The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Seven

‘God!… Christ alive!’ Piers declared in shock, and the head stared back.

The baker clutched at his belly, trying not to vomit. Remembering himself, he made a hasty sign of the cross, then tugged his rosary free and muttered a prayer. There was something wrong with his beads; they felt slick and oily in his hands, and he looked down to see that they were smothered and beslobbered with semi-congealed blood. Then, a couple of paces away, he saw the headless body. He winced with revulsion. The ground all about him was red with blood. It was repellent to be covered in this filth. Flies buzzed about him already: he would stink by the time he got home if the sun stayed as warm all the way.

Hearing an anguished shout, he wiped his hands on clean grass, snatched up his cudgels, and ran towards the call without once glancing backwards. Jumping a low barrier of fern and bramble, he found himself in a darker area where the sun was blotted out by thick growth overhead. Dried leaves and twigs snapped and rustled under his feet as he hurried on, and then before him he saw another clearing.

When he broke in, he slowed in his onwards rush and gradually came to a halt. In the trees above him, three large black carrion birds noisily launched themselves into the air and flew away.

On the ground before him knelt William, but as Piers took in the scene he gasped and clapped a blood stained hand over his mouth.

Before William was the dead body of a dog, who lay in a thick pool of his own gore. A second large dog lay a few yards from William, and hearing Piers’s approach, this one raised his head and stared at him, head tilted a little as if in vague enquiry. The expression on the animal’s face was one of unutterable sadness, and after a moment he looked away, resting his chin on his paws and gazing at another corpse.

It was that of a man in his prime of life; a tall man, his head resting on a tree root, his hands clasped together at the hilt of the sword lying on his breast like one already laid in his grave.

A knight.

Tiverton Castle was not the largest Baldwin had ever visited, but it was in a strong position to guard the bridge over the river. South and west it was protected by the River Exe; north were marshes, and the castle had good, massive walls to enclose its lord. The court was oddly shaped, designed to fit the space, and stables and outhouses were filled. Men and women hurried on their duties, guards lounged and guests wandered around getting in everyone else’s way.

The great hall had been cleaned and decorated in honour of the feast – and to show off the best silver and pewter plate of the de Courtenay family, Baldwin added to himself. It was set out on a heavy sideboard, taking up four shelves – a proud display of the power and money the family commanded. On the walls hung tapestries with rich embroidery showing scenes of chivalric magnificence: unicorns and lions fought, knights tilted at each other or knelt praying while their serfs tilled the fields, sheared sheep, and drove carts filled with produce. The floor had been laid with fresh rushes, and their scent reminded Baldwin of long days idling in fields, although they did pose something of a risk to some of the ladies in their long gowns and skirts. Baldwin noticed several stumble as, unwittingly, they managed to sweep the rushes before them, building up a small rampart which they then tripped over.

The hall was crowded. Music from the minstrels in their small gallery over the screens meant people were forced to speak more loudly, although the freely-flowing drink encouraged them. Baldwin looked about him, recognising some of his peers from other towns: knights, esquires, clerics, advocates. More were arriving and he began to wonder whether they would all fit, especially with the numbers of servants on every side, passing jugs of wine and ale, handing platters of small pastries, tarts and titbits.

He saw a face he knew: Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple. Baldwin looked away hurriedly and walked off with his wife in the opposite direction.

There were many others he knew. The Coroner, like Sir Peregrine, Baldwin avoided. Men gained reputations when they won positions of power, and Coroner Harlewin le Poter had earned that of a womaniser, politician and corrupt official. It was a sad comment on the officers of justice that so many were similarly labelled, but Baldwin’s personal loathing of injustice led him to keep away from Harlewin.

Jeanne and he migrated to a corner with people whom Baldwin did not recognise. It was here that he met Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok for the first time, two men whom he was to get to know well. Andrew, he heard, was one of Tiverton’s leading merchants, while Nicholas hailed from Exeter – which was clearly not his original home: his accent was softened with the years, but there were strong traces of Welsh. Baldwin was struck by their appearance: both were pale as if from lack of sleep, and Andrew in particular was curt almost to the point of rudeness.

His wife Matilda was a slim woman in her late thirties. She appeared utterly indifferent to the people about her – indeed, Baldwin thought she was intentionally ignoring them, but then he saw the tic fluttering beneath her eye, noted her gaunt appearance and realised she was suffering from some deep inner sadness.

‘This is Cecily Sherman,’ Jeanne announced.

The newcomer was shortish, attractive, plump and dark-haired. Constantly smiling, she had a gushing manner that was in no way irritating, but more entrancing: the residual girlishness of a young woman. Baldwin placed her in her early twenties. While the men talked she rarely interrupted, but her comments were succinct and often very witty. Baldwin gained the impression that she was a skilled flirt.

When her husband John was pointed out to him, Baldwin saw a heavy-set man, tall, with grizzled hair, cleanshaven and heavy of shoulder. In appearance he looked much like a knight or some other trained martial artist, strong and proud. Baldwin was interested to see that Cecily Sherman rarely glanced at her husband. Her attention, Baldwin noticed, was more often upon the Coroner.

The party was proving enjoyable, if loud, but the jolly atmosphere was ruined when a guard hurried in with the bedraggled figure of Piers Bakere.

‘Did you recognise the corpses?’

‘No, Coroner. The beheaded one I didn’t give more than a glance to. I’ve seen dead men before – who hasn’t? – but tripping over a man’s head… well, it’s not something I’ve done before. As to the knight, I’ve no idea who he was.’

Harlewin le Poter was a vain man, Baldwin thought. He appeared to be listening intently to the baker – but Baldwin was sure that he was merely putting on an act and that belief rankled. The affair sounded too serious to be treated in a frivolous mood.

Baldwin could see the baker clearly. He looked nervous, and there was no surprise in that, with the poor fellow having to stand in front of the most important people in the shire. Piers was unkempt, and his hands seemed to be streaked and spotted with rusty stains. Only later did Baldwin realise that this was, in fact, dried blood.

‘You say that both men were outside the verge?’ Harlewin asked, studying his pot and sipping. He was dressed in bright reds and blues, with a plain white shirt under his blue cotte and red surcoat, and parti-coloured hose hiding his legs. From the size of his belly Baldwin guessed he was not a particularly dedicated officer of the law. If he were, he could not have grown so fat, for there were only two Coroners to cover the whole of Devonshire at present, and since they had the responsibility to investigate all sudden deaths so as to ensure that fines from the vills were all paid whenever the King’s Peace was broken, both should cover many leagues each week.

‘Yes, sir. They were in the woods a long way from the road, far from the town.’

‘And you are sure both were dead?’

A small frown passed over Piers’s brow. ‘You mean the beheaded one?’

‘Don’t be frivolous, fool! I can have you gaoled if you don’t behave respectfully,’ Harlewin snapped, flushing. ‘This knight: how do you know he was dead?’

‘He didn’t wake when his dog howled,’ Piers said as if reciting a story. ‘He didn’t wake when I called him, didn’t wake when I touched him, and his face was cold.’ He paused as if suddenly remembering and added, ‘Oh, and there was a stab-wound in his back.’

‘How did you know he was a knight?’

‘By his golden spurs and his belt,’ Piers said scathingly. ‘How else would you recognise a knight?’

‘Damn your soul, learn courtesy!’ Harlewin snapped, dashing his pot to the ground. ‘You can learn your position in the town’s gaol, if you prefer!’

‘I apologise,’ Piers said with oily sincerity, but Baldwin could see the contempt in his eyes. For some reason Baldwin found himself alerted to Harlewin’s stance and gestures. The man seemed unsurprised by the news, his actions and voice geared more to impressing his audience than extracting information.

Harlewin snapped his fingers to a servant and took another pot of wine. ‘You left these two bodies in the care of this other man?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I suppose I must organise the posse,’ Harlewin yawned. ‘Although it is most annoying.’ He glanced at the door through which at any moment Lord de Courtenay was expected to enter. ‘Since both were dead, you’ll both have to pay the sureties. You can consider yourself attached.’

‘Sir, I have to get back to my shop,’ Piers protested. ‘If I’m arrested, how’ll I be able to pay the fine?’

‘I hope you have the money. You know the law: if a man is found dead, the finder must be amerced – he has to pay a surety to show he will attend the inquest. You and this other fellow were the first finders, so you must both pay, as must those who live nearest the place where the bodies were found, although…’ he meditated a moment ‘…God only knows who lives nearest. Ah, well. I suppose we’ll have to attach and amerce everyone who lives along the road.’

Baldwin shrugged. There was nothing new in murder at the roadside. He felt sure it would turn out to be trail bastons who came across two unwary travellers; nothing to interest him. He was about to turn away when he caught sight of the Coroner. He was staring at Andrew Carter suspiciously. Andrew was looking away, but his wife clung to his arm and she stared up at him with an expression of pride and joy.

‘Take the baker away. I shall see to him later,’ the Coroner commanded gruffly at last. Two men-at-arms each grabbed one of Piers’s elbows and conducted him away. Immediately Harlewin spotted Baldwin. ‘Keeper, how are you?’

‘Very well, Coroner.’

‘You must have come up the very same road. Did you see anything suspicious? A man behaving oddly?’

‘Nothing. But a gang would surely have remained hidden until they could see an easy target. They would not have attacked me, for I had my man-at-arms with me, and two men properly armed can travel in safety except from a very large band indeed.’

‘True enough.’ Harlewin appeared bored by the affair. ‘I don’t suppose you saw this knight on the road?’

Baldwin gave a faint smile. ‘The baker did say that the man was cold. Surely that would mean he had been dead for some little while? He must have died overnight or yesterday.’

Harlewin frowned, contemplating a dish of tarts held temptingly before his nose. ‘Hmm. Perhaps. Although it’s always best, I find, to wonder at the honesty of first finders. Take this man, Piers. Why should he have come forward so eagerly?’

Simon had joined them and he broke in sharply. ‘Because he’s an honest man and wanted to help capture the murderer, of course.’

‘Ah, Bailiff Puttock! It’s pleasant to see faces from so far afield. So you think the fellow was honest? Let me tell you, I have seen that same man in court more times than I can count for breaking the assize on bread. He often sells underweight loaves.’

‘Miserable thief!’ Simon muttered, throwing an angry look after the disappearing baker.

Baldwin grinned. Simon’s views on people who cheated the poor out of their food were trenchant and well-known to him. ‘But the fact that he came here to raise the Hue and Cry is evidence of his honesty. The man whom you should question is the one who was already there, this man who called Piers from his journey.’

‘Good point, Sir Baldwin,’ Harlewin said. ‘Yes, I shall question him most carefully.’

A sneering voice made Harlewin whirl. ‘You do that, Coroner, you do that. And don’t allow anyone to escape, will you? Earl Thomas might be upset!’

Baldwin felt rather than saw Edgar join him, and looking at the man who had appeared, he could understand why Edgar should have sprung to his side. It was John Sherman.

Harlewin had gone quite white. At first Baldwin thought it was fear, but then the Coroner spoke and his tone was one of rage. ‘You dare accuse me of bribery? Of corruption? That is a deplorable suggestion, even for you, Master Sherman.’

‘Well, take independent witnesses so that you can prove me wrong then, Coroner.’

Harlewin leaned forward, his face suddenly mauve. Baldwin stepped between the two men before he could speak.

‘Gentlemen, please remember where you are,’ he said urgently. ‘This is your lord’s hall, and we are here to feast, not quarrel. Come, Coroner, you have to visit the scene and begin your inquest.’

‘Be damned to that,’ Harlewin rasped.

‘Silence, Coroner!’ said another man at Baldwin’s elbow and Baldwin had a sense of foreboding. He recognised that voice: it was Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple.

‘Who are you?’ Sherman demanded of Baldwin, but then he caught sight of Sir Peregrine, who smiled thinly.

‘This is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton.’

‘Oh, a Keeper?’ His eyes registered interest, then amusement. ‘Well, why don’t you go along with this brave Coroner of ours and then he can prove his innocence!’

Harlewin pursed his lips with fury. ‘You dare to suggest that I–’

‘Coroner, this is your lord’s hall,’ Baldwin repeated. ‘He would not wish to see you fighting with another of his guests. Now, sir,’ he said, facing Sherman, ‘I don’t know what you intend by this display, but you are provoking the good Coroner without reason.’

‘You think so? Then go with him and help his investigation. Or does he have something to hide?’

‘God damn your eyes, Sherman! I have nothing to conceal, but next time I’m at your shop I’ll have the assizes check your weights.’

‘Do so, Coroner. You’ll find everything above the boards, nothing hidden,’ Sherman shot back.

‘Oh, yes? What of…?’ But Harlewin choked off whatever he was about to say. Sherman leaned forward, an intent expression in his eyes. Harlewin waved a hand in angry rejection. ‘I’ll not be drawn into debate with a fool. Sir Baldwin, since this cretin wishes my inquest to be witnessed, I ask you to join my posse.’

‘Me?’ Baldwin said, and felt his heart sink. The last thing he wanted was to be cossetted with the Coroner; he was here to be presented to his lord, not to join another investigation. If he had time he wanted to show Jeanne the sights of the town, not spend it chasing over the countryside looking for a band of murderers. ‘Oh, I do not think I should intervene in…’

‘I would look on it as a special favour, Sir Baldwin,’ Harlewin pressed him. ‘My integrity, my honour, has been impugned. I must ask that you assist me.’

Baldwin glanced over his shoulder. Jeanne saw his strained visage, and gave him a gay smile. It was his own fault for intervening between the two men, she thought. He could expect little sympathy from her.

Then came the smooth voice he feared. ‘I am sure it would be an excellent idea.’

‘Good. Thank you, Sir Peregrine. That’s settled, then,’ Harlewin said, rubbing his hands together.

‘Oh, very well,’ Baldwin agreed despondently. An esquire carrying a plate was moving past him, and Baldwin picked off a handful of pastries and thrust them into the wallet at his belt, moodily reflecting that he might not see any other items from the feast that day.