The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Thirteen

Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple walked through the streets of Tiverton plunged deep in thought.

Other men tended to move aside when he approached. He always found his path clear, no matter how crowded the road or alley. It was the natural order exerting itself on his behalf. Sir Peregrine was a lord, one of the Bellatores, the fighting class, and if another man stood in his path or offered an insult, Sir Peregrine was wealthy, powerful and strong enough to force him to regret his rashness.

Sir Peregrine was relatively content with the way things were progressing. He had much to do still to persuade Lord de Courtenay to his own way of thinking, that it would be sensible to set up an alliance with the Marcher Lords, but the matter would be easier to deal with now that the Despensers’ emissary was dead.

It had been alarming to hear that Sir Gilbert had met Lord Hugh. Sir Peregrine had heard by a chance remark from one of his gatehouse men: while Sir Peregrine was out comforting Emily, Sir Gilbert had arrived and asked to see Lord Hugh. Lord Hugh met him in his private solar and they spoke for some little while. Sir Peregrine himself returned before Sir Gilbert had left and instantly set a man to follow him. It was that man who had seen Sir Gilbert’s horse. ‘He’s from the Despensers, Sir Peregrine.’

That was a complication Sir Peregrine wished to do without. He had no desire to see the cautious progression of his own persuasion wrecked by Sir Gilbert. It was crucial that Lord Hugh should join the ranks of the Welsh Marchers. Sir Peregrine himself was an enthusiastic supporter of theirs and had no wish to find himself fighting at the side of Lord de Courtenay against those he thought should be their friends. Better by far that he should persuade Lord de Courtenay to join his natural allies. After all, although the Despensers were exiled, that was no guarantee that they wouldn’t return. King Edward II had recalled Gaveston; he could as easily ask his lover Despenser to return.

Sir Peregrine found his steps slowing as a pensive mood came over him. Surely a messenger would have brought something to prove his master’s integrity: some form of reward for friendship? Sir Gilbert of Carlisle would not have come empty-handed to the castle.

He lost his train of thought as he arrived at Emily’s house. It stank, and the refuse all about made him curl his lip, but he had to know how she was. ‘Emily? Are you there?’ Ducking under the low lintel, he gazed about him with consternation. The hovel had been cleaned and swept, the table moved, the bed tidied.

While he stood there dumbfounded, a woman entered behind him. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Emily?’

‘Childbirth. Baby killed her. They bury her tomorrow.’

Sir Peregrine swallowed but kept his face set. He nodded coldly, pushed past the neighbour and made his way back towards the castle, taking deep breaths as he walked.

Dead! His child gone, taking his woman with it. Sir Peregrine had never married and Emily had been the closest he had ever known to a wife: gentle, kind, grateful for the small presents he had given her.

Sir Peregrine had never been able to win the affection of a courtly lady. There had been one once, a woman in Barnstaple over fifteen years ago, but she was dead now. Emily had attracted him with her ready smile, her soft voice and calmness. It seemed impossible that she had gone for ever. The thought made him stumble, and when he recovered himself, he found his eyes had filled with moisture and he had to blink it away.

He felt as though someone had cut out his heart.

Father Abraham scratched as quickly as his reed allowed, stopping regularly to resharpen the tip, occasionally discarding old ones and picking up fresh, hating the work.

It wasn’t that the task was difficult, but the ability to write was a God-given gift, and as such it deserved the concentration and dedication necessary to produce the most beautiful work possible. This hurried scribbling was an insult to Him; it was no better than a usurer’s records.

Looking up, he saw the knight from Cadbury, Sir Baldwin, stare at the ground for a moment before returning to his questions. He appeared to take the matter seriously, but as far as Abraham was concerned, the whole issue was immaterial. The felon was dead after committing a second horrible murder. He had received his just deserts.

Baldwin looked at Andrew with an air of thoughtful enquiry. ‘How long were you at the tavern?’

‘I don’t know. Not long. We only had a quart of ale each and a pie.’

Father Abraham scribbled and scratched in his shorthand, and tried to control his growing impatience. He had services to conduct. The implication of Sir Baldwin’s questioning was clear enough: he thought the two men had been trying to ambush Dyne. Likely they had, Father Abraham considered, scratching at his bald pate with his reed and incidentally smearing ink over it – but so what?

At the back of his mind was the fear that his own part in that previous evening’s events might become common knowledge. It made him anxious and fretful. If only Father Benedict hadn’t demanded the last rites; Father Abraham wouldn’t have been out on that road so late, so near the woods.

As Baldwin finished his interrogation and returned to Simon’s side, Father Abraham threw Cecily Sherman a scowling glance. She was standing serenely and saw his look, giving him a slight smile that made the priest sneer. And what were you doing there, whore? he thought to himself.

Simon saw that Baldwin was frowning thoughtfully at Aylmer. The dog was sitting tied to a post, head tilted to one side as he observed the deliberations of the jury and Coroner. ‘What is it, Baldwin?’

Baldwin murmured, ‘The dead dog: if a dog launches himself at a man, he aims for the throat or arms, and the only way a man can defend himself is by cutting the animal’s neck or stabbing him in the side of the chest once the jaws have closed on him. Only a brave man or a trained fighter would stand his ground and wait until the dog leaped, holding out his blade to pin the hound in the air. And if it were a long blade, the animal would be held at the full extent of the weapon, unable to reach an arm or leg.’

‘So?’

Baldwin scowled at the jury. ‘Although Dyne had no sword, he escaped being bitten.’

‘What of the knight’s knife?’

‘Ah well, Simon. There we have another little mystery, don’t we? First we wondered how the felon got a knife, then we saw he must have taken the knight’s. But someone stabbed the knight, so we have to swallow the frankly ridiculous: that the knight and his dog allowed a man to ambush them, disarm and kill the knight. Only then did the dog attack, being himself slaughtered for his temerity.’

Simon chuckled. ‘I see your point. And then the thief is discovered by a fat merchant who has no difficulty in knocking the felon’s knife away.’

‘Precisely. A fat merchant can succeed in a fight where a knight has failed? I find it incredible.’

‘But if he didn’t, who did?’

‘Well, now. There I think…’ His pensive mood was destroyed as the court rang with a shriek of horror.

‘Philip! Oh, God, no! Philip!’

Spinning, Sir Baldwin saw a young woman run to the ring of the jury, then stop, hands flying up to her face as she stared petrified with horror at the head and torso of Philip Dyne.

Her figure was slender but strong and sturdy, that of a peasant girl who often had to put herself to labour in fields. Auburn hair dangled where her wimple had come adrift, hanging down the back of her cheap green tunic.

Without speaking again she collapsed. Baldwin sighed. Glancing at Edgar, he motioned to his servant to carry her indoors.

Jeanne took upon herself the duty of nursing the girl with Petronilla’s help while the men stood huddled in the hall. Harlewin had decided that there was little more to be decided, and while the girl was carried indoors by Edgar to be installed on a cot in the solar, he declared that in his capacity as Coroner he was satisfied that Philip Dyne had murdered Sir Gilbert of Carlisle and had then been discovered by Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok who had obeyed the law and beheaded him. For their misbehaviour in not bringing the head back to town for the Coroner to set in the gaol, they were fined. Apart from that, Baldwin himself swore to Sir Gilbert’s Englishry and although he was not a member of the man’s family, Harlewin agreed that his word was sufficient. In the case of Dyne, since he was a confirmed felon legally executed, there was no need for anyone to swear to his Englishry.

Father Abraham blew heavily on his paper and studied it pensively. Even with the hideous scar running though it where the girl’s scream had made him jump, it was legible, which was all that mattered. Rolling it up carefully, he tied a short length of scarlet ribbon around it and began packing up his reeds, inks, knives and scrapers, storing them painstakingly in his wallet.

It was growing late. He had to hurry to return to the church and say Mass. There were bound to be many of his congregation waiting, especially on this, the vigil of St Giles. Market traders would be there asking the saint for his help to ensure a profit. Later he would have to write up Harlewin’s inquest on poor Emily too.

He sighed and stood. She could wait. Divine services came first. Nodding to Harlewin and Simon – Sir Baldwin had gone inside with his wife – Father Abraham walked past the thinning jury, scarcely glancing at the two bodies.

‘Father?’

Father Abraham turned to Harlewin with a feeling of resigned annoyance.

‘Could you arrange to bury the knight as soon as possible? In this heat…’

There was no need to say more. Father Abraham gave a nod. ‘Bring him to the church tonight. I will read the Placebo, the Evensong of the Dead, and arrange for the hearse and some deserving poor to sit up with him.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

The priest walked out into the street. A hundred noxious scents assailed his nostrils, and he unconsciously hurried his steps as he made his way to his church.

Poor Emily, he thought. Her death reminded him that the minions of the Devil were waiting here, ever-present in the world, to ensnare any man who was foolish enough to submit to the temptations they offered.

That was the reason for anointing those soon to die, to keep devils away. After anointing, the soul lived in a shadow world until death came, and anointing protected the body. It meant devils couldn’t use the corpse, flying on it through the air to upset townspeople.

Those who died suddenly and without preparation were often saved by God’s Own grace. Although this knight would not be. He was an excommunicate. An evil heretic. Father Benedict had told him so. Sir Gilbert was a Templar.

Back at her house, Cecily Sherman waved her servants away and sat quietly with a jug of wine drawn from the best barrel in the buttery. Her husband was safely installed in his shop dealing with clients, and she was safe for a few moments of peace.

It was a good house, this. She glanced about her at the tapestries, the lamps, the thickly carved screen, the silverware, then, with a smile of self-satisfaction, at the pewter jug and small tankard on the table at her side. Yes, it was a very good house.

Oh, her husband wasn’t as bad as some. He was a bit dim on occasion – luckily! – but for the most part, if she was careful she could prevent the worst excesses of his temper. He’d only given her a beating the once, and well, she had been a bit obvious when she looked at that man in church. It was natural John should think she had insulted him: she had! It had been painful, though. He’d taken a willow wand to her, thrashing her until her back was bloody. She had been careful ever since to make sure that he wouldn’t ever feel the need to punish her again.

He wouldn’t. She would never give him reason again. He’d hurt her because she’d hurt his feelings, and beating his wife was a man’s right in his own house, just as he could beat the living daylights out of his maidservants – and menservants too, if it took his fancy.

No, she would never let that happen again. Since then she had always been careful to ensure that he couldn’t suspect her of infidelity. And yet he appeared to know something about her and Harlewin.

Harlewin the Coroner. Vain – yes; occasionally foolish – yes; large – without a doubt. But fun and essentially a risk-taker like her. Like her, too, he thrived on sex that was dangerous. He enjoyed her body, but both thrilled to the pleasure that came from their secret trysts. Every so often, not too regularly, they would ride to his place down near the river, miles outside town where he owned a mill, and spend the night in each other’s arms. As they had that night.

Somehow her husband knew something. He had been away, he’d said he had business in South Molton. A thought made a fist of ice clutch at her heart. He could have followed her; could have seen her there with Harlewin!

That was the fear that had so petrified her in the woods. But he hadn’t been there when she looked. It wasn’t him. Rationally she knew her panic was misplaced. If he’d seen them at the mill, he would have run in and killed them both. That was how his temper went. Fast and insane. He lost his veneer of calmness at the slightest provocation.

No, he couldn’t know. It was only a suspicion. Nothing more.

But the niggling concern kept pulling at her consciousness. Perhaps she should get an independent witness to give her an alibi – ask Father Abraham to confirm that she had been with him. Judging by his shame when she had seen him with the knight’s horse, he would be amenable to her plea. He wouldn’t like it, she thought – but then, he didn’t need to. This was the price of her silence.

It was more than an hour before the girl was capable of seeing anyone, long after the Coroner and his clerk had left, the one to eat, the other to perform a Mass, before both attended the inquest of Emily and her baby in childbirth.

When Jeanne at last came down to the hall from the solar with a slow, thoughtful tread, she found Simon and her husband sitting in the hall, both holding large pots of wine.

‘How is she?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Not well, but what would you expect after seeing her brother’s decapitated body?’

Baldwin gave a low whistle. ‘She was Dyne’s sister? My God, the poor girl.’

‘Her name is Avicia Dyne. She was horribly shocked and I’ve told her she needs to rest, but she wants to speak to you.’

Baldwin glanced at Simon, who shrugged. Simon knew what Baldwin was thinking: they had both seen people in every stage of distress and knew what to expect. There would be spirited denials of Philip Dyne’s guilt, closely followed by accusations against those in authority for having accepted bribes to divert the blame to him. Both men had seen the same situations repeated over and over again. ‘Come on, Baldwin, we may as well get it over with.’

‘Very well,’ Baldwin sighed, and followed his wife, Simon bringing up the rear.

Jeanne led them to a small, warm room that overlooked the court. It held little in the way of furnishing: a chest at one wall, a three-legged stool, and a small table with a jug of ale on it was all, apart from the modest little bed, which had no drapery, just a low wooden base with a palliasse on top. Thick, soft woollen blankets covered the girl.

In the yard Simon had been struck only by her misery on seeing her brother. He had hardly seen her features, but now he studied her with interest. Against the darkness of the room two candles had been lit, and their yellow flames illuminated the golden tints of Avicia Dyne’s hair, making it gleam in surprising contrast to the grey tone of her skin. Her eyes were sunken and dulled, her lips, pale and thin; her whole demeanour was one of despair.

She looked at them wanly as they entered, and Simon saw a single tear spring from the corner of her eye and leave a trail glistening in its wake as it slipped down her cheek. It was that, the lack of hysteria or any other emotion which struck him most forcibly. It was as if her whole life was ended and she had no more energy.

Simon stood at the back of the room in the darkness while Jeanne glided quietly to the girl’s side, pouring her a beaker of ale. Baldwin stood behind his wife.

‘Sir, I am grateful to you,’ Avicia told him, her voice stronger than he had expected. ‘I know you think I am only a mean-spirited thing, weak and emotional because of my brother’s death.’

Baldwin waved a hand as if in rejection, but she carried on swiftly before he could speak.

‘Please let me finish. Sir, my brother hasn’t received justice. This good lady has told me what the Coroner decided, but there are things you should know. Sir…’ She tried to sit up and her face worked with passion as she sought the best words to convince him. ‘Sir, my brother couldn’t have killed Joan. He loved her.’

Baldwin smiled sadly. ‘I have no authority here, child. Your brother confessed his guilt and was found away from the road. That is an end to–’

‘No, I can’t believe it!’ she said, shaking her head and making her hair swirl about her shoulders. ‘Sir, he couldn’t have hurt her, he couldn’t. He loved her, he was going to marry her. He wouldn’t have hurt her for anything.’

‘We often find that it is those who love who are the cause of the loved one’s death,’ Simon said quietly.

‘But he and she were handfast,’ she protested. ‘And Philip was never a lecher.’

‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The Coroner killed Joan and put the blame onto Philip to clear himself. Perhaps he told Philip that if he accepted blame the Coroner would allow him to escape and to find a new life abroad. It was the Coroner who urged Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok to chase after him and murder him.’

Baldwin ignored the word ‘murder’. Their execution of Dyne had been perfectly legal. ‘Andrew heard your brother admit to killing his daughter,’ he pointed out reasonably, ‘and Nicholas Lovecok heard him confess to killing his niece. What would be more natural than that they should follow the man who had confessed and execute him?’

‘But Philip couldn’t have done it! He wasn’t a murderer!’

‘Was he trained in fighting?’

‘No – why?’

It was not much, but it added to Baldwin’s feeling of wrongness. Commonly a close family member of a murderer would disbelieve his guilt, but the knowledge did not make Avicia’s distress any easier to bear. ‘Child, you know he confessed?’ He held up his hand to stop her before she could protest. ‘It is the truth, Avicia! He admitted killing Joan Carter after raping her – otherwise he wouldn’t have been allowed from the sanctuary to abjure the realm. The first rule is that a man must confess.’

‘But a man might be allowed to claim a pardon from the King if he was innocent!’

‘Well, of course. But in this case he–’

‘Philip was going to leave the country, yes, and he swore to abjure the realm, but he was innocent.’

Simon broke in, ‘Why would he do that? If he knew he was without guilt, he should have stood before the court and made his case.’

‘How can you say that, Bailiff? The jury here would have presented him to the court as a criminal and he would have been convicted. How could he defend himself?’

‘How could he expect to prove his innocence as an exile abroad?’ Simon pressed her.

‘Easier than if he remained here and hanged!’

‘This can get us nowhere,’ Baldwin muttered.

‘Then seek the murderer! When you know who caused Joan to die, you’ll have the murderer of her, of that knight and of Philip. And I can tell you who it was: it was Harlewin, the Coroner!’