The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Edgar saw the weeping man cross the yard to the stable and install the horses there, watching while a groom took them and began the long process of removing harnesses and brushing them. As far as he could see, the men had all come in now, so he sent Wat in to inform Jeanne of this and to ask her if he could see Petronilla for a moment.

She left her child and was soon at his side.

‘I think that man over there in the stable is one of the outlaws who tried to ambush Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar told her. ‘Could you speak to him and see whether you can find out anything about him and his master? Offer him some help with his cut. And ask how he got it.’

Petronilla nodded slowly. She hadn’t much hope of discovering anything, but the man certainly needed help.

It was demeaning being commanded like this. Edgar had no right. She had hoped that he had asked for her to join him because he wanted to speak to her in private, but instead it was merely to send her to entice a man into performing an indiscretion. It was tempting to give him short shrift and storm off, but then she saw the anxiety in his eyes and the concern that creased his brow, and felt her heart swell at the knowledge that he had asked her for help in this.

Not, she reminded herself, that there was anyone else he could ask in this place.

‘I shall constantly be within a few yards of you. You need not fear that he could hurt you,’ Edgar whispered as they walked slowly over the yard.

Petronilla avoided a pile of horse dung and skirted around a sow suckling her young. As Edgar paused at the wall to the stables, she walked on to the side of the silently weeping Welshman.

‘Are you all right, master?’ she asked, setting her tone at a quietly sympathetic level. ‘Ooh, your cheek! It’s deeply cut, you need some cloth. Come here into the light.’

Owen found himself being led into the late afternoon sunlight, where Petronilla examined his wound carefully.

‘It isn’t as deep as I’d thought,’ she murmured as if to herself. ‘Come, I shall fetch cloth and clean it for you.’

‘No, it’s not hurting or anything,’ he lied, ashamed now of his tears, but she shook her head solemnly.

‘Do you want to have it fester and give you a fever? Stay there. I’ll get wine.’

She was as good as her word. In a few minutes she was back with a jug of wine and a pot. She filled the pot and gave it to him to hold while she dipped her clean cloth in the horse trough, wiping away the blood. ‘This may hurt a little,’ she said, soaking the cloth in his wine and gently washing the edges of the wound.

Owen winced and his shoulders clenched with the sharp sting, but although he closed his eyes firmly, he gave no cry.

‘Are you part of the garrison?’

He nodded, hardly trusting his voice: the wine burned like fire.

‘So you serve Lord Hugh?’

‘Yes. I am one of Sir Peregrine’s men – except he’s put me with Toker’s band.’ He drew in his breath sharply as she dabbed too hard.

‘Oh, sorry, sorry. What’s your name?’

‘Owen, Miss.’

‘Well, Owen, you’ve travelled far from your home, from your accent.’

‘This is nothing. We’re only just back from London.’

‘London? What’s it like? I’ve never been so far.’

‘It’s a great huge city, but it was dangerous when we were there. All the great lords were rattling their swords outside the city while the King decided what to do.’

‘That must have been exciting.’

‘Toker, he’s used to excitement. He’s served many different lords,’ Owen agreed dismally. ‘All over the country, and in the King’s lands in Gascony.’

‘Why are you here now, then? It sounds too exciting for you to be content to stay in Tiverton,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the trough, finished.

Owen indicated his wound. ‘This is as much excitement as I care to take,’ he said wryly.

‘Did a cutpurse do it?’

‘Ha! No, it was Toker. He wanted to show me… well, he wasn’t happy with me.’

‘That’s terrible! It’s one thing to thrash a servant, but to scar you for life like that!’

‘Well, I failed, see. So I got punished.’

‘What didn’t you do?’

Owen shuffled his feet. ‘Never mind that. It’s nothing, really.’

‘It must have been something pretty important for him to cut you like that. Maybe I should ask someone to complain to Sir Peregrine for you.’

But Owen was no longer listening. In the roadway he heard horses’ hooves, and now they rang on the cobbles under the gatehouse.

Simon and Baldwin rode across the yard to the stables and chatted happily as they dropped lightly from their mounts, then strolled to the hall. Owen hardly noticed them. Bleakly he took in the sight of the two saddles. Both now empty of sacks.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ he said sadly.

Baldwin saw Sir Peregrine walking to greet them as soon as they entered the hall. ‘Look out, the bannaret is coming.’ It was with a feeling of considerable satisfaction that Baldwin saw an already partly drunk guest engage Sir Peregrine in conversation. The bannaret tried to break away politely, but the guest was persistent.

‘You were delayed long, Husband,’ Jeanne said. She had been waiting at the door for their approach, and now she joined them.

‘It will soon be too hot in here for a person to keep from perspiring.’

Glancing about him Baldwin could see what she meant. The hall was filling quickly as guests arrived for the celebrations of the morrow of St Giles’s Day. It was not so splendid an occasion as the previous night, but the women were all dressed in their finery, the men wearing their best velvets and furs. Men-at-arms in the de Courtenay colours stood at the walls, while servants wearing Lord Hugh’s livery moved among the people with silver plates piled high with pies and drinks.

‘I have a terrible feeling I’ve been here before,’ Baldwin told himself, and grabbed a handful of pies and a large pot of wine. The knight felt horribly under-dressed in his dusty and faded riding tunic, but even as he considered leaving the room there was a change in the atmosphere.

Simon sniggered, but before he could reply he, too, noticed the subtle difference in the conversation as Lord Hugh himself walked in. He stood a short way into the room smiling at his guests, taking a large cup of wine and lifting it in a toast.

‘I think we should make our presence known,’ Baldwin said softly and walked up to the lord. Jeanne looked from him to Simon, then followed her husband.

‘My Lord, I thank you for inviting me here,’ Sir Baldwin began.

Sir Peregrine at last broke away from the unwelcome conversation of the drunken man and he marched to Lord Hugh’s side.

Baldwin acknowledged his presence with a polite smile, then resumed: ‘Lord Hugh, I thought you should know that a treasure has been discovered. I and the Bailiff here found it at Templeton. We think it was owned by Sir Gilbert of Carlisle and concealed in the chapel there by him.’

‘I am glad to hear it is held safely,’ Lord Hugh said, and his eyes held a happy twinkle. ‘It would be terrible for such a find to be made by a wandering outlaw.’

‘There was no risk of that, my Lord. Now it is safely installed with the Coroner.’

‘Harlewin le Poter? Good. In that case there is little more to be said about it. Such a shame about the knight himself. I understand Sir Gilbert was an experienced man. He could have been invaluable as a member of my household, don’t you think?’

‘I scarcely knew the man, I fear.’

‘Anyone who could come all the way here carrying a treasure trove would be an interesting man to meet, wouldn’t you say, Sir Baldwin?’ Lord Hugh said mildly.

‘Interesting to meet and talk to, I suspect,’ replied Baldwin.

A few moments later the lord excused himself and went to make conversation with someone else farther along the room. Sir Peregrine hesitated, then stepped after him.

‘I think the bannaret wanted to speak to you,’ Simon said pensively.

‘Probably. But there’s nothing much for us to say to each other, is there – not now he knows that the Despensers’ cache is lost. He realises – I hope – that his ambitions to see the Marcher Lords win ascendency in Lord Hugh’s court will probably succeed. He has no need to worry about Despenser money going to bribe anyone. I hope, too, that he realises there is no longer any point in ambushing us. We can’t give him the money either!’

Jeanne frowned from one to the other. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘We had a little trouble in town today,’ Simon began.

‘Not trouble exactly,’ Baldwin hurriedly interrupted. ‘Just a near…’

‘Husband, please leave our friend and me to talk unhindered,’ Jeanne said with poisonous sweetness. ‘So, Simon. I had heard a little of this, but I should appreciate a few facts. You were saying?’

‘It was nothing. Some men tried to ambush us, but they failed. The Coroner saved us.’

‘That in itself must make you both unique,’ she observed caustically.

‘The interesting thing is what we heard from the Coroner,’ Baldwin said and told her of the arrest and murder of Andrew Carter.

‘All very fascinating, but it hardly helps to show us who killed the knight,’ she pointed out.

Baldwin pondered. ‘No, it doesn’t. But I think we are getting close to discovering who it might have been.’

Simon held up his pot and inspected the wine within. ‘The trouble is there seem to have been so many people who could have wanted him never to get here.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘From Sir Peregrine there, trying to keep his master from accepting Despenser’s bribe, to Cecily Sherman and Harlewin le Poter, wishing to conceal their liaison. The priest, if he knew Sir Gilbert was a Templar, and Nicholas himself, to prevent anyone hearing about his past.’

‘What past?’ Jeanne asked.

‘I forgot to mention it,’ Simon said, missing Baldwin’s swift look. ‘Lovecok used to be a Knight Templar.’

Baldwin was sure he felt his heart stop. He dared not meet his wife’s gaze for a minute in case he saw her face transfigured with disgust at the thought that a man she had met might have been a part of that hated Order. When he heard her response, he could have grabbed her and kissed her before all the assembly.

‘So what?’

Owen held a cloth to his cheek. It had stopped stinging now, and instead the slash felt like a burn across his cheekbone. ‘That’s what I saw,’ he stated stolidly. ‘All the stuff was gone.’

‘Damn!’ Toker said. He and his men were in the undercroft below the great hall. It was one of the few places where they could talk in peace. Perkin was upright again, glowering sullenly in the corner and holding his bruised and battered head. The others were ranged about the floor or on barrels.

He knew that they were looking to him for a lead as usual, but for once he felt lost. All depended on where they had put the money: if it was hidden somewhere nearby so the Bailiff and Keeper could collect it later, Toker might be able to get it. He couldn’t afford to lose face among his men. Chewing his lip, he turned away from the little Welshman and strolled to the doorway. A short distance away was a girl throwing pebbles at a stick in the ground, while a man sat nearby watching her. Toker didn’t know Petronilla or Edgar except as vaguely familiar faces about the castle ground, so he only gave them a cursory look.

The question was, had they hidden it? If they had, they could be ‘persuaded’ to say where it was.

Toker’s mind turned to Perkin. People told Perkin all they knew when he started punching them. He knew where to hit for maximum pain. Perkin could persuade the knight to tell them where the contents of the box were stored, all right. All they had to do was catch Sir Baldwin.

And if it proved difficult, Toker thought, drawing his knife and kissing the blade as he made his oath, the knight and his friend would die.

Baldwin took another pot of wine with a feeling of satisfaction. He had done all he could to ensure that he and Simon would be safe from any form of attack. Now Sir Peregrine knew the hoard was safe in the Coroner’s hands, Baldwin felt secure.

Harlewin arrived a while after most other people, nodding to many and smiling at Simon and Baldwin like an accomplice. However, he moved off swiftly as Baldwin became aware of a man behind him. When he turned he saw it was Cecily’s husband, John Sherman.

‘Master Sherman?’ Jeanne said. ‘We were very impressed with your stock. I couldn’t recognise some of it. It all looked very impressive.’

The spicer glanced at them as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Eh?’ Then, recollecting himself, he gave a broken smile. ‘Oh, thank you. Yes, I try to stock as much as possible. It’s not always easy, but…’ He ran on, speaking of his trade with France, with other countries, his fine collection of cardamoms, the quality of his peppercorns, his exotic nutmegs and how they could flavour a wine fit for a king.

Baldwin could see that his attention was equally split between Jeanne as a prospective customer, and his wife Cecily, who had gathered a circle of admiring men about her like a candle attracting moths. Some of them, Baldwin thought to himself, could soon end up scorched. If looks could burn, many of Cecily Sherman’s entourage would be singed already.

While his wife listened attentively, Baldwin’s mind wandered. If there was any fairness in the world, Philip Dyne would have been left alone to leave the country. Perhaps he would have been able to rebuild his life abroad, found a new woman, married and produced children. Except he was unlucky enough to have Andrew Carter on his trail, a man who sought to kill him to conceal his own crime.

If life were straightforward, Sir Gilbert would have been overcome by the lad, his knife stolen and used to stab him. Except Baldwin knew that a trained knight would not easily submit, far less permit an unarmed thief to steal his dagger. And as for his dog sitting by and waiting until his master was dead, before leaping forward to be spitted on a dagger – well that beggared belief.

Baldwin racked his brains, thinking again of the people who could have wished Sir Gilbert dead. Nicholas Lovecok, to keep his secret; the Templar-hating Father Abraham, who had also been there. Harlewin and his lover had passed by the road to the west of the scene of the murders, although Harlewin had remained on the road to stop Dyne’s escape. John Sherman had been there too, and Matilda, and today she had proved that she could kill by slaughtering her husband.

Harlewin and Cecily Sherman had ridden past, she first, Harlewin following, until he met Sir Gilbert. Sir Gilbert had turned back and ridden into the woods, and presumably had never seen Cecily.

There was always Nicholas. It was possible that he or Andrew Carter could have come across the knight in the dark and slayed him by accident, thinking he was the felon. Matilda would have tried to back them up, if she had seen them kill the wrong man, perjuring herself to protect the men who she thought were trying to avenge her daughter.

Suddenly Baldwin felt a tingle creep up his spine to his neck: the knight had surely died on his feet; not on horseback.

When Harlewin had seen him, Sir Gilbert was still riding about in the woods. For some reason his dog was not with him. Baldwin was suddenly sure that the dog was already dead. When he had seen Uther dying it was natural to crouch at his side to comfort him. Surely Sir Gilbert would have done the same. Was it possible that someone could have killed the dog beforehand, as a trap, and that Sir Gilbert had seen the hound’s body and gone to help it?

Sir Peregrine had been there. He had ridden off as if the hounds of Hell were after him. Perhaps that was right and a hound was after him, Baldwin reasoned – if Sir Peregrine was the mysterious man in the woods who had been watching William and Sir Gilbert that day. When the dog was released, it must have chased after the man it had noticed before: the man whose scent it had caught on the wind. Everyone who had seen Sir Peregrine said that he was riding at speed.

And behind him, Sir Gilbert saw his dog. Riding in Sir Peregrine’s wake, he had come across his hound’s dead body, perhaps. Like Sir Baldwin, Sir Gilbert would probably have dropped from his horse – not that it would have helped the dog. What then? Did Sir Gilbert remount and chase after the killer of his dog? Could Sir Peregrine have been attacked by Sir Gilbert and killed him in defence? No. Sir Gilbert was struck in the back. Could he have been stabbed that way while on horseback?

His horse! A great heavy creature – a destrier. It still hadn’t appeared. Suddenly Baldwin was sure that he had found a crucial clue. The mount should have turned up by now, unless it had been stolen or…

He turned sharply to his friend. ‘Simon – that horsedealer we went to. Didn’t he have one mount which stood out?’

Simon gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Sherman was less subtle. ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

‘Think!’ Baldwin urged his friend, ignoring the spicer. ‘When we went in to talk to that man about horses, there was one decent mount in there, wasn’t there? A large animal, just like a destrier.’

‘I suppose so,’ Simon agreed. ‘But it looked a mess, just like all the others.’

‘Simon, we are fools. If stupidity was a felony we would deserve to be thrown into gaol. Come with me!’

Jeanne sipped her wine as Baldwin gripped Simon’s elbow and half-dragged the bailiff from the hall, giving his wife a brief wave as they went.

‘Is he mad?’ Sherman asked, bewildered.

Jeanne smiled, but coldly. ‘I find him perfect,’ she said, but as soon as she saw the hurt in his eyes, and the way he guiltily cast a look at his wife, chatting so easily and happily with her circle of male friends, Jeanne felt embarrassed for him and ashamed of talking so curtly. ‘Would you like more wine?’ she asked gently, and he nodded gratefully.