The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Twenty-Six

The roadway was almost empty and Simon and Baldwin made good time as they cantered to Withleigh. The whole of the town was behind them now, and Baldwin felt a lightening of his spirits as he trotted on. Towns were all very well for those who could abide living squashed together like rats in a hole, but Baldwin was a man bred to space and freedom; he hated being bound up in the strict confines of a town. Out here, with trees covering the gentle hills at either side, he felt as if a cloak of intrigue and danger had sloughed away and at last he could relax his guard a little.

Not, he reflected, that he had been very careful. It was ludicrous that he should have found himself the target of an ambush and that a man like that buffoon Harlewin had been able to save them just in time.

‘Simon, do you think those men could have been ordered to kill us by Lord Hugh?’

‘Nothing’s impossible,’ Simon grunted doubtfully. ‘But why should Lord Hugh want to assassinate you? Wouldn’t Sir Peregrine be a more likely enemy?’

‘Yes. And he would be a likely candidate to try to remove Sir Gilbert, too.’

‘He was in the woods on the night Sir Gilbert died, riding away at speed,’ Simon recalled, ‘and he was in the castle when William was murdered.’

‘True, but Sir Peregrine is no murderer. He would always send one of his henchmen to do the nasty work,’ Baldwin considered. ‘I think you’re right – it was Sir Peregrine’s men who attacked us, although I have no idea why he would want to kill us.’

‘Who else is continuing to investigate Sir Gilbert’s death?’

‘You think that is it? He wants to silence us, just so that the matter is left alone?’ Baldwin asked. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘We know Sir Peregrine wants the Lords of the Marches to be supported by Lord Hugh, while Sir Gilbert was an agent of Despenser. Perhaps that’s all there is to it. A simple political murder.’

‘Possibly,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But I don’t find it convincing. Sir Peregrine knows that the Marcher Lords are in the ascendant and the Despensers are gone. Why should he bother to kill Sir Gilbert? Those who had supported the Despensers have all gone to the side of other magnates. Sir Gilbert would hardly have been likely to persuade Lord Hugh to join him in serving the Despensers just when everyone else was deserting the man.’

‘Who else could it have been? Father Abraham looking to remove an excommunicate from his parish?’ Simon chuckled.

Baldwin set his head on one side. ‘It is possible, Simon. He is a curious man, that priest. Prepared to curse a man being installed in his grave, for example. Anyway, let’s hope he didn’t have more of an idea about Sir Gilbert’s visit to Templeton than he let on.’

‘Is that where you are taking me, then?’

Baldwin smiled. ‘If Sir Gilbert had money, he wouldn’t have left it with a sailor whose trustworthiness was questionable.’

‘Why do you suppose William Small’s loyalty was questionable?’

‘Look at it from Sir Gilbert’s perspective: he was a trained Templar. Forget how he has lived recently, for he wouldn’t count it as important. He was taught as a Templar and that is how he would think.’

Simon nodded. He knew that Baldwin had himself been a Templar and trusted his judgement.

‘Very well,’ continued Baldwin, ‘could a man like Sir Gilbert trust a man like William? No! Sir Gilbert would trust a man who was bound by oaths as strong as his own; he wouldn’t trust someone who could choose to leave his craft on a whim. That is what William did, from his own testimony.’

‘All right, we’ll take that as a reasonable hypothesis.’

‘If he could not leave the money in William’s hands, it is perfectly clear that he couldn’t take it with him to Tiverton either. Where could he leave it? He would not wish to carry it with him wherever he went; that would invite trouble. Fairs attract thieves, cut-purses and more vigorous felons. It would be madness to walk about with it.’

‘Couldn’t he have placed it somewhere safe?’

‘With whom? If Sir Gilbert had visited Tiverton, how long ago was that? Could he be sure that any friends he used to know would still be alive? No! He would want to ensure that the treasure was concealed far from a robber’s eyes.’

Simon gave an elaborate yawn. ‘Does this mean you’re getting close to the point?’

‘Patience, friend! We know that Sir Gilbert was a Templar and we also know that he came from Templeton.’

Simon slapped his forehead. ‘So he would be aware of any number of places to hide the stuff!’

‘Precisely.’

Originally their path had taken them along the side of a small stream which meandered down towards Tiverton where it joined the Exe, but now they left it behind and entered a thicker section of woodland. The sun was still high overhead, and the men and their mounts began to feel the heat. With no breeze to cool them, it was immensely warm and the dust beneath their horses’ hooves stirred and rose to choke them. Aylmer sneezed regularly, shaking his head comically. It was a relief to all of them when they found themselves at the bank of another river with a mill.

They dropped from their beasts, Simon dipping his hands into the water and dashing his face before drinking deeply. Aylmer lapped fastidiously at the edge, while Baldwin rinsed a cloth and spread it over his face a moment before tasting the water.

As they rode on past the mill, Baldwin stopped and nodded to the miller in his doorway. ‘Is this the mill of Harlewin le Poter?’ he asked.

The miller – a short, scruffy individual with a bald head and guilty smile, nodded shortly.

‘Was he here the night before last?’

The miller chewed his lip before venturing, ‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

In reply the miller went red from his shirt upwards. His obvious discomfort made Simon laugh aloud. ‘Don’t worry, miller. He has already told us about Lady Cecily Sherman.’

The man’s face relaxed instantly and he seemed to sag with relief.

‘Did they leave together?’

‘No, sir. They always left separate. She went first, he a while later.’

‘Thank you. Now…’ Soon they had directions to the village and were on their way once more. Their path took them northwards, up narrow tracks, between thick hedges, and on one side Baldwin could hear the munching of cattle although he could see nothing. Every now and again there came a loud roaring from a bull and he hoped that the beast would not be able to escape from its field. In a narrow lane like this a bull could easily create mayhem and kill or injure both Simon and him.

As they arrived on a broad plain they could see the little ramshackle manor to their left and they turned off on the small untended road which led down a slight hill to the small chapel. From the look of the lack of graves, the ground was not consecrated.

‘My God! What a sad place,’ Simon said in a hushed tone.

‘There was once a large staff here,’ Baldwin said sadly. ‘It was a thriving little manor bringing in enough money to cover the cost of a Templar Knight. And it has been left to rot.’

He knew that many other Templar sites had suffered the same fate. The lands had been taken by the King together with all their moveable property. But the Templars had not owned the lands – they were owned by the Church. The Pope decreed that they should all pass to the Knights of St John of Jerusalem, the Hospitallers, to ensure that the wealth that they represented should continue to be put to the use intended. Unfortunately, the Hospitallers did not have the manpower to administrate so many properties, and King Edward II had an expensive court to maintain. He still, from what Baldwin had heard, had not passed over the deeds to any of the Templar manors; this meant that local men had plundered the little that the King’s own Keepers had left. Everything of any use whatsoever had long since been carted off.

The lands had fallen into disuse. Some farmers had taken over fields and houses, encroaching ever closer to the main precincts, for although some had heard of the sins of the Templars and feared contamination by excommunicates, many had never been told of the hideous crimes the Templars were supposed to have committed.

Only fifteen years before, Baldwin thought bitterly, this place would have been bustling, filled with hurrying servants. There would have been a brewery, storehouses, a small mill down to the west, orchards filled with pears and apples, cattle being driven to and from the dairies, men and women, the lay-workers, busy at work, ensuring the profit from the manor’s lands that would help pay for a knight to protect pilgrims.

And now it was all waste, as devastated as a farmstead after a marauding army has passed. It struck a blow at Baldwin’s heart. He had seen this kind of place at its prime; to see it like this was hideous.

‘It’s not what I expected,’ Simon said softly. His wife only rarely accused him of empathy, but seeing his friend’s face Simon could share a little of Baldwin’s despair.

‘I had not realised how they had simply left the preceptories to ruin.’

Simon glanced about him. There was little remaining. Roofs had collapsed and the walls wouldn’t stand much longer. Doors hung from torn and broken leather hinges; shutters had fallen away. Peering inside the shell of a house Simon was surprised to see that a bowl still stood on a table as if the owner had rushed out to chase a dog from his sheep.

‘Come!’ Baldwin said gruffly and resolutely swung himself from his horse. ‘There is no point in a mawkish display. I knew my Order was destroyed. There! Let us seek this wealth.’

‘Yes, Baldwin,’ Simon said. He tied his horse to a ring in a wall, testing it doubtfully to see whether it would take the strain. Waiting while his friend tied his own to a post, he didn’t glance behind him until Baldwin was done, and then he saw another horse tethered. ‘Whose is that?’

‘Perhaps when we know that we shall know more about the whole affair,’ said Baldwin, patting Aylmer’s head. But as they set off to the door Baldwin’s hand slipped to his sword.

Andrew Carter was about to cross the road and enter his house when he paused. The noise in the street was loud enough, but he was sure he heard the barking, harsh laugh of the Coroner, and even as the merchant stared up and down the street, his ears told him where that voice had come from: his own hall.

It wasn’t unusual for the Coroner to come and see him, but such visits were usually foreshadowed by some form of warning. Still, Andrew Carter prided himself on being a good host and he was prepared to make le Poter most welcome. Especially since he had hopes of discovering more from the fellow about the Lord Hugh’s plans.

Before he could go inside, however, he spotted the hurrying figure of the priest. ‘Father, were you coming to see me?’ he smiled.

‘Do you have anything to confess to me, Carter?’ His voice was as cold as a moorland stream.

‘What is it, Father? Have I upset you?’

‘Is it true? Did you sin against your own daughter?’ Abraham hissed.

Carter felt as though his blood was congealing in his veins. ‘M-me? Sin against poor Joan?’

‘If you have, confess your sins to me now! The Coroner is in there with Felicity and another to arrest you. Is it true? Are you an incest?’

His face frozen into a blank, Carter merely inclined his head. ‘May I make my confession now?’

‘Is it true you killed your daughter?’

‘Yes.’ Carter glanced at his door. It was hard to believe, but he now knew that his life was about to change utterly. He wondered how he could escape.

‘You are evil! Evil! You knew that you were yourself guilty, yet you murdered Philip Dyne!’

‘How else could I escape? May I make my confession to you, Father?’

‘No, you pervert! You can go inside and admit your crime to Harlewin le Poter. Then, when you are in your cell I shall come to you to hear your last confession.’

‘But Father…’ Carter reached for him, pleading, but the priest recoiled.

‘Don’t touch me, murderer! I will give you no absolution. You raped your own daughter, then killed her, and blamed another man, murdering him as well. Don’t look to me for sympathy! If you won’t admit your guilt, I shall tell them all myself!’

‘You can’t, Father. I have confessed to you because you are a priest. You must not tell any others about my crimes,’ Andrew smiled thinly.

Father Abraham spat at the ground between them, then darted past Carter and in through his door.

Carter daren’t enter. He was no fool: if Felicity was there with Harlewin, she must have convinced the Coroner that Carter was guilty – he must have believed her. Slowly, cautiously, Carter backed away from his door. He couldn’t walk through the screens to the back of the house to grab a horse, for he would be seen. There were private stables in town, and when he weighed his purse in his hands, he thought there might be enough there to rent one, but that would use up all his money, and there wouldn’t be enough to take a room for an evening – not even enough to buy a meal. He couldn’t rent a horse.

He was being stupid! His stables gave out onto the back streets. All he need do was walk around the house and command a groom to saddle his mare. Then he could be off.

With this resolve he hurried around the corner and out to the back of his yard.

Wat glanced upwards. Edgar was frowning as he stared at the man leaning at the gateway.

‘Are you sure, youngster?’

Wat bridled at the note of doubt in Edgar’s voice. ‘What do you think? The master, he listened to me, he said to tell you – he never thought you’d not trust me.’

‘It sounds very peculiar,’ Edgar noted. ‘However, as you say, I’ve been ordered to protect my Lady. How many did you say went out after Sir Baldwin?’

‘Two, sir. They went out as soon as they could, taking some horses from men who had just come back from hunting and their mounts were tired.’

‘That is all to the good, anyway.’ Edgar stood a moment longer. As he watched he saw Toker stiffen, the knife still in his hand as he stared at the gateway. A moment later Edgar heard horses, saw Toker nod and settle back into his lounging attitude as a pair of horses rode in. ‘I see. They are watching for Sir Baldwin’s return – or that of their men,’ he breathed.

He walked from the door. ‘Stay here and let me know if he moves from that spot,’ he said before striding off.

Jeanne was sitting in her guest room in the solar with a cup of wine, imperiously instructing Petronilla as the maid stacked cloths in a priority known only to Lady Jeanne. Edgar smiled and bowed. ‘My Lady?’

‘What is it? Can’t you see we’re busy?’ Jeanne scolded him mockingly. ‘Don’t you know better than to interrupt a lady and her maid when they are ordering their purchases?’

‘Your husband has ridden off, my Lady, but this morning he was attacked and the men he beat are here lying in wait for him. My orders are to remain here with you, but with your permission I shall wait in the yard where I may be able to help Sir Baldwin if he is attacked in the gateway.’

Jeanne had frozen when she heard the word ‘attacked’ and now she passed her wine to Petronilla before stepping up to him. ‘You are sure of this?’

‘Wat told me,’ he said dismissively, ‘but I have confirmed to my own satisfaction that the men in the gateway are planning an ambush.’

‘Then go! Take Wat with you and send him to me if you need anything. I shall wait here,’ she said.

Perkin jogged along uncomfortably. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Oh, shut it!’

Perkin reached over and grabbed Owen’s jack, hauling him half off his saddle. He hissed, ‘You try telling me to shut it again, and I’ll tear out your liver and feed it to the dogs, understand?’

‘Yes.’

Releasing him, Perkin glared irritably at the road ahead. They had already taken two wrong turnings; Owen maintained it was because the earth was too dry to leave tracks, but Perkin suspected it was because the little Welsh sod didn’t fancy a fight. Perkin himself wanted to see Simon disembowelled. He hadn’t been kicked before, and he wouldn’t let the bastard who had done that to him live. Perkin would kill Simon before the day was over.

Unfortunately, to catch Simon he had to depend upon this gibbering fool from Wales.

It would have been much easier if they had set off after the knight and bailiff as soon as the two left the castle, but Toker, that clever, smarmy git Toker, hadn’t thought they’d be buggering off so soon. It was only when they saw the missing horses that they realised.

Perkin sneered. Toker hadn’t managed to get much right at all in the last few weeks, had he? He’d got them to London where that bastard sailor-boy had beaten them while they had their eyes on the chest. Toker hadn’t been hurt, of course, and neither had Perkin, but Perkin wasn’t fool enough to attack a man wielding a sword when he only had a dagger. Especially when it was a man like Sir Gilbert who had held his sword so aggressively, his face a mask of rage. Perkin had seen faces like that before, and he knew well enough that it brooked no argument. He’d backed off, especially when the hound streaked towards him.

Nah, Toker hadn’t got them anywhere. He was the leader; it was his job to get them money and there had been little enough of that recently.

‘Where are they?’ he shot out. That was why they were here – to see whether the little chest had been hidden out here. And whether it was or not, Perkin was determined to kill Baldwin and Simon. He wanted revenge for the kick on his arse. Not that Owen was likely to be much use. The little bastard looked like he hadn’t the guts to kill a rabbit, let alone a man. ‘Well?’

Owen bit back the reply and merely jerked with his chin. ‘We’re following their trail. What more do you want? Hold on!’

Perkin grunted his displeasure as the Welshman kicked his feet from his stirrups and slipped to the ground. He immediately crouched, his face near the dusty soil. They were at a junction, a common on the right, a lane off to the left. ‘I think they went down there,’ he pointed.

‘There?’ Perkin hawked and spat out a gobbet of phlegm. ‘What would a Keeper be doing in a place like that?’