The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Eight

Cecily Sherman breathed a sigh of relief. The bloody fool had almost given away their secret. It was hazardous enough trying to meet while John was so suspicious, but if Harlewin was to give away every secret she had mentioned to him while they were in bed, she would have to seek another lover.

She turned her charm on to Father Abraham. He looked most distracted, unhappy and nervous. ‘Father, won’t you have some wine with me? It is the best that Nicholas Lovecok could supply and the flavour is splendid.’

He shuddered and turned away.

‘Father, what…?’

‘You know what it is. Last night,’ he rasped.

‘Father, don’t be like that, please!’ she entreated, touching his shoulder and exerting a slight pressure to make him face her. He tried to avoid her eyes, but she remained still, gazing up at him with an expression of sadness. ‘I know you don’t approve of me or my behaviour, but I can’t help the way I’m made.’

‘What were you doing last night?’ he grated. ‘Seeing your lover again?’ He didn’t wait for her reply, but averted his face and stalked away, disgusted. His demeanour made her smile as she walked to her husband’s side. She beamed at him with every sign of warmth, but he returned her only a grimace.

‘Husband, I am glad you didn’t go with them. Would you like to go back home soon?’

‘Why are you so glad to find me here still? Are you bored now your lover’s gone?’

‘John, believe me, I would never seek another.’

‘Then where did you go last night?’

‘Last night? I…’

‘You were with him again, weren’t you?’

Cecily gave him a look of pain. ‘How could you think that?’

‘It’s true, isn’t it? You were with your lover again – that fat fool Harlewin.’

‘You saw him off well. He is gross, isn’t he?’

Sherman eyed her furiously. While she could treat his accusations with such calmness he had to doubt his own sanity, but he knew she was lying. The trouble was, he couldn’t accuse her now. That would mean confessing what he had been doing last night, and he didn’t want everyone to know he had been out there in the woods.

Simon volunteered to join them although Baldwin insisted that Edgar should remain with his wife in case she chose to visit the market.

It took some time to find a pair of mounts. Neither Simon nor Baldwin wanted to use their own: Baldwin’s had travelled far enough already for one day and Simon’s had a strained fetlock. Instead, both went to the hackneyman nearest the castle. He had been recommended to them by a steward, but Baldwin gave an inward groan on seeing the proprietor, a fawning man with filthy fingers and thin, waxen features. ‘Oh yes, masters, yes. I have some of the best horseflesh in Devon, yes.’

His words were far from the mark. In the stalls they found several sumpters, rough pack horses, a couple of rounseys, both badly spavined, and some worn and ancient hackneys. One heavy beast like a draughthorse stood out, but it was filthy, plastered with mud over neck and thighs. Nearby was a young mare which tempted Baldwin, but when he went closer he saw that she had cut her forehead on a splinter or nail, and the wound was flyblown: maggots squirmed and wriggled. Baldwin felt his stomach heave and called the man over.

While the hackneyman tried to hold her head steady so he could pick the maggots out, Simon and Baldwin looked about them with near-despair; they had to have something. They settled for a couple of the less exhausted-looking beasts. Soon they were mounted and met the Coroner at the castle gate.

The Coroner had brought a man-at-arms with him, and Piers was seated on his wagon, his expression bitter as he thought of the dough he should even now be mixing. For all his insistence of hurrying to report the dead bodies, Baldwin noticed that his cart was empty of the flour he declared he had collected, and was sure that the baker had gone to his home and off-loaded it before going to seek the Coroner. It made Baldwin grin to himself. The baker was no fool – he knew he must report the murders, but that was no reason to ruin himself.

‘I should have taken a second apprentice,’ Piers mumbled disconsolately.

‘What’s that?’ Baldwin asked, kicking at his horse to urge it alongside. It wasn’t easy: he had picked a mare, and she resolutely fought every tug on the reins. Simon’s mount was no better – it preferred to wander off the road to the grasses that grew thickly nearer the riverbank.

Piers sighed and spread his hands. ‘An apprentice, Sir Baldwin. Mine is sick, and all the time I spend wandering down here, my business is wasting. I’ve got a cartload of flour sitting in the yard and if it rains it’ll be ruined. My wife does all she can, but without my apprentice or me she’ll never get it done. Oh God! I wish I’d never seen the bugger.’

‘The man who stopped you?’

‘Yes. If he’d missed me and found someone else I’d be indoors now, baking, all my flour safely locked away. Instead here I am, amerced and riding away again. Daft, I call it.’

‘The man who stopped you – was he a local?’

‘I didn’t recognise him. His voice was odd, too. Very strong accent.’

Casting a look ahead, Baldwin asked, ‘How much farther to the place where this stranger found you?’

Piers shielded his eyes. ‘About another half mile. You see where the trees follow the curve of the river over there? I think it was about there.’

‘I see.’ Baldwin nodded and was about to drop back when Piers nodded meaningfully at the Coroner ahead and said, ‘Sir Baldwin, I understand how these things are done. If I pay you as well as the priest and the Coroner there, will you speak for me?’

Baldwin’s voice was icy as he replied, ‘I am Keeper of the King’s Peace. I cannot be bought, you fool!’ He dragged viciously on the reins and went to join Simon.

‘What is it?’ Simon asked. He could see that his friend was peeved, but he hadn’t heard the baker’s quiet offer.

‘That idiot asked me to accept a payment. It is probably true that he needs to get back to work, but to offer me a bribe…’ His voice tailed off in disgust.

‘It’s common enough, isn’t it?’ Simon pointed out reasonably. ‘Especially for Coroners. How else are they expected to cover their expenses, always riding here and there, inspecting corpses along the way, and all for no pay?’

‘Hah! They get paid all right,’ Baldwin burst out. ‘They charge fortunes for looking at dead bodies, and if the people of the area don’t pay up, the Coroner won’t visit, which means the folk have to leave the corpse lying in the open, rotting, eaten by wild animals, until they agree to cough up. And then the Coroner will add a fresh fine as like as not, just to signal his displeasure.’

‘They aren’t all like that,’ Simon soothed.

‘No – some are worse! They gain their post as a result of a great magnate’s favour and use their position to serve his interests, releasing his servants and imprisoning his enemies.’

‘And you’ve obviously made up your mind that this fine fellow is of that ilk.’

‘Look at him! Fat, foolish, a sluggard… What would you think?’

‘I would think we’ve arrived,’ Simon said.

The Coroner was waving to the baker, and Piers kicked his little pony forward, pointing in among the trees. Baldwin wrenched his horse’s head around after a struggle; Simon’s was still more recalcitrant. It obstinately tugged at the grasses and flowers at the side of the river, and Simon had to kick it hard, swearing, to make it obey. It turned, and then, for no apparent reason, bolted. Caught off-balance, Simon clung to the reins even as his feet flew from the stirrups. He could feel himself gradually toppling backwards but by fighting he managed to remain in his seat and, as he passed Baldwin, who was ambling along gently, he turned and called, ‘My beast has more fire than yours, anyway!’

‘Simon!’

He saw Baldwin’s anguished expression and turned just in time to see the branch.

Jeanne had felt the mood of the hall lighten after Simon and Baldwin left with Harlewin. It was as if the presence of the Coroner had put a blight upon the proceedings.

Petronilla had gone to a quiet room to feed Stephen as soon as they had arrived, agreeing to come and help the servants in the hall as soon as her child was sleeping. A maid in the castle also had a young child and had agreed to look after Stephen while Petronilla helped her mistress. Now Jeanne saw Petronilla enter carrying pots of wine for guests and sent Edgar over to help her – and to ask where Wat had got to. Jeanne was always nervous if the cattleman’s son disappeared when there was ale or wine available. Wat enjoyed alcohol and was often to be found snoring in a hidden corner of a buttery when left to his own devices.

‘It’s all right, my Lady,’ Petronilla said quietly. ‘He’s in the dairy. I sent him there to help since so many of the maids are in the kitchens.’

‘Well done,’ Jeanne said. If Wat was occupied there was less chance he could embarrass her or her husband. Glancing up, Jeanne saw Petronilla move away from a passing man. ‘Are you well?’

Petronilla nodded, but didn’t speak for fear of shaming herself. It was daunting in here, with knights, bannarets, even lords and their ladies. Some might think the same as the Coroner.

Horrible man, she thought, shuddering. All greasy and slimy, like a fat reptile. As he’d gone out, he’d put his arm around her in the hallway, his hand grasping her buttock, trying to force her to kiss him. It was only for a moment, and his thick-lipped face had been so close, slobbering like a great dog inches from her.

‘Come on, pretty little maid, give me a kiss or later you might regret it!’

Petronilla was revolted. She had turned her head away, and before he could do more than grope her breast and backside, Edgar had appeared. He quickly stepped close and the Coroner hastily fell back. ‘Yes?’

Edgar instantly moved between them. With a muttered prayer of relief she had fled back into the buttery. At the door she had glanced back. The Coroner had looked angry, but before he could say anything there was a call: Simon and Baldwin had arrived with their horses. The Coroner stalked out.

Now Petronilla was determined to remain close to Edgar. He would protect her. He was like that: kind and generous.

Jeanne was unaware of the anguish in Petronilla’s face. All she saw, she thought, was petulance, as if Petronilla resented having to help serve guests in another household. ‘Edgar, take Petronilla out and see if you can help in the kitchen or the buttery.’

Nodding, he led the way. As she left, Petronilla threw Jeanne a look of immense gratitude, which Jeanne recognised but couldn’t understand. Musings as to her maid’s feelings were cut short as Sir Peregrine called loudly: ‘My Lords and Ladies, Lord Hugh de Courtenay.’

Baldwin’s cry of warning reached Simon a second before his chest struck the branch squarely with a hollow thud that made Baldwin wince.

The breath was forced from Simon’s lungs with an audible ‘Oof!’ and Baldwin gave a bellow of laughter as his friend hooked both arms over the branch to stop himself being knocked to the ground. However, his horse kept going, leaving Simon clinging to the tree. The white-faced bailiff was held in mid-air staring after his mount as it stopped and began to crop the grass once more. With a slow inevitability, Simon’s weight begin to bow the branch, until with a report like black powder exploding, the tree gave up its limb and Simon dropped smartly onto his rump with a curse. Snorting and snuffling, desperate not to laugh, Baldwin persuaded his reluctant beast to walk to Simon’s side.

‘God’s Saints! If all you can do is grin,’ Simon growled from beneath the branch, ‘I’d prefer you to get someone who can help. Better still, fetch yourself a bow and shoot that bloody horse!’ He lifted the branch and threw it aside. ‘Rotten! Typical! I get flung from a horse by a twig that’s not got enough strength to cleave to its tree.’

Baldwin set his features into a stern mask of agreement, but before he could ride off in pursuit of Simon’s horse, Piers appeared and caught it by the reins. ‘Didn’t you see the tree?’

Simon ignored him as he took the reins. His backside had hit the ground with a solid thump, and he was aware of tension in his lower back and arse. He daren’t rub it for the delight he knew he would see on his friend’s face and, largely to take his mind off the pain as he settled gingerly in his saddle once more, he spoke to the baker.

‘How far?’

‘It’s close, sir.’

They ducked under more boughs, avoiding the thicker brambles. Soon Piers pointed. ‘That’s where the headless one lies.’

Simon allowed his pony to move at a slow walk. He had no intention of asking it to move in a jerking trot, up and down. Ahead was a clear area, bright in the sunshine, and it was a pleasure to be in the warmth after the shade of the trees. At the furthest corner of the glade he saw the Coroner and his man-at-arms.

‘Come on,’ said Baldwin, and even his voice was subdued as they approached the patch of blood-reddened grass.

The Coroner picked up the head and stared at the battered face of Philip Dyne.

There were many who believed that all Coroners were corrupt. Harlewin le Poter knew better. Some no doubt were, but Harlewin was committed to his job. It might be a regal pain in his backside – having to ride to all parts of the shire at a moment’s notice, seeking the bodies of the suddenly dead, holding inquests before all the men in a village or the neighbours in a town, making a decision before this or that jury, formally demanding the deodand (the value of the weapon that had killed the dead man), while old men hissed angrily on hearing the level of the fine to be imposed on them… yes, all this was aggravating, but when there was a murder, Harlewin was proud of his reputation of commitment. Justice was important. Killers had to be caught and must pay the price for their crimes. Harlewin believed that a man’s life was too important to go unavenged.

He tossed the head to his man-at-arms with a feeling of satisfaction. ‘This won’t take long. Recognise him?’

It was good to have a case in which the whole sordid story could be seen at a glance. So often there were surly crowds who denied all knowledge as he manhandled their dead. Commonly the cause of death was mundane: a stab-wound or a throat slitted like a pig’s. Occasionally there was a broken skull or a drowning, but usually it was just a fight that had gone too far.

And the reasons were just as earthy. A man who found his wife lying in an adulterous bed – that was a little close to home, Harlewin acknowledged – or a woman who retaliated after a heavy beating and committed the hideous act of petty treason, stabbing her man while he lay abed.

So many murders were incomprehensible, but with war looming Harlewin knew more deaths would occur. When men grabbed their swords and knives, people began to die even at a distance from the battlefields. Especially when there was a thieving, avaricious bastard like Despenser running the place.

At least this death was straightforward.

‘Dyne?’ the man-at-arms asked, peering into the half-closed eyes.

‘Yes. Looks like he left his road.’

Baldwin heard him muttering to the guard, but his own attention was fixed upon the body sprawled on its back in the long grass near the trees. There were marks about the wrists which Baldwin could not miss: he had been bound before his head was swept off. While Harlewin muttered in an undertone, Baldwin cast about and in a few moments he had found a thong lying atop a flattened expanse of grass nearby; it had been cut in two and its thickness matched the bruises on the wrists.

Continuing with his hands, he felt around the flattened area. ‘Ouch!’ Carefully he parted the grass to discover what had cut his hand: a knife. Within a few inches, broken pieces of wood; a snapped crucifix, while a short distance away was a purse, large and made of good leather, with some coins inside. The cords which should have bound the purse to its owner’s belt were cut through with a sharp blade.

‘Coroner, would you like to see this?’ he called.

‘Interesting, eh?’ Harlewin sniffed. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

The whole figure had stiffened, and it was only with an effort that Harlewin could drag the tunic off, swearing as it caught. ‘Oh, God’s teeth!’ he snarled and took the dagger from Baldwin, slicing up the sleeves to the shoulders, then easing the cloth free. Baldwin noticed how sharp the blade was, like a fighter’s.

Beneath the tunic was a simple, rough shirt and hose. These Harlewin cut off as well, to reveal the figure of a young man.

Harlewin pointed with the knife. ‘As I thought: extensive bruising on the chest, more here on his belly, and he has been kicked hard in the bollocks from the look of it,’ he said, indicating the swollen groin. ‘No stab-wound.’

‘No,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘It looks like someone beat him, bound him and beheaded him like a common felon. And broke his cross.’

‘Killed him like a wolf,’ Harlewin agreed, grunting as he pushed himself up into a standing position, and gazed down. Leaving Sir Baldwin at the side of the corpse, he strode off. The whole affair was tidy, he reflected. The outlaw had been caught and despatched. There must be a good reason why someone had done so without complying with the law.

The second body was a few hundred feet away in the next clearing. Harlewin was almost at its side when he heard the low rumble.

‘Leash that hound,’ he snarled. The dog had moved forward menacingly as he leaned over the body.

The man-at-arms reached for its collar, but it crouched, growling in a long, ferocious, steady timbre and the man hastily withdrew his hand.

‘Fetch a bow or something,’ Harlewin said irritably. ‘I can’t be standing here all the damned day! I’m supposed to be seeing my Lord de Courtenay. Go on, shoot the blasted mutt.’

‘All right.’ Wandering to his horse, the man pulled his crossbow from the saddle. It was a powerful one built of wood and bone, and he put his foot in the stirrup, bent his legs and caught the string in the hook at his belt. Slowly straightening, he spanned the string until he saw it catch on the sear. Walking to the Coroner’s side, he selected a steel-tipped quarrel from his belt’s quiver and set it on the bow’s groove.

‘Go on, man!’ Harlewin rasped.

The man-at-arms lifted it and aimed the arrow’s tip at the dog’s throat. His hand moved to the long trigger and he was about to fire when he heard a bellow at his side. Startled, he caught a glimpse of something moving before a bunched fist struck the stock of his bow, releasing the bolt high over the dog’s head to thud into an oak.

‘Don’t you dare slay the hound for protecting his master’s body,’ Baldwin roared, enraged. ‘The beast is a good servant.’ He walked slowly towards the dog.

‘You may regret it, Sir Baldwin,’ Harlewin called. ‘The damned thing looks almost mad to me.’

Baldwin ignored him, squatting near the dog. Unconsciously, he suddenly realised, he had started kneading the flesh of his forearms where Uther had bitten him in his death-throes. It made Baldwin feel a sharp pang. This dog was very different from Uther. It growled, more from fear than anger. It was stupid, Baldwin reflected, to try to save the beast for no purpose, especially since he might get bitten. He glanced at the other dog a few yards away, dead. The pair were raches, hunting dogs which relied more on scent than sight. Handsome animals, with sleek black coats, brown eyebrows and cheeks, strong jaws and powerful chests, they were built heavily, like mastiffs.

He recalled the pastries he had grabbed before leaving the hall. Some were still in his purse, and he pulled them free, much crumbled and broken, and tossed a piece on the ground. The dog glanced down but didn’t eat. Baldwin held out his hand with a piece of pastry in it.

‘Come on, it’s been a while since you ate, hasn’t it, old fellow?’ he asked gently.

‘Aylmer won’t eat like that from a stranger, he needs the order. Aylmer: feed! Good boy.’

The dog dropped his head and snuffled at the pie on the ground. Behind Baldwin stood a swarthy man with a pockmarked face.

‘I am called William the Small, sir. I was servant to Sir Gilbert.’

For the first time Baldwin looked at the dead man, and as he did so, he felt the breath catch in his throat as he recognised the face.