The Tainted Relic

ACT THREE

South Witham, Lincolnshire, June 1323

It was twilight, and the rough door scraped on the packed earth of the floor. The sudden gust of wind made the cheap candle gutter. It sparked and hissed malevolently on the table.

Luke peered inside and had to quash the urge to recoil when he caught sight of the corrodiary’s [1] eyes. In the gloom Luke thought they they had filled with blood, as though old Johel had died of a fit. The flame’s reflection glittered balefully in them. Brother Johel looked like a demon, squatting there on the other side of the chamber, his elbows leaning on the bare boards of the table while he glared fixedly at the doorway.

Luke had to force himself to cross the threshold, his knowledge of the man’s crimes making his progress reluctant.

‘Godspeed, Luke.’

Well, his voice hadn’t changed. Still powerful, with a rough edge; like that of a man who’d spent his life bellowing at others. Which he had, of course.

Under his threadbare and stained tunic, once white, now filthy grey, the corrodiary was ancient, with swollen and arthritic joints looking out of place on such withered limbs. He was probably sixty to five-and-sixty years old, and each of those years had taken its toll. Tracks of pain were carved about his brow and into the flesh on either side of his slit-like mouth. His flesh was so lean that, although it was leathery from long days in the saddle in the Holy Land, it yet showed the tracery of fine veins underneath. Livery blotches marked his face and his crabbed hands. Scrawny jowls dangled from his jaw; his cheeks were prominent, but served only to add to the impression of gauntness.

He would soon be a corpse. His eyes alone held remnants of the vitality that had once set the seal on his character. The near-madness gleamed in them still.

When Luke had first met Brother Johel, they had been as sharp as a falcon’s, but over the last four years they had lost much of their brilliance. Forced to accept that he could never avenge his slaughtered comrades or the destruction of his life’s efforts, there was little softness left in them. His own torture was one stage of his suffering, but more poignant to him was the failure of his dream of a fresh Crusade to free the Holy Land. Only misery remained-and fear. Johel knew as well as any that he was dying, and Luke felt sure that it was this knowledge which had turned him into an old man in a matter of days. Luke should feel sympathy, but compassion was scarce in these terrible times. God had forsaken the realm, and all must look to themselves.

The candle was one of the manor’s own: small and thin, made of foul-smelling mutton fat that burned slowly and unevenly. It illuminated a scant few feet, and in Luke’s eyes it made the room hellish. All about was dark, but in the middle of the room the reeking flame made the monk’s face appear still more awful than Luke had expected. It could have been the face of a tormented soul.

‘You came.’

Luke nodded and cleared his throat. Stupid comment, it was obvious, wasn’t it?!

‘Why, though? Just because an old corrodiary called for help.’

Luke felt a spark of irritation. ‘If you don’t want me…’

‘I do. Come closer.’

‘Just tell me what you want, old man.’

‘I want you here, where I can see you.’

The voice was weaker; the devil was not long for the world, Luke told himself. He should respect a man like this, one who had commanded earls and lords. He might seem feeble, but he was entitled to respect. Probably his mind was going. Luke felt a fleeting sadness to think that Johel would soon be gone.

Reluctantly he stepped forward. ‘Well?’

A hand snaked up and gripped his rough habit, hauling Luke forward fiercely. ‘Don’t treat me like an imbecile, boy!’

Luke felt dazed with shock. The man was supposedly close to death, aye, but he had power in those wretched hands. The suddenness of the attack made Luke dizzy; nausea washed through him, and he felt close to puking.

Johel continued in a malevolent whisper, ‘You can shit yourself now, boy, and you can laugh at me when I’m dead, but for now you have only me here. And I have only you!’

The contempt was like poison. It trickled through Luke’s pride, eating it away. He wanted to defend himself, but couldn’t. ‘Let me go!’

‘Shut up! You know who I am?’

‘Johel of Acre.’

‘And what was I?’

‘A brother in the Order.’

‘Yes. The Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon,’ Johel said with grave emphasis. He coughed, the spasm making his fingers twist in Luke’s tunic. ‘Remember that name, boy, if you value your soul! And serve the Order.’

‘What do you want with me, old man?’ Luke asked. Anger was beginning to flare, and he added snidely, ‘The Order’s gone, you remember? The Pope declared it…’

‘We answer only to God, then!’ Johel looked at him fiercely, but gradually slouched and released Luke. His hand fell to the table as though lifeless. ‘But you’re right. I have a request to make of you.’

‘What do you mean?’

My God! Johel thought again, peering at the lad, aware, so aware, of his own impending doom. This was a matter too weighty for a dying man, but he had a last duty to perform for the defence of all. He was a Templar, a proud warrior-monk in the service of God, but he was so weak. Yet this matter was too important to be left unresolved.

Christ Jesus, why have you done this to us?

Johel let his eyes drop. All they had tried to do was perform God’s will on earth. They had ignored all the snares and politics of the secular world, and that omission had brought them down. Many were already dead, and he would soon join them. Yet there was still a task that he had to complete.

He reached under his tunic and brought out a small box. And then, as Luke’s eyes widened, he explained about the marvellous relic within.

Bishop’s Clyst, Devonshire, November 1323

The famine was over, true enough, but that wasn’t much help to a body. Not when a man had an empty belly and no money in his purse to fill it. Not that Will Hogg was unused to that. He had plenty of experience of hunger. Everyone did.

This was a busy little vill. He was standing by the trunk of a great beech whose upper branches reached out over the trackway and shaded it. To his left was a gurgling little river, quite fast flowing just here, between steep, muddy banks, while behind him lay the long and damp path that led to the city.

It was a good spot here, at the ford. The rain had poured down recently and the River Clyst had swollen and burst its banks, flooding the whole plain. Even in the height of summer the boggy ground here was sodden, but today it was much worse. People would have had to have tramped through the soggy marshland to get here, feet already soaked and chilly, and their senses would be as numbed as their toes by the time they reached the bank. And here they’d have to contemplate crossing the river itself, and would pause while they sought the best route. Although the passage of many feet had tramped a ramp into the bank just here, that was no proof that the best route was straight through the water to the other side. A traveller must spy out the shallowest passage. That was when they would make their attack.

There were plenty of ruts in the damp soil to show how many carts had come this way to go to Exeter’s market. The great city sat safe behind its massive red walls some two miles west and a little north. They were hidden from view down here in the Clyst Valley, but Will knew that they would be gleaming up there in the morning sunshine over the bend in the River Exe. He stared up that way with a strange sense of longing. He was aware of a curious wistfulness as he brought to mind the picture of the great city walls, dwarfed by the two massive towers of the Cathedral of St Peter within. There was safety in there.

Exeter was full of wealthy people who lived in comfortable houses drinking wine from silver or pewter goblets with their friends. If his father hadn’t died for the King, Will could have had a life like that himself. It wasn’t his fault he was like this, a broken-down man with no occupation, making do as best he could. At least he had a small corner to sleep in, out of the rain and away from the cold. After the last few years it felt like a palace to him, especially with winter approaching. He’d had his share of sleeping under hedges in winter.

The others were spread about. Andrew had some space at the inn; Rob had his in Elias’s stable, just over the way from his brother. Those two were often the source of news about travellers, essential in this work.

Adam was more reliable. That was why Will had agreed to share his room with him. The others were good companions, but Will wasn’t so sure about them. Andrew was bright enough, and he had that edge of hardness, but Rob was a fool. Always worried about the risks. He was the one who counselled caution when the others wanted to try their luck.

If it was up to him, they wouldn’t be here now, sod him. He wanted them all to wait. Said it was too soon after their last attack. Feeble cretin! They wanted money, and the way to get it was by boldness.

There was a low whistle, and he dropped to his knees as he heard voices, a jingling of chains, a creaking of harness, and he made out two figures, one slumped man on a large rounsey [2], one younger-looking fellow on foot. Both were clad in black, the walker appearing to be wearing clerical garb, a heavy-looking satchel over his shoulder, the rider looking more like a down-at-heel knight. God alone knew, there were enough of them just now, since the King had taken his revenge on the barons who’d threatened his authority. With their lords executed, the men-at-arms had to seek new masters. A man was nothing without patronage.

The horseman was tired, head nodding, perhaps asleep already. Yes: these two should be easy targets.

The outlaw rode along slowly, jogging easily in his saddle. At the sound of a bird by the roadside, his head snapped around. He stared, gradually relaxing as the noisy clattering of wings disappeared into the distance. It was only a wood pigeon, he saw, and that was cause for comfort. No pigeon would stay if there was a man about the place. There would be no ambush here if a pigeon was roosting.

A fugitive must always be on the lookout for danger. Any man could make an attempt on his life now, capture him and remove his head, declaring him to be outlaw without fear of punishment. He had to be on his guard at all times. It was fortunate that he was at least a knight and used to seeking out ambushes. He’d learned his skills well when he lived at my Lord de Courtenay’s household as a child and youth. That was four-and-thirty years ago. Much had happened since. He had travelled the world, seen the destruction of so much that had been good-and finally renounced his past life of service and hope. Now all he had was his oath, and he would be damned before he broke that.

His chin rested on his breast again. Yes, he had learned to be alert when it was necessary, but here in the sleepy flatlands on the outskirts of Exeter, there was less need. He wasn’t in France evading the King’s damned officers, nor in the Holy Land, where an ambush was to be expected at any moment. He was in England, in one of the most peaceful parts of the kingdom, and God’s Wounds, but he was tired. His head moved with the horse’s steady amble, and he felt his eyes closing once more. The journey had been long, and they were nearly at their destination.

There was a change in the gait of his mount, and he opened his eyes to see that the beast was favouring his front right hoof.

‘Wait!’ he called.

‘What is it?’

‘My horse is lame.’

The clerk nodded, but then looked ahead again. ‘You can catch me up, Sir Knight. I’ll get on. I am so desperate for ale I think my belly thinks my throat’s been cut.’

The outlaw nodded. There was surely no danger up here. He jerked his head and the clerk continued. Meanwhile the outlaw swung himself down, lifted the offending hoof, and saw the large pebble caught there. He pulled out his dagger and inserted it, twisting it gently, all the while talking to the beast to keep it calm. If you could keep them quiet and confident, they were twice the animals.

So it was by the merest chance that he wasn’t caught and slain in the first moment when the trap was sprung. A stone in the hoof saved his life for just a little longer.

A raucous din. He was startled by the explosion of noise, and he looked up to see a blackbird cackling out its warning cry. Then he heard the shrill shriek.

He levered the stone from the hoof, thrust the dagger back in the sheath, then leaped on to the horse’s back. There came another scream, and he clapped spurs to the beast’s flanks. The brute reared, whirling as though preparing to bolt away, but he jerked the head around and galloped off after the clerk, riding towards Exeter.

As he rode through a small stand of trees, he saw the clerk lying on the ground, a man over him. Roaring his rage, the outlaw drew his sword and pelted along the road at the man, but as he approached he felt, rather than saw, the figure rise from a crouch with a long staff in his hands, saw the iron tip swing towards him. He ducked, but the heavy metal butt still caught him over the ear, and he nearly fell from the saddle. Waving his arm for balance, he turned the horse, and rode back, fury overwhelming his sense of duty.

That was the cause of the deaths. If he had continued and ignored the assault, so many lives would have been saved, he later realized, but at that moment the only thought in his mind was avenging this blow.

And that was how the curse came to be laid once more on Exeter’s population.

Exeter, Devonshire, November 1323

Brother Joseph yawned and scratched at his beard as he ambled happily from the little garden where he grew his medicinal herbs. He was a round-faced man, and his chin was forever rough and stubbly, no matter how often he asked the barber to scrape it. The damned fool never saw to his razors properly, that was the problem.

It was already late, and he was looking forward to the end of the final service of the day so that he could go to his cot and sleep. Funny how, as a man grew older, he craved earlier nights. When he had been a lad, he had been keen to stay up most of the night and drink as much ale as he could, while also befriending attractive wenches; later he’d been more interested in staying up to pray to ask forgiveness for those nights of dissipation.

The days when he would stay up all night were long gone, and with them the guilt of a young novice. He was contented now, happy to look to his bed with gratitude that it was lonely. When he was younger, he would have been sad at the thought of the cold blankets and palliasse being empty when he went to them. In those days the only bearable bed was one in which young Mags or Sara was already waiting; now his bed was for sleeping, and my God, how delightful that was!

He could smile to himself at the thought. Mind, the chance of misbehaviour would be a pleasant thing. Even if he’d grown a paunch and didn’t need to worry so much about shaving his tonsure since most of his hair had disappeared, his brown eyes were still attractive to women; but he believed that they mostly saw him as a pleasant old soul, rather than a risk to their virginity. So be it. They were probably right.

Not old at some four-and-forty years, Joseph was that rare creature, a man who was entirely satisfied with his life. He knew his position in the world: he was a monk in the hospital of St John, with responsibility for the treatment of sick travellers. Normally this wasn’t a particularly arduous task, of course, but there was a steady trickle of people coming through the city asking for attention. Since the famine there had been fewer people passing through, but Joseph didn’t care. He had the garden to keep him busy. There was always something to do.

Whistling as he walked to the little lean-to shed beside the priory’s wall, he heard a call. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a man up at the gate with the porter, then more men behind him in the gateway, and he frowned a little. They were carrying something-a heavy sack or bundle. Or body.

Dropping his tools, he started to run to the gate.

Rob kept starting and staring at the door, but whenever it opened, there was never any sign of Andrew. ‘Where is he?’

‘Sit down and shut up. We’ve got the stuff to split up.’

Adam nodded. ‘Will’s right, Rob. If Andrew didn’t want to come and get his money, that’s his lookout.’

‘But where is he? He ought to be here.’

Will leaned back easily until his back was against the wall. He was a good-looking lad in a bold way. Only two and twenty, he had fine fair hair, somewhat lank, which constantly drooped over his grey eyes, concealing the fact that there was a slight cast in his left. He wore a cheap and faded grey fustian tunic and dull green hose, and he pulled at a loose thread at his knee as he gazed at Rob. ‘Look, he’s not here. We can either wait, or divvie it all up now. Right?’

Rob frowned. ‘I’ll take his share, then, and…’

‘Oh no,’ Will said smoothly. ‘I’ll keep his share safe. We’ll see what we do with it later. For now, we’ll just make four shares. Tell him to come to me later and we’ll work it out.’

Not for the first time, Rob wondered what he was doing with these two. There were other men he could have worked with, but no, Andrew had said that these two were safer for them.

‘There’s strength in numbers, Robbie, boy,’ he’d said. ‘We’re half the gang, and while we’re half, we’re safe. If I ever disappear, though, you look to yourself.’

And now Andrew wasn’t here. Rob had seen Will knock the cleric down, and it was as he was grabbing the bag from his shoulder that the madman appeared, howling and screaming at them, waving his sword wildly like a berserker. Rob had fled in the face of that lunatic, and he’d thought the others had too. But there was no sign of Andrew when he got back to the stable, and although he’d waited there for an age, there was still no Andrew when he came here to the alehouse for the sharing.

Will took his silence for agreement, and leaned forward over the rough table. The bag had a purse inside, and in it were a few coins, carefully counted into piles and passed about the table. There were some clothes, a shirt which Will claimed, a spoon which Adam took, and a little knife, which Will thought Andrew would like, and which he placed with the pile of coins ready for Andrew to collect. He glanced at Rob challengingly as he did so, but Rob didn’t care. His mind was on his brother, wondering where he was.

The fear was like a cold trickle of water running down his back at the thought that Andrew may not have survived. Sweet Jesus, don’t let him be hurt, Rob thought. The only man he knew and trusted in the world surely couldn’t have been taken from him.

‘Marge, bring us ale!’ Adam shouted to the woman at the bar. She brought jugs, ignoring the fact that the three were concealing their booty on the table. Will stared at her with empty eyes as she set drinking horns on the table, the blankness a threat. She met his look with contempt, curled her lip and returned to the bar.

‘What’s this?’ Will muttered as he reached into the bottom of the satchel, a frown darkening his brow.

Rob watched as he brought the thing out. It was a bag of purple material with a draw-string loosely tied. Will untied the string. Inside was a package wrapped in fine pigskin. When he unfolded the leather, he revealed a small box.

It was an attractive little casket of dark wood. There were intricate carvings over it, and metal glinted in the recesses. Yellow metal. Instinctively all three men leaned forward, their heads almost touching as Will pulled the lid open and stared inside.

There was a fine felt cloth, again in purple. And on it lay a glass vial, much marked and dirty. The glass was scratched and grey, as though ancient, with a greenish tinge. There were two pieces of parchment beside the vial. Will plucked them up and glanced at them for a moment, but he had no use for scribbles. He threw them on the floor irritably so that he could stare more closely at the vial. Picking it up, he pulled the stopper free, upending it into the palm of his hand.

A sliver of silvery-grey wood fell out. The three gazed at it, then at each other.

Adam was the first to break the silence. He picked it up and began to chuckle, his voice a hoarse rasp that was somehow shocking in the tavern. ‘A piece of turd! I like that!’

‘It’s not that,’ Will said, and he too was grinning. He took it and studied it. ‘I think it’s old wood.’

‘Throw it on the fire, then. The box should fetch a few pennies, though,’ Adam said, and reached for the casket.

‘No, we’ll leave it as it was,’ Will said, putting his hand on the box. He carefully inserted the piece off wood back in the vial and stoppered it, putting the vial back in the box and closing it.

Adam pulled a face. ‘Let me have a look at it.’

‘Leave it, Adam. There are other things to worry about. Look at Rob there, worried about his brother. You should be thinking more of his feelings.’

Rob glanced at Will, and saw a cynical, cold expression on his face, and was suddenly sure that he would have to protect himself against Will. Andrew had been right, as usual. Together they had been half the gang-now he was only one member of a larger band, and no longer held the balance of power.

There was something else, too. Will sat quietly, one hand upon the box. Adam’s hand was near the box. It was as though Will was challenging Adam to try to take it from him. Adam saw the expression in Will’s eye, too, and wasn’t sure he wanted to accept the challenge. He lowered his head with displeasure. ‘I want the thing.’

‘Then buy it,’ Will said. ‘You want it, you give me back all your coins from tonight, and then you can have it.’

‘When Andrew gets here, he’ll make you two give it to him anyway,’ Rob said.

Will didn’t look at him. ‘You think so? Perhaps it’s too late for that. I’ve taken a fancy to this box, and I will keep it.’

‘You aren’t the leader of our group yet,’ Adam snarled.

‘I think I am.’

Will, having spoken, drew the box towards him. Adam said sneeringly, ‘You take the thing, then. It’s nothing to me. But remember this, it’s not yours or anyone’s-it’s ours-and you don’t have the right to do anything with it.’

‘Then I’ll buy it from you,’ Will said easily. He took half his money and then hesitated. ‘No, we’re here to drink, and Andrew isn’t. We’ll sell this thing to him.’

He took Andrew’s money and divided it equally between them, then put the box in its wrappings on the table beside him. ‘If Andrew gets here, he can have it.’

‘No!’ Rob protested. ‘I’ll look after his stuff. Give it to me!’

‘What if he doesn’t come back, Rob?’ Will said easily.

Rob blurted, ‘He’ll be here soon!’

But even he did not believe it.

A woodsman found the body some little while later. Old Hob was out with his dog, and while crossing the common on the Exeter side of the ford, his dog ran off, then stopped dead in a clump of brambles, and growled, low and menacing.

This was no cattle dog, it was a good rache, a hunting dog that could chase its quarry by smell, and the woodsman knew better than to dispute its sense. He hurried after it, wondering whether there could be a deer hiding away there, hopeful that a good blow with his axe (without a witness) could result in food for some few days.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ he breathed when he saw the face staring at him from among the bushes. The face of a dead man, blue-grey in the twilight, with his throat cut from ear to ear.

Much later, Will belched and grabbed hold of the doorway as he left the alehouse. It was dark already, and the city was all but deserted, but there was a man being smothered by Moll the whore at the street’s corner as Will stood on the threshold and peered up and down the street.

Adam thought he was clever, but it was Will’s brain which was going to lead them now. It was obvious enough even to Rob that his precious brother wasn’t going to come back, and now it was up to Will to take over. He already had his plans, and it wouldn’t take him long to implement them.

He’d never asked for more. Rob was an old woman when it came to planning and choosing a target, but Adam was reliable enough. His only problem was, he tended to believe, touchingly, that he had a brain. He didn’t. As far as Will was concerned, Adam had less intelligence than a stook of wheat.

Take his reaction tonight. As soon as he had been faced down by Will, he went into a sulk, and it was only later that he recovered his equanimity, when he’d beaten several barrels of crap out of that poor sod at the bar. Who was it? Oh yes, Tad. ‘Tad the Bad’, they called him, because of his flatulence, but tonight he was ‘Tad the Trampled’. Yes, Will thought with a cheerful gurgle. Tad the Trampled. That was good. He’d been so thumped by the infuriated Adam that it was a miracle he was still able to whine and crawl away.

Will wouldn’t have done that. He had no argument with Tad. No, if Adam had insisted and tried to take the box, Will would finally have let him have it. But then, later, he’d have made sure that Adam never crossed him again. That was the trouble with a small band like theirs. It was impossible if there was a second man trying to get to the top. Will was the top man now, and he wasn’t going to let anyone, let alone a shite-for-brains moron like Adam, take his position.

Shame that Rob was so upset. It was his brother, but in God’s name, even brothers had to separate some time. And there was no shame in Andrew dying at the hand of a knight. That was plainly what Rob would think, that the man on the horse had ridden his brother down.

Will set his jaw. The trouble was, if the knight was about the city now, it would be possible for him to cause some problems. Who could have foretold that the bastard would hang back and reappear at the gallop only when the pathetic little cleric had already been taken care of? No one could have foretold that that would happen, but if Will had been in charge, he’d have set one man to keep an eye on the cleric, and left the other three watching and waiting to catch the knight, pull him from his horse, and kill him as well. Still, Andrew wouldn’t make that mistake again. Or any other, for that matter, the cretin.

He paused. The knight had been too far away to get a good look at any of them, hadn’t he? Could he have caught a clear view of their faces? Not Will’s, surely. Will had been over the other side of the clearing. He could have seen Rob, though, or maybe Adam. If he had, that was their problem, not his.

Most importantly, the box was nice and safe. Adam had tried to grab it, but Will had kept it. Later he would take it to a man he knew behind Exeter’s Fleshfold, above a small butcher’s shop, who would sometimes deal in little trinkets. Judging by the box, it must be valuable, although why a splinter of timber in a vial should be, Will didn’t know. He suspected it might be a relic, which was why he had pulled it out, in case it brought him luck, but there was no magical tingling in his fingertips as he handled it, no spark of excitement in his belly or fire in his bowels. It was just an old chip of wood. Probably sold to some gullible trader with more money than sense. Well, with any luck, Will could find another one with a purse bigger than his brains. He wondered fleetingly what the two pieces of parchment had been, but the idle thought was soon lost as he lurched down one alley, then turned into a narrower one.

This wasn’t his way home, but Moll lived down here, and he had some business with her. She’d been all over that man like a cheap tunic, and Will had a sudden urge to know who he was. There was something unpleasantly familiar about the man. When she came home, Will would be waiting for her.

It was late when the outlaw finally managed to sleep; the body in the alley haunted his thoughts, and as he settled himself he would see again that appalling face, the spilled guts, all that, and his sword befouled with gore and blood. Although he was used to bloodshed-Christ’s bones, he’d been a warrior for too long not to be accustomed to it-yet the murder made him feel tainted, as did his furious attack on the corpse.

Marching through the alleys afterwards, he came to his inn. It was a poor place, this, but it had one attribute: the master and his wife were uninterested in him or anyone else. All they wanted was the money that people brought. They didn’t care what men might have done. It was all the outlaw could have desired.

He gave them a curt nod as he closed the door behind him, and the pair eyed him silently. They were sitting at their fire, a mean thing in the middle of the room impounded within a ring of stones like stray sheep.

‘Are you staying in the rest of the night?’ the old woman demanded.

The outlaw looked at her. She appeared little better than a beggar, and her husband had the appearance of a cur who had just been whipped. ‘Why? Do you wish to follow me about my business?’

‘No, Lord, no!’ the man interrupted hastily. ‘Just…the watchmen will be about, and you could be hurt.’

‘I’ll not be at risk,’ the outlaw said softly, but with menace in his tone. He walked to them quietly, his soft Cordovan leather boots making little sound on the earthen floor, until he was standing before them, his hand resting on his sword hilt. ‘I am not in danger here, am I?’

‘Of course not, master,’ the man said.

The outlaw’s eyes weren’t on him, though, they were on the vixenish features of the man’s wife. She was the sort who’d cut a man’s throat without thinking, the bitch. A man couldn’t trust a woman like her. Any man who had been celibate all his life could see the type: one who would lead her man into danger for the gratification of her own lusts. Women always hankered after money or things. The outlaw had been warned of their wiles while he was a monk.

‘I’ll stay here, then,’ he said softly.

She had set out a palliasse for him on the floor near the fire, but he ignored it and walked out behind the bar. There was a small cellar out there, and he peered about him with satisfaction.

‘What do you want in here?’ she demanded, following him.

‘Peace,’ he said shortly, and ushered her from the place. He closed the door and slid a heavy barrel in front of it to block it. There was no other entrance, nor a window. Satisfied, he drew his sword, wrapped his cloak about himself, and sat on the floor facing the door.

He was safe enough. God Himself was watching over him, and those whom He protected needed fear nothing from the maggots who inhabited this miserable world. His sword was dedicated to God’s service.

The dream came to him more often the older he grew, as though his heart were ensuring that his memories could not fade.

Baldwin de Furnshill was eighteen at the time, and the noise of the siege had never left him: the roars and shrieks of men, the thunder of massed kettledrums, the ringing clash of sword against scimitar, the appalling damp sucking sounds of weapons impaling bodies. All was terrifying.

He had sailed there full of hope. His stout English companions would soon put paid to these subhuman creatures with their dark skin and weird war cries. The ship’s master had told them of other glories, how English Crusaders had evicted the infidels before. Richard of England had come this way, he said, and pointed to an island to the north.

‘He took Cyprus, because the king of the island tried to ransom Richard’s fiancée and his sister. King Richard went through the place like a lance through butter, even though he had fewer men. That’s what you’ll do at Acre. Go at them and see them off.’

Setting foot on the harbour, Baldwin knew the ship’s master had been boosting their morale. He must have known that there was no chance of pilgrims defeating the army that encircled Acre. It was too vast.

They had arrived to find the city in flames. There was a thick pall of smoke over all, and as the English party left the ship, they stood awestruck. All about them was mayhem. Men shouting, women screaming, children wailing. A sudden thud made the ground quake, and Baldwin caught the eye of a man-at-arms who sat on a bale of cloth near by, nursing a stump where his arm had been.

‘They have a big bastard mangonel over there. Keep your head down or they’ll take it off.’

If at that moment Baldwin felt less certain that he and his comrades could turn the tide and rescue this city, he was soon to be convinced of the inevitability of their failure. It was later that first day, when he clambered up the walls.

Over the wide plain, shimmering in the heat, men moved like demonic ants. The distance made them seem tiny, but their numbers were appalling. Baldwin gaped at the sight, and the sense of fear that had first gripped him at the port now returned and seemed to clamp itself in his throat, making breathing difficult. He felt the sweat start from every pore and gazed about him with terror.

In all that horror, as the boulders pounded the walls and the defenders toppled all about, if there was one thing that maintained men’s sanity it was the Temple.

The Order’s building was at the south-western-most point of the city. It was a strong fortress, but the knights didn’t cower inside. Although the Temple was some distance from the battle, each day the Templars were in the thick of it. As the Moors attacked, Guillaume de Beaujeu, the Grand Master of the knights, would rush there with his men. They would enter the fray with their terrifying cries, the black and white Beauséant high over their heads, hacking and stabbing until the attempt was repulsed. Then they would hurry to the next fight, their resolution and determination a spur to all the defenders of that hellish place.

Then came a day of disaster.

A massive, crushing explosion, and Baldwin had to duck to avoid splinters of rock thrumming past. He was near the aptly named ‘Accursed Tower’, and the Moors were attacking at every point. Their siege ladders rose, hordes of screeching warriors clambering up the lower rungs before the steps were vertical; arrows pinged off masonry by Baldwin’s ear; slingshot bullets rattled from armour; yet over all the din of war he could hear the shrieks to his right. Glancing around, he realized with horror that the enemy had reached the tower and were barricading the doors against the city, preparing to create a sally-port in the heart of the city’s defences.

Baldwin pressed forward with others, but it was the Templars who stormed on through the massed bodies. Baldwin saw Guillaume de Beaujeu at the front, exhorting his men to greater efforts, and then he raised his arm, sword already bloody and smeared as though with a fine red oil, only to falter and disappear. The fighting grew more vicious, no quarter given on either side, and then Baldwin was struck a ringing blow on his helm which knocked him all but senseless. He was helped to safety by a weeping man.

‘I am all right,’ Baldwin gasped after a few moments. His head still rang, but the worst of the pain was already abating. He thanked his rescuer, but the fellow didn’t seem to hear. He was staring after a group walking away slowly, carrying a body.

‘Did you see it? Did you hear him? There’s no hope for us now.’

‘Who?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘Beaujeu! He said: “I can do no more. I am dead. See, my wound.”’ Suddenly the man sobbed. His beard was scorched away from one side of his face, the flesh raw from sunburn. He stared up and shook a fist skyward. ‘Christ in Heaven, why won’t you help us? We’re defending Your lands!’

‘Baldwin?’

The kick to his foot made him grunt with annoyance, but Baldwin opened one eye and peered upward without enthusiasm. ‘What do you want now? Can a man not enjoy a moment’s peace, Simon?’

His assailant was a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties. Simon Puttock had strong features. His face was sun-and wind-burned, and his hair was beginning to turn to grey at the temples, but for all that he looked like a man many years younger. His dark grey eyes held a mischievous amusement as he looked down on his friend.

For the last seven years this square-faced, rugged man had been bailiff at Lydford Castle, and the daily riding over the moors to negotiate with the miners of the Stannaries in their disputes with each other and with the local population had given him the leanness of a trained whippet. Now, however, he had been granted a new post by his master, Abbot Robert of Tavistock. He had become the abbot’s official as Keeper of the port of Dartmouth, a position that he found much less attractive.

‘The Keeper of the King’s Peace must be exhausted after too many strenuous days. Once upon a time he would have woken with the dawn.’

‘Some of us have to work for our living, Bailiff. I have sat and decided too many fates in the last few days to want to listen to chaff from lowly officials.’

‘Oho! Lowly, am I?’ Simon chuckled, and then reached for the blankets covering Baldwin’s body.

‘You forget yourself, Bailiff!’ Baldwin growled. ‘I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace and this week I am one of His Majesty’s Justices of Gaol Delivery. I have power of life and death, so do not vex me.’

‘I shouldn’t dream of it,’ Simon said innocently, choosing a stool and sitting near by.

Baldwin grunted, eyeing him doubtfully, a tall, broad and thickset man, running a little to fat now. He was over fifty years old, but the years had been kind. He had dark brown hair and eyes, and a beard that neatly followed the line of his jaw. Once, when Simon had first known him, that beard had been black, but now it was pickled and spotted with white. There were sparkles of white on his head, too, and Simon was suddenly aware that his companion was in fact an old man. It was an alarming realization. He had lost too many friends already, and the thought of losing Baldwin too was somehow sickening. He could feel a heaviness in the pit of his stomach at the mere idea.

‘I don’t trust you,’ Baldwin declared, and reluctantly rose from the bed. He shivered a little in the coolness and pulled a linen shirt over his nakedness. ‘This week has been grim. Too many men hanged.’

‘They’ve received their justice.’

‘Aye, true enough, but sometimes a man would prefer to leaven the justice a little,’ Baldwin said absently. In his mind’s eye he could see one man’s face as he confirmed the decision of the other two justices and sent the fellow to the gallows. Most peasants exhibited little emotion. For them death was the end to a life of toil, perhaps. Or they were prepared for death, having seen so many friends and relations die during the famine. Misery and suffering were so common that even a sentence of death could seem like a release.

But this man was young. At his wife’s side was their child, a toddler who stood sucking a thumb and watching wide eyed as his father’s case was dispatched. The peasant glanced at them, and Baldwin had seen tears well in the man’s eyes. There was no wailing or howling to accompany the tears, just the sudden trickling that made Baldwin pause and think, and then the wife started to sob, a racking, tearing noise, and her baby began to bawl, and Baldwin’s heart felt as though it must break.

The verdict was just; there was no doubt of that. The fellow had stabbed another man in a tavern. Such things happened all the time, and usually the community would stand together and suggest that it was a foreigner passing through the vill who had committed the act. The sad fact was, though, that the dead man was a King’s Purveyor; he was in the vill to collect fodder and stores for the King’s household.

It was that which had guaranteed the peasant’s execution. No man could strike down one of the King’s officers with impunity-but how would another respond if he heard a Purveyor deciding to take all the food set aside for winter?

Baldwin had seen too many men die. In an attempt to lift his own spirits, he said, ‘Only a young man would dare to fool with a knight.’

‘True. I am not so old as you.’ Simon chuckled.

Baldwin nodded, but thinking of the felon’s hanging brought to mind his dream again.

The horror of the siege was still fresh in his memory even now, more than thirty years afterwards, and he hoped it would always remain so. It had been the cause of his decision to join the Templars, because he had been saved by the Templars after being wounded. The knights had taken him to Cyprus and nursed him to health. As a result he had lived, and from that day he felt that he owed them his life. To repay the debt he had joined them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at his door.

‘Yes. What do you want?’

‘A messenger from the hospital. They’ve got a man in their infirmary who’s been attacked on the road here.’

Baldwin nodded and sighed. Then he ran a hand through his hair and grimaced at Simon. ‘I suppose we ought to talk to him.’

The fellow was lying in a cot with a tired-looking monk standing at his side.

‘Brother?’

‘I am Joseph, the infirmarer. This man was brought to us late yesterday as we were closing the gates.’

‘He looks in a bad way,’ Simon said with that hushed voice used by people in the presence of the sick.

This was a pleasant little chamber, this hospital. Not far from the East Gate, the Hospital of St John was a small chapel with six beds. Each faced the altar, with the cross prominently in view to all, so that all the poor souls in their beds could see it and pray. Brother Joseph could ease their symptoms, but naturally the actual cure was up to them and the power of their own prayers.

Joseph passed a hand over his tired face. Strange to think that only last night he had been cheerfully looking forward to his bed and congratulating himself on the fact that he took such joy in sleep. It was ironic that he should think so just as this poor fellow was being carried to him.

‘He is. His arm is broken, but I think with God’s grace it should mend without too much trouble. I think his ribs are broken, too, and his head was badly knocked. It’s the stab that worries me most, of course, but I have hope.’

‘Why should his assailant beat him so?’ Baldwin wondered.

‘If you wish to learn that, you will have to speak to the porter of the East Gate. He had the body brought here on a hurdle.’

‘Has he spoken at all?’ Baldwin enquired. ‘Has he mentioned the attack?’

‘No. He arrived in this state and has remained silent. If he recovers, perhaps he can tell what happened, but it will be a close-run thing.’

‘Is he from this city or a foreigner?’

‘I do not know. Ask the porters. One of them may know him.’

Baldwin nodded and the two left the brother in the doorway to his little hospital, yawning with exhaustion.

At the entrance to the hospital, Baldwin and Simon spoke to the gatekeeper. He was reluctant to tell them anything, other than the fact that he had been in his lodge preparing to lock up for the night when John, the East Gate porter, had arrived with three or four others and the man lying on his hurdle.

Leaving him there and walking the few yards to the East Gate, Simon muttered bitterly, ‘You would’ve hoped the bastard would want to help us find the man’s attacker.’

Baldwin shrugged. The system of fines to make sure that men turned up in court often led to their being less than helpful. ‘Let us see what we may learn from the porter.’

The lodge was built into the wall, a solid building with a thatched roof set at the back of the two towers about the gate itself, and the porter matched his home perfectly. His face was florid, topped with a messy rick of fair hair, and he was stolid and broad. His face was square, with small, hog-like eyes which held a suspicious leer, as though he doubted the integrity and honesty of any upon whom his eyes might alight. His grim expression was not improved by the sight of Simon and Baldwin. ‘What do you want?’

‘The man whom you took to the hospital yesterday,’ Baldwin said. ‘What can you tell us about him? Was he from the city?’

‘How should I know? So many come past here each day.’

Baldwin’s smile was wearing thin. ‘We need to learn who he is.’

‘Good. Do it and leave me to my work.’

Steel entered Baldwin’s voice. ‘Your work at this moment is to help the Keeper of the King’s Peace. If you do not, I will have you attached and kept in the castle’s gaol to contemplate your obstruction until the coroner holds his inquest, and I will ensure that all here know it is because of you that they are to be fined so heavily for finding the body.’

‘He’s not dead, is he?’ the porter demanded, but his arrogance was already dissipated. The First Finder of a body would be forced to pay a surety to guarantee that he would turn up in court at the trial, and if there was no proof that the dead man was English, the hated murdrum tax would be imposed on everyone in the area.

‘He wasn’t dead when you found him, was he?’ Simon pointed out.

‘If he was, I’d hardly have taken him to the hospital, would I?’

‘How did you find him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘A brat: Art. He said there was a man in the ditch out there.’ He pointed through the gate. ‘I wasn’t going to believe him, but he was a persistent little sod.’

‘Did anyone see how he got there?’

‘If they did, they didn’t say. Since the famine fewer men are prepared to help each other. No one wants to be First Finder. I dare say several saw him and chose to forget him.’

Simon knew that. Too often people would ignore a body at the roadside; they’d all grown inured to the sight of the dead. Half the population had died during the famine. ‘Did this helpful child Art say how he found the man?’

‘Someone paid him a penny to tell me. He showed me the coin-it was real enough.’

‘The boy, where is he?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Art? Up at the market, I expect, the thieving little git. He’ll be up there scrounging something, same as usual.’

In Exeter, just as in the smallest vill, orphans tended to be protected. They could count on family or godparents to protect them and look after their property in trust. Masters would see to the needs of apprentices, sometimes neighbours the children of the family next door, with neither hope nor expectation of reward for their kindness, and in Baldwin’s experience such children often thrived. Cases of abuse were remarkably rare.

Apparently Art had been orphaned three years earlier. He was a scruffy urchin of twelve, with a shock of tawny hair that stuck up vertically from his head. His face was long, with intelligent brown eyes that considered Baldwin like an equal. The knight reflected that the fellow had probably experienced as much life as many men of Baldwin’s age.

‘You found a man yesterday, Art?’

‘Who says?’ he responded quickly.

‘The porter of the East Gate.’

‘I told him where he was, but I didn’t find him.’

‘Who told you about him?’ Simon asked.

Art stared at him and remained stony faced until the bailiff pulled a coin from his purse.

‘Don’t know him. He was all in black-black cloak, black hood, the lot.’

Simon sighed. ‘How tall? As tall as me?’

Art looked at him speculatively. ‘Maybe taller.’

‘And I’m almost six feet,’ Simon murmured.

‘What of his face?’ Baldwin tried. ‘Was he light haired or dark? Did he have a beard, a scar? Had he lost his teeth, had he all his fingers? Was there anything which could help us?’

‘He had bright eyes, and a cold voice. That’s all. Never took his hood off, so I never saw his face,’ Art said. ‘But I suppose he was like you. He had…you know.’ Art puffed out his chest and drew his mouth down into an aggressive line, scowling, clenching his fists and squaring his shoulders. ‘Your build. His arms were like yours. Strong.’

‘You saw all that under his cloak?’ Simon asked doubtfully.

The lad said scathingly, ‘It doesn’t take much to see how wide a man’s shoulders are, no matter how many cloaks he puts on.’

There was a cry from behind them, which Baldwin ignored as he leaned forward. ‘Are you saying he looked like a knight?’

‘Yes. But not some rich one like you,’ Art said, although with a trace of uncertainty as he took in Baldwin’s rather threadbare tunic with the red colouring faded from overuse.

Baldwin was about to defend his clothing when Simon murmured, ‘Baldwin!’

A man-at-arms was hurrying towards them with a pole-arm in his hands. ‘Sir Baldwin; Sir Baldwin! There’s been a murder, sir!’

In the early morning light Baldwin could see that the corpse had been a young man. He had blue eyes, fair to mousy hair, with eyes set rather close together, and a nose that was long; it had been broken. He was clad in dingy grey fustian with green woollen hose, from his leather belt dangled a short knife.

It was the tunic which caught Simon’s attention. The fustian was open from breast to cods, and his belly and torso had been slashed in a frenzied attack. His bowels spilled on to the alley’s filth, and the stench even so early was already repellent.

‘Christ Jesus!’ Simon muttered thickly.

‘He has been stabbed in the back,’ Baldwin said, after rolling the body over and studying the naked back. He saw Simon’s expression.

It was endearing to Baldwin that Simon was still squeamish; on occasion it could be annoying. Today, though, Baldwin could all too easily understand Simon’s reaction.

‘Why would someone open him like that?’ Simon demanded harshly.

‘A drunken brawl?’ Baldwin guessed. ‘Rage at some perceived slight? Whoever did this hacked at him like a madman.’ He turned to a sergeant. ‘Do you know who he is?’

‘I think his name’s Will Chard. He’s got a common fame as a draw-latch, I think.’

‘Where’s the First Finder?’ Simon demanded.

‘’Tis him over there, Bailiff,’ the sergeant said, jerking his chin towards a man slumped against a wall, his face in his hands.

They walked to him. Baldwin said, ‘What is your name?’

‘Rob, master. Rob Brewer.’

He was in his early twenties, Baldwin guessed, a scrawny lad in a faded green woollen tunic and heavy hose. About his neck was a worn cloak of some heavy but badly worn material. Once it would have been worth a lot of money, but now it showed its age. He looked terrified: his eyes kept returning to the body on the ground, to the blood all about.

‘You found this man?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘I was walking past and almost fell over him! Christ’s pain, but I’d have done anything to miss him!’

‘It is no surprise,’ Baldwin mused. ‘The sight…Exposing his entrails like that…’

‘Paunched,’ Simon said. ‘Like a cony.’

Rob whined, ‘Who’d do that to a man?’

‘Men will bait traps with rabbit’s guts, won’t they?’ Baldwin said. ‘Strew rabbit’s intestines about a field and wait, and soon a fox will arrive. Release the hounds and they’ll take the fox.’

‘You say this is a trap?’ Simon asked drily. ‘To catch what?’

Baldwin smiled thinly. A figure was hurrying towards them, a rotund shape clad in clerical black-a clerk from the cathedral sent to record their inquiry-and Baldwin beckoned him. ‘I doubt this was a trap. This looks like a vengeful rage…but revenge for what?’

‘I was up early to fetch bread from the baker’s, and found him on my way.’

‘Have you seen him before?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Never!’ Rob declared with a shudder. If he admitted he knew Will, they might decide he was a felon and arrest him. He had to protect himself, deny everything.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘In the Blue Rache,’ Rob said without thinking. Christ’s balls! He shouldn’t have said that! He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘I slipped on his entrails!’

Simon could all too easily imagine him; walking here just after dawn, down a dim alley with little light to show the way, and suddenly coming across this foul corpse. It must have been terrifying-although the lad must have been distracted not to have seen the mess, or smelled it, in even the dullest daylight. He leaned against a door, queasy, and had his weakness rewarded with a long splinter in his thumb. Swearing under his breath, he stuffed his thumb in his mouth.

Rob couldn’t help his eyes going to the pool of vomit near a doorway.

Baldwin continued, ‘You are sure you do not know him?’

‘Me? I…no.’

‘Which baker’s were you going to?’

‘Ham’s-behind Chef’s Street.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Out near the corner of Westgate Street and Rack Lane. There’s a little yard behind Elias’s stables. I live there.’

Baldwin glanced at the clerk and repeated: ‘Elias’s stables…You work there?’

‘Yes. I muck out and look after the horses. He lets me exercise them, sometimes.’

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully. He turned his back, staring at the cathedral’s towers. The workmen intent on rebuilding the place were like so many bees about a hive. ‘What were you doing here, then?’

Rob gazed at him. ‘Sir?’

‘This alley does head in the rough direction of the Westgate, but it’s hardly direct to or from the baker’s, is it?’

‘I wanted a walk-to clear my head after last night. I’d had a lot to drink, and I needed to clear my head.’

‘Were you alone in the tavern last night?’

‘Yes.’ Rob met Baldwin’s disbelieving eye with determination. No good could come from admitting he had been drinking with Will and Adam all night. It wouldn’t bring Will back.

Nor Andrew either, he reminded himself.

He looked a fool, Moll thought. Sitting there so forlorn, like a child who’d lost his mother. Telling lies like that was stupid. The Keeper might not know him yet, but as soon as he asked anyone else, he’d learn that Rob and his brother were close confederates of Will, and then where’d he be? In the shit, that’s where. He’d already told them he was in the Rache.

She’d not tell them, mind. She had enough problems with the law without courting more trouble from felons like Rob and Adam. No, better that the Keeper learned all he wanted from others.

Not that she could help much. She’d been upstairs with that poor bastard when Rob had knocked, and it was only when she saw the state Rob was in that she realized she could have been protecting a killer. References from past clients were all very well, but if this fellow was a killer…still, he’d run out like a scalded cat, and she was safe when he was gone, so that was that. Rob, though, he was different. If he wasn’t careful, the Keeper would put two and two together and realize Rob had been here earlier and found the body in the middle of the night.

He didn’t believe me, Rob told himself.

Christ, save me! When he’d run over that mess last night, he’d almost emptied his own bowels. His foot had stuck on something, and when he looked down he thought it was a lump of pig’s liver, until he realized it came from no pig, and that was when he collapsed and threw up. He couldn’t think straight.

It was like being in a trance. The First Finder always woke the neighbours to witness the death, and they raised the hue and cry together. Last night he’d banged on Moll’s door first because he recognized it.

Shit, she’d scared Rob! She’d had the door open in a flash when he banged on it, and a man pelted into him, running off into the night almost immediately. She told him the sod was nothing to do with this, he was a well-paying bedmate, but it’d embarrass his wife if she learned he’d been here, so Rob agreed to forget him.

Moll was clever. She took charge: he was drunk, as she said, and it would be better if he ‘found’ the body in the morning. Men had been executed for less than being drunk in the presence of a body, and if the city’s sergeants found an easy answer, they’d stop looking for a killer.

Now he thought about it, the man was curious. Strange for him to be up and bolt from a whore’s house just because someone knocked. If he feared his wife finding him, why didn’t he just hide and let her open the door? Rob wondered who the man was. All he’d seen was the shadow of dark cloak. He’d worn a cowl that covered his face; not that it was needed in the gloom of the alley.

Wandering here today, the previous night had seemed dream-like. Andrew missing, Will dead…he came back hoping it was a dream, but there was Will, so he raised the neighbours, and the hue and cry.

Not that it was much help. The neighbours were here now, shivering in the cool morning air. An old candlemaker and his woman, a dyer and a tawyer with a daughter. None of them sharp witted, none of them heard the attack. All denied hearing anything.

Neither had Rob, come to that. And he couldn’t have been far behind Will when whoever it was did this to him. The bastard was still warm when Rob fell over him.

Simon drew a small knife and hesitated before running the blade along the splinter’s path. It stung, but he inserted the point and levered it out, listening as Baldwin asked his questions.

It should have been the new coroner, Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple, investigating this, but he had left for Topsham after the Gaol Delivery hangings because of a brawl between sailors: three of them had died. In his absence, it was only natural that the Keeper should take over. The Keeper had the right to order the posse and lead it to find a felon.

Even now Simon was sure that Baldwin doubted Rob’s evidence. Something had caught his fancy about the ostler, although now he was squatting and frowning at the pooled vomit. Simon left him: he was more intrigued with the young woman.

This Moll was an auburn-haired woman of maybe three-or four-and-twenty, with a dumpy figure but a face that would have been pretty, in a soft, pale, round sort of a way, but for the calculation in her eyes when she looked at a man. From this Simon was convinced she was a prostitute, maybe one of those who inhabited the cheap taverns and alehouses along the South Gate road.

While Baldwin left the puke to talk to the neighbours, Simon wandered to her side. ‘What do you think really happened?’

‘How should I know? I was safe in my bed.’

‘All alone?’

‘Why-you jealous?’

‘Could be! Did you know this man?’

‘Never seen him before,’ she said, but her eyes moved away from Simon.

‘Who was he?’

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Did he try something on? You called your pander to pull the bugger off you, and he took offence at the fellow’s cheek? If your pimp killed him, there’ll be no blame attached to you.’

She smiled at him with quick contempt. ‘You think my pander would do something like that? He’d shit himself at the thought. It’s only women he bullies.’

‘Then you’re protecting someone else? Who? Why? Whoever did this could attack again. Such frenzied butchery-it must be a madman. He could strike again, maid. Maybe he’ll attack you next.’

She eyed him a moment. ‘No. I think I’m safe.’

When they released him, Rob ran all the way from the alley to the place up at the old Friars’ Hall, and then ducked down another alley and waited, heart pounding savagely. He’d almost been caught, and his terror was only increased by the sudden approach of heavy feet. It sounded like the city’s bailiffs, and he closed his eyes. At any moment the Keeper’s voice would rasp out an order for his attachment. He’d be hauled off to the gaol until he could be brought before the justices and hanged. He just knew it. Why had he ever…

The steps passed by the alley and on down towards the West Gate, and he felt his breath leave him in a sharp gasp, as though it would be his last.

It was awful. He was lost, confused. His brother was gone, Will was dead…who could he trust? There was only Annie, no one else. He must tell her what had happened.

He shot off up the lane past the priory of St Nicholas, and on to the shanty town. Once this had been the abode of Franciscans, but recently they’d moved away. In the space of two years nine of the brethren had died because of the foulness of the location, so they’d moved to a new six-acre site outside the walls.

In their place a series of huts had been built. Bays were made from scraps of timber lying about. Wattles were thrust between them and smeared with daub, and thatch was thrown on top to keep out the rain.

None was strong; none was proof against more than a mild wind or shower, and yet people flocked here. It was proof of the misery of life in the outlying areas that so many were keen to come to this place, which was already known for its malodorous air and the illnesses the foul air caused. The friars had been driven away, yet others more desperate were happy to live here.

The place he wanted was up near the northern walls. It was a scruffy place, the daub falling from the walls while the thatch was worn thin and penetrated in many places where birds had made their homes, or stolen the straw for their nests. What remained was green and little use in a storm, but neither was the rest of the house. The door was an old blanket, which fluttered and moved with every breeze.

Rob hesitated, then cleared his throat. ‘Annie? Are you there?’

‘Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?’

She pulled the curtain aside and he walked in, revelling in the nearness of her body as he ducked under the low lintel.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

Annie was about twenty years old, as tall as Rob, but better built because during the famine years she had been in the service of a lord who had seen to the well-being of his servants, and bought in food even as prices rose. Fodder prices rose by six times before the end of the first summer, and buying grain for the serfs of his manor finally ruined him. Three years earlier she had been turfed out when the old man died, brought down by fear of God and the struggle to support his people. His wife, the bitch, hadn’t the same sense of responsibility, and she’d seen to it that all the ‘useless mouths’ were evicted.

Rob first met her on the road from the north, up near Duryard, a mile or so north of the city. She had been a waif-like creature, all skin and gangling limbs, with huge eyes in a skull-like face, and he had at once taken pity on her.

‘Hello, where are you from?’

‘Tiverton.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Exeter.’

Each word had seemed as though it must be dredged up, and each time it took a long while for her to mouth an answer, she was so exhausted.

‘Do you have somewhere to go?’

‘No.’

She was one of hundreds who had come this way seeking employment or merely a roof. At first, when the city had stocks to be shared, people were permitted inside the walls, and the churches thundered the responsibilities of Christian to Christian, but that was seven years ago. When Annie arrived, the same men who had demanded that food and drink should be shared were more cautious. Only those who could help Exeter should be supported, and those who couldn’t must return home. Their parishes should shoulder the burden, rather than expecting Exeter to suck in all those without means.

Rob had been lucky. He and Andrew had been orphaned when he was not yet ten. Andrew was already apprenticed with a metal smith, and Rob was accepted into the household, but Andrew was rowdy and unreliable. The smith kicked them out after Andrew fought another apprentice in the smith’s hall.

It was Rob’s skill with horses which led to his being hired by the stables. That meant good food, a bed and some money, but not enough. He didn’t think he received his due, so when Andrew suggested something more profitable, he’d leaped at the chance.

Annie obviously had a clear idea what she could do in Exeter.

‘Come with me,’ he said as kindly as he could. ‘You don’t want that game. I know a place…’

She was so fragile, like a butterfly; she stirred something warm and protective in him, and Rob responded to it and the hope of companionship it brought. He brought her here to the old friary lands, where a friend lived with his wife, working on the cathedral’s rebuilding. She would be safe here, and in return for a little work about the place, and Rob paying a little rent, she could share their board until she found work.

Annie soon filled out, and now she was a buxom maid, with a tunic of red-stained cloth, and a crimson sleeveless surcoat over it. Her apron was faultless, clean and fresh. Her shining dark hair was decorously braided and wound into a thick bunch under her wimple; a pity, for he adored to see it loose. She had once said, laughing, that he only ever liked to see her wanton, and to be honest it was largely true. When she was naked over him, breasts free, her hair hanging on either side of her face like great raven’s wings, he felt true happy contentment. Yet it wasn’t just lust. No, it was more than that. The sight of her smiling face was enough to send a thrill of pleasure to his heart. To see her content was to fill him with joy.

Her eyes were on him in the gloom, but today there was no delight in them. He hated to see her like this: suspicious and unhappy. Sometimes she could be a little peevish. He only hoped that this wasn’t one of those days. He had enough on his plate.

‘Annie, have you heard?’

‘About Andy?’ she said quickly.

Rob gritted his teeth. ‘He’s missing. I don’t know where. And Will-he’s dead. I found him last night in an alley, and…Christ’s Bones, but it was awful. Someone had cut him up.’

‘Why do that?’ she asked.

There was scant interest in her voice, but that was reasonable. Will had been his friend, not hers. It was one of the things he loved about her, this naturalness and refusal to feign feelings that she didn’t have. At no time would she lower herself to pretending affection for someone when there was nothing there. She’d have made a dreadful whore. He was also glad that she didn’t harp on about Andrew. It was hard enough for Rob without having to cope with her feelings as well.

‘Will had plenty of enemies. A thief who preys on travellers is never without foes. Someone recognized him and killed him,’ Rob said, thinking about the tall, dark keeper and his words about catching foxes.

‘Did he leave many alive?’ she said pointedly.

Rob didn’t answer. Confirming what he and the others had done to win money was unnecessary. She knew what they were. It wasn’t as though she wondered where Rob had won the money to keep her happy. He hadn’t hidden anything; he could have lived on his stable’s income had he not put her up in this shack. It was the money for that which drove him to Will and robbery.

‘I’d have thought there were few enough living to take revenge on him,’ she said. ‘He saw to that.’

Rob knew she was in the right there. There were only a few who wanted to see him dead.

And he had himself been one of them.

When their questioning was complete, Baldwin and Simon beckoned the clerk to follow them, and strode to the Blue Rache.

‘What is your name?’ Simon asked of the clerk. ‘I haven’t seen you about the place before.’

‘I am Jonathan, Bailiff. I hail from Winchester, and it is only a mere chance that I happened to be here. The good dean asked me if I could attend your inquiry, because he was holding a meeting this morning, and it was a great honour to be able to help you.’

‘You mean you have heard of Baldwin and me?’

‘No. But it’s always an honour to help law officers in their duties.’

‘Oh,’ Simon said, a little chastened.

The cleric saw his face fall and chuckled. ‘But although I have not heard of you myself, Bailiff, Dean Alfred was insistent that I should come. You have helped him in the past, and he wished me to convey his best wishes and begs you will advise him of any aid you need.’

‘That’s good to know. Why are you visiting?’

‘I brought messages to the chapter from the bishop.’

Simon nodded. Bishop Walter had been drawn from his comfortable palace in the service of the King, and now spent much of his time in the King’s household travelling about the realm. Naturally he wanted to communicate with his brethren at regular intervals. ‘Have you been here before?’

‘No. Never. It is a wonderful city. It flourishes under the benevolent eye of Bishop Walter.’

Simon grunted his approval. He knew the bishop quite well, and liked him. ‘Where are we going now?’ Jonathan asked after a moment or two.

‘The alehouse where the witness was drinking last night,’ Baldwin responded. ‘I want to confirm that man’s name, and also see why that fellow was so anxious. I think he lied about finding the body.’

Simon waited, but Baldwin was not going to explain his thoughts. For his part, Simon was intrigued about Moll. ‘She was convinced she was safe. She had no fear of being attacked herself.’

‘Perhaps she guesses the identity of the murderer, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘So you are going to make sure of the dead man’s name,’ Jonathan said.

‘That and anything else we can,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve often found murders were committed in hot blood because of arguments about money or a woman. Perhaps someone from the place can point us in the direction of the murderer.’

‘I see. Is that it?’

Baldwin had stopped at a low, thatched, dilapidated building with a tired-looking bush of furze tied to a horizontal pole over the door. The knight turned with a grimace to Simon and rolled his eyes. ‘This looks like your sort of den, Simon. I doubt whether they’ll have Guyennois wine fit for a knight.’

‘Don’t judge the ale by the tun,’ Simon said loftily.

Jonathan sniggered and, boosted by his appreciation, Simon shoved at the door.

Simon had visited many alehouses and taverns when his father was steward of Okehampton Castle. When he travelled with his father they would stop at places like this to refresh themselves and ensure their road ahead was safe. Alehouses were cheap drinking halls in which a man could consume as much rough ale as he wanted before collapsing. Food was rudimentary if available, and company was of the lowest sort; if a peasant wanted a place in which to sing and dance, however, there was nowhere better, and Simon had fond memories of many small alehouses.

Expecting this to be rough, Simon was not disappointed. It was the sort of hovel where people would assume that a foreigner was worthy of contempt and deserved to be considered an enemy. This was not Simon’s city, but that mattered little to the people inside. He could have been a man from one street away and they would have studied him in the same mistrustful manner. Because he was not of their own parish and lane, he was a foreigner to be scorned.

He walked inside and the room’s noise was hushed in an instant. Where before there had been excited chatter and arguments, now there was a menacing stillness. Unabashed, Simon strolled to the bar, a simple board laid over two barrel-tops, and leaned on it.

The chamber was perhaps fifteen feet by twenty, and the bar was at the far end. Along the walls were three benches, and in the middle of the room was a fire, which threw up a sullen flame every so often in the midst of a rank smoke. There were two barrels upended to serve as tables, and about these were some rough stools, three of them simple cylinders sawn from large logs. On the floor was a fine splintering of ancient rushes, their stalks long since mashed by the passage of so many feet, and the whole place reeked of urine and sourness.

In all there were some fourteen men in there. Simon took in their faces as he leaned against the bar. Some were vacant with ale even at this early hour, but two or three looked belligerent enough. Simon smiled at them easily. There was a mixture of folk: nearer Simon stood a pair of sailors, who brought the stench of tar and the sea into the place, their hands stained black, their faces burned the colour of old oak. Behind them was a carter, chewing slowly at a straw while he toyed with a jug of ale. Farther back was a group of three men playing at knuckles, rolling the bones enthusiastically and seeming to pay Simon little attention. In short, it was the usual mix of people who had come to Exeter to make use of the market, some to buy, some to sell.

One of the sailors curled his lip and spat, but as he did so there was a shivering ring of steel, and all eyes turned to the doorway where Baldwin stood, his sword held negligently in his fist. Suddenly everyone found merit in a study of the contents of their cheap pottery drinking horns. Jonathan nervously stepped around Baldwin to take his place at a bench, where he smoothed a sheet of vellum and readied pens and ink.

While he prepared himself, Simon faced the ale-wife. ‘There’s a man murdered up the lane from here. First Finder was called Rob Brewer, who was in here last night.’

She was a pretty girl, perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, and with bright golden hair almost concealed under a cotton cap. Green eyes with hazel flecks met his unflinchingly. She shrugged and cast a glance over the drinkers. ‘Loads in here last night.’

‘The dead man was young, two or three days of beard, some inches shorter than me, fairish hair cut short, long nose, eyes set close, pointed chin-do you know him?’

‘Was he wearing a grey fustian tunic?’ asked a man.

‘Aye, and green hose,’ Simon agreed.

The speaker was thirty or so, with a face scarred from the pox and a great shining burn scar that ran from left to right temple over his brow.

‘Did you know him?’

‘If it’s the same lad, it was Will from Chard.’

‘Did he get into a fight last night?’ Baldwin called.

‘He was here with some friends. They argued a bit. Who doesn’t?’

‘We have to find his killer,’ Simon said. ‘Who was he with? What happened?’

‘There were two men with him. One was a youngster works up near West Gate. I thought he was Rob Brewer. The other’s heavier, fellow by the name of Adam.’

Another spat at the floor. ‘Bastard should be called Cain.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked, glancing at Baldwin. He had noticed that name, Simon saw. Brewer had told them he didn’t know who the dead man was.

This man was dark skinned with a cast in one eye and a bruise on his right temple. He spoke with a slight lisp, as though a tooth was giving him pain. ‘He’s dishonest. He’d rob his mother for profit, then beat her if there wasn’t enough.’

‘Get on, Tad. You’re sore ’cos he knocked you down,’ commented the first.

‘Shut your noise, Ed. You don’t know the little shite.’

Simon raised a hand to silence them both. He nodded to the man with the cast in his eye. ‘Why did he hit you?’

The man looked shifty, as though he didn’t want to discuss his affairs with a law officer. ‘He was making trouble.’ Seeing Simon’s expression, he glowered, then added, ‘Look, he was in here with his friends, Rob and Will, and they were making a load of noise. I sort of asked him to shut it. That’s all.’

‘No, it’s not all,’ Simon said. He leaned against the bar. ‘Where can we find these men now?’

Tad shrugged and turned away. ‘Who gives a…’

Suddenly the knight in the doorway was in front of him and the sword was under his chin. Tad clenched a fist, but before he could think of swinging, he found himself grabbed by the shirt and thrust back against the wall. The sword’s point was pricking the soft flesh of his throat.

Baldwin grinned wolfishly. ‘I do, friend: I do. And I intend to find out.’

The knight looked as grim as a mercenary. Tad had no doubt that he’d skewer him in an instant, and enjoy doing so.

‘Adam, Rob and Will,’ Simon said patiently. ‘What were they doing; what caused your fight with Adam-everything.’

Tad was tempted to tell him to go and swive his horse, but the sword’s point was sharp. There was a trickling under his chin, and he had an unpleasant suspicion that it was blood. He daren’t move his head in case he impaled himself. Someone had once told him that an easy way to kill was with a thrust under the chin, straight up, through the tongue, the palate, and into the brain. He had a sudden vision of his body on tiptoe, the point of that evil-looking blue blade buried in his skull…

‘All right!’ he gasped. ‘But take that sword away.’

To his relief, the pressure subsided a little.

‘What do you know of this man Rob?’ Simon asked.

‘He’s a stableman. If it wasn’t for his brother, he’d never have started their game.’

‘He’s pathetic,’ Ed agreed. He belched.

‘Who is his brother?’

‘Andrew. But he didn’t come in last night,’ Tad said. ‘I didn’t see him.’

‘Wasn’t here,’ Ed agreed. ‘Probably out with his wench.’

‘Who is she?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘How should I know? Thing is, the brothers are always together. There’s a reason when they aren’t.’

Simon frowned. ‘Could Rob Brewer have killed Will of Chard, then?’

‘No.’ Tad didn’t think so. ‘He’s not a hard man. His brother Andrew could. It’s said him, Adam and Will attack people on the way here to market, knock them down and take their purses. Adam is a hard bastard. He’s got a room up near the Dominicans. Down Stycke Street. There’s a cordwainer’s shop-the man lost a lot of money and rents a room over the shop. Adam and Will live there. Well, Adam does now.’

‘What of Andrew?’

‘Rob’s brother? He shares with Rob most nights. A stable’s a good warm place to live.’

‘What was your argument about last night?’ Simon asked.

‘Look, Adam was looking for a fight. That’s how he is. The more he has to drink, the more he wants a fight. He made some comment about me, and I…That’s all.’

‘He insulted you to your face?’ Baldwin said.

‘Not to my face, no. He said it to another, and he told me.’

‘Tell us what happened.’

Tad could remember the whole evening perfectly clearly. ‘I got there before them. I got to the alehouse for a chance to relax, when those three turned up, bought their ales, and sat down in the corner of the room away from the door.’

‘Rob was with them?’ Simon sought to confirm.

‘’Course.’ In his mind’s eye he could see the three sitting with their heads close together, staring at the things in Will’s lap. Tad glanced at Simon’s face and grimaced. ‘Look, they’d robbed some poor bastard, I expect. Probably beat up someone, left him by the roadside and brought all his stuff to be shared out.’

‘What did they divide between them?’ Baldwin said.

‘Will had a little box. I saw Adam try to grab it,’ Tad recalled, ‘but Will wouldn’t let him.’

Simon glanced at Baldwin. ‘Will had something Adam wanted?’

‘Did it rattle, this box?’ Baldwin guessed. ‘Did it contain money?’

‘I saw him share out coins first, so it wasn’t that. No, there was something else in the box itself. Like a glass vial or something.’

‘What was it like, this box?’

‘Oh, just dark wood. There were some shiny bits on it. Didn’t see more than that.’

Baldwin was frowning. ‘Did anyone else in the tavern see it?’

‘A stranger. I saw him staring.’ The sword rose slightly and he spoke more hurriedly. ‘Tall, built heavy like a man-at-arms, dressed in black. Good leather boots…He was with one of the whores.’

Jonathan’s reed was over-full, and on hearing this word he made a large blot on the page. He quickly tried to rectify the mistake by setting his sleeve over the ink and soaking it up, but he was too hasty and knocked his reeds on the floor. Moaning to himself, he bent to retrieve them, and noticed two small parchments under his table. He picked them up with the reeds and set them on the table as he continued writing.

‘Christ’s bones,’ Simon breathed. ‘I’d bet my horse that he was the man told Art to fetch help.’

Baldwin’s puzzlement grew. ‘In which case, was he a companion of the wounded man, or a friend sworn to avenge him? Or does he also seek to steal this box?’

‘Did you see any sign of Rob’s brother last night or today?’ Simon asked.

There was no answer beyond a slow shaking of heads. Baldwin was about to draw Simon aside to talk when there was a loud pounding on the door. The sergeant who had been by Will’s body came in, panting. ‘Sir Baldwin, there’s another body, out towards Bishop’s Clyst. Can you come?’

Rob was so forlorn that Annie finally agreed to go for a drink. Neither wanted to go to the Blue Rache, and she suggested a tavern out near the Guildhall.

‘I’m worried,’ he said when they had a pot of ale each and were sitting outside in the sun. ‘Andrew has disappeared. I don’t know where he could be. And Will dying…I don’t want to stay with only Adam.’

‘Why not? He’s not changed.’ Her tone was cold, and she looked pale. Rob thought she was quite distracted…it was only to be expected. She had loved Andrew too. He’d been like a brother to her. ‘Will’s dead, but I expect Andrew will turn up again.’

‘No,’ he said with conviction. ‘If he was going to come back, he would have already. Yesterday we attacked two men, a clerk and a man-at-arms, and I think Andrew was killed by them.’

‘It would take much to beat Andrew,’ she said. ‘He’ll come back, you see.’

‘If he doesn’t, what’ll I do? I can’t stay with Adam. He’s mad-he’d kill me in a moment’s rage. The only time he’s happy is when he sees other people suffering.’

‘Rubbish. He just wants to make money, and stop living hand to mouth all the time.’

‘Well, we all do. But there are ways of doing it that are safer.’

‘Safer?’ she scoffed, and nodded towards St Nicholas Priory. ‘I suppose you’d prefer life in the cloisters, would you?’

He was quiet for a moment. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t want to lose you. I couldn’t join the monks.’

‘Then stop whining about him. He’s part of your life. Our life.’

‘If I stay with him, I’ll end on a felon’s rope.’

‘Oh, leave him, then!’

He was hurt that she was irritated by his ramblings, yet he had to explain his plan to her. ‘Perhaps I could find a new trade.’

‘What?’ she demanded. ‘You have no skills. Everything you’ve tried has turned sour. You’re good with horses, but that won’t make you rich.’

‘Well, I can’t carry on like this for ever,’ he said, glancing about them. ‘Being a felon has no future. Not if a man wants to be married. I could learn myself stonework, perhaps? There’s always a living to be earned as a mason. I could build walls. They can’t be that difficult.’

She looked at him. ‘Maybe,’ she said, relenting in the face of his misery.

Just that was enough to make him grin. She almost expected him to start capering, like one of those bears that would dance at the whistle of his master. He made her want to scream, and the feeling made her hate herself.

This man had saved her when she first arrived, and she was grateful to him for that, but he was so pathetic! Rob always moaned and whined, seeing risks or dangers in any plan, never agreeing to any new ideas, not like Andrew. Andrew had always worn that smile of confidence. If he wanted something, he found a way to acquire it.

‘We could leave the city and find a new place,’ he said. ‘We could marry.’

‘What, with all the gold we’ve saved?’ she demanded scathingly. ‘Shall we hire a pair of horses to ride to York or London?’

She had nearly died during the famine. Nobody could make her surrender to fate again. Here there was a house, some food and friends. She’d sworn that she would never starve again, no matter what.

‘I have something,’ he said quietly, and he stole a look over his shoulder before reaching under his tunic and bringing out a leather purse. ‘This could make our fortune. Will said it was Andrew’s share from our ambush yesterday, but he wanted to steal it. I managed to keep it last night…now I don’t know what to do with it.’

Annie eyed him doubtfully. Rob had been kind to her when she’d needed help, but that didn’t mean she was keen to marry him. God! The idea he’d take her away to an uncertain life elsewhere was ridiculous. Andrew maybe, but not Rob. No: she couldn’t go with him.

Interesting box, though. She opened it and saw the glass bottle. She stared, wondering what it was.

There were few things that could be worth having a box like this built around them. It was beautiful, like a…

Peering closely, she frowned. She’d seen boxes like this, though more richly decorated, in churches. Studying it, she could see fragments of gold leaf adhering to the lid, and she took the vial out and stared at the wood inside, rattling it gently. She touched the plug but didn’t pull out the stopper. Something made her stop. Her breath was a little strained, and her heart was thudding painfully as she shook her head and replaced the vial unopened in the box. If this was a holy relic, she didn’t want to touch it. It could burn her.

It was worth money, that was certain. Rob wasn’t wrong there. Someone would pay lavishly for it. And then there was the splinter inside. She had heard of relics of the lance used to stab Christ on the cross, pieces of iron from the nails which held Him, part of the trencher used in the last supper, all sorts. And then there were the pieces of the original cross on which He died…

A splinter of that would be worth a fortune. Plenty there to allow a man to marry. She licked her lips, and grinned to herself. After all, the man who was in love with her would make a good husband.

Baldwin and Simon found a mount for Jonathan and hired horses out to the scene. There was an old woodman there with a good white-and-tan rache, a broad-chested dog with slightly pendulous jowls, but intelligent eyes in a strong face. Always fond of dogs, Baldwin made a fuss of him before turning to the body.

‘You found him here?’ he asked.

‘I’m Hob, from Bishop’s Clyst. I was up here to take down a tree for-’

‘Yes, I am sure,’ Baldwin interrupted quickly. ‘You were up here legitimately. And your hound found this man?’

‘He was there under the furze, and Gaston found him. I was fair sickened to see him.’

Baldwin crouched at the side of the body. There was no doubt about the death. His throat was opened almost to the spine, and the cartilage and vessels had contracted, making the wound gape still more. Jonathan coughed once before remembering his calling and murmuring a lengthy prayer.

‘Do you recognize him?’ Baldwin asked the woodman.

‘No. He’s a stranger to me.’

‘There is little enough to distinguish him,’ Simon said. ‘Brown jack, linen shirt, woollen hose…’

‘His description would be little help, too,’ Baldwin said. ‘He’s moderate height, brown eyes and hair…a little weakly of frame, perhaps. Ach! There’s nothing here to help us find his murderer. If he was local, this description would hardly find him.’

‘If he’s a traveller,’ Simon said, ‘he would have had a pack with him. There’s nothing here, so he was probably robbed.’

Baldwin nodded as he rose to his feet. ‘So all we know is that we have the body of a young man here, his throat cut. He could be a local man, could be a traveller. If he’s a traveller, his belongings have been stolen.’

‘And we know that the trio in the Blue Rache last night had a haul of money and a small box,’ Simon said.

‘So is it a fair assumption that this man was their benefactor? Perhaps,’ Baldwin mused. ‘Along with the man in the hospital.’

Simon had another thought. ‘Interesting that this man had his throat cut.’

‘How do you mean?’ Jonathan asked.

‘Just that this man had his throat expertly slit, while Will and the man in the hospital were both stabbed in the back.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘And a killer will often use the same method of murder. It’s what he grows accustomed to.’

‘You mean that there might be two murderers?’ Jonathan said with sudden alarm.

Baldwin smiled. ‘A man might kill in a number of ways. No, there’s nothing to prove that there is more than one murderer. In any case, a stab in the back is a common wound when the victim has been ambushed,’ he added, suddenly thoughtful.

Simon set his head to one side. ‘There is one other aspect to consider, Baldwin. We were told in the Rache that there was another man who was missing, weren’t we? Could this be Rob’s brother?’

‘Andrew?’ Baldwin glanced at the body again. ‘Andrew was missing last night, as you say, so yes, this could be him. But that means also, perhaps, that the man in the hospital could be him?’

Adam was irritable and nervy as he wandered about the market. The warm morning made him lethargic, but he found himself jumping at strange noises. The bulls were being baited to tenderize their meat before slaughter and butchery, but a shriek from playing children made him start with alarm. He wandered among the stalls, buying a pie and eating it voraciously, suddenly feeling starved. Once that was gone, there was little money left from the cash he had won yesterday, and he rattled the few coins in his palm dejectedly. He wanted some ale.

The Blue Rache was quiet when he entered, and he scowled about him as he crossed the floor. If the shits were angry just because he’d thumped one turd, they’d best look out. He might hit another today.

He beckoned the ale-wife, who glanced about her anxiously before licking her lips and going to him. ‘Yes?’

‘A jug. Come on!’

She turned the spigot on the barrel and held a jug under it.

When she passed it to him, he turned and glared at them all. There wasn’t one who could hold his gaze. All cowards! All weak and shitting themselves. They wouldn’t know how to set a good ambush or how to steal a prize from even the most feeble of travellers. No, it took a man like him, someone good with his fists, someone with some courage.

‘There was a set of king’s officers in here earlier,’ Elias said.

‘So what?’ Adam sneered.

‘Will’s dead. Apparently they’ve already got the idea you and him knew each other.’

Adam nodded, took a long pull of his ale, and set the jug down before whirling and catching Elias by the throat. He shoved the squeaking man backward in a rush, scattering drinkers and stools wildly until he reached the wall and thrust Elias hard against it. It was a thin wattle screen, and as he rammed Elias against it, the structure moved, the plaster cracking. ‘Who told them about us, Elias? It was you, wasn’t it? By the nails and the blood, you little…’

‘Not me, no!’ Elias managed. ‘It was that arse-licking sodomite Tad, not me!’

Adam pushed him once more, and this time the crackle was noticeable. The wall gave way at the ceiling and a fine plaster dust fell in Elias’s eyes. ‘You were always his friend, weren’t you?’

The wattles were pushed from their sockets in the beam overhead, and now large chunks of plaster were falling on Elias’s head. He had to blink to clear his eyes.

‘He was just someone to drink with, that’s all. I hardly know him!’ Elias said quickly.

Adam’s fingers felt like steel pincers, relentless. Elias knew that death must soon overtake him. His breath came with great difficulty; he could feel blood welling in his sinuses and between his eyes. It was impossible to swallow-and then he felt his head crash into the wall once last time, and this time it gave way. There was a roar, and now he was in the midst of a cloud; all was white and choking, and he was cut and scratched by lathes and wattles, suddenly finding that he was looking up from the floor.

The dust was suffocating. It rose thickly, like flour in a mill when the wheel was turning, and it stuck in his mouth and nostrils. Vaguely he could hear voices.

‘It wasn’t him,’ the ale-wife screeched. ‘Leave him, Adam.’

‘Why should I? He’s helped sell me to the King’s men.’

‘He didn’t; Elias said nothing.’

Elias managed to roll on to all fours, coughing and retching. Then Adam’s boot caught his belly with all the malice of his frustration. Elias was lifted into the air, and he crashed to the ground in the ruins of the wall, his lungs smothered by the lime plaster, struggling for breath.

Adam studied him with satisfaction for a moment. ‘Well, maid. Who did tell them?’

‘They came here asking questions, so they already knew Will had been here before they came.’

Adam chewed at his inner cheek. He saw Elias crawling away, and it was tempting to kick him again, but there were too many questions in his mind. ‘Who told them to come here?’

‘Perhaps someone saw who killed Will?’ She held his gaze. ‘You lived with him. Did he get home last night?’

‘I argued with him last night. You saw us. Over that box. I thought he’d chosen to go somewhere else for the night. Maybe stay with Rob or something. I didn’t think he was dead.’

For the first time he felt the loss of Will’s help. Never thought he’d ever think that; never thought he’d miss Will’s sharp mind. Adam was more used to learning what he wanted without subtlety.

‘Marge, if you know something, you tell me before I get angry.’

‘You wouldn’t hurt me,’ she said with certainty.

He moved to reach for her, but as he did she lifted her hand, and in it was gripped a fine-bladed dagger, wickedly sharp and pointed. She ran it over his knuckles, and he yelped as the razor-edge made itself felt. There was no pain as such, only a faint tearing sensation, and then a line of blood as his flesh was parted. He withdrew his hand, then prepared to launch himself at her, crazed with rage. She held her ground, and the knife danced before his eyes.

‘I don’t know what you want, Adam. Will’s dead, and the officers know you knew Will. You lived with him. Don’t take it out on us.’

His face was expressionless as he cupped his bleeding fist in his right hand. He didn’t know what to do-perhaps he should speak to Rob and see what he reckoned. That would be best. Yes. But he wanted to punch someone first.

She curled her lip. ‘Adam, Tad didn’t tell anyone about you. They asked questions, but when they left, Tad ran out the back. He escaped. You should too.’

‘What does that mean?’

Her irritation spilled over. He had ruined her wall, badly hurt Elias, and threatened her. What he did to Will outside her alehouse was none of her concern, but when his actions led to a Keeper taking an unhealthy interest in the Rache, she had good reason to be angry. ‘You want to know? You killed Will, didn’t you, so get out of the city while you can, because that Keeper, he’s got the eyes of a demon. He’ll find you and he’ll hang you. Leave the city while you can.’

Moll was late to rise that day.

The previous night had been largely sleepless, and the interruptions to her business had exhausted her. Then, of course, she’d been woken early by the men clustered about the body, and only returned to her bed after a bite of bread with some potage for her lunch. This time she had slept well, and the knocking at her door made her jerk awake with some alarm. The noise was terribly loud in the silence of her hall, and she sat up with apprehension, an emotion that only faded as she climbed from her bedding and pulled a shirt over her head.

Padding over the packed earth of the floor, she threw some sticks on to the embers of the fire. Punters preferred a warm room-and hopefully she’d be able to warm some leftover potage later, when the man had gone.

She had several clients who visited her in her home, usually the wealthier ones, of course, because only they deserved the advantages of her undivided attention in her own bed. Others could make do with a quick knee-trembler against an alley wall.

The fire looked all right, so when the knocking came again, she walked out to the front door and pulled it open. ‘Who is it? Oh! I thought…’

‘Didn’t expect me, eh, Moll?’

And Moll scarcely felt the club smash the side of her skull. The bones fractured as the cudgel’s weighted head slammed against them just above the ear, and although she could say nothing, so shocked was she to be attacked, her body refused to collapse. It took two more thunderous blows to force her to her knees, and then she crumpled.

She was long dead before the smashing blows ceased, and then there was little left of her face. Only a bloodied mess of hair and flesh.

Simon and Baldwin arrived back at Exeter just as the cathedral bells were singing out their invitation to the faithful at vespers. It was still daylight, but here in the alley between the hospital and the Dominicans’ priory, the sun was all but obscured by the houses on either side. This was a poorer area and few houses had jetties-not many had an upstairs chamber-but the lane was so narrow that it was ever twilight here.

The home to which they had been directed was a shabby place with little to endear it to Baldwin. As he looked at it, his nostrils discerned only the stench of excrement, the sour tang of urine. In the lane itself there were many deposits on the cobbled way, and Baldwin wondered when the scavengers would ever come down here. They’d clear the High Street, sure enough, but a downtrodden backwater like this would probably never see them from one month to the next, and while Simon pounded on the door, Baldwin found himself peering up and down the street, wondering what could tempt a man to live here. He could conceive of nothing worse; at the sight of it he longed to be back at his small manor of Furnshill up near Cadbury.

When the door opened, Simon immediately pushed it wide, and Baldwin followed him inside, Jonathan squeezing in behind him.

‘Is this where Adam and Will from Chard live?’ Simon demanded.

‘They live here, yes.’

The old man was almost petrified with fear. His attention was moving all the time, from Baldwin to Jonathan to Simon and back, and if Baldwin needed proof of the evil of the man who was using his rooms, the terror evident on the man’s face was enough to convince him. ‘Where is Adam now?’

‘I don’t know-he wouldn’t tell me where he was going, lord.’

The old man’s eyes were rheumy and pale, with red rims. He was crabbed and wizened, like a plant that has been deprived of the sun for too long. His fingers were red knuckled and claw-like. His wife was a little taller and better formed, and although her hair was silvery like his, it seemed to hold more vitality. She appeared overwhelmed by Baldwin and Simon’s entrance, and she kept throwing little glances at Jonathan, as if pleading that this man in clerical garb should protect them.

Baldwin was not in the mood for a lengthy discussion. ‘Where does he usually go at this hour?’

‘He sometimes wanders about the city-he never tells us where he’s likely to go. Why should he?’

‘How did you meet him?’ Simon asked more quietly.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but it was his wife who answered, her voice resigned. ‘He is my son.’

Rob was working on the horses, grooming two rounseys for the dean of the cathedral, when he saw the shadow in the doorway. He said nothing, for it was the responsibility of his master, the stable owner, to respond to customers.

‘Enjoying yourself, are you?’ Adam asked quietly.

‘Well enough,’ Rob said. He glanced at Adam, then looked away again quickly. Adam caught sight of the look and walked around the horses to Rob’s side. Rob shot him another look. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Seems like you think so,’ Adam said. ‘It’s strange to think that only last night we were all there arguing about the box.’

‘You’ve heard about Will?’

‘Oh, something’s happened to him?’

Rob’s hand stopped moving over the flank of the chestnut before him. After a moment he took the brush off the beast and started plucking spare hairs from it. ‘I found him, Adam. He was butchered, his belly was slit wide, and his bowels spread to the world.’

‘Why? Who could have hated him that much?’

Rob was silent.

Adam turned to him. ‘Why’re you so quiet?’

‘You were arguing with him about that box, and then you left shortly after him. Did you follow him, Adam?’

‘I had no need to. I was going home to my bed,’ Adam growled.

‘You wanted the box, though, and he wouldn’t let you have it. Did you kill him?’

Adam bit his lip, turned aside for a moment, and then flew at Rob. Rob ducked aside and darted behind the rounsey. ‘Do you mean to kill me too, then?’

‘I’ve killed no one.’

‘No one except the traveller.’

‘That was Will, not me. I only hit him.’

‘He’s just as dead. That was why we got the box in the first place.’

‘The box,’ Adam repeated, and he sighed. ‘Well, that’s done now. Can’t find that. It’s gone for good.’

‘Yeah,’ Rob agreed, avoiding his eyes. He saw the blood on his knuckles and wondered where it could have come from.

Before he could ask anything, Adam said, ‘I’m going to see if I can find someone else. You coming?’

‘I’ve got to finish the horses before I do anything.’

‘What about afterwards? There’s time to find another man,’ Adam said with a cold grin on his face. His head jutted forward, and Rob thought he looked like a foul demon, something with no feelings, no sympathy. The idea made him shiver.

He was glad that he could escape this mess. Soon he and Annie would have left Exeter and Adam for ever. She’d come round. There was nothing for either of them here. Not now.

‘Your son?’ Simon breathed. ‘That explains a few things.’

‘From my first marriage,’ she continued. Her husband sat on a stool and she stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders. ‘When he came back I was pleased, and begged my husband to let him stay.’

Simon asked, ‘You have changed your mind now?’

‘Look!’ the man, Jack, said, and while Sara, his wife, averted her eyes, he lifted the front of his old smock. On his belly and breast were bruises, some violent yellow and orange, others blue and grey. ‘When I asked for help with the money, this is how he repaid our kindness.’

‘Have you told anyone?’

‘Jack didn’t tell me about it until two days ago, and by then, what could we do?’ Sara asked.

‘I couldn’t throw him to the watch. They’d order him to behave himself or they’d fine him, and then they’d leave him here with us. And he would kill us,’ Jack said forcefully. The passion of his words seemed to exhaust him and he slumped back. ‘He’s beaten her too. He treats his own mother as badly as me.’

‘Let us know when he returns,’ Baldwin said, ‘and we shall have words with him. I swear that you will be safe from him soon enough.’

‘I wouldn’t see him killed,’ Sara said sadly. There were tears in her eyes.

It made Simon wonder what would make a mother lose her love for her child. Here was a woman who had seen her son beat her husband, who had felt his anger on her own person, and who yet supported and protected him. What could the lad do that would make her lose her love for him?

‘I shall order a man to keep watch on this place in case he returns,’ Baldwin said when they were outside again. ‘He’s a violent, dangerous man, this Adam.’

The three stood at the end of the alley for a moment, savouring the air. It was foul with excrement and urine, but seemed much more wholesome than the close atmosphere inside the house.

That held only the smell of fear.

Brother Joseph sat back on his old stool, feeling the sudden weakness where the worm had eaten away the socket of a leg, and rebalanced himself, leaning against the wall. There was no cure for the woodworm. It would keep attacking the place. Beds, chairs, panels, everything was at risk. It might take time, but the things would always get through in the end.

The lad looked little better. If anything he was growing worse. The stab wound was nasty, a deep thrust in the back, and it had made the lad feverish. Poor devil! It would be a miracle if he survived.

There was a soft knocking at the door, and he grunted as he rose and went to see who was there. A red-faced novice stood waiting. ‘Brother Joseph, I didn’t know what to do. She was so insistent.’

Joseph waved him away and stood in his doorway as the girl approached. ‘Yes?’

‘May I see your patient, even for only a moment, Brother? I think he is known to me,’ Annie said.

It had been a long day for Simon and Baldwin, and the two men repaired to their inn as soon as the light began to dim.

‘There is something odd about this affair,’ Baldwin said as they waited for their ales to arrive. A maid bustled up with a tray and two jugs which she deposited on the table between them, and then winked lecherously at Baldwin. He was shocked, and looked at the bailiff, who was grinning broadly. ‘What does she think she’s doing? Is she a whore?’

‘Clearly she doesn’t care about fashion, if she’s prepared to look at a man like you,’ the bailiff said dispassionately.

Baldwin glanced over to where the maid was speaking to another client. She was small, slim, dark haired and attractive, with doe eyes, a tip-tilted nose and freckles. Even as he looked her way, she faced him and smiled straight at him. He hastily returned to face Simon. ‘Absurd!’

‘Perhaps. Now, how will we find Adam?’

‘There is a man waiting for him to return to his house. In the meantime I want to find young Rob again. If it is true that he was with Will’s band, perhaps they too argued over this trinket, whatever it was, and fought?’ Baldwin sipped ale.

‘You were suspicious of him from the first, weren’t you?’ Simon said.

‘There was an inconsistency in his story,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘He said he found the body and was sick, but when I saw the vomit there on the ground, it was quite cold.’

‘You touched it?’ Simon winced.

‘There is no place for squeamishness when you are investigating a death,’ Baldwin stated sententiously.

‘Perhaps. But why should they kill him there? Why not out in the open that afternoon?’

Baldwin drank and winced at the flavour. ‘Perhaps it was the argument which resulted in the death. If so, better to kill him in a quiet alley than a busy tavern.’

‘Why would they gut their old companion?’ Simon wondered. ‘It sounds like more than a mere argument. Men like them would stab and kill without thinking, but to mutilate the body-that seems more than a dispute over money.’

‘Perhaps it was they who attacked the poor fellow in the hospital,’ Baldwin said. ‘I wonder whether he will recover enough to tell us who attacked him?’

‘I pray he will,’ Simon said glumly. ‘I don’t like to think that the killer could remain free, not seeing how he mutilated Will Chard’s body.’

Baldwin nodded, but as he did so he caught sight of Jonathan’s face. The clerk was reading a small parchment with an expression of horror. ‘What is it, man?’

‘Christ in Heaven…I think I know why they fought over the box!’

Annie was in her room. She had wept herself almost to sleep by the time the quiet knock came at her window, and she wiped her eyes hastily before rising and going to it. All the family were asleep, and she had to step carefully over their bodies as she made her way to the door, twitching the old blanket aside.

‘What is it?’ she hissed. ‘It’s late. You’ll wake them.’

Rob stared at her with wild eyes in a pale face. ‘We have to go. Will you marry me? We’ll get away from here, sell this box and make a new life for ourselves.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, Rob.’

‘It’s too dangerous here, though! First Andrew, then Will, and now Adam is saying he wants me to stay with him-he’ll kill me if I do!’

She walked away from the shack a few paces so that their voices wouldn’t stir the family. ‘Why should he?’

‘He more than likely killed them both, don’t you think? Adam was always jealous of Will and Andrew, and he probably did that to them both just to get them out of the way.’

‘A bit foolish, wouldn’t you think? Doing that so that he could run a gang half the size?’

‘You don’t understand him, Annie.’

‘No. And I don’t want to. Rob, I don’t love you, and I can’t marry you. I love someone else.’

It was on the tip of his tongue. Rob licked his dry lips, but he couldn’t accuse her. He’d always known that she got on with him, of course, but that was different to thinking that she’d willingly give him up for the other. Never, except in those red, ferocious dreams in the middle of the night, had he thought that she’d discard him for the other man.

‘I’m sorry, Robert,’ she said, and she tried to touch his face with her hand.

He snapped his chin away. ‘Don’t!’

‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’

‘But he’s dead! How could you love a man who’s dead?’

She smiled then, a lovely, transforming smile that thawed his heart even as her rejection had frozen it. ‘But he’s not. He’s alive and in the hospital. Your brother is alive!’

‘What do you mean?’ Baldwin said, snatching the parchment from the clerk.

‘Can you read it?’ Jonathan asked. ‘It says, “This is a fragment of the True Cross, stained with the blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was preserved for safe-keeping in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem”, signed by Geoffrey Mappestone, Knight.’

Simon knocked back the last of his drink and belched softly. ‘What’s it got to do with all this?’

‘I found it on the floor of the tavern with this other piece,’ Jonathan said, unwrapping the second parchment.

Simon frowned. ‘What makes you think that piece of scrawl has anything to do with the casket?’

‘They had an argument in there,’ Baldwin said. ‘We’ve heard that already. Three unlettered men finding a box-why should they want to keep papers with it? We’re lucky that they didn’t cast these into the fire. Instead they merely tossed them aside, not realizing their value.’

‘What value do pieces of parchment hold?’ Simon scoffed.

‘If they validate the history of a marvellous relic, they are priceless,’ Baldwin said, but as he spoke Jonathan held up his hand, pale and anxious.

‘Listen to this!’ He read the strip of parchment with a finger running along the old and faded letters. ‘“I, Guillaume de Beaujeu, found this relic. It was originally bought with innocent blood and is utterly cursed. Any man who touches the fragment of Holy Cross will die as soon as the relic is relinquished.”’

Baldwin blanched. He grabbed the parchment and read it himself. He sat back, it seemed to him that in the far distance he heard again those dreadful massed kettledrums, the screams and shrieks, the rattle of sling-stones, the metallic ‘ting’ of arrows bouncing from walls…and saw again in his mind’s eye the bold warrior de Beaujeu, sword raised, suddenly overwhelmed. He saw all this and he felt sickened.

‘Baldwin?’ Simon asked. He had risen and stood at Baldwin’s side. ‘Jonathan, fetch some wine. Strong, red wine.’

As soon as the clerk was gone, Baldwin murmured, ‘I saw him die.’

‘Who?’

‘Guillaume de Beaujeu. He was the man whom we revered above all others in Acre. Courageous and bold, but wily, he lead the Templars in their defence of the city.’

‘But he was superstitious,’ Simon said.

Baldwin frowned. ‘I should not have thought so. No more than a bishop. He died before the fall of Acre, and his treasurer, Thibaud Gaudin, took all the relics and saved them. When the Order of the Temple was disbanded, all the relics were taken, though. I wonder how this one survived?’

‘Perhaps it was simply unregarded,’ Simon suggested.

‘Scarcely,’ Baldwin said.

Jonathan had returned, unnoticed, and he held out a mazer of wine. He looked as though he should have drunk it himself.

‘Perhaps it was left alone because it was feared?’ he said.

If there was one thing that the outlaw was good at, it was patience. He stood outside the house, listening and watching carefully. There was no sign of his prey, but another man interested the outlaw now. All evening he had waited here, hoping to catch sight of Adam, without luck, but he had begun to notice that he was not alone. There was another man watching the same doorway, a younger man with a good-quality tunic. He looked like a rich man’s servant, or maybe an official from the city?

So Adam had upset another man. This could complicate matters.

It was one thing to kill a felon like this Adam, but a different thing altogether to murder an officer in cold blood.

And then he saw the stumbling shape of Adam lurching down the lane. The outlaw quickly shifted his belt, hitching it up so that the hilt lay within easy reach. Then he pushed himself out of the doorway where he had been resting, and set off up the alley towards the door of the place where Adam lived. As he did so, he saw that the youngster had spotted Adam too. Being no fool, he was not going to confront the man. Instead, he turned down the alley towards the outlaw and passed him at a trot. Off, no doubt, to call for assistance. The outlaw smiled to himself. There would be little need for that shortly.

He reached the doorway at the same time as Adam. Nodding to the felon, the outlaw cast a look about him. There was no one. He drew his sword as Adam pushed the door wide, and brought the pommel crashing down on his head. Adam roared with pain, his neck muscles contracting, his shoulders hunching, and he spun to confront the outlaw. The outlaw had completed his blow, drawing the blade back, his right fist at his flank, elbow crooked, ready to stab, his left hand outstretched, palm flat, his weight balanced on his right leg.

Adam saw him, and the outlaw saw the blank incomprehension in his eyes. Then there was only blind rage. He darted back, slamming the door, but it bounced off the outlaw’s boot. The outlaw sprang forward into the gloomy interior, and he heard the rasp of steel as he entered. There was a flash, and he parried. A crash of metal, and his arm was jerked with the force of Adam’s fury. Then the blade came again, a heavy falchion by the look of it, wickedly curved and deadly. He shoved his fist across his body, and the blades met with a loud ringing. A second glint, and he had the man’s measure. Adam was a hacker, preferring to use blunt force to wear down his opponent rather than subtlety.

But the outlaw was a trained warrior, skilled in the craft of swordsmanship and experienced in a hundred battles. He parried once more, fell back, and then stabbed forward, once, his leg straightening, as did his arm. The falchion was swinging at his neck, but he was ready, and caught the flat of the blade with his left hand, knocking it safely up and away even as he felt the gentle resistance of Adam’s breast. He pushed on a little farther, and he saw the anger leaving Adam’s face, to be replaced by a wondering shock. There was a clatter as the falchion’s tip struck the ground and Adam started to stagger backward. His legs struck a stool and he slipped down to sit, dully gazing up at the outlaw.

The outlaw heard a gasp and a sudden sob, and turned his head to see an old man and a woman sitting not far from him. The distraction was enough. Adam flicked his falchion’s point up and the outlaw felt it enter his belly, tearing through his bowels and snagging on his lowest rib. There was no pain, not yet. That would come later.

He put his boot on Adam’s fist and trampled it as hard as he could, pushing the blade away from himself, and when he was free of its encumbrance, he pulled his sword out of Adam, and whirled it around in a fast, slashing sweep. There was a fountain of blood, and in its midst he saw the uncomprehending expression in Adam’s eyes as the head rose as though balanced on a column of crimson, and fell to the ground.

Baldwin and Simon were about to settle on their benches when the man arrived. ‘He’s back, Sir Baldwin!’

Jonathan was dozing on a bench, and Simon kicked him awake before the three followed the watchman out into the road.

Baldwin was relieved to be out of the tavern and doing something. He had remained there idly for too long after reading de Beaujeu’s words, and the memories that his words brought were painful. All those good, honourable men had died, and for what? There was no reason. The Templars had been created to protect pilgrims travelling to the Holy Land. Dedicated, answering only to the Pope, they couldn’t believe that the pontiff could betray their trust, but he had. He had sided with the avaricious French king to bring about their ruin, and many had been slaughtered, some tortured to death, others burned on pyres as recusants. Since then the warrior-monks had been given the choice of life in a harsher Order, or eviction. Many finished their days as beggars on the streets of Paris.

At least, he reflected, de Beaujeu had not lived to see the destruction of all he had believed in.

Their way took them along the High Street almost to the hospital, and then down the alley. This dark gulley between the buildings was always gloomy, but tonight there seemed to be some excitement. Up ahead there was the noise of many voices, as though there was a gathering of some sort. Baldwin was at first glad, for he thought that the noise would conceal their arrival. But then he realized that the noise emanated from the house where Adam lived, and he felt his optimism fade.

The house was bright with candles. A wailing and sobbing came from within, but the men had to battle their way past the plug of intrigued bystanders in the doorway. Once past them, Simon groaned in revulsion, while Baldwin could only stand and stare in sympathy.

On the floor before them, the old woman lay cradling her dead son’s body in her lap, trying to hold his head on the neck, rocking backwards and forwards as though to help him sleep.

Joseph grunted when he heard the knocking. He had just dozed off, and almost fell from his stool. As it was, it gave an ominous creak as he shifted his weight; he must tell the prior and acquire a new one soon. This really was past safe use. Before long the thing would break, and then where would they all be if Joseph broke a wrist or an ankle?

‘Yes, yes. I’m coming, I’m coming,’ he responded testily as the knocking came again. He pulled the door open. ‘Whatever is the urgency at this time of night? I…Come in here, my good fellow. What on…who did this?’

The outlaw walked inside and limped to the stool. ‘It was my own foolishness, I think, Brother. I am a cretin. And I fear that I am dying. Please-would you hear my confession?’

‘Not until I’ve had a look at your wounds,’ Joseph said. He helped the man up again, and walked him to a bed before stripping him and helping him to lie back. Fetching water, he bathed the wounds. Seeing how the wound entered the right, lower part of his abdomen, and clearly rose up to exit his body higher, on the left-hand side, he said, ‘You were stabbed very cruelly here.’

The outlaw nodded grimly. ‘It is a grievous wound. I…I feel it. I cannot live.’

Joseph sucked his teeth. There was a lot of blood seeping from both wounds, and there was the odour he recognized, the smell of bile and bowel solids. This was a man who was dying, there was no need to conceal the fact. And better that he make no attempt to do so. A dying man had the right to time to reconcile himself, and prepare himself to meet the Maker.

‘I thought so. The man I had brought here. Is he still here?’

‘You had…you mean the wounded fellow? He is still here, yes.’

‘Can he speak yet?’

‘Er, no. No, he is still unconscious. I think that the wound was very deep. It is not certain that he will live.’

‘Then I have a tale to tell you, Brother. And when I have told it, you can tell him too, and maybe the others who’ll ask about me,’ the outlaw said. ‘Know, then, that my name is John Mantravers, of South Witham,’ he began.

Simon and Baldwin had completed their work at Adam’s house when there was another call on the cool night air, and the two men stared at each other before running into the alley with the sergeant and Jonathan.

‘What is this call for?’ Simon burst out as they began to run along the alley northward towards the High Street. They turned left, heading to Carfoix, listening to the shouts and horns.

‘Down here!’ Baldwin shouted as they passed South Gate Street. They ran down this, and then realized that they had overshot the lane they needed. Turning back, they found the dim entrance, and were soon pelting along it. Simon kept to the rear, so that he could assist Jonathan, who was suffering from a stitch.

The house looked familiar, and Simon stared at it. In the dark it was hard to see where they were, but then he realized: it was Moll’s house. This was where they had found Will’s body the day before, but then they had approached the place from the other direction.

A man stood in the alley, a towel at his mouth. There was a pool of vomit near him. ‘I knew her, knew her well, you know? She was always a kindly wench, if you paid her well. I was due to see her tonight, but I was late. I couldn’t help it. I opened the door when she didn’t answer. I just thought she was angry because I was late…’

The words washed over Simon as he pushed the man out of the way and followed Baldwin inside.

The abode was pathetic. There were the tattered remnants of an old blanket hanging at the window in an attempt to make the place more homely, but to Simon it served only to emphasize how mean and unlovely this life had been.

On the floor were plain rushes, moderately recently spread but unfresh. From the beams dangled fresh herbs and some flowers, but their soft perfume couldn’t hide the sourness of sweat and sex-nor the metallic odour of blood.

It was that which made Simon want to gag. From the dark and gloomy alleyway they entered this place by the rotten door, which scraped its way over the packed earth of the threshold. The darkness made Simon think of hell. There was a foulness about it, as though the air itself were poisonous, and he wondered whether he would succumb to one of the diseases that bad air could bring. Beyond the uneven planks of the door, there was a short passage. Once this might have been a moderately pleasant house, perhaps even the residence of a wealthy trader or professional, but now it had become rotten, decayed. Walls were cracked and unpatched. The lime wash was all but gone, leached away inside and out. Overhead he could see more sky through the holes in the roof than he could through the window.

After the short corridor was the room itself, but Simon couldn’t take stock. His eyes were drawn to the thick spatters of blood on the walls, and then to the ruined body on the floor by the palliasse. He swallowed at the sight. An arm, broken at the elbow, lay oddly twisted. The bodice of her tunic was open, ripped from the neck to her navel, and her blood had run between her breasts. Thick trails ran down her chest and stained her skirts.

Simon had once seen a man’s head smashed by a maddened carthorse’s hoof, and this looked much the same. The right side of Moll’s head was stove in, with a mess of hair, shards of bone and grey filth filling the cavity. It made Simon sick to see, and the smell added to his deep revulsion.

‘She has clearly been beaten savagely,’ Baldwin murmured, and Simon was conscious of a curious quiet about him.

‘Why would any man do this?’ he muttered.

‘Why indeed?’ Baldwin agreed as he began his study of the body and the surrounding area. ‘It is a display of brutality-much like the corpse of Will outside her door.’

Jonathan officiously barged past the group of neighbours huddled at the door and stood near Simon. The bailiff could hear him swallow as though with difficulty, like a man with a mouthful of dry bread and nothing to drink to ease it down. ‘The poor soul.’

A sergeant in the doorway hawked and spat. ‘She was only a whore, Brother.’

Jonathan turned slowly and fixed the man with a look of withering contempt. ‘Mary Magdalene was a prostitute, my son. And she was praised by the Lord for her kindness.’

‘You stick to what you know from your books, Brother,’ the sergeant said unabashed. ‘Me, I’ll stick to what I know. Moll was a nice enough girl, but she was still a whore and there’s nothing more to be said.’

‘Shut up,’ Simon ordered, sickened both by the sight of the young woman and by this man’s casual attitude towards her death. ‘Where’s the man who found her?’

The fellow from outside was brought in, and he stood anxiously wringing his hands, seemingly looking all over the room except at Moll.

‘Who are you?’ Baldwin asked.

The man threw a nervous look over his shoulder. Then he seemed to sag as he recognized some faces. ‘I’m called Peter from Sidmouth.’

Baldwin and Simon questioned him for some while, but he had witnesses who confirmed that he had been at a tavern with them. Before that, he had been at his stall in the market, and plenty of people vouched for his presence all morning and afternoon. It appeared he was innocent of any crime.

‘There is no sign of the weapon,’ Baldwin said. ‘It must have been a heavy club of some sort. The killer took it away with him. Find that, and we’ve got a murderer.’

Simon nodded, then called, ‘Did she have any special customers recently? It could have been a new gull did this to her.’

‘I saw her with a new man,’ a man said. He said his name was Jack, and his voice was quiet as he took in the sight of the ruined body. ‘No one should do that to a maid!’

‘Who was this new man?’ Simon asked.

‘I don’t rightly know,’ Jack admitted. ‘He was in the Rache the other evening, and I saw him talking to her there, but I didn’t think much of it. Why should I, knowing how she earned her crust? He was a tall bastard. Tall and rangy, dressed all in black. His cloak had seen better days. Oh, he had good black boots, too.’

‘You remember him clearly, this man? Can you describe his face?’

‘Easily done. Skinny face, like he’d lived in it a while. Dark eyes, very intense. You know, the sort that don’t blink hardly at all? That was how he looked, like he was looking through you all the time, not bothering to see the outside. He was looking at your soul.’

Baldwin joined them, wiping bloodied hands on his tunic. ‘You would say all that from a glimpse as you entered the tavern?’

‘I caught sight of him, and you don’t forget a man’s face like that. His eyes were on me as soon as I was over the threshold. And anyway, I was looking about me carefully.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked.

‘Well, that daft sod Will had left just before me, and I was going inside for a pot of ale when bloody Adam came out in a hurry and nearly knocked me down. Clumsy git. He was always like that, even before he left the city. He can’t help it. I think he never realized that life is different when you get older. When he was a youngster he was always good with his fists, and as he grew up, his mind was set on using his fists or a dagger to resolve any problems.’

‘Could he have killed a woman like this?’ Simon asked.

Jack stared, gaping, but although his head shook slowly, his eyes were drawn back to the body on the floor, and his expression hardened. ‘He knew her, certainly.’

There was an angry muttering from the doorway as the men watching realized what had been said, and the sergeant had to thump the butt of his staff on the ground and bellow to silence them all.

Baldwin thought. ‘It is possible he had a part in this murder, and also the death outside Moll’s door, too: Will’s murder. Moll’s death could have been committed to silence a witness.’

Simon glanced about the room. ‘If she saw something, perhaps it was the man she was with in the tavern?’

Glancing at Jack, Baldwin considered. ‘Jack? What do you say to that? When did Moll leave the tavern?’

‘I don’t know. A little while after me, I suppose. I saw her with the man at the corner of the tavern and when I left they’d gone. I don’t know when they walked out-didn’t seem important at the time.’

‘Will had gone, and a short time later Adam hared off out. Perhaps that is the explanation,’ Simon suggested. ‘Maybe Adam killed Will, and then came here to kill off the only witness: Moll.’

‘The killer surely returned to murder the witness,’ Baldwin agreed. He looked at the sergeant in the doorway. ‘But who killed Adam?’

‘There was one other person I saw up here earlier,’ the sergeant said with a frown on his face. ‘That girl, Rob’s friend, Annie. She was here.’

‘Do you have any idea why she might have taken such an irrational hatred to this girl that she could do this?’ Simon asked.

‘Moll was a whore. She could have stolen Annie’s lover.’

The man was already in a great deal of pain, but the jug of burned wine at his side was helping. His brow was very sweaty, but Joseph applied a cool cloth to ease his pain as best he might.

‘It’s my duty…must get it to the bishop…’

‘What is the relic?’ Joseph asked calmly.

John Mantravers sat up agitatedly. ‘The relic! De Beaujeu’s cursed relic! I have to take it to safety!’

‘Be calm, my son, please-sit back, calm yourself,’ Joseph pleaded.

‘It’s cursed! All who touch it will die! I must take it! My sin, ach, my crime! God, help me!’

It was very late by the time Baldwin and Simon returned to their inn, and although Simon dropped off to sleep quickly, Baldwin found himself reluctant to slumber. In his mind he kept seeing de Beaujeu fall.

Guillaume de Beaujeu had been a strong and intelligent leader. Skilled in politics, he was the only voice warning of the imminence of invasion in the months before the disaster, but he never complained. He told the people of the risk to the Holy Kingdom, but they scoffed, and most of them were to pay with their lives.

The treasure of the Templars was rescued. First Thibaud took it all to Sidon, and then to Cyprus, where he died. Soon Jacques de Molay was the Grand Master, and the relics and treasure were transported to the Paris Temple for safe-keeping. All the Templars knew that. Even Baldwin had heard of the shipments of gold and valuables.

Yet this one relic was in England. Was it something to do with the parchments? De Beaujeu implied that it was his, or that there was some sort of responsibility placed upon him with this relic. There had been rumours that he had prayed on the night before his death, taking some of the relics and using them to enhance his pleas to God. Perhaps this was one such. Baldwin couldn’t tell. In Acre he had not yet joined the Order. That came later, and he never had the chance to advance very far.

He prayed that he might at least learn the secret of this relic. He felt that there was a duty on him to see to it that any debt de Beaujeu had incurred was paid back. If the Templars, or de Beaujeu himself, had cause to protect this specific relic, Baldwin would see to it that their wishes were honoured. He owed that to the Grand Master’s memory.

With that thought, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but still it evaded him, and at last he gave up. In the early hours of the morning he rose and padded across to a window, leaning on the wall and watching as the light changed outside. He felt sad, and the pity of it was, he didn’t know why.

Joseph was woken from a light doze some little while after dawn. The gates were routinely opened as soon as it was daylight, and now he heard the door open, and yawned as he peered short-sightedly at the figure entering.

‘Who is that?’ he demanded.

‘I am this man’s brother,’ the man said. ‘Is he well?’

‘If he were, he’d scarcely be in here, would he?’ Joseph said drily. He was not ready for foolish questions such a short while after being woken, and his sympathy for a soon-to-be-bereaved man was at a low ebb. He had not slept properly since the man had been brought in here and his temper was not improved by the lack.

‘I’m sorry, Brother. I didn’t know he was here, though.’

‘We couldn’t tell anyone, could we? He couldn’t tell us who he was, after all,’ Joseph said with a more tolerant tone. His good humour was returning. ‘Who are you?’

The man licked his lips. ‘I’m Rob. He’s my brother Andrew. Will he live?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so.’ Joseph walked to the bed and stood over Andrew. He took a cold cloth from the dish on the table and cleaned Andrew’s face and brow. To his delight, he saw that the face appeared to relax slightly. When he put his hand to Andrew’s forehead, there was a significant diminution in temperature. ‘My God! Yes, I think he’s fast recovering now. With God’s good grace, he will recover!’

He turned and smiled at the sight of Rob’s face. ‘It must be a terrible shock. Please, friend, sit and collect yourself. I have a little wine in my chamber. I shall fetch you some.’

‘Tha…thanks.’

Rob watched as the man bustled about the place.

This was all wrong! He had thought Andrew was safely dead. He’d stabbed hard enough, feeling the hilt of his dagger slam into his brother’s back, he’d thrust so determinedly. Damn his soul, he wanted Andrew dead and out of the way. He’d wanted that ever since he’d first realized that Annie loved him.

She had been all he had ever wanted. To him, Annie represented love, comfort, ease, a home. She was beautiful. He’d thought that on the very first day he’d seen her walking here from Tiverton. All he’d done since then, he’d done to make a new home and life for her. And in return all he hoped for was her acceptance.

But Andrew had taken it instead. It was dreadful to have a rival for her affections, but how much worse was it to know that his rival was his own brother? It tore at his heart, and yet he could see no alternative. If he was to have his woman, he would have to remove his brother.

He rose as though in a trance, his feet drawing him towards the bed even as his hand reached to his dagger, and he had already drawn the steel as the door to Joseph’s chamber opened and the little man came out with a bowl of wine.

‘Here we are. I hope you are feeling a little more…What are you doing there?’

Rob turned for a split second, and his momentary hesitation was long enough. ‘I…I have to…’

‘No! You mustn’t hurt him,’ Joseph shouted.

On the next bed, the outlaw had woken a few moments before. Now he turned his head to see the scruffy felon with the dagger in his hand. He recognized the man from the attack at Bishop’s Clyst, and the sight was enough to stir him. His belly hurt abominably, but he had to protect the man whose life he was sworn to defend. He reached down to the pile of his clothes by the bed. There was his sword, and he pulled it free, then swung his legs to the floor.

‘Christ!’

His legs all but collapsed when he put his weight on them. As he spoke, the felon looked at him, and appeared to recognize him too, and stepped back as though terrified by the sight.

Naked, grunting with the effort, the outlaw clenched his teeth. ‘The relic: where is it?’

Rob saw him teeter as though about to collapse, and was about to lift his dagger to strike Andrew when the knight gritted his teeth with a supreme effort and stepped forward, the sword’s point unwavering.

‘Where is it?’ he demanded.

It was like watching a corpse come to life. The scene was enough to destroy Rob’s resolve. He stepped back, one step, then another, and turned to the door to flee.

Joseph understood nothing about their actions, but he knew that this man had been about to murder his own brother. He had no compunction, and brought the heavy dish down on Rob’s head as he passed. There was a veritable fountain of red wine, and it smothered Joseph, making him blink, feeling a sudden shock.

Rob howled with the pain of the blow, but continued out, dripping with wine. He lurched, then ran across the small green to the gate.

‘Porter! Stop that man! He tried to kill a patient!’ Joseph cried. He saw the porter turn slowly.

The man gaped. As he later said, he could see Joseph covered in red, as though his throat had been cut, and Joseph’s words made him act without a second thought. He had an old bill behind his door for defending the precinct, and now, as Rob ran towards him, a hand wiping the wine from his face, he grabbed it. An old warrior, he swung it once as Rob passed, and hamstrung him.

Rob collapsed like a poleaxed heifer. He couldn’t comprehend what had happened at first, only that there had been a thud at the back of his knees, and a leg had stopped supporting him. Now he rose on his hands and one knee, but his left leg wouldn’t do as he wanted. It flopped, useless. He stared at it, realizing that it was drenched in blood, and looked up in time to see the evil, spiked pole-arm approaching him.

Joseph was about to cry out when he saw the spike hit Rob. The body twitched for a few moments, one leg beating a percussive beat on the dirt of the roadway, but then it lay still as the porter struggled to free his pole-arm from the dead body’s eye socket.

‘He is very unwell,’ Joseph said. ‘I would not have him upset any further.’

Baldwin and Simon nodded as Jonathan set out his reeds and parchment on a trestle table.

It was Baldwin who walked to the outlaw’s bed. ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Who are you?’

‘I am called Sir John Mantravers, from South Witham. I was born there five-and-forty years ago, served Lord Hugh de Courtenay here in the west, and then joined the noblest Order.’ His voice was weak, but as he uttered the last words, it strengthened, and he looked at Baldwin defiantly. ‘I was a Knight Templar.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘What happened to you?’

‘After the destruction of my Order, I escaped the tortures and the flames. I returned to England at last, and went to my old preceptory at South Witham. There I met an ancient comrade, Johel. He told me that there was a secret kept there.

‘A relic, a piece of the True Cross, was stored in a small casket in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre during the first of the Crusades. It was in the care of an Arab named Barzac, but he was murdered by Sir Miles de Clermont during the slaughter following the fall of Jerusalem. Barzac cursed the relic and all who would hold it. A few days later it passed into the hands of Geoffrey Mappestone, who wrote a document attesting to its authenticity.

‘Eventually it was brought to our country, and it has remained here for many years. Then Guillaume de Beaujeu learned of it, and he took it with him to the Holy Land when he became Grand Master of our Order. It killed him.’

Baldwin felt the breath stop in his throat. ‘De Beaujeu was slain on the walls near the Accursed Tower in Acre.’

‘The night before, I am told, he prayed for the city’s deliverance, and he took out this relic and prayed with it. The next day he died. The relic killed him, just as it kills all who touch it.’

Baldwin saw Brother Joseph crossing himself, and pressed the wounded man. ‘What then?’

‘It was saved with other relics, and taken to France, but there it was decided that this thing was too perilous: it could pollute other treasures. In preference, it was sent back to England, and it remained there safely in South Witham in obscurity, until the degenerate and avaricious King of France sought the destruction of the Temple. Then Johel and a few other men sought to defend the thing and protect others from finding it. When the preceptory was ordered to be closed, I was asked to come here to Exeter with a companion to give it to the good Bishop Walter, who was known to be an honourable man.’

‘But you were attacked?’

‘Footpads ambushed us at a river. They caught my companion and murdered him. They tried to kill me, but I escaped them, and defended myself against the man there in the bed. He fought well, and almost knocked me from my horse while his comrades fled. Then he too ran, trying to take a path through a stand of low trees where I could not follow on horseback. I left him, and went to my friend, but poor Tom was dead and his package was stolen. It was a disaster, the failure of our embassy.

‘So I continued alone. A short way beyond the little wood, I found this man. I would have killed him, but I needed to find the relic, and I thought he could tell me of its whereabouts. He agreed to tell me all he knew in return for my parole. If I protected him and brought him here, he would answer my questions.

‘This man told me that a companion of his had tried to kill him. For that he felt that he owed his erstwhile colleagues no loyalty. So he told me of the girl Annie. He loved her, and he wanted her to know he was alive. I found her and told her about the attack on her man, and she was enraged. She helped me, telling me of the whore Moll, and telling me where Adam and Will lived so that I could ambush them and find the relic. So this I tried to do.

‘The first night I went to the tavern and saw the men there. I tried to return to catch Will, but he escaped me in the dark. I remained up in Moll’s room. In the middle of the night, the brother of this man appeared, horrified. He had found Will’s body. I left then, determined to find the man and search his body.’

‘This was the middle of the night?’ Baldwin queried.

‘Yes. Moll persuaded him that it would be better to leave Will there and report the murder in the morning. Will had had his throat cut, and I went through his clothes but could find nothing on him. No relic. In a rage, I slashed at his corpse. He’d killed my friend Tom and robbed him, and now I couldn’t find Tom’s goods. I was enraged.’

‘You would have killed him.’

‘No. I wanted the relic, and I wanted to question him to learn where it was. I have no taste for murder. In the same way I tried to capture Adam. He was stronger than I expected, though, and didn’t fall when I struck him. In the fight, I had to kill him…and I think he has killed me.’

‘So we still don’t know who killed Will,’ Simon said. ‘Nor Moll, either.’

‘I killed neither,’ the injured knight said. ‘Who would kill Moll?’

Baldwin was silent for a moment. Then he bowed over the dying man. ‘You have done well, poor fellow soldier.’ He drew his sword, and showed the man the blade. There, outlined in gold, was the Templar cross. He had asked for it to be carved there when he had the sword made, and never had he been more proud.

Sir John de Mantravers peered closely, and then looked up at Baldwin. ‘Thank you, comrade.’ He kissed the cross and sank back with a grunt of pain.

‘Come on, then, Baldwin. Who would have killed Moll?’ Simon asked.

‘I have little doubt that it was Rob,’ Baldwin said. ‘I think he feared that she saw something on the day that Will was killed.’

‘So you think that Will was murdered by Rob?’ Jonathan asked.

They were near the Broad Gate, the great main entranceway to the cathedral, and Baldwin stopped here. ‘We may never know, of course, but I think that for our report we should assume that he was responsible for that as well. Clearly we may not enquire of him any longer, but who else would have had the motive? His brother had been leader of the band, and when his brother was stabbed, perhaps he thought that Will would take over. Maybe he thought the gang was his own inheritance? For whatever reason, he killed Will and then stabbed Moll in case she had seen something. Perhaps he thought she was a witness and couldn’t take the risk that she might report him?’

‘I see.’ Jonathan nodded. He gave the two men his thanks for their company, and walked in under the great gates. In a moment he was lost to sight.

Baldwin nodded to himself. ‘A pleasant enough fellow.’

‘And about as gullible as you could hope,’ Simon said more caustically. ‘So now, Baldwin, what really happened?’

‘Think of it this way, Simon. What reason was there for someone to kill Will? He was no real threat to anyone in the band. He had the others under control. When Adam wanted to get the relic, he didn’t fight with Will, but picked a fight with Tad instead. Adam himself recognized Will’s leadership.’

‘Rob could have killed him.’

‘True enough. He was a weak, ineffectual man, yet he still managed to attempt to kill his own brother when he thought that Andrew might take his woman. He could have tried to kill Will-but was there the desire? I think that someone else had more of a desire to see him dead.’

‘Who?’

‘Annie, Andrew’s woman. She loved him, from what Andrew said to Mantravers, and surely she would not have expected Andrew’s own brother to murder him; when she heard that Andrew was attacked and presumed dead, who would she have blamed? I think the first person would be Will. So she laid a trap for him, waiting in the alley. When he came near, she pulled his neck back and cut his throat.’

‘You think that she went back to kill Moll?’

‘Moll was sure she knew who had killed Will. She told you she was safe, didn’t she? That was because she felt sure that the killer was Robert or Adam, and she didn’t feel threatened by either of them. But she was wrong. One of them was quite prepared to kill her.’

‘Adam was a violent, dangerous man,’ Simon said thoughtfully. Then he shook his head. ‘Yet he didn’t kill anyone. He wouldn’t rise to fight Will when Will prevented him looking at the box, and we know that Robert was capable of murdering his own brother to keep his woman. It must have been him.’

‘Yes. He thought Annie could have been seen, so he went back to Moll’s house and killed her.’

‘What would make him think that she was a threat to him?’ Simon wondered.

Baldwin said nothing. His friend the bailiff was too dear to him for Baldwin to talk about the time when they had both been questioning Rob on that first day they had seen him, when Baldwin studied the pool of vomit and Simon went to the whore and spoke to her quietly. Baldwin could see the two of them now, young Moll looking at Simon with that saucy smile, every bit the practised wench; Simon himself grinning back and asking her who she might have seen or heard. A man as anxious as Rob would be sure to wonder whether that quiet conversation could have led to information being shared. No, Baldwin wouldn’t tell his friend.

But Simon’s mind was already on another matter. ‘So if this woman Annie killed Will, do you think we should have her arrested?’

Baldwin grimaced and shook his head. ‘What good would it do? She has managed to remove a felon from the streets. In fact her act of revenge for the stabbing of her man had the beneficial result that it removed four footpads from the roads about here. I think she deserves to be left to her own conscience.’

Exeter, January, 1324

The little graves were a sad reminder of those days, he thought, as he looked down at them. On one side was the plain, simple cross of a monk; on the other was the more showy affair with the special sign etched into it.

Joseph rose from his prayers for the two men with a grunt as his knee seemed to lock. The cold wintry weather always had this result: the right knee would freeze, like a rusted hinge, and he would find it difficult to get up from his devotions. Now he must use a stick to hobble from here back to his hospital.

The two men were bold enough, he supposed. It was good of the knight from Furnshill to pay for their gravestones, but perhaps it was the sort of charitable gift a man like him would be expected to donate. Looking after those who had been on a journey and were assaulted on their way. It was a little disturbing to see that cross symbol, though, the mark of the Templars. Their Order had been disbanded because they were heretical and recusants. To have their Order’s cross carved upon the gravestone felt almost sacrilegious-and yet Joseph couldn’t begrudge it. The man himself had seemed a good man. He had saved Andrew’s life, too, and that itself meant he deserved being remembered in a kindly light.

‘Come in, Brother.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

Joseph hobbled inside and glanced about him at the beds. ‘No customers, thank God.’

Andrew smiled. He was still a little bent from the after-effects of his wound, and the pain, and the reserved inward-looking expression, would never leave him, but he was content. ‘No. No more strays, Brother.’

Joseph watched him from narrowed eyes. Yes, the lad would make a good lay brother. It was a shame that his woman would have to find a new lover, but that was the way of things. Those whom God called, and so on.

And what more clear call could there be, than that he should make a man touch a cursed relic and never be able to leave it behind? The relic was still in its box in Andrew’s custody, secure. There had been a time when Joseph wondered whether it should be given to the bishop, but something made him hesitate. He had spoken to Sir Baldwin at length, and both thought that it would be best to keep the thing secret.

In any case, Andrew had touched the thing once, so he was cursed to keep it. If he relinquished it, he would die.

That was why he was here. He could have left the hospital to marry Annie, but the weight of this burden was too much to lay upon her.

No, rather than blight her life too, he would live here for the rest of his life. Because he knew that if he left the hospital and gave up the relic, he would die. As surely as Will and Adam had died.

At least here he was safe.