The Traitor of St. Giles Page 5

  Father Abraham was sure that this was not a part of the normal procedure for an abjuration; the Coroner was tempting the audience to bear false witness. ‘He did not leave,’ he said sharply. ‘I was there all the time. If he had left I would have known.’

  Harlewin grunted without satisfaction. ‘In that case,’ he mumbled, then cleared his throat. ‘Very well, Father, let him confess. Come here, Dyne!’

  Philip Dyne cast a look at the people before him, and Father Abraham saw him shiver. Pathetic! he thought. A typical peasant. He jerked his head, saying shortly, ‘You heard him, Dyne. Come here and make your confession. If you don’t, you cannot abjure; that’s the law.’

  ‘I admit that I took the girl, um . . .’

  ‘Go on, you bastard! Tell us all about it, how you raped my daughter and slaughtered her!’ roared a voice. Father Abraham turned and made a swift cutting movement with his hand.

  ‘Enough! Carter, be still! I will not have men here incited to murder to the ruin of their immortal souls – no, and you must not risk your own, either. You regret the loss of your daughter, but you forget yourself; this place is proof of God’s mercy, and this lad may be able to serve God’s purpose if he contritely and honestly confesses. Don’t presume to question His judgement. There has been a terrible crime committed, don’t let’s make things worse.’

  Philip, eyes closed, made his confession, shivering slightly. ‘I killed her. I met her down near the river where we always met and wanted her body. When she refused me, I took her anyway and strangled her to make sure she couldn’t tell anyone. I sincerely regret it, and beg God’s forgiveness. As I live this is true.’

  The Coroner nodded and Father Abraham turned to his sexton who carried the immense book. Taking it, Father Abraham bowed his head over it, making the sign of the cross, then held it out. Philip Dyne swallowed and rested his hand on the cover with a wide-eyed, wondering fear.

  Harlewin then spoke. His voice, filled with the authority of his position, carried over the whole crowd with ease, scaring the rooks in the oaks and elms of the churchyard and sending them fluttering upwards, chattering and squawking to each other.

  ‘Philip Dyne, you have remained in the sanctuary of this church for forty days. You have made a free confession of your guilt, and now you must make your oath of abjuration. Repeat after me: “I, Philip Dyne . . .” ’

  ‘I, Philip Dyne . . .’

  ‘ “Do swear to leave this realm . . .” ’

  Father Abraham saw Philip Dyne’s cheeks were running with tears.

  ‘Never to return . . .’

  The book felt heavier in his hands, as if Dyne was leaning on it for support.

  ‘Unless with the permission of the King or his heirs . . .’

  Using the Gospels in that manner was irreverent. Father Abraham considered snapping at him to refrain.

  ‘I will hasten by the most direct road to a port . . .’

  No. He decided not to: it would only create more fuss. Better that this ceremony should be completed swiftly and this beggarly creature should finally be ejected from the town.

  ‘Never leaving the King’s highway . . .’

  Father Abraham saw the young man swallow again as if he feared the next words.

  ‘On pain of arrest as a felon and being beheaded instantly.’

  There was a slight quiver in his voice. Good, thought Father Abraham. Perhaps the immensity of his crime is driven home to him at last.

  ‘And on arriving I shall seek diligently for a passage across the sea.’

  ‘Very well!’ said the Coroner and stood back as Father Abraham passed the precious book back to the patiently waiting sexton. ‘I order that this man be allowed to leave the town by the road to Bickleigh, thence to Exeter, from whence he must find a ship to remove him from King Edward’s lands. He must not remain at any inn or vill for more than one night. At Exeter’s port he must seek diligently for a passage, delaying only one tide. If there is no ship when he arrives, he must walk into the sea up to his knees each day in demonstration of his willingness to cross it, and if he has still failed after forty days he must take sanctuary again at the port.’

  He stopped and fixed Dyne with a stern, unsympathetic eye. ‘His goods are all forfeit: he can take with him only a wooden cross and a bowl. Nothing else.’ He pointed southwards towards Crediton. ‘Go! Don’t delay, but leave the country as soon as you possibly can.’

  Philip Dyne’s head hung low; the crowd began hissing again, jostling forward, a young boy on his father’s shoulder cried out as an inaccurate stone hit his cheek, raking a long scratch. Harlewin le Poter’s head shot round, and seeing the boy weep, a hand touching the bleeding scar, he swept out his sword. Two men-at-arms thrust their way through to his side, their long polearms swinging like heavy, iron-shod clubs, prodding away any who came too close.

  ‘Back, you lot!’ the Coroner roared. ‘Serfs and bastard whoresons, the lot of you! Back, I said: give him space, in the King’s name – and no more rocks. If I see any of you with one you’ll be in the castle’s stocks so fast your feet will burn – is that clear? The man’s not to be pilloried, he’s abjured.’

  A thin gap appeared as reluctant, muttering people pulled away from each other.

  ‘That’s better. Now, felon, sod off! And never come back!’ the Coroner said. He shoved his sword away, then pushed Dyne along the channel, crossing his arms and watching.

  At his side Father Abraham curled his lip. Watching Dyne scuff through the people, his head low, avoiding all the eyes on him, wincing and turning away when a man hawked and spat, the spittle running down his neck, Father Abraham muttered vindictively: ‘And if you should stray from the road so much as a single foot, I hope you will be seen and executed on the spot. God protect your executioner!’

  In her room Matilda Carter chewed her lip and rubbed her hands together in a tortured near-frenzy. She didn’t know where her husband was, and she needed his support. Andrew Carter and Nicholas, her brother, had both left the house earlier with their horses without telling her where they were going. What was she to do? The murderer who had killed her child was escaping.

  Until today she had known hope: that Dyne could be struck down in the church, that he might commit suicide, that someone might slay him as he went to abjure – but no! Even that small comfort was denied her. She must sit and tolerate his escape. Let him go without a murmur.

  She wouldn’t – she couldn’t! There was a resolve within her. She wanted Joan to be avenged so that her only child could rest peacefully in her grave. Matilda walked to her chest and lifted the lid. Inside was Joan’s clothing from the day she had died. Matilda lifted it aside and reached beneath. Her hands closed upon her knife.

  Tying it to her waist, she pulled out a green cloak and draped it over her shoulders before walking composedly out to the stableyard.

  Chapter Five

  When he died, it wasn’t with a whimper but a great howl. Baldwin had seen many deaths in his time, but he knew that poison was evil, and since the time of Eve the serpent’s bite was the death that revolted all men.

  He and Jeanne had been riding with their hounds seeking quarry for their lunch. It was the first time that he had brought Jeanne to this hill since their marriage; it was a sheltered area over to the eastern edge of his demesne, largely left as waste, with the nearest barton some mile or more southwards hidden deep in a valley near Sir Baldwin’s own mill.

  They had ridden here in the bright sunlight of midday. Jeanne’s high-spirited Arab mare, which he had given her on their wedding day, was eager for exercise. As the land opened up and they left the trees behind, the thoroughbred began tossing her head, whinnying and prancing, and at last Baldwin had laughed and pointed ahead through the gorse bushes to a lone oak. ‘I’ll wager a new Baltic Squirrel skin to a penny that I can beat you to the tree there!’

  Jeanne showed her teeth in a smile and before he could say more, she applied her switch to the Arab’s rump and felt the animal explode
into action beneath her.

  It was startling whenever she allowed the beast to run at her own speed. Jeanne felt the muscles bunch and jarr as they propelled the animal forward into a rough, unbalanced gallop, but then the roughness was gone and in its place there was a smooth, steady regularity to the mare’s movement. The wind was in Jeanne’s face, tugging at her wimple, and suddenly it was gone, torn away, and she felt her braided hair whip loose. Unconsciously she crouched over the mare’s neck; the sense of motion, of speed, of onrushing bushes which were before her, level, and then gone in a moment, was so exhilarating Jeanne had an urge to scream with an almost pagan delight.

  As she approached the tree she glanced over her shoulder to see where her husband was. He was taking a longer route, and she gave a brief frown wondering why – but then her mare turned. Startled, Jeanne tried to wrench the horse back, but she refused to obey and continued up the hill a way before heading back towards the tree.

  When they arrived, Baldwin was there already, innocently picking at his teeth with his fingernail, a knee crooked over his horse’s withers. ‘You took a while.’

  She glared at him before studying the ground carefully. ‘You cheated! That’s a bog.’

  ‘It can get damp,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘But it’s not deep, only wet.’

  ‘And I could have gone straight through it!’

  ‘Not with your mare, my love,’ he laughed. ‘She fell into it once before, and never goes near it now. I think you owe me a penny.’

  She lifted her chin in imitation of disdain and looked down her nose at him. ‘Certainly, Sir Knight. If you think the wager that important, I shall be glad to pay you when we return.’

  Catching hold of her bridle, he grinned, glancing all about them with a meaningful air. ‘If you can’t pay, I shall be forced to demand payment in kind.’

  ‘And how could a poor woman pay?’ she demanded, then squealed with delight when he tickled her ribs and pulled her towards him.

  ‘Only a kiss, my Lady, for now. In a moment, we could leave the horses to feed while we take some wine and rest in the grass.’

  ‘What do you think I am, a milkmaid?’ she asked, but could not maintain the pretence of indifference and began to chuckle.

  He dismounted and stood at her side, holding out his hands. She took a quick look about her, checking that they were alone, before letting herself drop down, feeling his arms encircle her. Soon she was lying on her back, her husband above, smiling down at her, his hand on her belly, stroking and teasing, his face coming closer.

  At that moment they heard the loud, tortured bellow of agony.

  Uther had wandered idly away from Baldwin and Jeanne. He was used to occupying himself when his master dithered and there were plenty of odours to entrance him here: rabbits, a hare, foxes, and dogs, plenty of dogs. And when he saw the burst of movement nearby – a swirling of dust in the sunlight and a shimmer of green silk – he shoved his short nose closer to the viper . . .

  When the old priest coughed, he brought up blood. Squeezing his eyes tight shut with the pain, he prayed for a speedy release.

  He had sent the boy from the nearest farm to fetch Father Abraham from Tiverton, but neither had returned yet. Father Benedict found it hurtful that Abraham should not have responded more urgently to his summons, for after all they were brothers in God’s service.

  The Father lifted his head at the sound of hooves clattering down the track, an exhausted man old before his time. He sipped water from his bowl and unsteadily rose to his feet, feeling the phlegm in his lungs threatening to choke him, and hobbled to the doorway to see who it was, but when he squinted into the daylight he felt as if he was seeing a ghost.

  ‘Merciful and gracious God! Is it really him?’

  Sir Gilbert dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, removing a saddlebag before he realised he was being watched. Whirling around he glowered fiercely, his hand flashing to his sword.

  ‘Brother Gilbert, there’s no need for that!’ Father Benedict exclaimed with a low chuckle. As it degenerated into a hacking cough, he saw the knight’s face fill with solicitous concern.

  Spitting out a gobbet of blood, he waved a hand. ‘Do not fear for me, Brother Gilbert. I’m dead. It’s just that this old body of mine refuses to topple over.’

  The Father allowed his visitor to help him inside, and once there Sir Gilbert insisted on Father Benedict lying on his palliasse. He curled his lip at the rank-smelling water and instead went and fetched a wineskin from his horse, holding it to the priest’s mouth until he sipped a little.

  Father Benedict tried to reject his ministrations, but Sir Gilbert refused to leave his side until the priest from Tiverton had come to listen to his confession. ‘If I don’t wait here, you might die unshriven,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Where else would an old fool like me go? Here there is water and the locals are kind to me. None of them believe the nonsense told about us.’

  ‘You have stayed here at Templeton all this time?’

  ‘I did think about leaving – but who would then look to the interests of the parishioners here? I doubt whether Father Abraham could be bothered to come so far, and although Witheridge should be in charge of this chapel, the priest there prefers his wine and food to travel. The folk about here are used to me, they remember me from my time as the chaplain to the chapel for the Order, and while I was seeing to their souls, I felt I was doing God’s work.’

  Sir Gilbert rested with the elderly and dying cleric. He daren’t leave. If no one else came along he must listen to Father Benedict’s confession as was his duty as a Christian. It was good to see the chaplain from his past, but it was also a relief to hear hoofbeats approaching. Going to the door Sir Gilbert saw a cleric and a young lad riding down the lane. It reminded him why he was here, but first he knelt at Father Benedict’s side. ‘I must go, Father. Please, could you bless me?’

  Father Benedict choked, but the tears in his eyes had nothing to do with the illness which held him in its grip. He smiled, muttering in Latin, finishing with the sign of the cross. ‘Go with my blessing, my son.’

  ‘First, where is the reliquary, Father?’

  The surprised priest told him, and Sir Gilbert took his hand and kissed it reverently. Rising, he took up his bags and strode off. A short while later Father Abraham appeared.

  ‘I am sorry to take so long. A man was in my sanctuary and I was witnessing his abjuration. Who was that?’

  Father Benedict would have been more cautious if he hadn’t felt so ill but his pain made him careless. ‘Sir Gilbert of Carlisle. He used to be here with me when I was chaplain for the Order.’

  It was hot in the heavy fustian tunic in which a pilgrim should be clad, and Philip Dyne was taken by an itch that he couldn’t clear. His sweat was soaking into the cloth, and each drip seemed to attract a number of hairs, each of which prickled and irritated.

  The road was thankfully flat now. Left was the slow, meandering river, while on his right the hill rose up, covered with tall, ancient trees. The road itself was a mere slash through the trees and grass, although wild plants fought for prominence at the roadside: gorse, valerian, foxglove, buttercups and daisies. Occasionally he inhaled their strong, sweet scents. There was a constant gurgling from the river here and another, less welcome sound. At first he thought he had mistaken it, but as he continued, gripping his little wooden cross firmly in his left hand, head lowered devoutly, he heard it again: horses.

  Once more he was filled with foreboding. It was the same every time he met someone on the road. His guilt was apparent from his garb and demeanour, and he felt the shame that both conferred upon him, although most travellers he had encountered tended to ask him with interest what he had done, rather than try to insult or threaten him. One girl had even appeared to be fascinated with his crime, stating her conviction that he must be a murderer and asking what it was like to have killed a man. She offered him her body, but her ghoulish curiosity repelled h
im.

  Now so taken with his gloomy thoughts, Dyne hardly heard the horses as they came close. It was only when one was almost upon him that he darted from beneath its hooves, stumbling over a stone to fall flat on his face at the verge.

  ‘You can move fast enough at need, then.’

  Rolling over he saw it was Andrew Carter and he hurriedly climbed to his feet. The hatred in Carter’s eyes told him his life was in danger. Carter was pale, his features twisting with emotion, and as Philip Dyne watched him, the man’s hand strayed to his knife’s hilt.

  ‘Wait, Andrew,’ said the man at his side, Nicholas Lovecok, putting his hand to his brother-in-law’s before Andrew could pull his dagger free of its sheath.

  Andrew threw him a furious look and spat on the ground between them. ‘Christ! But he’ll escape – and after he murdered poor Joan.’

  ‘The evil shit won’t get away with what he did,’ Lovecok said, glancing coolly at Dyne, who knelt gripping his cross with hands that shook.

  That look, the expression of malevolent certainty, told Philip Dyne that he would never succeed in getting to Exeter. These men would destroy him long before then. As the realisation burst upon him he heard more hooves. The relief was so acute he felt his head whirl. A large group of men and women on horseback were coming along the road, chattering and laughing as they rode. Some shot Philip Dyne a curious look, no doubt wondering what a man dressed like a penitent was doing, talking to two merchants so far from a town – or maybe it was the tense expressions on all their faces.

  Philip was torn. If he were to admit to his position, he might be saved by the folk, but then again it was as likely that he would be held by them and slain – either with their consent or their active participation. Looking back up the hill towards the protection that the trees offered, he saw that he could never make it. Even at full tilt, it would take so long to cover the thirty or so yards that the horses would hardly need to hurry to catch him. What’s more, even if by some miracle he made it up the hill, the brambles there would trap him; pinioning him as effectively as a felon in irons. A perfect target.