Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Nodding, he led the way. As she left, Petronilla threw Jeanne a look of immense gratitude, which Jeanne recognised but couldn’t understand. Musings as to her maid’s feelings were cut short as Sir Peregrine called loudly: ‘My Lords and Ladies, Lord Hugh de Courtenay.’

Baldwin’s cry of warning reached Simon a second before his chest struck the branch squarely with a hollow thud that made Baldwin wince.

The breath was forced from Simon’s lungs with an audible ‘ Oof! ’ and Baldwin gave a bellow of laughter as his friend hooked both arms over the branch to stop himself being knocked to the ground. However, his horse kept going, leaving Simon clinging to the tree. The white-faced bailiff was held in mid-air staring after his mount as it stopped and began to crop the grass once more. With a slow inevitability, Simon’s weight begin to bow the branch, until with a report like black powder exploding, the tree gave up its limb and Simon dropped smartly onto his rump with a curse. Snorting and snuffling, desperate not to laugh, Baldwin persuaded his reluctant beast to walk to Simon’s side.

‘God’s Saints! If all you can do is grin,’ Simon growled from beneath the branch, ‘I’d prefer you to get someone who can help. Better still, fetch yourself a bow and shoot that bloody horse!’ He lifted the branch and threw it aside. ‘Rotten! Typical! I get flung from a horse by a twig that’s not got enough strength to cleave to its tree.’

Baldwin set his features into a stern mask of agreement, but before he could ride off in pursuit of Simon’s horse, Piers appeared and caught it by the reins. ‘Didn’t you see the tree?’

Simon ignored him as he took the reins. His backside had hit the ground with a solid thump, and he was aware of tension in his lower back and arse. He daren’t rub it for the delight he knew he would see on his friend’s face and, largely to take his mind off the pain as he settled gingerly in his saddle once more, he spoke to the baker.

‘How far?’

‘It’s close, sir.’

They ducked under more boughs, avoiding the thicker brambles. Soon Piers pointed. ‘That’s where the headless one lies.’

Simon allowed his pony to move at a slow walk. He had no intention of asking it to move in a jerking trot, up and down. Ahead was a clear area, bright in the sunshine, and it was a pleasure to be in the warmth after the shade of the trees. At the furthest corner of the glade he saw the Coroner and his man-at-arms.

‘Come on,’ said Baldwin, and even his voice was subdued as they approached the patch of blood-reddened grass.

The Coroner picked up the head and stared at the battered face of Philip Dyne.

There were many who believed that all Coroners were corrupt. Harlewin le Poter knew better. Some no doubt were, but Harlewin was committed to his job. It might be a regal pain in his backside – having to ride to all parts of the shire at a moment’s notice, seeking the bodies of the suddenly dead, holding inquests before all the men in a village or the neighbours in a town, making a decision before this or that jury, formally demanding the deodand (the value of the weapon that had killed the dead man), while old men hissed angrily on hearing the level of the fine to be imposed on them… yes, all this was aggravating, but when there was a murder, Harlewin was proud of his reputation of commitment. Justice was important. Killers had to be caught and must pay the price for their crimes. Harlewin believed that a man’s life was too important to go unavenged.

He tossed the head to his man-at-arms with a feeling of satisfaction. ‘This won’t take long. Recognise him?’

It was good to have a case in which the whole sordid story could be seen at a glance. So often there were surly crowds who denied all knowledge as he manhandled their dead. Commonly the cause of death was mundane: a stab-wound or a throat slitted like a pig’s. Occasionally there was a broken skull or a drowning, but usually it was just a fight that had gone too far.

And the reasons were just as earthy. A man who found his wife lying in an adulterous bed – that was a little close to home, Harlewin acknowledged – or a woman who retaliated after a heavy beating and committed the hideous act of petty treason, stabbing her man while he lay abed.

So many murders were incomprehensible, but with war looming Harlewin knew more deaths would occur. When men grabbed their swords and knives, people began to die even at a distance from the battlefields. Especially when there was a thieving, avaricious bastard like Despenser running the place.

At least this death was straightforward.

‘Dyne?’ the man-at-arms asked, peering into the half-closed eyes.

‘Yes. Looks like he left his road.’

Baldwin heard him muttering to the guard, but his own attention was fixed upon the body sprawled on its back in the long grass near the trees. There were marks about the wrists which Baldwin could not miss: he had been bound before his head was swept off. While Harlewin muttered in an undertone, Baldwin cast about and in a few moments he had found a thong lying atop a flattened expanse of grass nearby; it had been cut in two and its thickness matched the bruises on the wrists.

Continuing with his hands, he felt around the flattened area. ‘Ouch!’ Carefully he parted the grass to discover what had cut his hand: a knife. Within a few inches, broken pieces of wood; a snapped crucifix, while a short distance away was a purse, large and made of good leather, with some coins inside. The cords which should have bound the purse to its owner’s belt were cut through with a sharp blade.

‘Coroner, would you like to see this?’ he called.

‘Interesting, eh?’ Harlewin sniffed. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

The whole figure had stiffened, and it was only with an effort that Harlewin could drag the tunic off, swearing as it caught. ‘Oh, God’s teeth!’ he snarled and took the dagger from Baldwin, slicing up the sleeves to the shoulders, then easing the cloth free. Baldwin noticed how sharp the blade was, like a fighter’s.

Beneath the tunic was a simple, rough shirt and hose. These Harlewin cut off as well, to reveal the figure of a young man.

Harlewin pointed with the knife. ‘As I thought: extensive bruising on the chest, more here on his belly, and he has been kicked hard in the bollocks from the look of it,’ he said, indicating the swollen groin. ‘No stab-wound.’

‘No,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘It looks like someone beat him, bound him and beheaded him like a common felon. And broke his cross.’

‘Killed him like a wolf,’ Harlewin agreed, grunting as he pushed himself up into a standing position, and gazed down. Leaving Sir Baldwin at the side of the corpse, he strode off. The whole affair was tidy, he reflected. The outlaw had been caught and despatched. There must be a good reason why someone had done so without complying with the law.

The second body was a few hundred feet away in the next clearing. Harlewin was almost at its side when he heard the low rumble.

‘Leash that hound,’ he snarled. The dog had moved forward menacingly as he leaned over the body.

The man-at-arms reached for its collar, but it crouched, growling in a long, ferocious, steady timbre and the man hastily withdrew his hand.

‘Fetch a bow or something,’ Harlewin said irritably. ‘I can’t be standing here all the damned day! I’m supposed to be seeing my Lord de Courtenay. Go on, shoot the blasted mutt.’

‘All right.’ Wandering to his horse, the man pulled his crossbow from the saddle. It was a powerful one built of wood and bone, and he put his foot in the stirrup, bent his legs and caught the string in the hook at his belt. Slowly straightening, he spanned the string until he saw it catch on the sear. Walking to the Coroner’s side, he selected a steel-tipped quarrel from his belt’s quiver and set it on the bow’s groove.