The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The chapel was quiet, but at least it had a roof still. At the door Baldwin glanced at Simon. The bailiff nodded, and Baldwin quietly pulled the door open.

Inside all was bewebbed, but not dirty. There was a fusty smell, the odour of damp and decay, and fungus had crept up the woodwork and plaster of the walls. It was swept and clean, but neither noticed as they walked in, their boots ringing dully on the heavy flags. Their attention was on the dark figure ahead of them, who crouched at the altar.

‘Have you found it yet, Nicholas?’ Baldwin called.

Nicholas spun around, astonished. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Probably the same as you. Looking for whatever Sir Gilbert left.’

‘How did you… Did you follow me?’

Baldwin smiled. ‘A Templar Knight, who must surely have possessed a large sum, would look to conceal it in a place he knew, wouldn’t he? And he knew of this place for he used to be a Templar here. But what of you, Nicholas?’

‘Me? What of me?’

‘You too were a Templar, weren’t you? That was where you knew Sir Gilbert from.’

‘No, not me.’

‘There is little point denying it. Your sister more or less told us by accident. And at the tavern you said a knight looked to his mount. You were a knight, weren’t you?’

Nicholas felt a fist of ice clench in his belly. ‘Of course not. What makes you think I’d…’ His voice trailed off. He couldn’t maintain the pretence any longer. His whole life for fourteen years had been devoted to hiding his past, and now that this Keeper had guessed at the truth, the whole edifice Nicholas had so carefully constructed seemed to collapse.

‘You were a Templar. At Witham. Did you kill Sir Gilbert?’

‘No! Why should I?’

‘Because Sir Gilbert could betray your secret. You thought he might tell other people about your background.’

‘Why should that worry me? If he did, he’d have to tell everyone about himself.’

‘Ah, but would you have cared about him? You would be more worried about your friends and business partners finding out about your background. They might not care for a man who had once given his oaths to the Temple.’

Nicholas stared, then guffawed with laughter. ‘You honestly think those ignorant, avaricious arseholes could give two damns about my history? Merchants are not devout religious, you know; not members of an Order. They only care for one thing, Sir Knight, and that is the ability to make money. If other merchants think I can increase their wealth, they will invest with me. If I begin to falter they may discover a new religious fervor and move to other men.’

Baldwin gave a small frown. Simon glanced at him and grinned. ‘I think he’s got a point there, Baldwin.’

‘Which makes the matter rather more intriguing, doesn’t it? If he knew that his brother merchants wouldn’t worry about his background, why should he conceal it? Especially as Templars were known to be thoroughly competent with money. His life with the Order could have helped guarantee riches. Couldn’t it, Nicholas?’

‘Some might not have reacted so favourably,’ the merchant said. ‘What about that priest?’

‘Abraham? Yes, I concede that he could have been troublesome. Perhaps more than that, for his beliefs seem to preclude the concept of forgiveness.’

‘How could a priest forgive a renegade heretic? An excommunicate? It is not within his power. No, I simply wanted to avoid any accusations – any difficulties.’

‘Where was your preceptory? South Witham?’

Nicholas tried to smile as if unconcerned. ‘You have heard of it?’

‘I have heard that a Templar there called de Gonville was the treasurer and that he took all the money from the preceptory and disappeared.’

‘Interesting, but hardly…’

‘What were you doing here?’ Simon asked.

‘I came to pray.’

‘There is a church in Tiverton.’

‘It is not so peaceful as this small chapel.’

‘This is precisely the place to which a Templar would turn. How did you get started as a merchant?’ Baldwin asked mildly.

‘My sister’s money. It was a good purse.’

‘And that was enough to set you up?’

‘Yes. I fear I didn’t inherit, as the younger son.’

‘Nicholas,’ Baldwin said gently, ‘let us stop beating about the bush. You were a Templar. Your name was de Gonville and when your Order was destroyed you took the money and fled, bringing your sister and her daughter with you.’

‘What else could I do? There was only death and ruin if I stayed – the Pope had set the Inquisition upon us! You know what that means – no access to a lawyer, no defence considered, because if you refused to confess you could be imprisoned for life until you did, and all the time you would be tortured.’

He suddenly fell to his knees, the scabbard at his side crashing loudly on the flags, and covered his face in his hands.

‘You can’t imagine how it was – first the Order collapsing, then my brother-in-law dying and leaving me to look after Matilda and little Joan. When she was told she couldn’t stay in her manor, we didn’t know what to do. What was the point of leaving all that money to go to waste? It was better to use it, to look after all three of us. And that’s what I did. I used it for the good of my sister and I. And when I had begun to make enough money, I paid more than I needed in alms for the poor to help those who hadn’t been so lucky.’

Baldwin raised his eyes to Simon. The bailiff was watching the merchant with a sympathetic expression and Baldwin knew he was thinking how a man would behave when he found his profession declared illegal, his sister and her child and he himself suddenly homeless.

‘I think there is no need for us to mention this to anyone,’ Baldwin said. ‘Your secret is safe with us, Nicholas.’

‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin. You are kind to promise that.’

‘But if I hear you have lied to me, I will not hesitate to denounce you.’

Nicholas sniffed and wiped his eyes.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘When I met Sir Gilbert in the tavern, one reason why I feared being noticed was that one of Sir Peregrine’s men was there and seemed to be watching us. It was an impression, no more, but when Sir Gilbert and I left the place, I saw him rise too. I think he followed Sir Gilbert.’

Simon suddenly recalled the bowl. ‘Has someone been living here?’

‘The old priest, Benedict. But he’s dead now. Died the night Sir Gilbert was killed.’

‘What was he doing here?’

‘He was the priest when this was a Templar manor. He stayed on.’

‘That’s why this chapel is still quite clean.’

‘And died here alone,’ Baldwin mused sadly.

‘No, Father Abraham was here.’

‘Of course.’ Baldwin nodded. That was why Harlewin had seen the Father on the road that night.

‘Will you help us to look for the money?’ Simon asked.

‘Can we share it three ways?’ Nicholas enquired hopefully.

‘The bollocks we can!’ Simon exploded.

‘I think my friend is pointing out that the whole amount is owned by the King,’ said Baldwin suavely.

Nicholas smiled thinly. ‘I don’t think you need me getting in your way, then.’

Simon’s sympathy had evaporated. ‘Do you mean to suggest we’d take it for ourselves?’

‘Oh, I suppose you’ll put it straight into the King’s own hands, won’t you!’

‘Hold your tongue!’ Baldwin thundered. A twinge of pain shot through his head and he glowered still more angrily. ‘Remember this, cretin! I am a King’s officer, and I will do my duty as I have sworn. That means that this wealth, if I find it, will be taken straight to the Coroner, Harlewin le Poter, for him to dispose of. If any man has a legal right to it, he can appeal the justices when they arrive on their tourn.’

‘You mean to tell me you’ll give it to that thieving bastard?’ Nicholas burst out. ‘You might as well throw it in the Exe for all the money the King will see from it.’

‘You idiotic fool! Do you think the owner will readily forget all this? You know whose money it is, don’t you?’

Nicholas faltered. Baldwin’s angry conviction made the merchant quail. ‘It’s Despenser money, but what of it? They’ve been exiled.’

‘Who is Hugh Despenser’s best friend and ally? The King! Who will receive an account of the full sum here? The King! To whom will he pass it? His friend Despenser. And before you whine, “He’ll keep it for himself ”, remember that the King’s favourites have a habit of returning when Parliament has forced him to exile them. If you steal this money, the King will know about it, and so will the Despensers. And they will come to ask what has happened to it.’

‘I’ve had enough of this!’ Nicholas said, throwing his hands into the air. ‘You mean to take the money – that’s fine, but don’t try to convince me you’ll take it to that fat fool in Tiverton. That’s trying my credulity too far.’

‘Where are you going?’ Simon demanded.

‘Back to Tiverton. If you want to see whether you can get the gold, go ahead! You’re welcome to it.’

He stamped out, slamming the door shut behind him, and instantly ran on light feet to his horse, untying the reins with a panicked urgency, his attention focused on the church. There was no doubt in his mind that the two men were going to take the hoard for themselves, and he feared that they might try to silence him. He expected them to come storming through the door at any moment.

But as he swung his leg over the saddle, hastily finding the stirrups, he saw no one rushing to catch or kill him. Breathing a sigh of relief he realised that they must have been so lured by the thought of the money that they had decided to remain and seek it out. Stupid, he considered. If he had been them, he would have ensured the silence of any witnesses before searching.

There was no point in hanging about. If he did, they might see him and kill him. He couldn’t trust a man in authority; he knew how he himself had behaved when he had last been entrusted with someone else’s gold. No, he would go back to town, and just to make sure that they couldn’t get away with their theft, he’d broadcast news of their find ahead of them.

He felt sure that this would be the very last thing they would want. That idea appealed to him and he pulled his horse’s head around and kicked her up the slope. Riding up, he passed two scruffy-looking men and eyed them with cautious curiosity as any man would who passed strangers on a quiet road, but the two appeared to be more interested in the lane ahead than him.

Andrew Carter sidled in by the rearmost gate to his stable. In there he found a stable lad and sent him to the house to fetch a loaf of bread and a wineskin. Meanwhile Carter ordered a groom to saddle and bridle a horse.

‘Husband? Why didn’t you come to the front door?’

‘Matilda – my dear,’ he said a little stiffly. She looked odd. There was something different. Her dress. It was familiar but looked out of place on her somehow; unsettling. He put it from his mind. ‘A man is asking me to prove my credit, so I have to ride to Exeter to get papers signed. I should be back before long.’

She was watching him closely. Foolish woman. He wanted to be away, couldn’t she see that? He shot a glance to the doorway behind her, thinking he heard someone approach.

‘Is something the matter, Husband?’

‘Nothing. No, not at all. I should be back in a couple of days.’ The dress did not fit her perfectly. It was the wrong style for her… and yet it was familiar somehow.

‘That is a shame, dear,’ she said and smiled. ‘But I am sure you will return as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he lied. I’d say anything to get rid of you, you stupid raddled old bitch, he said to himself. Then he looked at her smiling face again. A small fist of trepidation clenched in his bowels. Something was wrong. She was too calm, too composed. She hadn’t been like this for days. Not since the death of her daughter. And that dress – what was it about that dress?

‘You like my new tunic?’ she asked, swivelling her hips to let the skirts open.

The fist in his guts became a sharp pain that almost made him gag: it was her dress; Joan’s. It was the one she had worn when he killed her. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead. She was mad! His wife had lost her head. The vapours had got to her at last. He started to move away, but her calm voice stopped him.

‘Your horse is almost ready. Would you kiss me before you go?’

‘Of course,’ he said, trying to smile. She lifted her face to his, eyes closed as always, and he thanked his stars that with luck he might never have to see her again. ‘Goodbye, my love.’

‘Goodbye!’

There was a flash, and he stared in disbelief as her eyes opened vindictively, then narrowed as she thrust the blade into his chest.

He hardly recognised the scream as coming from his own mouth.

‘Where could he have shoved it?’ Simon demanded.

Baldwin pulled the key on its necklace from beneath his tunic. ‘In a box or chest. You see,’ he continued, tapping at the flags near the altar, ‘when the Order was destroyed, most of the Temple’s places near London, Winchester, York and Oxford, were quickly taken by the King’s men, but preceptories in outlying areas like this, had a little more warning sometimes. They occasionally concealed some of their wealth.’

‘In case the Knights wanted it for themselves?’ Simon asked doubtfully. ‘It sounds a bit… well, sacrilegious.’

‘Not for themselves; for the Order. Most of us couldn’t believe that the Pope or the French King could seriously believe the propaganda they were putting about. We honestly thought that after a few weeks we and our Order would be reinstated. Few of us realised that it was a coordinated attack to extract every last item of value, so we hid our wealth where we could retrieve it and use it for the honour of the Order when we were back in business.’

‘And you think there might be a cache here? Why?’

Baldwin paused and threw him an exasperated look. ‘Simon, I don’t know anything about this place – but someone else did!’

‘Sir Gilbert!’

‘Of course. He served here. If he came here to hide his money, he knew there was somewhere to put it. And a man determined to save his money for the good of God would hide it somewhere near the altar, wouldn’t he?’

Simon nodded amiably as Baldwin roved over the altar itself, then tapped at the wall behind. All the time Baldwin’s face grew longer and longer, and Simon found himself offering up a prayer that they might succeed. It would be ridiculous for the secret of Sir Gilbert’s hoard to remain hidden. He allowed his eyes to rise to the window. It still had glass, a thick, heavy-looking glass, set in the thick stone wall. There was a large window-ledge.

He blinked.

‘Um – Baldwin?’

‘Not now, I need to think.’

‘Do you think he’d have stuck the lot in a box?’

Baldwin frowned at him. ‘What the hell are you on about?’

‘In a box like that one up there?’ Simon pointed.