The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Twenty-Three

At her house Cecily Sherman walked sedately into her hall. Inside were several men with their wives, all gripping pots of wine and talking. Cecily smiled at faces she recognised and inclined her head to others when they made her welcome. It was easy for her to be friendly with several of the men here, for two of them had been her lovers and one in particular she had earmarked for when Harlewin lost his lustre.

Only one man appeared to be unimpressed with her entrance. John, her husband, stood with his back to the fire and glowered as she walked in. She approached him with her head a little downcast and halted before him, curtseying. ‘My Lord.’

‘I was expecting you earlier,’ he grated. ‘After you couldn’t join us last night, I thought you would sleep so well that you would be able to be punctual this morning.’

She met his gaze innocently. ‘But my Lord, didn’t you receive my message? I sent to let you know that I would be delayed because I had stopped at the church.’

‘You “went to church?” ’ he mimicked cruelly. ‘What time was this, my dear?’

‘Before dawn, Husband,’ she said, permitting a faint tone of hurt to creep into her voice.

‘Truly! What a religious wife I have, to be sure. I had no idea.’

‘I was so unwell last night that I prayed to be cured, and it worked: I slept. When I woke this morning I went straight to church to celebrate Mass and give confession in gratitude, Husband,’ she said, her voice registering still more pain.

He smiled, but without humour. ‘Oh, well perhaps I shall go and thank the priest myself later. And I can get myself shriven at the same time, can’t I?’

‘You can thank him now, good my Lord,’ she said.

‘How? Do you expect me to leave all our guests to gallivant about the town? He might well not be there.’

‘He isn’t, Husband. He walked back with me,’ she smiled and stood back to introduce Father Abraham.

It was a shame, Jeanne felt, that her husband was once more investigating crimes when she wanted him with her to help select goods for the house.

Jeanne was no shrew but she would have liked to have had her husband’s company a little while in this new town, especially since he knew that they needed new linen and cushions. Not that he would have been able to help much, she considered as she led Edgar and Petronilla through the narrow alleys between stalls. Edgar was more interested in clothing and fashion and he had an infinitely better eye for detail than Baldwin.

She adored her husband but she would never have described him as fashion conscious. That was a modern fad: men with particoloured hose, or velvet jackets with expensive linings, cut carefully to show a man’s figure. They spent more time primping and preening than womenfolk, Jeanne sometimes thought. It must be a reflection of the time and the King’s own habits.

Every so often she glanced around, and twice she thought she caught a slightly odd expression in Edgar’s eyes. It was when he had been looking to his right, as though watching Petronilla – but he wouldn’t, surely… Jeanne scolded herself for trying to see love, admiration, lust, whatever, wherever she looked. It was all too easy to imagine that others were feeling the same urges as she, her love for Baldwin was so strong. It almost made her want to cry out for sheer pleasure.

She took a right turn down an alley she had missed the day before. Here she saw a gorgeous scarlet, a bolt of bright red cloth that shimmered in the sunlight from fine metallic threads woven into the material. ‘Oh, look!’ she gasped, and glanced at Petronilla.

The girl’s face was a picture. Petronilla was not so adept an actor as Edgar, and her features, turned towards him, radiated affection of the most obvious and intense kind.

‘Oh-oh,’ Jeanne breathed. ‘That will delight Baldwin; just what he needed to round off the perfect trip to Tiverton. A servant who’s about to break his engagement vow, and a woman about to take his manservant to her bed.’

Toker waited at the street corner. There was only the one entrance to the tavern and he had three men with him – Owen he had left in the castle; the Welshman didn’t fill him with confidence when it came to fighting, he was too much Sir Peregrine’s man. All the escapes were blocked: that was the good thing about having a small company of men to command. They could ambush even the most determined of victims.

Picking his nose, he wiped the solid residue on the house’s wall behind him and snorted, then hawked and spat. Before long, if Sir Peregrine was right, they would be at war again. Then towns like this had better be wary! If he could, he’d love to break in and have a look around a place like Sherman’s or Carter’s. Both had nooks and crannies filled with rich stuff, silver and pewter plates, gold-chased cups, no doubt, and lots of spoons. When he had been in the service of Lady Maud, he had seen her spoons. She had more than twenty; he had often dreamed about owning such wonderful pieces of craftsmanship himself.

It was war that gave opportunities for a man to get rich. Only in war could a man prove his valour. And once he’d done so, he might be allowed his own chevauchée – a licence to ride out over nearby territory to see what could be won: gold, silver, wine, women – whatever. That was the life! Better by far than standing idle in a shit-stricken dump like this and hoping to remove some knight who’d become a threat.

France, that would be a good place to go. Tough, of course, because the French had the biggest and best army in Christendom, the most numerous knights, the heaviest cavalry, but in a land so wide a man with a small company could get lost and, with a little ingenuity, could become very rich very quickly. There was so much money out there, it would be a miracle if a fellow with his head screwed on right couldn’t take a bit for himself.

To get rich in war, a man needed a good war-leader, and Toker was satisfied that Sir Peregrine was potentially just that: shrewd, cunning, and well-connected. Under him, Toker was sure he could take a fortune.

It was still a cause for regret that he had failed to get his hands on Sir Gilbert’s little chest in London. No doubt it had contained enough for him to have been able to afford a tavern of his own and retire. William had told them Sir Gilbert had had it when they camped, but when the knight was bumped off, the money had gone. Toker knew that William would have told them where it was if he had known. He’d have been glad to tell them by the time they’d finished with him, especially when Perkin kicked him in the bollocks. The memory made Toker smile: how William’s eyes had popped! Yes, if he’d known where the money was, he’d have told them, all right. Once he’d stopped puking.

And now this other knight was causing trouble and needed to be disposed of. Toker was happy to oblige. As far as he was concerned if Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was annoying folks, he had to be removed. If he was arrested for his part in this, Toker knew he could rely on his friends for aid. In Tiverton’s courts two men held all the power: Lord Hugh and the Coroner. The Coroner answered to Lord Hugh and the man who told everyone what Lord Hugh thought was his reliable, trustworthy gatekeeper, Sir Peregrine.

No, if Toker or any of his lads were caught and accused of murder, they’d be set free at the Court of Gaol Delivery before they could even get put into prison.

Toker leaned back against the wall and contemplated the road once more. This was dull. He daren’t go into the tavern to seek Sir Baldwin, for that would be too obvious, but it was boring out here, especially knowing that Sir Baldwin and his mate were sitting at a table and enjoying a quart of ale or something. Just what he could do with, Toker thought.

His eyes narrowed as someone appeared in the doorway. It was Nicholas Lovccok, and Toker relaxed slightly, but then he saw the two men behind and he stiffened with anticipation.

Wat had been glad to avoid walking about the Fair. It was beneath him, staring at all those stupid lengths of cloth, having to listen to all the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ that Lady Jeanne and Petronilla, whom he generally credited with far better brains than most other girls, would gasp when confronted with arrays of coloured and gaudy strips of materials. Women’s business! Far better to be here in the castle learning how a man-at-arms could serve his lord.

Not that Wat had managed to learn much so far. His first essay into the skills of service had led to him trying to bring a cup of wine to a guest: he had gone to the buttery before the steward, who had cuffed him about the head when he tried to pour wine, telling Wat to leave off the Lord Hugh’s stocks, and took the filled pot from him to carry to the hall. Wat had tried to explain he was helping, but his expostulations had led to his almost tripping the steward, and he earned a second clip around the ear for his efforts.

Then he had gone to watch two men-at-arms practising with swords and daggers, and in his attempts to follow what they were doing, had convinced them that he was apeing their efforts. Both stopped their bout to hurl stones at him. One caught him on the rump, the other on his forehead, and now a trickle of blood ran down his face.

He scuffed the dirt, wondering moodily how a boy was supposed to learn the skills of arms or courtesy if no one was prepared to help teach them. He was out near the gateway, watching while guests of Lord Hugh wandered in and out. Some had their own boys with them, several already wearing long daggers or swords, and most of them younger than he. That was his trouble, he knew. He had been born to a cattleman, so he was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a cattleman in his turn.

When Sir Baldwin had asked him to help in the house, his father had been enthusiastic. ‘Look, boy, it’ll keep you indoors more, not out in the freezing cold in winter, or smothered with flies in summer. You can learn lording properly, always having a filled belly and a pot of wine never far from your hand.’

It was attractive the way he had put it, but Wat could see from the boys here how he had been wrong. Wat could never learn fighting. He was a country peasant, no more. To be a gentleman in a great house you had to have been born to it, so that your parents could send you away to learn your business at an early age, ideally about eight or younger. He would have been sent away to a friend of his father’s, or maybe to his master, and trained in fighting.

Across the yard two boys were dragging a friend, who was seated upon a wheeled wooden horse and gripped a lance, across the cobbles towards a quintain. When he hit his mark, they all crowed with delight, but their pleasure only served to increase Wat’s gloom. He would never know such simple happiness. His was to be a peasant’s life.

Head down, he kicked a pebble and scuffed away towards the hall’s door, wondering who might be inside. At the door was Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple. He didn’t seem to notice Wat, but Wat was used to being invisible in this castle. Men tended not to notice him; he was merely one of several brats about the place. The only time, Wat had discovered, he was likely to be seen was when he didn’t want to be, such as when he had just dropped a bowl of wine and splashed the stuff all up a wall, or when he was caught in the kitchen filching biscuits.

Idly he watched as Sir Peregrine walked across the yard to the gatehouse and entered. Wat wondered whether he could slip into the buttery and serve himself a pot or two of wine.

Harlewin le Poter felt good as he left his house. With an expansive gesture he stretched, reaching his arms up to the sky, and groaned with pleasure as he felt bones crack and muscles slip over each other. It felt good to be alive.

The Fair was still on, and so far he’d seen hardly any of it, so he set off, sauntering cheerily towards the noise, considering what he could buy his wife as a present. Probably a pleasant little necklace or ring, he thought. Nothing too expensive, but a trinket such as she would like. Luckily he and Cecily had agreed a while ago that they would never purchase anything for each other. There was no point when nothing they received could be put on show. It wasn’t as if she was going to be able to fasten on a new necklace in front of her husband and say, ‘Nice, isn’t it? Harlewin gave it me.’

With that thought the Coroner gave a broad smile. It was the attractive aspect of a lover: this simplicity. A wife would complain, ‘You never buy me presents, you can’t love me,’ whereas a lover was grateful for a more basic, no less sincere, proof of adoration.

He had to cross several poorer areas, and he moved down the alleys and along streets with no urgency, but a constant caution, a man always on his guard and aware of his surroundings. At fairtime even a small town like Tiverton could attract petty thieves prepared to knock a man on the head for what he carried in his purse – and a friend of Earl Thomas should always be on guard in these troubled times.

At the end of the last alley he came into bright sunlight and stood a moment sniffing the air. Over the way he saw the tavern, Simon and Baldwin in the doorway.

Toker pushed himself away from the wall as Sir Baldwin stepped out into the street. Resting a hand on his dagger, Toker tested it in its sheath – it moved easily enough, as it should after the amount of grease he had rubbed over it from the kitchen’s pots. There was no need for a sword for a quick assassination like this, he knew. One swift stab upwards into the knight’s heart and lungs and he would be gone. No more trouble.

Sir Baldwin and Simon were walking away, their backs to him. He made to walk over the cobbles but a horse passed, slowing him. Once it had gone he moved forward and gave a significant look at his men in front. They walked into the street lazily, and paused as if to chatter. When Toker glanced left he saw Perkin coming level with him. Soon the men in front would pull out their knives and the sight would make the knight and his friend pause in surprise, then in anger, and before they could pull their blades free, they would be dead, stabbed in the back. Toker and his men had done it all before.

But as he placed his hand on his dagger’s hilt, there was a shout from behind him.

Harlewin was dubious about joining the knight. Sir Baldwin could be an unsettling companion, and the Coroner was of a mind to leave him. He was about to turn away and walk up a sidestreet when he noticed the two men just in front pushing their way through the crowds and gaining on Sir Baldwin. Every nerve in his body screamed caution at the sight.

‘Sir Baldwin and Bailiff Puttock! How good to see you again!’ he bellowed, and stepped forward, nudging Perkin heavily and shoving him from his path as he went, then faced Toker, his hand already on his sword, shaking his head.

Toker took his hand away from his dagger slowly registering his confusion, but then he smiled and marched back the way he had come.

Simon had turned at the first call, and was just in time to see a man go flying. Nearby was the Coroner, a massive figure, and before him was a scruffy, nondescript figure with his back to Simon. ‘What the…’

Baldwin reacted faster. He took in the scene, but then whirled around to face forwards again, and now his sword was free of its sheath, and the bright blue blade glistened and shone wickedly in the sun. Its colour was a dismal threat to any man who wished to threaten him.

A woman screamed, another took up the cry, and in a moment the street was almost empty.

Now he knew there was danger, Baldwin could see that two men were acting oddly. Both were tattily clothed, both large men, with faces that betrayed their dismay at the loss of surprise. One had his hand on a dagger, but under Baldwin’s intent stare, his hand fell from it. The two ambushers exchanged a glance before backing away carefully. Both had knives, but a knife was no defence against a man trained from his youth in sword-play. They retreated, then darted up an alley, and Baldwin heard their footsteps hurrying away.

When those two had disappeared, Baldwin turned just in time to see the last of the other men scampering away while a roaring, furious Simon aimed a weighty kick at his arse, making him scream with pain. Simon walked with a faint limp as he returned to his friend, although his beaming face showed that he did not regret the mild pain.

‘We owe you a great debt of thanks,’ Baldwin said to Harlewin.

‘They shouldn’t be allowed to escape,’ Harlewin muttered grimly. ‘The bastards could attack someone else.’

‘I think they have likely lost their taste for waylaying men in town,’ Baldwin noted. ‘And they didn’t actually do anything.’

‘They were going to rob you,’ Harlewin growled.

‘And thanks to your vigilance they failed.’

‘It was my pleasure. Well, and my duty, I suppose. I am the Coroner, so my job is to see to it that felons fail and are arrested.’

‘Did you recognise them?’ Simon enquired.

‘I have seen them before,’ Harlewin admitted. ‘Didn’t you know them? They are from Sir Peregrine’s entourage.’

‘Good Lord!’ Baldwin breathed.

‘God’s Bollocks!’ Simon declared. ‘The shit set his men on us? Why, for Christ’s sake?’

Baldwin scowled thoughtfully. ‘We should ask him that. Perhaps he didn’t? They could be freebooters.’

‘Well, there’s little point in hurrying to him,’ Simon considered. ‘Those buggers of his will get there before us and explain their failure, so he’ll be briefed with an alibi before we get to the castle.’

‘They are staying in the castle, Simon,’ Baldwin said urgently. ‘They could have grabbed William and executed him.’

‘Why should they do that?’

‘Maybe it was a brawl – or perhaps there was another reason. I find it hard to believe that William’s death was not somehow related to his master’s.’

Harlewin smiled thinly. ‘I have declared the good Sir Gilbert’s death to have been caused by the felon.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘I am sure you are correct.’

‘But you’re treating it as a suspicious death?’

Baldwin smiled innocently. ‘Would you care to join us in a celebratory drink, Coroner? You may have saved our lives, after all.’