Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

It was hot in the heavy fustian tunic in which a pilgrim should be clad, and Philip Dyne was taken by an itch that he couldn’t clear. His sweat was soaking into the cloth, and each drip seemed to attract a number of hairs, each of which prickled and irritated.

The road was thankfully flat now. Left was the slow, meandering river, while on his right the hill rose up, covered with tall, ancient trees. The road itself was a mere slash through the trees and grass, although wild plants fought for prominence at the roadside: gorse, valerian, foxglove, buttercups and daisies. Occasionally he inhaled their strong, sweet scents. There was a constant gurgling from the river here and another, less welcome sound. At first he thought he had mistaken it, but as he continued, gripping his little wooden cross firmly in his left hand, head lowered devoutly, he heard it again: horses.

Once more he was filled with foreboding. It was the same every time he met someone on the road. His guilt was apparent from his garb and demeanour, and he felt the shame that both conferred upon him, although most travellers he had encountered tended to ask him with interest what he had done, rather than try to insult or threaten him. One girl had even appeared to be fascinated with his crime, stating her conviction that he must be a murderer and asking what it was like to have killed a man. She offered him her body, but her ghoulish curiosity repelled him.

Now so taken with his gloomy thoughts, Dyne hardly heard the horses as they came close. It was only when one was almost upon him that he darted from beneath its hooves, stumbling over a stone to fall flat on his face at the verge.

‘You can move fast enough at need, then.’

Rolling over he saw it was Andrew Carter and he hurriedly climbed to his feet. The hatred in Carter’s eyes told him his life was in danger. Carter was pale, his features twisting with emotion, and as Philip Dyne watched him, the man’s hand strayed to his knife’s hilt.

‘Wait, Andrew,’ said the man at his side, Nicholas Lovecok, putting his hand to his brother-in-law’s before Andrew could pull his dagger free of its sheath.

Andrew threw him a furious look and spat on the ground between them. ‘Christ! But he’ll escape – and after he murdered poor Joan.’

‘The evil shit won’t get away with what he did,’ Lovecok said, glancing coolly at Dyne, who knelt gripping his cross with hands that shook.

That look, the expression of malevolent certainty, told Philip Dyne that he would never succeed in getting to Exeter. These men would destroy him long before then. As the realisation burst upon him he heard more hooves. The relief was so acute he felt his head whirl. A large group of men and women on horseback were coming along the road, chattering and laughing as they rode. Some shot Philip Dyne a curious look, no doubt wondering what a man dressed like a penitent was doing, talking to two merchants so far from a town – or maybe it was the tense expressions on all their faces.

Philip was torn. If he were to admit to his position, he might be saved by the folk, but then again it was as likely that he would be held by them and slain – either with their consent or their active participation. Looking back up the hill towards the protection that the trees offered, he saw that he could never make it. Even at full tilt, it would take so long to cover the thirty or so yards that the horses would hardly need to hurry to catch him. What’s more, even if by some miracle he made it up the hill, the brambles there would trap him; pinioning him as effectively as a felon in irons. A perfect target.

He opened his mouth to shout for help, but as he did so Andrew Carter kicked his horse and rode on. Nicholas Lovecok smiled coldly at Philip Dyne, and as he moved away, he whispered in a chilling voice: ‘I look forward to seeing you again soon… Very soon.’

Baldwin was up in a flash, his hand on his riding sword, and he swept it out in a shimmering arc of blue as he crouched, seeking the source of the terrible cry.

In a moment he saw Uther, reeling drunkenly, shaking his head, and Baldwin almost laughed. He thought the dog had bitten a bee – Uther had done so before, snapping them from the air before regretting his temerity – but then he realised that the dog was in too much pain; was too terrified. And then Uther crashed to the ground in a frenzy, and Baldwin felt as if his own heart had been stabbed.

He ran up the incline to Uther’s side and dropped to his knees. The dog’s eyes had disappeared, rolled back so that the white alone showed, and foam whitened his mouth. A small, ridiculously small, speck of blood showed near his eye at the dog’s temple, and Baldwin smoothed it away, murmuring soft endearments.

For a moment Uther seemed to rally. His eyes reappeared and Baldwin could see him look up at him. Baldwin managed a smile although he felt as if his heart was bursting. His face felt hot, his eyes ready to flood with tears, and there was a clenching sensation at the back of his throat.

Uther gently took his forearm in his mouth and closed his eyes as another spasm burst through his body and Baldwin was scarcely aware of his own pain as the teeth gripped tighter and tighter before Uther died.

Andrew Carter spurred his horse on furiously, riding pell-mell along the road, ignoring Nicholas’s calls until he had worked the demonic anger from his system.

‘Brother, you cannot keep on like this,’ Nicholas panted when he had caught up with him.

‘Christ alive! I want the bastard dead for what he did!’ Carter spat, his fat features mauve with his emotion. ‘You know what he did to your niece – or had you forgotten?’

‘By St Peter, of course I do! How could I forget?’

‘He raped her, didn’t he? He admitted as much, and when he had done enjoying himself, he throttled her, right?’

‘For God’s sake, Andrew, keep your voice down,’ Nicholas said urgently.

Looking up the road, Carter saw a small group of travellers approaching. He kicked his horse and wandered off the road a short way, and when he spoke again his voice was a low, bitter rumble: ‘How do you expect me to keep calm when the girl has been murdered, eh? God’s blood, I want Dyne to suffer for what he did to her. An eye for an eye, that’s what the Bible tells me I deserve, and that’s what I want! His damned eye for hers; his blood for hers. I’ll make the shit suffer.’

Nicholas studied his brother-in-law’s face for a moment. ‘You’ll have his heart for what he did to Joan,’ he said softly. ‘But if you keep shouting your intentions to the world, you’ll be arrested yourself.’

‘Not if…’

‘I know,’ Nicholas interrupted, his patience wearing thin, and reaching forward he grabbed the bridle of the other man’s mount. ‘And if our plan works, we’ll be able to see to him, but if you keep breaking out into this sanguine temper every time we meet people on the way to Tiverton, not only will you not succeed, you’ll end up being attached at the nearest court as well. Is that what you want?’

‘I want his head on a plate!’

‘Then use your head, man, and stop this ranting. Jesus save us!’ His voice dropped to a low whisper. ‘Because if you don’t, much though I adored poor Joan, I’ll leave you here on your own and go back to Exeter. I won’t risk gaol or death to help a fool.’

Carter stiffened, meeting Nicholas’s solemn gaze with a sullen glower. After a moment he looked down, suddenly ashamed, and Nicholas released his horse.

‘And now, brother, let’s carry on and see whether we might be able to execute – ha! – your revenge.’

Andrew and Nicholas would not have ridden away so quickly had they known that Matilda was watching them. She had missed Dyne’s abjuration, but she asked men in the town’s square and soon learned which road he had taken. Riding off after him, it was not long before she saw him ahead of her, and she was about to ride up to him and slash at him when she saw her husband and brother approach him. She watched, half-thrilled to think that she was about to see Dyne die, but also jealous not to have the savage joy of executing her daughter’s murderer herself.