Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

‘Go on, man!’ Harlewin rasped.

The man-at-arms lifted it and aimed the arrow’s tip at the dog’s throat. His hand moved to the long trigger and he was about to fire when he heard a bellow at his side. Startled, he caught a glimpse of something moving before a bunched fist struck the stock of his bow, releasing the bolt high over the dog’s head to thud into an oak.

‘Don’t you dare slay the hound for protecting his master’s body,’ Baldwin roared, enraged. ‘The beast is a good servant.’ He walked slowly towards the dog.

‘You may regret it, Sir Baldwin,’ Harlewin called. ‘The damned thing looks almost mad to me.’

Baldwin ignored him, squatting near the dog. Unconsciously, he suddenly realised, he had started kneading the flesh of his forearms where Uther had bitten him in his death-throes. It made Baldwin feel a sharp pang. This dog was very different from Uther. It growled, more from fear than anger. It was stupid, Baldwin reflected, to try to save the beast for no purpose, especially since he might get bitten. He glanced at the other dog a few yards away, dead. The pair were raches , hunting dogs which relied more on scent than sight. Handsome animals, with sleek black coats, brown eyebrows and cheeks, strong jaws and powerful chests, they were built heavily, like mastiffs.

He recalled the pastries he had grabbed before leaving the hall. Some were still in his purse, and he pulled them free, much crumbled and broken, and tossed a piece on the ground. The dog glanced down but didn’t eat. Baldwin held out his hand with a piece of pastry in it.

‘Come on, it’s been a while since you ate, hasn’t it, old fellow?’ he asked gently.

‘Aylmer won’t eat like that from a stranger, he needs the order. Aylmer: feed! Good boy.’

The dog dropped his head and snuffled at the pie on the ground. Behind Baldwin stood a swarthy man with a pockmarked face.

‘I am called William the Small, sir. I was servant to Sir Gilbert.’

For the first time Baldwin looked at the dead man, and as he did so, he felt the breath catch in his throat as he recognised the face.

Andrew Carter wiped a hand over his face and walked to his buttery where he bent at a large cask and filled a jug with an unsteady hand, carrying it through to his small hall. His belly rebelled, but he forced the wine down, and soon its soothing warmth calmed his nerves again. In his mind’s eye he saw once more the great gout of blood as the head fell from Dyne’s shoulders. God! It made him want to heave again.

And he had so much to do for St Giles’s Fair. Tomorrow was the vigil, marking the start of the three-day event: vigil, feast and morrow of St Giles. There were other fairs at Tiverton, three others through the year, but there was an especial significance to this one, as Andrew Carter knew only too well. At this fair all Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s senior advisers and knights were present. And while their women and victuallers strolled among the tents and stalls of the fair, while all that money was being made, Andrew Carter, merchant, sat here in his room with his belly roiling after bringing justice on Philip Dyne.

He couldn’t keep from worrying at the memory like a dog with a marrow bone. Swallowing, he tried to force his mind to business instead.

It was an anxious time. Andrew Carter knew as well as anyone how fragile was the kingdom’s peace; much of his business was conducted with the north of the country, for there were good profits to be made from importing good English wine from the King’s lands in Guyenne and sending them up to the wild lands of the Scottish marches, especially to certain clients of his, such as Thomas of Lancaster.

Not that Andrew had ever met Lancaster, of course. Earl Thomas was the son of King Edward I’s brother and Queen Blanche, and thus of higher birth than almost all the other nobles in the land. Powerful men tended not to soil their hands in dealings with the lowly, such as Andrew – and, by God’s saints, Thomas was powerful! Five earldoms were his: he had inherited Lancaster, Leicester and Derby, and acquired Salisbury and Lincoln when he married Alice Lacy. When the government decided to buy peace with him at Leake, they had to negotiate with him in the same manner as they would a separate, independent state.

That was three years ago, when Andrew Carter had decided to tie his purse-strings to Lancaster’s future. The Earl was the Steward of England, the most powerful man in the land, even more so than the King in many ways, and he was happy to pay a merchant for information about affairs down in the south.

It had been the obvious choice. King Edward II, as everyone could see by then, was a weak, effeminate waster. He spent his time in idleness, employing actors and jugglers and flattering parasites in his court. Whereas his father, King Edward I, had lived an austere life, dressing simply, keeping his hair trimmed, and practising the skills which made him a good king – sword-fighting, riding, tilting with the lance – his son delighted in wrestling with peasants or swimming: fine accomplishments, these, for a king!

Thomas of Lancaster was in every way a better leader. Andrew had no doubts on that score, but the question that exercised him was whether his Lord de Courtenay would see that. If the news was to be believed (and Andrew invested a fair amount of his own money in good networks of information to protect his business) the two Despensers had fled the kingdom. The armies which had camped outside London’s walls had forced the King to accede to their demands. Hugh the Younger and his father had gone: the older man had taken up a relaxed life in France, but his whelp couldn’t. He would find life difficult in the French King’s domains, for he was Edward II’s father-in-law, and the French King resented how his daughter had been supplanted by the royal favourite even in their bed, if the rumours be true. Despenser the Younger had taken a ship and now he raided shipping in the Channel, whatever flag it flew. No vessel was safe.

Lord de Courtenay showed little inclination to go over to Lancaster’s side. If anything, he was more keen on supporting the King than before. Still, that was all right so long as the Despensers were abroad and Earl Thomas had power.

Andrew stared into his cup, lips pursed into a single white line, then hurled it against the far wall. The earthenware shattered, shards flying, and wine spattered and dribbled like blood sprayed from a wound as he rested his aching head in his hands again.

He’d been over and over this: the risks of the Younger Despenser’s return and the strengthening of the King compared with Lancaster’s continued grip on the reins of power. All he could do was pray that Lancaster remained all-powerful. And if the Despensers did come back, maybe he could join them instead. They were dangerous enemies.

‘Brother? Are you all right?’

‘Nicholas! Yes. Yes, I am fine. Just thinking again about…’

‘If you’re thinking about him , don’t. He deserved his end,’ Nicholas said thinly.

‘But what about the knight?’

‘Christ Jesus, Andrew, did you kill him? I didn’t! I never even knew him! The bastard probably deserved it. More important now is that you come back to the hall.’

‘Very well, brother,’ Andrew sighed, rising to his feet. Nicholas was studying him with a jaundiced eye. ‘Well? What in God’s name’s the matter now?’ he flared up.

‘Nothing. Just keep your temper under control. You don’t want people to see your mood.’

‘I’ve got nothing to fear.’

‘I know that as well as you!’ Nicholas said sharply. ‘My concern is that people don’t get the wrong idea – or the right idea: that we have both forsworn our loyalties to de Courtenay and tied ourselves to Lancaster.’