The Traitor of St. Giles Read online

  When about to leave they saw Wat in the yard watching sulkily as Petronilla fed her child watched by another young mother. Wat jumped up at the sight of his mistress and Edgar, and his expression of desperate eagerness made Jeanne relent. She agreed that he and Petronilla should join her, and Petronilla smiled, passing her boy to the other maid and refastening her tunic while Stephen gurgled happily.

  The Fair was only a short distance from the castle and they were soon past the toll-booth and in among the shouting, excited populace. Flags fluttered from strings, children walked about with sugar sweets, mothers gripping their hands as they peered from one stall to another; men chewed pies or drank ale; hucksters of all kinds bawled their wares; scruffy dealers offered dubious goods half-visible within baskets or concealed under their coats while shiftily looking about for the watchmen of the Fair’s court; and all about them were women and children munching on roasted fowl: thrushes, starlings, fieldfares and larks.

  At one meat stall Jeanne allowed her empty stomach to direct her. She selected five honeyed larks for herself and Petronilla at one and a half pennies. A board demanded another one and a half pennies for the ‘Fire, paste and trouble’ to put them into coffins, and she asked him to put them all into a pie. Wat and Edgar shared three plump pigeons for another twopence-halfpenny.

  Jeanne threw occasional glances at her maid. Petronilla appeared to have forgotten her trial of the day before. Fresh-faced, happy, calm, she looked as if she had never imbibed to excess. In comparison Jeanne felt like a doddery old woman; her head was light, her back ached, and someone appeared to have sanded the interior of her eyelids – all because she had sat up half the night with Edgar to make sure Petronilla didn’t vomit and suffocate.

  Although the Fair was not of the same dimensions as the one at Tavistock, where Jeanne had first met Baldwin, Tiverton had a respectable mix of goods for sale and she was soon immersed in the relative merits of the silks and velvets on offer.

  Edgar too eyed the various materials. His wife-to-be was becoming demanding, now that he had put off their wedding day for so long, and a good fur trimming or piece of fine linen might soothe her impatient breast. He wasn’t sure, but he was wondering whether she was the right woman for him after all.

  He was so used to being a bachelor that the thought of having a woman in his home was daunting – all the more so since he had been granted the opportunity of seeing how a woman could affect a household. Watching Jeanne move through Baldwin’s hall and alter tapestries, throwing out all the older and tattier ones, discarding chairs, replacing all Baldwin’s comfortable white tunics with brightly coloured cloths made Edgar look askance at the idea of a woman in his life. He wasn’t sure he could cope with it.

  And there was always the temptation of other women. Edgar had always been attracted, and proved attractive to, women of all kinds. Cristine was a lovely woman – tall, slender, fair, with a caustic wit and an intellect that often made men quail before the lash of her tongue. She made Edgar laugh, and when he was with her, he was happy, but when they were apart, like now, he found himself thinking of other women.

  And not only when he was away from Furnshill. He was just as sorely tormented there as well, especially now that Petronilla had come from Throwleigh. She too was tall, slim and fair, and when he looked at her, with her gentle manner and soft speech, he was struck by the difference between her and Cristine. The comparison was not favourable to Cristine.

  It was a difficult business and Edgar was swiftly coming to the conclusion that he would be happier if he were to stick to the oath of chastity he had made as a Templar.

  Unfortunately, he had sworn his hand to Cristine. He eyed a small selection of furs. Petronilla was roughly the same complexion as Cristine, he reminded himself, and he gauged the colour of the furs against her colouring: red-gold hair and blue eyes – although Cristine’s flesh was paler than Petronilla’s since the tavern-girl spent so many hours indoors.

  Catching a glimpse of his expression, Petronilla felt an anxious thrill. Since first meeting Edgar she had felt a warmth in his presence, but after his rescue from the overly-ardent Coroner she had become aware of something stronger – a feeling of security. But she knew it was wrong. Edgar was already betrothed to another woman. Although she was personally quite sure that she would be better for him than some common alehouse wench, she could not escape the fact that she had an illegitimate child.

  That fact could make her weep. It made her look as common and foolish as a tavern-girl. Certainly she had always thought it would prevent Edgar from looking at her, but now she was struck with the thought that he might reciprocate her feelings, and she was aware of a nervousness. Edgar was so worldly-wise and dashing, she was sure that she’d be an embarrassment to him.

  She moved nearer to Jeanne as if feeling the need for support. Edgar was an enormously good-looking man, but she daren’t encourage him. Unhappily aware that he was watching her, she was also aware of a guilty sympathy for Cristine. Petronilla had lost the father of her baby and felt for any woman who had her man stolen from her; she didn’t want to inflict the same suffering on Cristine.

  It was while Petronilla was miserably trying to convince herself that she could live contentedly without Edgar that Jeanne drew their attention to a large bolt of blue velvet. Petronilla and Jeanne fingered it, adding to the grubbiness of the material’s edge, but Petronilla was aware only of Edgar standing so close beside her that she could practically feel the heat of his body. His proximity made her shudder with longing.

  Avicia Dyne walked through the Fair with a sense of unreality as she took in the noise, the bustle and the cheerful shouting all about her. It seemed incomprehensible to her that people could be capable of enjoying themselves when such an appalling injustice had occurred. To her the death of her brother was so hideous as to blot out any comprehension of pleasure. She saw people laughing and grinning, but all she recognised was the inane gambolling of apes.

  Shivering, she wrapped her arms about herself and let her head fall so as to avoid the gaze of anyone else. In her misery she had no wish to meet the expressions of happiness in other people’s faces. It would be too painful to see how others remained sublimely unaware of her depression.

  When she had almost left the Fair, when she was out at the opposite end of the ground, she heard a voice she recognised. Turning quickly, she caught sight of Andrew Carter standing near an ale stall with a large pot in his hand.

  Avicia stared at him. He appeared to be trying to put on a brave face, smiling and giving occasional short laughs as jokes were told about him, but all the time she could see that he wasn’t himself. Usually he would be more expansive in his gestures, more emphatic. Today he was jerky, twitching his arms rather than sweeping them about him. His face held a grin, but all the time his eyes darted hither and thither, as if wary that at any moment someone might approach him with unwelcome news, or perhaps an accusation? she wondered.

  Acting on impulse, she approached and stood nearby, waiting for him to catch her eye, but he seemed so taken up with the other men about him that he didn’t notice her. At last, nerves wound taut as a ship’s cable, she shuffled forward the last few steps and tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘What?’ He spun around and gave her a gentle smile. ‘My dear young thing, what is it?’

  ‘Sir, I would like to speak . . . about your daughter.’

  His face went blank, and she saw for an instant the naked emotion behind his eyes. Fear, sadness, guilt all flashed through them, and then he wiped at his brow with a sleeve. ‘She’s dead,’ he said brokenly.

  ‘I know, and the wrong man was killed for it. He was innocent.’

  Carter pulled back, his lip curling in revulsion. ‘Child, that is all done. I want to hear nothing more about it.’

  ‘But sir, I am sure that the Coroner was responsible!’

  Carter suddenly turned and marched off, moving surprisingly swiftly for a man so heavily built. Avicia made as if to follow him, but a
friendly voice at her side said, ‘No!’ and held her elbow. It was a woman.

  ‘Let me go, I have to talk to him! He has to know my brother didn’t kill his daughter.’

  ‘Are you Philip’s sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You poor thing.’

  ‘Who are you? Did you know Phil?’

  Felicity nodded and smiled comfortingly. ‘Look, take a pot of wine with me and tell me what’s so important that you should tell Andrew. I’ll let you know whether he’ll be interested.’

  ‘You know him?’

  Felicity’s smile widened, but somehow there was less humour in it as she glanced after the disappearing merchant. ‘Oh, yes, I know Master Carter.’

  When Baldwin and Simon returned to the yard there was no sign of the castle’s gatekeeper, and for safety Simon wanted to walk out to the town. He was unpleasantly convinced that Baldwin was in danger of so enraging Sir Peregrine with his questions that Sir Peregrine could offer him a challenge.

  Baldwin was deep in thought but shook his head, instead wandering to a bench and sitting. ‘There is something very peculiar about all this.’ He counted off the points on his finger. ‘The knight, Sir Gilbert, died with his hound – I think the dog died because he chased someone who had watched the camp all day; the same evening or night Philip Dyne was executed by Carter and his brother-in-law Lovecok; the night before, Gilbert was here in town, apparently drinking with Lovecok. We don’t know where he was before that.’

  ‘And now there’s this third murder with Sir Gilbert’s man thrown from the walls.’

  ‘Beaten severely first. And his was the fourth murder, not the third. You forget the girl Dyne was accused of killing.’

  ‘The girl whom Dyne’s sister insisted was murdered by someone else.’

  ‘Yes, she said that Joan Carter was murdered by the Coroner,’ Baldwin corrected. He glanced across the yard before walking to the room where Sir Gilbert’s belongings were stored. Aylmer was still inside, lying with his head resting on his paws, his eyes flying open as they walked in.

  ‘It’s all right, Aylmer,’ Baldwin said. At Aylmer’s side was a dish of biscuits and dried meat. The dog hadn’t touched it. Remembering how he had first met the animal, Baldwin commanded, ‘Aylmer, feed.’

  The dog stood, stretched, and sank his nose into the pan.

  While he ate Simon and Baldwin rummaged through the accumulated belongings of Sir Gilbert and William. There was nothing much of value, for obviously men who went on a long journey wouldn’t carry spare baggage, and with the country in its present state of turmoil there was no point in bringing expensive goods. They found little: three shirts of decent linen, tunics, some mail of fine blued steel, lightly rusted, Sir Gilbert’s sword and dagger-sheath, with the belt and spurs of his knighthood, and shoes and boots, all well worn. There were a few coins in a purse, but nothing significant. Then at the bottom of his pack they found the crucifix and key that had been about Sir Gilbert’s neck.

  ‘Bugger all money,’ Simon said suddenly.

  His tone of voice made Baldwin shoot him a look. ‘So?’

  ‘Did the Templar have no idea of travel?’

  ‘Sir Gilbert would have had experience of much longer journeys.’

  ‘Was he expecting to remain here?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Not if he was a messenger as everyone appears to believe.’

  ‘Then how was he going to get back to his master?’ Simon demanded, holding out the handful of coins. ‘With this he’d not have had enough to get to Exeter.’

  ‘No,’ Baldwin breathed. He picked up the little key again and studied it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘This looks rather like some of the keys I used to see . . .’ Even though his friend knew about his past, Baldwin found it hard to talk of his life with the Order. Yet this key was very like those he had seen in some preceptories for opening chests. English-made metalwork tended to be functional, but this looked well-made, with intricate patterns carved upon the shaft and finger plate. Turning it in his hands, he felt sure it was Templar.

  There was an old Templar preceptory nearby – one which Sir Gilbert had known, Baldwin recalled, and meditatively tapped his teeth with the key.

  ‘William was the only man who could confirm the details about what happened to Sir Gilbert,’ Simon said quietly. He had moved to the door and stood leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. ‘If Carter and Lovecok had lied in any way, William might have tried to get a bribe to keep quiet. Perhaps they didn’t like his demands.’

  ‘There’s no proof of any of that,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I certainly find it easier to believe in the two men ambushing Sir Gilbert, one holding him while the other stabbed him in the back. And since the gravedigger says that Lovecok knew Sir Gilbert, it may be useful to find out how they knew each other.’

  He threw the key back onto the pile of William’s belongings. ‘Let us question Lovecok then. I want to find out what he was doing speaking to Sir Gilbert the day before his murder. I want to know if he had a motive to kill the knight. Although . . .’ he frowned with confusion ‘. . . although it sounded more as though the two were old friends and comrades. And why should a man kill his friend?’

  Andrew Carter hurried through the crowds until he reached the far edge of the fairground; for a moment he stood breathing heavily, staring back the way he had come.

  Thank God the whining bitch was out of sight! He was safe from her. With an effort he controlled his breathing and tried to stop his heart from racing. Her appearance had given him a massive shock when she said who she was, and as for what she was saying . . . about Philip being innocent, the last thing Andrew Carter wanted was for the townspeople to hear that Philip Dyne had been wrongly killed!

  He strode off to the toll-booth and went past it, marching steadily and firmly until he got to the door of his own house, and there he slammed the door closed with a firmness that rattled the plates on his sideboard.

  ‘Sir?’ His maid Rose, a thin, short girl of some fourteen years, stood nervously in the screens passage wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Fetch me a quart of wine,’ he demanded and tramped through to his hall. There he dropped into his chair near the fire and drummed his fingers on the arm until the maidservant returned, her face flushed with anxiety at the appearance of her master.

  ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Put it down, then!’ he snarled, pointing at the table at his side.

  She did as commanded, then stood back downcast, not daring to meet his gaze.

  Eyeing her, he sipped his wine. It was good, a fine flavoured drink. Gradually he felt his foul temper fade under its influence. By the time he had drunk the first pint, life appeared in a more pleasant light. True, that woman, Dyne’s sister, could make life troublesome, but that was no reason why he should be concerned. He had good friends. If the worst came to the worst, he could humour her for a while and warn Harlewin that she had accused him of Joan’s murder.

  There was no need to worry, really, Andrew thought to himself. Rose was still standing before him, her head hanging. She really was a pretty little thing, he thought with satisfaction; in every way suited to his tastes. He smiled and set his cup down on the table again. ‘Come here,’ he said, and Rose looked up once, wildly, as though thinking of running away, but then she dropped her head submissively and obeyed.

  Entering the tavern, Avicia blinked against the smoke. The place was ancient and had no chimney, just a baked patch of earth in the middle of the floor where a few logs glowed, surrounded by small rocks to stop the rushes being kicked in and starting a fire.

  This wasn’t a place she’d been to before, and as soon as she walked in from the road she winced: it stank of sweat, piss and puke. At the fire a slatternly woman crouched, rat’s tails of hair dangling before her and concealing her face, stirring a pot that seemed to contain a thin broth. All about her men lounged on benches, some women draped near them, and another figure lay comatose near
a wall. It was dark, foul, and noisome.

  ‘This a new girl?’ a man asked Felicity, and reached out to touch Avicia’s arm as if to test the smoothness of her skin.

  ‘Keep your hands off!’ Felicity snarled and slapped his hand away. ‘Does she look like a slut? She’s a lady, so leave off.’ She led the shrinking woman over to a table and sat her down. ‘Now tell me all about it.’

  Slowly Avicia ran through her tale. The Coroner had been having an affair for some months with Mistress Sherman, and . . .

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Avicia blinked. ‘What, about him and Cecily Sherman? It’s been going on for ages.’

  ‘And you work for the Coroner?’

  ‘No, I work for John Sherman. It was the only way that Phil and I could keep together when our parents died. Phil got me the job. At least Sherman doesn’t fondle me when his wife’s not looking.’

  ‘The Coroner would?’

  ‘You bet! He’s a right lecherous goat.’

  ‘But you’ve heard he’s tupping Sherman’s wife?’

  ‘Yes. I saw them together once when I went into the hall, and heard them talking about meeting.’

  ‘Where do they meet? In Sherman’s house?’

  ‘No,’ Avicia laughed, ‘they wouldn’t dare – not with John Sherman’s temper. No, they go to a place he part-owns out beyond Withleigh, a mill. The miller wouldn’t dare complain, not if he wants to keep his post there.’

  ‘I see,’ Felicity breathed.

  ‘He murdered Joan Carter. That’s why he told my Philip to claim sanctuary and abjure, so that he could see to it that Philip was seen to confess, and then had him chased down and killed. That’s what I have to tell Andrew Carter.’

  ‘How could he admit to believing you? That would make your brother’s death a mortal sin.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault – he was lied to. Anyway, Andrew would want to see the man who killed his daughter receive justice!’

  ‘She wasn’t his daughter.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Oh, I know he described her as his, but she was the daughter of Matilda and her first husband. The husband died, and that’s when Matilda married Andrew, when they came down here from somewhere up north. When she first came back here with Andrew, you could hardly understand a word she said! My, her accent was strong.’