellect. He was a simple man at heart.

  Harlewin rolled the wax into a ball and flicked it away. ‘Yes, Sir Baldwin, I think that’s what happened. The fool saw the knight in among the trees and nipped in after him. While he was there, he stabbed Sir Gilbert and took his purse but then he was ridden down by two law-abiding men who took off his head for his crime.’

  ‘And who were these two upright men?’ Baldwin asked, and Jeanne could hear the sarcasm cloying his voice.

  ‘Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok. They should be here by now. Would you like to hear their evidence?’

  Andrew Carter reluctantly gazed down at the bodies deposited on the cobbles; the knight with his clothing all awry, his long cyclas or surcoat ridden up about his waist to show his gambeson beneath, the linen stuffed with rags or wool to make a protective quilted jacket.

  Alongside him, the headless corpse of Dyne looked scruffy, the cloth of his tunic filthy with the blood which had been spilled over it, the material loose where it had merely been draped over the body. His head sat alongside, resting on the ground with his eyes left open so that he looked alive, as if he had been buried up to his chin in the cobbled yard and the headless body was that of another man.

  A ring of men stood around them, four and twenty or more, with several male children among them – the jury. The priest was already there, unpacking his roll of vellum or whatever he used, setting his reeds and inks just so on the trestle-table put up for him. He glanced up and met Andrew’s eye. There was a slight flicker there, but then he looked away again, and Andrew suddenly felt queasy. He should never have paid the priest to ensure the man’s escape. The priest knew what he’d done.

  At the far side of the men was his brother-in-law, and he walked slowly to Nicholas’s side, reaching him just as Piers Bakere and William Small were led out.
r />   ‘Nick?’

  ‘Quiet! You know what to say.’

  ‘Yes,’ Andrew agreed and anxiously looked back at the two bodies.

  Cecily stood with her husband at the back of the crowd. John Sherman didn’t usually like seeing inquests, but this time he had insisted that they should go and watch. She had thought it was because of something to do with the Coroner, but now she wasn’t sure. Sherman stood with a bitter scowl twisting his features. She put out a hand to his arm, and he looked at her as though he didn’t recognise her.

  ‘Husband?’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t feel well,’ he said.

  But she had seen that his gaze had been fixed with horror on the body of Sir Gilbert. She looked again. It was odd, she thought, the similarity. It could have been her husband lying there.

  Two men were playing dice in the stable and one let out a shrill cry of delight at a winning throw just as Harlewin appeared, Simon and Baldwin following. In the sudden silence the shout was almost an abomination, like a heretic in church screaming his rejection of God.

  Harlewin walked over to the bodies and glowered at the men all about him. ‘Come on, lads, give me space, will you? You may be the jury, but I have to have room. Are you ready, Father?’ Seeing the priest nod, he walked to Sir Gilbert’s body and began to strip it. ‘See here, all the clothing on this man. He was said to be a knight, and his clothing proves it. Now,’ he said as he struggled with the quilted gambeson, then the shirt beneath. Soon both bodies were naked, and the assembled men were sombrely quiet. One or two of the younger ones, especially a boy of some nine or ten years, looked close to tears as the last shreds of cloth were pulled away; others craned their necks with fascination.

  About the knight’s neck was a small cord, on which was a crucifix and a small iron key. Harlewin took these and studied them a moment before tossing them on top of the pile of clothes. Baldwin reached down and picked them up.

  Standing over Philip Dyne, Harlewin held up the head for all to see.

  ‘I find that this man was beaten about the face. He was bound, laid down and had his head struck off by a blow from a sword or axe or similar weapon.’ Setting the head down, he returned to the naked body and hauled it over and over. ‘There are no stabs on his back, chest, or limbs. His hands have cuts at the fingers, which shows he struggled to defend himself, catching the sword aimed at him.’

  He rose, blowing a little from his exertion, and walked to the knight’s body. ‘This was different. A tall, well-built knight. He died from a single stab-wound in his back, here.’ He rolled over the body and pointed. ‘I think it probably penetrated the heart,’ he said, frowning thoughtfully as he stuffed his forefinger deep in the hole. Pulling it free, he studied the blood on it, then wiped it clean on the knight’s shirt. ‘Yes, he must have died almost immediately.’

  He stood before the jury and set his hands on his hips. ‘Does anyone have any comments to make?’

  One grizzled old man nodded at the headless body. ‘That man was Philip Dyne, the abjurer. If he left the road, he was outlaw, lawful prey of any man finding him. As outlaw he deserved beheading.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, and someone did behead him,’ Harlewin noted testily. ‘What of this knight? Anyone know anything about him?’

  William spoke up. ‘He was Sir Gilbert, my master and a Knight Bachelor. He was on his way here and went into the woods to seek the felon. Those men told us Dyne had gone,’ he added, pointing at Andrew and Nicholas.

  ‘Sir Gilbert was found stabbed in the back without his purse,’ Harlewin noted. ‘That was with Dyne, together with the knight’s knife – which suggests to me that Dyne killed him. Now, can you two gentlemen add anything?’

  Nicholas stepped forward, his head bowed. His voice was low and humble – practically obsequious. ‘My lord, I never thought this fellow would comply with your commands. Andrew and I rode after him to watch and make sure he adhered to his oath of abjuration as you had instructed him. He didn’t. We saw him in the woods and realised he must have chosen the life of the outlaw. As law-abiding men we rode after him. It took us some little while to find him, in among the undergrowth, but we managed to . . .’

  ‘Did you beat him?’ Harlewin growled. ‘Look at the state of the poor bugger’s balls!’

  ‘Not more than we needed to catch him. And when we had caught him, we beheaded him. As was our duty.’

  ‘What of the other man?’

  Andrew shoved his way forward. ‘We had no idea about him being there, Coroner. We saw this man and his servant in their camp and asked them whether they had seen Dyne pass by. This servant said he’d seen a face in among the trees. Who else could it have been? We went into the woods. The good knight, I suppose, came after us, but we didn’t see him.’

  ‘I think it’s clear that this man Dyne took the knight’s knife and stabbed him to steal his purse, then met with you two. You executed him, rightly, but you failed in your legal duties,’ Harlewin said, and slowly an unpleasant smile spread over his face. ‘You wanted no one to know what you had done, did you? You failed to confess. More to the point, you failed to bring back his head!’

  He stomped over to the bodies and picked up the head once more. ‘This man was a confessed felon who had sworn to abjure the realm, and as such you should have brought his head back here to be lodged in gaol. I fine you five shillings each.’

  Nicholas put out a hand to Andrew. Andrew had taken a quick step forward on hearing this large sum announced, but feeling his brother-in-law’s touch, he pursed his lips silently, breathing stertorously through nostrils flared like a horse’s.

  ‘May I put a question or two, Coroner?’ Baldwin enquired mildly, and when Harlewin nodded, he turned to the two men. ‘I find it odd that you came back from the south. You must have already passed Dyne.’

  Nicholas nodded. ‘That’s correct. We rode past him earlier in the day and carried on to a tavern near Silverton to eat. Then we came back.’

  ‘And your first thought was naturally where this felon had got to?’ Baldwin mused. Dyne was a felon – he had confessed to rape and murder. Baldwin had every reason to wish to see justice, and that included justice for the dead girl; he was not minded to throw the first stone at a man who avenged his daughter. But he was intrigued by the death of Sir Gilbert. ‘I cannot see how this feeble-looking young man could have grabbed the dagger from a knight’s belt and stabbed him.’

  Nicholas shrugged and gave Baldwin a thin smile. ‘Sir, you of the fighting class can understand this kind of thing more easily than us. We are merely merchants.’

  ‘True enough,’ Baldwin agreed, but with a puzzled expression. ‘But there are aspects which seem curious. For example, did Dyne still have the knife when you came across him?’

  ‘He dropped it,’ Andrew said. ‘It was in his hand when I saw him. I knocked it away with my sword.’

  ‘So you, a merchant, could defend yourself against Dyne when he was armed although an armed knight could not,’ Baldwin noted. ‘Was anyone else about?’

  It was William who answered. ‘There was a woman.’

  ‘Did you recognise her?’

  ‘No. She was well-dressed,’ William said musingly. He allowed his gaze to drift over the crowd watching. ‘She wore a hooded cloak, green, but her face was covered.’

  Standing at the back of the crowd, Cecily felt her husband’s grip on her shoulder. He pulled her roughly around. ‘You don’t have a green cloak.’

  ‘No, husband. Why?’ she asked and then allowed the acid to enter her tone. ‘Did you think I had killed him? Me? Murder a knight I had never met?’

  He stared at her with his brow furrowed like a man who was going mad and could feel his sanity teetering on the brink. ‘You were there with your man.’

  ‘Husband, how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have a lover,’ she said with slow, pained deliberation.

  He curled his lip in disbelief but could not tell her he knew she was lying. That would mea
n confessing to following her.

  Turning on his heel, he walked from the court.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple walked through the streets of Tiverton plunged deep in thought.

  Other men tended to move aside when he approached. He always found his path clear, no matter how crowded the road or alley. It was the natural order exerting itself on his behalf. Sir Peregrine was a lord, one of the Bellatores, the fighting class, and if another man stood in his path or offered an insult, Sir Peregrine was wealthy, powerful and strong enough to force him to regret his rashness.

  Sir Peregrine was relatively content with the way things were progressing. He had much to do still to persuade Lord de Courtenay to his own way of thinking, that it would be sensible to set up an alliance with the Marcher Lords, but the matter would be easier to deal with now that the Despensers’ emissary was dead.

  It had been alarming to hear that Sir Gilbert had met Lord Hugh. Sir Peregrine had heard by a chance remark from one of his gatehouse men: while Sir Peregrine was out comforting Emily, Sir Gilbert had arrived and asked to see Lord Hugh. Lord Hugh met him in his private solar and they spoke for some little while. Sir Peregrine himself returned before Sir Gilbert had left and instantly set a man to follow him. It was that man who had seen Sir Gilbert’s horse. ‘He’s from the Despensers, Sir Peregrine.’

  That was a complication Sir Peregrine wished to do without. He had no desire to see the cautious progression of his own persuasion wrecked by Sir Gilbert. It was crucial that Lord Hugh should join the ranks of the Welsh Marchers. Sir Peregrine himself was an enthusiastic supporter of theirs and had no wish to find himself fighting at the side of Lord de Courtenay against those he thought should be their friends. Better by far that he should persuade Lord de Courtenay to join his natural allies. After all, although the Despensers were exiled, that was no guarantee that they wouldn’t return. King Edward II had recalled Gaveston; he could as easily ask his lover Despenser to return.