The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Thirty

Toker was sitting in the undercroft listening to the babble of all the people in the room overhead when Perkin, who was at the door, hissed and beckoned. ‘It’s them!’

On his feet instantly, Toker joined him in time to see two men walking swiftly past under the gatehouse. ‘You sure?’ he demanded, but he so wanted Perkin to be right that he already had a hand reaching out for his sword to test the blade in the sheath.

In answer Perkin grabbed his favourite weapon, a staff some six and a half feet long, and set off at a jog. Toker waved at the others and they climbed to their feet grabbing their weapons and following Toker.

All but Owen. He hung back in the doorway.

He was content to attack an enemy in battle or raid, but ambushing the innocent felt wrong. The very thought gave him a queasiness in the bowels. Even two or three men fighting against one was all right, to his way of thinking, but trapping men like this was wrong. It was no better than the behaviour of a felon and Owen was no felon. He was Sir Peregrine’s man, not Toker’s. He had had enough.

The girl was still tossing stones at a target. Owen was sickened by the band – especially by Toker. All he wanted to do was to sit and talk with this pretty, fair woman. Toker was standing at the far end of the gateway watching, and Owen felt a twinge of anxiety curling in his belly. The other man had scarred him for life for missing with an arrow – what would he do if Owen neglected to take part in this? The knight had made the gang look like a bunch of amateurs and Toker wanted to punish him.

Catching the Welshman’s eye, Toker meaningfully drew his dagger and kissed the blade. Owen shivered at the sight. He knew what that meant: Toker would come to find him. Toker would kill him. But Owen was no footpad. He watched their leader turn and stride from the yard, and as he looked about him, Owen saw a figure he recognised. He walked over to Edgar. ‘Are you the knight’s man?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Edgar said, peering after Toker and his men distractedly.

‘You must go after them. They intend catching your master and killing him. He’s got their gold – and Perkin wants revenge for the kick the bailiff gave him.’

Edgar didn’t say a word: he was already halfway to the gate. Owen saw him halt at the porter and point back. Two guards glanced at each other and came to arrest Owen, but before they got to him, Edgar had disappeared.

‘Here it is!’ Baldwin declared and pounded on the door. It was wide and tall enough to allow a wagon to enter or a man on horseback, and the timbers rattled as he banged.

‘Hoy! Stop that row!’

Baldwin turned to see a woman glaring at him from a window on the opposite side of the street. ‘I want to speak to the groom running this place,’ he shouted.

‘Well, you can’t – he’s not there.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but you start that banging again and I’ll get the Constable onto you.’

‘You fool! I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace, so tell me where this damned horse-trader has gone.’

‘If you were a Keeper you’d be up at the castle in your finery instead of rattling people’s doors at this time of night, so go on, bugger off!’ She banged the window shut.

‘That damned… What are you laughing at?’

Simon shook his head in innocent denial. ‘Nothing, Baldwin. But since the man isn’t here, why don’t we go to the nearest alehouse and see if he’s there having a drink?’

‘All right, but when we get back I’ll rattle that miserable old besom’s doors too,’ Baldwin muttered vindictively as they walked up the road to where a bush bound to a pole over a doorway showed that drinks could be bought.

It was a poor woman’s hovel: there was hardly space inside for the seven men who sat at a table staring at the dice with bleared eyes and supping ale, while the alewife squatted on the floor. She looked up when Baldwin entered, ducking under the low lintel.

The hackneyman was at the table. He recognised their faces and instantly a smile transfigured his features. ‘Sirs! You require more mounts? I have the very ones for you. Good, comfortable and biddable beasts. Perfect for a short run into the country or a longer ride if you need. Excellent turn of speed, too.’

He stood with little apparent regret. Simon was convinced he had lost heavily. The bailiff pulled a coin from his purse and passed it to the man, who glanced at it, smiled more widely, finished off his ale and led the way up the street to his stable.

The light was fading swiftly now. Twilight was darkening the streets, and in the shadow of the tall buildings Baldwin thought he caught a glimpse of movement. At first he thought that a rat had scuttled away – a common enough sight at the best of times – but then he heard a scrape and recognised the sound of metal being pulled from a scabbard.

All at once he realised that his message of giving up the hoard, mentioned so confidently in the hall, might not have filtered down to the felons who had tried to attack him and Simon earlier. He cleared his throat to warn Simon, but before he could say anything the attack was underway.

Perkin sprang into the street, a heavy staff held cross-wise over his chest. He grinned, saying, ‘Remember me, you bastard? You kicked my arse…’ His tone dropped to a malevolent rasp. ‘Now I’ll eat your liver!’

Baldwin felt someone at his back and just had time to leap a side and whip out his sword as Toker’s first slash scythed through the air. Baldwin caught the blade on his own as he lifted the flashing blue steel to guard his right flank. Toker’s eyes narrowed, and he stamped forward, his blade whirling left in a feint, but Baldwin had seen his swift change of foot and was ready when Toker darted right, knocking the blade away with almost contemptuous ease. He would have continued with a lunge to Toker’s throat had he not, from the corner of his eye, seen Simon crumple as Perkin’s heavy staff caught him at the base of his skull. ‘Simon!’

Then there were four at him, Toker and another with swords, a short villein with one eye but two long-bladed daggers, and Perkin with his long, iron-tipped staff. That was the weapon Baldwin feared most. A good staffman was a dangerous adversary with a greater reach than a swordsman, and this man knew how to hold his. He kept himself away from Baldwin, fighting like a man-at-arms, gripping it like a quarter-staff, one hand near the middle, the other at the farther end, thrusting at Baldwin, shoving him whenever he got his blade within a few inches of Toker or the others. The two swordsmen were biding their time, waiting until Baldwin was tired, and when he was they would come at him from either side. If they failed, the man with the daggers would finish him off.

Baldwin gave more ground, feeling the inevitability of his doom. Simon groaned, Baldwin saw him roll, trying to get on all fours, shaking his head, but although Baldwin hoped none of the men would hear, hoped that Simon might be able to come to his aid, he saw the man with the daggers glance over his shoulder.

‘No!’ Baldwin bellowed, but he saw the man flick a dagger up, catching it by the tip of the blade ready to throw. There was a flash as a blade caught the light, a scream, and Baldwin felt his heart lurch.

But Simon hadn’t screamed. The bailiff was shaking his head like a groggy fist-fighter, falling back to rest on his haunches, while the felon with the daggers was staring at his handless stump, at the blood flying upwards in a fountain and at the hand holding a knife which had fallen to the ground before him.

Toker saw Baldwin’s attention waver and moved to take advantage, but a fine spray of blood misted into his face and he shouted a curse, wiping it away with disgust. Vaguely through it he saw a figure loom, a figure who shrieked ‘Beauséant!’ before flying at him; dimly he recognised Baldwin’s servant Edgar.

He fell back, almost tripping, his sword up to defend his chest, but the flying sword aimed first at his breast, then his legs, swiping quickly at an arm, then at his throat, almost so fast that Toker couldn’t see it move.

The battle cry brought a stinging lump to Baldwin’s throat. Beauséant, the battle cry of the Knights Templar, the call of the men to rally, the name of their flag, the call that meant ‘be good, be noble.’

‘Beauséant!’ Baldwin roared in his turn. He could have wept for joy.

He heard a fresh shout: ‘Take that, you thieving bastard!’ There was a crack and Baldwin saw Perkin collapse like a steer with a spike hammered in his skull, eyes wide with astonishment. Behind him Baldwin caught a fleeting glimpse of the stableman gripping a pair of cudgels and aiming a vicious kick at the fallen outlaw’s groin.

Now Baldwin had only the one man attacking him, and this was a man he knew he could beat. His concern for Simon, his shock at the sudden violence, and the sheer rage at being waylaid, lent his arm more vigour than he would have thought possible, and his regular practice showed in the way that he plied his weapon.

‘Yield!’ he demanded, but the felon, though frightened by the sudden turn of events, merely slashed and cut at him. Baldwin roared again, this time a wordless bellow of pure animal ferocity. He drove forward, his sword up and then swept it low, taking his enemy’s blade on the cross-guard and knocking it out of the way, before reversing the manoeuvre and thrusting forwards and up. Baldwin shoved his body forward, his whole weight behind his blade, saw the point sink in below his opponent’s chest, rammed the metal into the man’s body, feeling his hand become slick with blood, ripping upwards through his torso while the man gave a high, keening scream.

The man’s sword was still in his hands, but Baldwin was close enough to grab at it and tug it from the now-feeble hand. He jerked his own blade higher, sawing through bone and slicing deeper, higher with his sharp, peacock-blue blade, wrenching it further into his enemy’s body. The fellow shivered twice, then slumped, and Baldwin kicked him to release his blade. It came free, smeared as if with a thin oil and, panting, he looked about him for Toker and Edgar.

They were a short way farther up the lane, and Baldwin ran to them, shouting again, ‘Yield! Yield!’

Toker daren’t take his eyes from the whirling man before him. Edgar moved like a fluid dancer, constantly changing his position, but always with his feet coordinated, flat and stable on the ground before striking forwards or taking a defensive position. Toker couldn’t shake him or get him off-balance, couldn’t make him slip. He was too good. Toker was giving way almost steadily now. At first he’d managed to make Edgar retreat a little, but now he doubted whether it was genuine. It felt more like Edgar had been gauging Toker’s ability, allowing himself to be pushed so that he could see how powerful Toker’s blows really were, see how quickly Toker could respond to a counter-attack after launching a stabbing thrust. Now Toker was beaten – it was only a matter of time before he felt the blade slicing through his jack. He felt the presence of the knight nearby, and risked a short glance. Baldwin was too close, less than a yard away, and Toker couldn’t defend himself from a man that near. He shifted his weight and made to leap away, but a sharp pain stopped him.

It was stupid. He knew that as it happened: his foot had turned on a loose cobble. He felt the tendons snap, a curious sensation like lightning shooting through his ankle, and felt himself begin to fall. And then something supported him. Something was holding him up. He coughed as the thick bile rose in his throat, choking him, and he couldn’t breathe easily. It was odd, he thought, especially the dragging sensation at his breast.

When he looked up, he saw Edgar’s face only a few inches from his own, then he felt himself fall as Edgar, with a moue of distaste, twisted his sword and let Toker’s body fall from it.

Harlewin was soon with them, and when Owen had been called and explained the reason for the attack, the Coroner declared that there was no crime to be investigated: felons had tried to murder innocent men and those men had defended themselves. The amputee with the stained tourniquet about his wrist and the snoring Perkin were taken away to the gaol.

When the impromptu jury had dispersed and the priest was rolling up his wallet of pens and ink, Baldwin thanked the groom. ‘Without your help I might well have died.’

‘My pleasure. Seeing the bastard spring out like that got me angry.’

Baldwin gave a lopsided smile. ‘I know how you felt.’

And in truth he did. A mist of hatred had enveloped him, a mist composed of anger and loathing, which had lent him the energy to keep the men away. He was helped by his training, but then, when he had seen the attack form on Simon and saw Edgar appear as if from nowhere, the mist had turned to red and he wanted only to kill, to slaughter those who would attack him, those who would murder his friend. It had hardly been the behaviour of a humanist who valued human life – it had been the reaction of a man of war when threatened. He felt no shame, for the men would have killed him if they could, and the reversal of their fortunes was a fact which he could not regret.

‘The good bailiff has recovered himself,’ Edgar said.

‘I owe you a life now, Edgar.’

‘Sir Baldwin, you saved my life once and I am happy if I can provide you with any service.’

Baldwin smiled at his servant. Edgar appeared embarrassed by his gratitude. Rather than cause him more, the knight gripped his forearm and held it a moment.

‘Is there any wine in this benighted street?’ Simon asked.

He was fit enough, so far as Baldwin could see, although his normally ruddy complexion was pale and he wore a vague frown.

‘Come, gentlemen, I have a small barrel of wine in my stable. If you can tolerate the scent of horses, I’d be happy to celebrate our victory against these miserable, thieving bastards,’ the hackneyman said.

Trying to smile, Baldwin accepted. It was not easy, for the man who had helped to save his life was still a fawning fellow, too sycophantic for him to respect, but they were comrades-in-arms now and it would have been rude to refuse. Helping Simon with an arm each, he and Edgar walked behind the hackneyman to his stable. At the door Baldwin realised that Harlewin was with them. ‘Friend Coroner, could you leave us here? We shall see you back at the castle very soon.’

Harlewin looked upset at being dismissed this way, and Baldwin had to smile.

‘Coroner, my wife is back there worrying about me, and I would consider it a generous act were you to return and let her know that the bailiff and I are perfectly fine, apart from Simon’s headache.’ His voice dropped. ‘It would be churlish to refuse the hospitality of a man who may have saved my life, but I look upon it as a duty more than a pleasure, and I swear I shall soon be with you.’

The Coroner gave a faint smile at his explanation and swore to carry word to Jeanne before anyone else. Before long he was striding with the priest along the road towards the castle.

At the stable door the hackneyman began laughing at the recollection of the man he had hit. His loud guffaws caused the shutter opposite to swing open again. ‘Will you be quiet you ignorant damned peasant!’

In answer, the hackneyman picked up a lump of horse dung and flung it in a deadly accurate arc. There was a brief squawk, a horrified splutter, then the shutter was hurriedly slammed shut. ‘Always wanted to do that,’ he said contentedly. ‘What a day! What a day!’

Inside, seated upon empty barrels, Baldwin took a cup of wine from him. Simon and Edgar too had cups but these three appeared to represent the total of the hackneyman’s drinking vessels for he himself was forced to sup from a wineskin.

‘Your health,’ Baldwin said in toast, and the others all echoed his sentiment. Taking a sip, Baldwin set the drink down at his side fervently hoping that someone would knock it over. It was sweet, heavily spiced and, to Baldwin’s taste, almost undrinkable. ‘And my thanks for knocking down that mad staff-man.’

‘He was big, but he fell fast enough.’

‘You are good with a pair of cudgels.’

‘A man who spends his life dealing with some of the lowlifes who hang around a stable needs to know how to defend himself. I learned how to use cudgels when I was a lad, but they are just as effective for an old sod like me as a boy of ten,’ their host declared with satisfaction.

‘You must see many strangers here,’ Baldwin considered.

‘Oh, I get all sorts. Travellers from all over.’

‘Did you know the felons that attacked us?’

‘Toker and his mob? Oh, yes. They were often down here. Not that I wanted too much to do with ’em. No, they weren’t the sort I wanted hanging about. Gives the place the wrong sort of reputation, having private armies in here.’

‘Tell me, friend: have they ever brought in horses for sale?’

‘Them?’ Baldwin was watching as he answered, but there was not the faintest hint of deceit as he gazed at the knight and declared without hesitation, ‘No.’

It was his openness that made Baldwin jerk his thumb at the stable. ‘There was a large, scruffy horse here when we first came to see you. It had mud over it.’

‘Ah, yes. You are a good judge of horseflesh, that is certain, Master,’ the man said. ‘That one should fetch a…’

‘Friend, we have fought off felons together,’ Baldwin said with a degree of sharpness. ‘You don’t have to give me your usual patter. Just the facts.’

The hackneyman looked innocent. ‘But there is no patter to it, Master. Only the horse isn’t for sale yet.’

‘May I see it?’

‘Of course.’

He led the way to a series of stalls out at the back of the stables. Muttering to himself, he counted down to one, at which he stopped, gazed over the rail which served as a gate, then nodded. ‘This is the one.’

‘Let’s see it,’ Baldwin said, and darted under the bar.

‘No, sir, just let me…’

Baldwin ignored his sudden nervousness and patted the beast’s flanks confidently to soothe it. The mud, although dried, still adhered to neck and rump, but Baldwin had a good idea why. He grabbed a handful of straw and rubbed at the muck. Soon the dusty mess was falling away and he was rewarded by seeing the marks he expected.

‘Come, now,’ he said sternly. ‘This horse is not yours to sell, as you know well.’

‘It is a good working horse, sir.’

‘You know better than that. This is a heavy animal, certainly, but it was never used for draught. It’s a knight’s.’

‘Oh… I did wonder.’

‘Of course you did. You know a good mount when you see one. But we are comrades: I have no interest in betraying your secret.’ Baldwin ducked under the rail again. ‘Just tell me this: did you find it yourself or did you see it in another’s hands?’

The hackneyman tilted his head as if assessing his risks. ‘I didn’t find it, sir, it was brought here to me.’

‘And who did that?’

‘John Sherman, sir.’