Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

For all the accusations of corruption levelled against Coroners which were correct, Harlewin had a shrewd suspicion that often the wrong man was accused. He knew that Father Abraham was, like many clerks, an enthusiastic collector of coins. Often enough he’d seen the priest pocketing a shilling or even two for recording the details of a peculiarly repulsive corpse. Andrew Carter had paid five shillings when the priest wrote up the inquest of young Joan’s body. A man like Andrew wouldn’t want salacious facts being scribbled down for any sick bastard to read. Yet no doubt many would assume Harlewin was corrupt because he was a despised Coroner, whereas Father Abraham was a holy servant.

‘Ah, Coroner. I hope I find you well?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

Harlewin grunted noncommittally. ‘I’ve sorted out the death of the felon, though why the knight should have died is anyone’s guess.’

‘Surely the felon murdered the knight? That is what felons do.’

Harlewin sourly studied his drink. ‘Perhaps.’

‘It would make the life of your lord a great deal easier, Coroner.’ Seeing he had Harlewin’s attention, Sir Peregrine spoke softly. ‘Our Lord Hugh is a little perturbed that a murder has been committed here just as he’s preparing to hold a feast. He’d be much happier if I could inform him that the matter is closed, that you’ve found that the murdered man was killed by a felon, a man abjuring the realm, who was then himself shortly afterwards executed by two upright citizens of Tiverton. You understand me?’

Harlewin watched the knight stride away down the stairs and out to the yard. ‘So why do you want this knight forgotten, Sir Peregrine?’ he muttered cynically. ‘Or is it your Marcher Lords whom you seek to please?’

True, the knight’s suggestion would save a lot of difficulty; it was a logical explanation; and he had a duty to his Lord. Draining his pot, he marched back to the hall. Seeing Simon and Baldwin with Jeanne at the far side of the hall, Harlewin smiled broadly.

‘Bailiff Puttock, Sir Baldwin? Congratulate me! I have slept on the problem and already I have solved both murders!’

Toker stretched and walked into the bright daylight of the castle’s court. He didn’t notice Aylmer, who had found a cool patch of grass at the entrance to one of the servants’ rooms and lay down blocking the doorway. Toker knew he had come across the man he had seen the previous evening fairly recently, but much had happened over the last few weeks and he had met a great many new people.

Idly, he ran his mind over the last few days. He had detoured on the journey back to Tiverton, taking his men with him on the road to Bristol to hear the latest news from Wales.

The Despenser lands, he learned, were being systematically ruined, their crops destroyed, houses and castles burned or otherwise wasted. Eight Despenser castles were already wrecked. All the family’s possessions were being ransacked, their luxurious belongings stolen. The list of goods was proof enough of their greed: tables of ivory and ebony, chessboards with chessmen of fine crystal, rich clothing, silver and jewellery.

It wasn’t enough that the Despensers had lost it all: they had escaped into exile. If Toker could have had his way, both Despensers would have been hanged, drawn and quartered. They were an abomination: power-crazed thieves whose robberies were all the more obscene in the light of their already enormous wealth.

Toker spat and took a long draught of ale; William was completely forgotten now. The waste of the Despensers’ lands was good to hear. It proved that the tyranny of that deplorable family was ended. No Despenser would ever again be able to hold the kingdom in his hand. Even the King must recognise the damage done to his realm.

The attitude of people up towards Bristol had surprised him. They appeared to think the Lords of the Marches were acting from self-interest and were no better than the Despensers. Toker was convinced they were wrong. Without the Despensers, the country could be ruled once more by the King with wise and pragmatic advisers: men who looked more to the chivalric codes than to their own advantage; men who could be trusted. Perhaps he might even be able to find a little honour and forget the lawless period of his life. That thought brought a wry smile to this face, for he knew that when he had the chance he couldn’t help but return to his felonious ways. In London he had joined his men in looting a shop during a riot; on another occasion, while bonfires lit the night sky, he’d slipped inside a merchant’s house and walked away with a good collection of plate. The instinct to take what he could was too strong; the urge to serve himself in case he lost his lord again.

Toker knew himself. He would always tend to resort to theft when he could. He needed a war, a means of winning money. If the Despensers returned – then , Toker thought, he would be able to get enough to set himself up for life. He’d never have to work again; he could just sit in a tavern all day and drink.

‘Whose dog is that?’

It was Perkin; he was staring at the hound. Aylmer lay in a doorway out of the sun, but Perkin glared at him with loathing.

‘I’ve seen that mutt somewhere,’ Perkin said.

As he spoke Wat walked towards Aylmer. His foot caught a stone, which flew through the air and hit the dog’s shoulder. Instantly Aylmer woke and rose fluidly into a menacing crouch, his head below his shoulders, his legs bent ready to spring, while a low, vicious growl rumbled from deep in his throat.

Wat froze in fear. ‘Christ!’

A groom laughed: a maid from the kitchen cried, ‘Don’t touch him – he must be rabid.’

‘Yeah, mind out, dog!’ someone called with a laugh.

Toker’s men sniggered as Wat nervously retreated. ‘I only wanted to get to the storeroom. Someone call the dog off.’

‘Who owns the thing?’ shouted Owen.

Toker listened but didn’t look at him. The little Welshman was always nervous, and the anxiety in his voice was proof, if Toker had needed it, that the man was unreliable. Sir Peregrine had foisted him on Toker before going to London saying he was a good archer, but so far he’d been useless in fights. Anyway, why call the dog off? Toker was like his men – he was interested to see how the dog would see off the brat. Yet the dog’s stance looked familiar…

‘He doesn’t like being kicked,’ said William. He lounged at the door to the hall, a large pot in his hand, leaning on the rough wooden handrail. The sun was warm on his face and he felt good. He didn’t notice Toker or his men, he was watching Wat with an amused grin. Taking a deep, contented gulp of ale, he said, ‘Aylmer gets angry when people prod him.’

Toker lifted his eyes to stare. It was that man again, and his voice was familiar… and then Toker remembered a street in London, two dogs, two servants and a knight.

‘He’s going to bite me – can’t you move him?’ Wat cried, close to tears.

‘Alymer – move !’ William shouted without looking.

Instantly the dog circled warily around Wat and walked to a patch of scrubby grass where he lay down. It was at the same time that Toker felt the burst of excitement in his breast as he remembered that interesting little chest. Slowly he made an oath, pulled out his dagger and kissed the blade.

Jeanne could see that her husband was astonished at the Coroner’s words.

Baldwin blinked and stammered, ‘How…? But who?’ Harlewin was evidently delighted to see how his words had stunned the knight. The Coroner chuckled fruitily, drained his jug of ale and tossed it towards Edgar, who just managed to catch it.

‘Fill that, man. Well, Sir Baldwin, the beheaded man, Philip Dyne, was an abjurer.’