The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Seventeen

Nicholas Lovecok ensured that the wines and ales he had delivered to the castle were stored correctly for the feast. In the storerooms and buttery he checked barrels to see that the drink would flow, tasting wine and smacking his lips as he sought to assure himself that he had not failed Lord Hugh. De Courtenay could be a painful client if the level of service he received fell short of his expectations.

Finished and generally satisfied, Nicholas sat on a barrel and filled a jug with wine. So much had happened in the last few days that he had a lot to muse over, and little of it was of a pleasant nature.

Meeting Sir Gilbert had been traumatic. It had been so long, fifteen years almost since they had last met, that Nicholas had practically forgotten the man. Seeing him again so unexpectedly had been like getting a sword-thrust in the guts.

He had been walking back from the castle, on his way to his brother-in-law’s place, and had decided to take a detour, to work up an appetite. Andrew’s hospitality was good, provided you didn’t mind a thick mess of food at each meal, enough to adequately feed a whole family. For Nicholas, whose bachelor existence had made him appreciate smaller but more varied dishes, the massive quantities Andrew saw as essential were almost sufficient to make him feel sick.

Perhaps that was unfair. Now he looked back on it, maybe it was more the impact of his sister which made mealtimes at Andrew Carter’s house so much of a trial. Poor Matilda sat in her chair like a saint undergoing torture. Wan, unspeaking, anxious and fretful, she picked at her food, speaking seldom, rarely listening, sunk in her own gloom-filled nightmare. When she was spoken to, she snapped or merely stared uncomprehendingly. Luckily she had recovered a little since Dyne’s death.

But then it had been a joy to get away from the mourning woman and her nervous husband. Andrew Carter had sat gnawing at his nails while he observed his wife gradually sinking deeper into her hysterical depression as they approached the hour when Philip Dyne would be released on his oath of abjuration. Nicholas had thought that his black mood would be replaced by elation when they had taken Dyne’s head off, but it had only seemed as if the full horror of their action had somehow killed off a part of his emotions.

The beheading was a memory Nicholas wanted to erase but he couldn’t. Like a picture painted upon glass, it was always in his mind: the flash of the sword swooping down and the first fine spray of blood from the man’s neck; a moment later the huge gouts spurting as the head rolled away, the eyelids snapping wide, then fluttering, the mouth opening and shutting as if Dyne was cursing the two men. But without a voice.

Nicholas shuddered at the memory. It was wrong for him to have got involved. Joan was his niece, true, but she would have been as effectively avenged by hiring men to commit the deed, and then there would be none of this lingering horror.

He forced his mind to the other night, the one before Dyne’s death. It was in the tavern. Boisterous noise: roaring and bellowing as ebullient traders drank to each other’s health, knocking pots or jugs together as they toasted their success at the coming Fair; musicians with harp and bagpipe in one corner competing with a crowder scraping his bow frantically in another; two dogs fighting, egged on by a small group of bystanders.

The room was small, the atmosphere smoky from the fire. It had been like wandering inside a small oven, but welcome for all that, being gloriously free of Andrew and his consumptive wife.

Walking in with a sense of relief, Nicholas ordered himself a large pot of wine and, as he waited, noticed a face that looked oddly familiar. Sir Gilbert had been sitting near the corner, out of the way, and Nicholas, with that sixth sense which he had honed so well since he had first moved to Devonshire, had realised someone was fixing their attention upon him. Instantly he felt the old terror welling up, filling his soul, reaching out and clinging to his every organ and limb, making any movement feel clumsy and conspicuous, like a guilty man waiting to be arrested.

He had thought himself safe here in Tiverton. It was almost ten years since he had fled here, him, his sister and her young daughter. And now someone who knew him, someone from his past, had found him. He had to force himself to drink his wine casually, and then turned, determined to put a bold face upon whatever might come to pass.

And found himself looking into the face of Sir Gilbert of Carlisle. A brother Templar.

Sherman’s shop was not far from the church and Baldwin happily snuffed the air outside. ‘I always adored that odour.’

‘Then you may buy me spices for the house,’ Jeanne said.

‘Oh, I did not bring money with me. All I have is a few pennies,’ Baldwin protested.

‘I am sure the good spicer will take your word and offer you credit, Husband.’

Baldwin submitted with a wry grin and held the door open for her. They walked into a small hall, with pots racked upon the shelves that lined the walls. Beneath were sacks filled with aromatic spices and herbs. The air smelled sweet and musty, and Jeanne sneezed twice as she entered.

A youth was serving, a thin and pale lad of not more than twelve or thirteen years. While Jeanne spoke to him, Baldwin walked to the door at the back; as he peered up at some of the pots above it, the door opened and John Sherman came out.

For a merchant, his visage held little of the gracious welcome that Baldwin would have expected. Instead the man looked nervous, smiling weakly. ‘Keeper. What can I do for you?’

‘Not me, Sherman. It is my wife.’

Sherman appeared relieved. ‘Your lady? Ah, I see.’

Baldwin wondered at his change in demeanour. A devil made him ask, ‘I hear you were away in South Molton the day Sir Gilbert died. What were you doing there?’

‘Meeting a business partner,’ Sherman said pompously.

‘And who would that have been?’

‘Why do you need to know?’

‘A man was murdered.’

‘That was nothing to do with me. It wasn’t even the same road. And the matter is closed: the inquest found Dyne killed the knight.’

‘Not everyone believes that,’ Jeanne said distinctly.

‘Which is why,’ Baldwin continued, ‘I might have to make sure you were where you say.’

Sherman threw a harassed look at his apprentice. ‘You’d better come out here, Sir Baldwin,’ he said and stood aside. Jeanne went off to investigate more spices, while her husband followed their host through the door at the back.

Behind was a small chamber, largely filled with sacks and barrels, and Sherman sat on an upturned butt, waving the knight to another. ‘Look, I wasn’t really in South Molton,’ he said without preamble, ‘but I don’t want people hearing where I was. My wife… Cecily has been making a fool of me for some time. I can’t trust her. I told her I was going to South Molton, but really I was going to follow her. Except she went out earlier than I expected and I missed her.’

‘Did you ask her where she had gone?’

‘How could I? That would mean admitting that I’d been spying on her!’

‘You could have told her that someone had called here, and found her from home.’

‘I didn’t think,’ he admitted gloomily. ‘I just went after the man instead. Harlewin le bloody Poter! Fat sod! Only he’d already gone too, so all I could do was ride out in the direction I thought they’d have taken.’

Harlewin! Just as Avicia Dyne had alleged, Baldwin thought.

Sherman continued, ‘He’s in the pocket of Earl Thomas, you know. A year ago he let one of the Earl’s servants escape justice, saying there wasn’t enough evidence against the fellow. There were three witnesses, for God’s sake!’

‘You think Earl Thomas had reason to want Sir Gilbert dead?’

‘Sir Gilbert was Despenser’s man – it’s common knowledge. The last thing Earl Thomas wants is messengers from Despenser persuading barons to follow him. That could make the Earl’s position very difficult.’

‘Surely others support Earl Thomas in town?’

‘Carter and Lovecok, if I’ve heard right,’ Sherman agreed grudgingly.

Baldwin considered a moment. The spicer was too keen to accuse – his judgement was fouled with hatred because of Harlewin’s alleged affair with his wife. ‘That night, you followed Harlewin where?’ he said.

‘South then west. He’s got a share in a mill over that way.’

‘And did you see either him or the knight?’

‘No.’ His response was too quick, too sharp, and Baldwin merely stared at him.

Sherman couldn’t hold his look. He dropped his gaze. ‘I swear I didn’t. I heard horses coming through the trees. It was late, dark, and I thought my wife must have gone in to hide from me.’

‘It wasn’t her?’

‘No, I rode in because I thought my wife must be there, hiding from me. I’d heard the noise and thought it was her. But while there I heard men shouting. I realised it wasn’t Cecily or the Coroner, so I left. I didn’t want to have a blade in the back.’

Baldwin watched him as he looked up.

‘That’s all I know, Sir Baldwin.’

‘Did you see anyone else beforehand – on the road on the way there? Was there anyone you knew?’

Reluctantly he nodded. ‘Sir Peregrine. I saw him before I went up that road. He was riding back to Tiverton in a hell of a hurry.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘The priest. He was up ahead of me on the way to Templeton. No one else.’

‘You never saw the Coroner or your wife?’

‘No.’

Baldwin had been watching him carefully and noticed the slight hesitation. He was lying again. Baldwin was about to press him further when the door opened.

‘Baldwin?’ Jeanne peered at him anxiously. ‘There’s been a murder – that servant of the knight. Simon wants you back at the castle.’

‘We must go,’ Baldwin said.

‘You must, Husband,’ she retorted. ‘Simon sent Petronilla to keep me company, so you can go back with the messenger.’

Avicia Dyne was in the castle’s gateway, peering through from the darkened corridor beneath the gatehouse itself, staring into the yard, but she could see the group of men. They were playing, one man laughing and throwing his ball into the air, then hurling it to his friends. Each of them caught it and sent it on until the Coroner saw her. Roaring with laughter, he beckoned her over, and she saw him take the ball and hold it behind his back. He smiled and waggled his eyebrows as she fearfully came closer, and when she was almost before him, he brought his hands around and threw it at her: Philip’s head.

She awoke with a start, a feverish sweat breaking out all over her body once more. This was the fifth time she had woken, but now she could see daylight at the window and the rough doorway. Exhausted with her grief, dull from sleeplessness and despair, she slowly rolled over and pushed herself up from her low palliasse. Her day must begin.

Sniffing, she rolled her mattress into a cylinder and bound it before setting it against the wall. Fetching a bowl she tried to force down some oatcakes, but her appetite had utterly failed her. Without her brother, her very last relation, she had little desire to live.

She could remember leaving the castle as if it was a dream. When she had come down from her room, most of the men had left, and her brother’s body was already gone, taken out to a room where it could be held until a place was allocated for its burial. She didn’t care where he would be installed. It was irrelevant: God would save him; He would recognise Phil’s innocence.

Shuddering, she then thought how she and her brother had always believed the words of the priests: that a corpse must be anointed to save it from being taken by the Devil. Lucifer was always on the lookout for a new soul, they were told. But God was stronger, she reassured herself; He would surely not leave Philip in Hell for a crime of which he was innocent.

She was aware of the tears coursing down her cheeks once more and dripping from her chin. It was as if she had no further energy for depression. She was drained of all emotion. There was nothing left.

Nothing but hatred.

Avicia had not heard the conclusions of the inquest, all she had seen was her brother’s beheaded body lying amid the dirt. She knew that Carter and Lovecok had executed her brother but she couldn’t blame them. They had acted as they had because the Coroner had persuaded Philip to confess. Yet he was innocent. She knew it.

Sweeping her bowl aside, she knocked it to the floor and put her face in her hands. She felt so weak: useless and feeble. She couldn’t see what to do. Then she had an idea. She couldn’t go to the Coroner, and the previous day she’d seen that the Keeper and Bailiff didn’t believe her, but there were two others who had an interest now. Harlewin le Poter’s lies had made two men murder an innocent.

Slowly she lifted her head. Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok had killed Philip believing in his guilt. If she told them the truth they would have to have Harlewin arrested simply to rectify their fault.

Filled with a new resolve, she stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She would speak to Andrew Carter. He would help find justice for Philip and his daughter.

Simon supervised the rescue of the body. It wasn’t easy to haul the waterlogged figure free. William Small the sailor lay at the bottom of the castle’s steep hill in deep water, and if there hadn’t been a tree trunk stuck across some ancient boulders further down, he could have been halfway to the sea by now. Not only was the bank very steep, making it tricky to lift him out, his clothing kept snagging on the bushes and brambles which predominated here, and none of the men appeared eager to join William in the water to get him out.

In the end Simon himself, swearing and contemptuous of the feeble efforts of the castle’s staff, slid down the bank and, with Edgar’s help, lashed a rope around the corpse’s chest. Throwing this to the men still on the bank, he had them pull while he and Edgar manhandled the stiffening body from the water. Aylmer sat mournfully on the bank and watched. He sniffed once at William’s body, then walked away to lie down.

‘Not a handsome sight,’ Edgar commented, looking at the body.

‘No,’ Simon agreed.

Sir Peregrine had watched their efforts with sardonic amusement from a little further up the bank. Now he slid down the incline to join them. To Simon’s private resentment he didn’t lose his balance and tumble into the water, but instead joined them both at the body.

‘Christ Jesus! What’s happened to him? He looks like he’s been beaten to death!’

Simon couldn’t help but agree. Although much of the blood had been washed from the face, the swollen jaw and temple where William had been kicked or punched stood out distinctly compared with the pale almost translucent flesh.

‘Where is he?’ Harlewin bawled from the top of the hill. Baldwin appeared at his side. It took some little time for the two of them to join the others. Baldwin himself almost skidded into the water, which would have lightened Simon’s mood and given him some comfort after his display of horsemanship the day before, but before he could grin, Edgar caught his master’s arm and rescued him.

‘What’s all this, then?’ Harlewin said, squatting at William’s side. ‘Good God above, but he’s been in a war, hasn’t he? It’s amazing what a fall can do.’

‘He has been badly beaten,’ Baldwin said, examining William’s head. ‘The jaw is broken and the head has been clubbed.’

Harlewin peered sceptically, then gazed behind them to the castle’s wall high above them. ‘You think so? I reckon he could have taken a pot of wine too many up on the wall and stumbled.’

‘Quite. Only…’

‘What?’

‘How do you explain this stab-wound?’ Baldwin asked politely.

The Coroner let his attention drop to the one-inch-long wound that Baldwin pointed to. He scowled. This was guaranteed to annoy Lord Hugh, and Harlewin didn’t like to have his Lordship irritable.

It was definitely murder. The wound was in the top of the left side of the torso, a little below the collar-bone. Harlewin poked his finger into the hole, but it was plain enough that the wound went straight down to the heart.

‘An assassin’s stroke,’ he muttered.

Baldwin studied the man’s wrists. ‘He was bound, too.’

‘It could hardly be worse,’ Sir Peregrine grated.

Harlewin agreed that they should remove the body up to the castle where it could be more easily inspected. It would be difficult to get a jury to this site.

Baldwin and Simon waited as the body was carried up the slope, Harlewin and Sir Peregrine scrambling up as best they could. Edgar remained with them – he had been Sir Baldwin’s sergeant in the Templars and took the knight’s security seriously. When Simon pointed towards a serviceable path which led towards the bridge, Edgar made off along it, his hand near his sword’s hilt, to make sure there was no ambush.

‘Not easy terrain this,’ Simon noted.

‘No,’ Baldwin murmured. Looking back, the castle sat squatly at the top of the steep hill. He whistled to Aylmer. ‘It is almost sheer. The castle’s builders made best use of this perilous slope. I can’t envisage men-at-arms rushing up it to take the place. Especially while men lived within and could tumble rocks or trunks from the safety of their walls. Look, there’s nothing but grassed slope. Perhaps he was thrown from the wall.’

Simon pulled a grass stem and sucked at the stalk. ‘But who’d want to do that?’

‘Someone who thought he might have killed Sir Gilbert and wanted revenge? Someone who thought William had seen them kill Sir Gilbert and needed to remove an embarrassing witness? Or someone who simply wanted to rob him? Ah, God! Who knows?’

Simon threw away the stem. ‘If he was thrown from the walls, someone should have seen. There are so many men-at-arms about this place, surely someone will have noticed?’

‘I don’t know. At night there are few men about. Only one man is needed up on the walls to keep an eye open. Most guards would be down in the yard or at the gate. If someone wanted to push a man’s body over, I doubt it would be very difficult to arrange. What if it was one of the guards?’

‘We need to ask Sir Peregrine how many men he posts each night.’

‘Before we ask him, I have to tell you what I’ve discovered,’ Baldwin said and told of his talks with Cecily Sherman, her husband and Hick.

The news made Simon eager to speak to Sir Peregrine. They sought him as soon as they entered the castle. ‘Guards on the wall?’ he echoed. ‘I fear that I only have two men out at night: one at the gatehouse, one at the tower. It hardly seems necessary to have a full guard in peacetime.’

‘Even with the threats of war?’ Simon said.

‘Oh, come, Bailiff! If war was declared tomorrow, how long would it take for the King’s army to get here? Marching at ten to fifteen miles a day? Long before they arrived, we’d know of their approach. There’s no need for guards to protect against that. No, the guards are to prevent enterprising villains from throwing a grapnel over the wall and attempting to steal my Lord’s pewter or silver.’

‘Not to prevent an assassin making an attempt on Lord Hugh’s life?’ Baldwin pressed.

‘No,’ Sir Peregrine answered simply. ‘A killer would have to enter the gatehouse itself, through the only door, and then would have to pass by my own picked men-at-arms before breaking down my own door, which I always bar, and then breaking down Lord Hugh’s. There’s no need to leave a guard outside.’

‘From interest, where were you last night, Sir Peregrine?’ Baldwin asked.

The man’s face hardened. ‘I was in the hall for the meal with Lord Hugh, and then did my rounds of the grounds. No one saw me, so if you wish to assume I killed the man and threw him from the wall I would have had plenty of time, but Sir Baldwin, do not dare to accuse me of such a thing!’

‘We have also been told that you were out towards the south on the night Sir Gilbert died.’

‘By Christ! Do you dare accuse me of murder?’

‘I accuse no one. I only ask where you were and what you did.’

‘I had my reasons for going for a ride. That’s all you need know. I am no murderer.’

‘Not when you think that the kingdom’s future could depend upon one man’s death?’

After Baldwin’s softly spoken words the tension was dangerous. Sir Peregrine stood as though frozen, so furious he daren’t move lest his hand grab his sword. Simon stepped back while the other two stared at each other. Before either could speak and hasten their descent into open battle, Simon cleared his throat and asked if he could go up to the wall to take a look.

Sir Peregrine angrily slammed a fist against his thigh, but nodded. Simon walked between the knights, facing his friend, forcing the two men to break eye-contact. Baldwin nodded curtly and walked to the staircase with him.

They were silent until they reached the walkway. Here Baldwin let his breath gush out in a long sigh. ‘I am glad you were there. That was close.’

Simon looked down towards the river far below. ‘A nasty drop. You should be careful in case you find Sir Peregrine behind you one dark night.’

Baldwin grunted, standing with his hands on the battlement and peering down with a puzzled frown.

‘What is it, Baldwin?’ Simon asked.

‘What in God’s name could William have done or known that made his death necessary?’

Behind them, hidden in the shadows of the staircase, Toker watched and listened with Perkin. Speaking in an undertone, Toker said, ‘That bastard knight from Furnshill is too interested in the sailorboy’s death.’

‘You want me to slip a knife in his back?’ Perkin asked seriously, measuring the distance over the yard.

‘While the bailiff’s there? Don’t be bloody stupid! No, we’ll leave them alone for now. But I don’t want the whoreson to keep asking questions about the place.’ He considered. ‘I’ll follow him tomorrow and see what he gets up to. And then, if he carries on asking about the sailorboy, we’ll kill him.’