The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Three

As the end of July drew near, Sir Gilbert of Carlisle gratefully approached the West Country. Reaching the top of a rise, he gazed ahead and halted. There before him he could see the hills and woods of Devonshire.

The journey had not been easy. Before long he had been forced to appreciate the stolid sailor who stayed with him when his second guard was lost. His name was William, the sailor said; William the Small.

It had been the panic of London’s folk that had cost him his second guard. Not only were Londoners anxious at having Hugh Despenser aboard his ship in the Thames, they also had the country’s great magnates ringing the city with their armies. The Mortimers were the guests of the Knights of St John at Clerkenwell, Hereford was at Holborn, Damory at the New Temple, and Audley at St Bartholomew’s Priory at Smithfield. The city was enclosed and while the King vacillated, reluctant to banish his friend, yet fearful of the response of the Marcher Lords if he refused to do so, the lords themselves grew annoyed to hear of the King’s trips to the Despensers’ ship, or young Despenser’s visits to the shore to feast with the King.

The unease in the city had come to a head the day before Sir Gilbert landed. Parliament had met at the great hall at Westminster, and the lords demanded that both Despensers should be exiled. They were guilty of greed and treachery, they were enemies of both the King and his people.

In the streets, supporters of the Despensers hurled stones or fired arrows at the men from the marches; their attacks were returned with gusto. Before the parliamentary meeting there had been threats to fire the city of London, and that brought out the burgesses to protect their homes. Now, instead of running fights between two groups, there were battles between all three and Sir Gilbert arrived with his men in the middle of it all. London Bridge was closed, as were all the main gates while the emergency continued, and Sir Gilbert and his servants were forced to seek an inn in which to stay until they could continue their journey.

They found one close to the Black Friars’ Priory, down at the Thames where the River Fleet met it. Sir Gilbert would have been happier to have been nearer London’s bridge, but William pointed out that here they had two rivers over which they could make an escape at need.

On the second day the situation changed: the King finally agreed to exile the Despensers. Sir Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief, paid his reckoning, and he and his men left – but they had forgotten the armies about the city.

Horses had been promised, but in the new climate friends of the Younger Despenser were hard to find. Sir Gilbert had to threaten one of Despenser’s grooms to provide him with three horses. The fellow agreed with a bad grace and it was while he was preparing the mounts that Sir Gilbert went to see the Temple: he couldn’t resist taking a look at the symbol of his old Order. However, as he and his men turned a corner, they found themselves confronted by five scruffy men-at-arms.

One sat at a table drinking, while two stood behind him in a tavern’s doorway. All had the bleared voices and ruddy faces of men who have been drinking for many hours. They were egging on two more men who were practising fighting with daggers. As soon as Sir Gilbert and his little retinue appeared, the fighters stopped and eyed them with interest.

Sir Gilbert avoided meeting their eyes, but hefted his wooden chest beneath an arm and carried on.

‘Oi! Stop a moment, my Lord.’ It was the large, broad-shouldered man at the bench who spoke, his face remarkably smooth and youthful, with light-coloured brown hair, and only one blemish: a thick, pink scar which followed the line of his eyebrows like an obscene crease. Bright blue eyes gleamed with humour but, when he motioned, the men with daggers moved to stand in Sir Gilbert’s path.

Instantly the dogs were at Sir Gilbert’s side, Aylmer standing still, head low as he scowled forward, Merry crouching slightly before taking two stiff-legged steps towards the men blocking the path.

Sir Gilbert paused, his hand falling to his sword.

‘Master, there’s no need for violence,’ the seated man said mildly, and his men chuckled. ‘But I think I should like to peep inside your little box there, just to make sure you haven’t got something you shouldn’t.’

‘The box stays shut,’ Sir Gilbert said flatly, staring at the dagger men.

‘That’s a pity, isn’t it, Toker?’ said one of them, addressing the seated man.

‘I think it is, Perkin. Owen thinks so too, don’t you, Owen?’

The other dagger-fighter said nothing. If anything he looked unhappy about the way things were developing.

Sir Gilbert heard a slight noise: the man called Toker had spanned a crossbow. It was a powerful modern one with a metal bow and it rested, cocked, on the table. As Sir Gilbert watched, the man placed a quarrel in the groove and shifted it until it pointed at him. Sir Gilbert weighed the distance. If he could throw the chest, it would make the man duck. He’d almost certainly miss his aim, and that would give Sir Gilbert time to take on the leader. Sir Gilbert was a Templar: he had no fear of the odds, not with his dogs at his side.

Before he could move, his plans were wrecked. His remaining guard sprang forward, sweeping out a short sword. The crossbow moved and the string hummed as it spat out the bolt which passed clean through the guard, who nonetheless ran on at full tilt. Lifting the crossbow, Toker lazily blocked the clumsy sword-thrust before punching the guard to the ground.

Simultaneously Sir Gilbert heard a sharp rap, then a cry. Turning, he saw that William, smiling mildly, was grasping a six-foot pole. At his feet were the two men from the doorway, one lying on his back and snoring, the other retching drily into the gutter, gripping his belly. William held his quarter-staff aimed at Toker’s face. Shrugging good-humouredly, Toker let his crossbow fall to the table.

Aylmer had forced the man called Perkin up against a wall, while Merry had knocked the other to the ground and now stood guard over him, snarling each time he moved, his bared teeth at the man’s throat. Sir Gilbert almost pitied the fellow when he saw the grimace of terror on the silent man’s face.

Sir Gilbert called and the dogs returned to his side – Merry with a certain reluctance. William Small the sailor took out his knife and slashed at the crossbow’s string, which snapped with a loud twanging report. A small crowd had appeared, and for a coin or two one man agreed to fetch a physician for the wounded guard. Meanwhile the man called Toker remained calm and smiling, even calling for more ale.

Sir Gilbert and William left the scene as soon as they could. The moment they had put some distance between them and the inn, the knight asked: ‘Where did you find the staff?’

‘It was one of theirs. I noticed it leaning by the door there,’ William told him.

‘I thank you.’

‘There’s no need,’ the other said. ‘I have a duty to see that the money gets to Devon, just like you. But rather than trying to set ourselves up as targets for every footpad and outlaw between here and Devon, let’s lose the chest.’

‘Lose it?’

‘Throw it in the river,’ William said shortly. ‘You can put all the stuff into a sack. At least it wouldn’t be so conspicuous.’

Sir Gilbert considered. ‘You’re right.’ He found a merchant and bought a pair of small sacks. While William mounted guard, Sir Gilbert crouched in an alley and transferred the contents of the chest to them.

That was many leagues ago and now, as Sir Gilbert approached the country where he had spent so much of his youth and young adulthood, he felt his mood lifting. The weather was poor (just as it always used to be, he sighed happily), with heavy, storm-filled clouds hanging threateningly in the sky and puddles on the ground. At each step of his horse the mud spattered, and the two dogs kept their distance.

William was a curious man. Sir Gilbert had discovered a little about him: he had been a man-at-arms serving in the King’s army in Flanders in 1297 and later in Scotland in 1303; not long afterwards he had turned to the sea.

‘Why?’ Sir Gilbert had asked.

William had a badly pock-marked face, but his hair was thick and curling, his shoulders broad, and he had a steadiness in his green eyes that spoke of a stable nature. He glanced now at Sir Gilbert. ‘The sea is clean compared with the land, sir. On land, everyone is owned by someone and tied like a dog. At sea, when the wind blows we’re all equals. The man is a king who can save the cog, and if there’s discipline, there’s freedom too; on land a man has to behave as he’s told.’

Sir Gilbert nodded and left the matter there, but he was aware of something else. William was a fighter; it was obvious in the way he had handled his staff. There was good money to be earned by a fighter on a ship – especially one like Hugh Despenser’s which was about to turn pirate and steal whatever it could. A sailor would be unwilling to jump back to land just to help protect his master’s cash from felons. He would want to be at sea with his boat where he could help win prizes and make his fortune.

Perhaps William was with him less to guard Sir Gilbert, more to protect his mission and Hugh Despenser’s money.

Unless William was a thief and simply sought an opportunity to take the lot for himself, of course.

While they continued on their way, Matilda Carter was sitting in Tiverton with her eyes closed, the tears running down her cheeks. This part of her garden had always been a delight to her. It was peaceful here at the back of their burgage plot with the stream running along the lawn’s edge; the noise and bustle of the townspeople seemed a thousand miles away. Here the turfed seats stayed cool in the hottest weather and the scent of the little dog roses wafted to her on each small breeze. It was her sanctuary; she came here when she had need of silence and reflection, but now she would never know peace again because that man was safe in the sanctuary of her church.

It was obscene! Andrew, Matilda’s husband, had railed against Joan for being no better than a whore when she eventually returned from her first meeting with the lad, but Joan had appeared unimpressed with his rage. She was handfast, she said; she would marry Philip Dyne. But before she could, her lover had throttled her.

How a man could murder a sweet, innocent child like Joan, Matilda didn’t know. Her daughter was never spiteful or unkind. If anything, she was a little too quiet. And for her murderer to be granted safety in church was mad. There were rumours that he would be allowed to escape justice completely. While Joan lay in her grave, he might be allowed to run away.

Hearing steps on the gravelled pathway, she hurriedly wiped at her eyes, composing herself.

It was her maid, Clarice. ‘Mistress? Can I fetch you a cup of wine?’

‘No. I am all right, Clarice. Quite all right.’ Matilda sniffed, then she burst out: ‘I just miss her! I feel so alone without her. You know my husband only values me for my money and the ties I have with my brother.’

‘Oh, no!’

‘It’s true. What’s the point of denying it? He only comes to me in our bed when he is desperate and there are no whores to tempt him. And to keep him happy, I allowed him to shut poor Joan away.’

‘I’m sure Joan was happy, Mistress.’

Clarice’s words went ignored.

‘And she was so pretty. So pretty. As she grew older she became more so, but I missed her growing. I should have been there to watch her, to guide her; I should have been there for her to describe the first man she was attracted to, to help her dress and learn how to comport herself. I should have been there.’

‘You were there when she needed you.’

‘How can you say that?’ Matilda flashed. ‘She needed me when she met that bastard Dyne! She needed me to tell her that the man was evil – that he would kill her!’

‘You couldn’t predict that,’ Clarice pointed out reasonably.

‘How do I know?’ Matilda wailed miserably. ‘How can I tell? But at least I would have been there for her, instead of ignoring her for so long.’

‘It is the way of children that they are put to their work,’ said Clarice, who had left her mother and home when she was eight. She patted her mistress’s hand sympathetically. ‘You did all you thought best for her.’

‘And now whenever I go to celebrate Mass, he’s there, watching me with his piggy little eyes, like a demon,’ Matilda said. ‘He killed her, and now he claims the protection of the altar in my own church. Even Father Abraham supports him.’

‘It is the law.’

‘Stuff the law! I want revenge!’

It was a relief when August came and Baldwin could see how well his crops were doing. To him this time of year was rewarding and reassuring, proof of Dame Nature’s fruitfulness.

There was always much to be done, but at least his manor was heading towards the culmination of the annual effort. Soon the men would be trooping off to the fields to rake the corn for the harvesters. Those with scythes would be sweeping the great blades from side to side, mowing the slender yellow stalks; women in thick fustian aprons would bundle up the sheaves and stack them in stooks, while the children, chattering and laughing, their slings or bows in their hands, would prepare to shoot the rabbits and hares that would bolt from the fields as their cover was cut down. Afterwards, while the threshers flailed the grain from the stalks, the gleaners would crouch among the stubble, picking over the dirt to gather as much of the fallen grain as possible before the birds got it all.

And overnight many would celebrate, drinking heavily from cider or ale jars, snoring under the stars, both because walking home was too strenuous, and because Baldwin’s haywarden would willingly pay them to stay in the fields to prevent thieves taking the precious crop – and nine months later the parish priest would have a rash of squalling children to baptise.

But Baldwin was not content. Although his land was fertile and the harvest looked to be good, he heard that the fighting in Wales was spreading and he wanted more, much more: enough to fill his granaries and give him the confidence that his people would have plenty of food for the winter in case war came to his lands.

He had altered his routine now. Rising soon after dawn, he practised with a sword or cudgels on the flat grass before his house. It was normal for a man-at-arms to perform such ritual dances with weapons of all types, but Baldwin knew that many of his peers did not bother. They relied on the cavalry charge, the weight of steel, chargers and knights welded together in an unstoppable phalanx.

Baldwin had seen the shattering effect of a troop of heavily armoured knights on horseback, but he was not convinced that modern fights would be won that easily. He had kept in touch with developments across Europe where resolute Swiss farmers had destroyed an Austrian army at Morgarten and Flemish peasants had massacred France’s elite at Courtrai, while nearer home the Scots had slaughtered the English at Bannockburn. There was an unpleasant sense of the natural order being overturned, if the chivalrous could be killed by villeins.

Whatever nasty surprises battle might hold, Baldwin intended to ensure that his own lack of preparation would not be a contributory factor. That was why he spent his mornings swinging weapons in the guard positions while balancing solidly on both legs, moving to protect his right flank then his left, striking at imaginary foes, thrusting, parrying, stepping quickly to one side or another. Sometimes his servant Edgar joined him and the two would cautiously dance about each other, their sword-blades shimmering and gleaming in the sun. Both men gathered fresh scars. They only used unrebated weapons, and if one or the other lost concentration for a moment he was likely to regret it.

After a bout or two, whether with a real or an imaginary opponent, Baldwin would go for a ride, usually up over the hill towards Bickleigh but sometimes south to Crediton, to attend court or just to pick up whatever gossip he could from the inns. The news was rarely good, and it concerned him to see how men had taken to wearing weapons. It wasn’t only he who practised; there were enough fighters in Crediton from old King Edward I’s wars to form a small army.

When he returned to his manor, he would often soak in a bath. This was a luxury he had been forced to live without when he was a Templar, for the Rule of the Order forbade bathing, but now he saw to it that all the wood ashes were gathered from the fires, and these were boiled with mutton fat to produce his solid soap cakes. While bathing he could forget the troubles besetting the kingdom. Cleansed, he would dine with his wife before walking with her over his lands, or taking his dogs to hunt some kind of venison – boar, deer, rabbit or hare.

But even as he chased his game, always at the back of his mind was the anxiety of the political situation. War would come. It might not be this month or the one after, but the loathing between the King and his lords was strong, mutual – and irreconcilable.

That was why, when he received the invitation to visit Tiverton Castle during the feast of St Giles, he was not overly surprised. The de Courtenay family would want to test the loyalty of their knights if they were soon to be tried in battle. The saint’s feast and the fair which celebrated it would give Lord Hugh de Courtenay the excuse he needed to speak to all his men.