Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Jeanne raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Edgar, who stuck his nose in the air and sniffed scornfully before walking out.

Harlewin continued without noticing: ‘Philip Dyne had raped and murdered a girl here in Tiverton – Carter’s daughter. Caused quite a stir. Managed to get to St Peter’s and hide in the sanctuary. Of course I went and demanded that he should give himself up, but he wouldn’t: demanded his forty days of sanctuary. So that was that. I posted guards, hoping that one of them would sleep and give him a chance to escape so we could hunt the bastard down, but he knew he was safe in there. So, we held a formal ceremony of abjuration and off he went.’

‘Carter’s daughter?’ Simon cried.

‘Yesterday. Didn’t get very far, did he?’ He looked up as Edgar passed him a jug. It was filled, but the Coroner winced at the taste. ‘God’s bollocks, man! This is practically undrinkable!’

‘It is the normal ale, sir.’

Jeanne looked away, trying not to giggle. Edgar’s distant manner, his offhandedness, was as near to an open insult as a servant could go.

Baldwin frowned. ‘But so what? If the man made his confession and left, he was protected. He should not have been killed.’

‘No, Sir Baldwin, he shouldn’t. Unless, of course, he tried to commit another felony. Or left the road ordained.’

‘And that is what you think happened?’

Jeanne watched Harlewin as he drank. An unmannered man, he belched and wiped his mouth with his hand before picking his ear with an enquiring finger, studying the wax adhering to his nail with interest. Jeanne had the impression that he wouldn’t be capable of any flights of intellect. He was a simple man at heart.

Harlewin rolled the wax into a ball and flicked it away. ‘Yes, Sir Baldwin, I think that’s what happened. The fool saw the knight in among the trees and nipped in after him. While he was there, he stabbed Sir Gilbert and took his purse but then he was ridden down by two law-abiding men who took off his head for his crime.’

‘And who were these two upright men?’ Baldwin asked, and Jeanne could hear the sarcasm cloying his voice.

‘Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok. They should be here by now. Would you like to hear their evidence?’

Andrew Carter reluctantly gazed down at the bodies deposited on the cobbles; the knight with his clothing all awry, his long cyclas or surcoat ridden up about his waist to show his gambeson beneath, the linen stuffed with rags or wool to make a protective quilted jacket.

Alongside him, the headless corpse of Dyne looked scruffy, the cloth of his tunic filthy with the blood which had been spilled over it, the material loose where it had merely been draped over the body. His head sat alongside, resting on the ground with his eyes left open so that he looked alive, as if he had been buried up to his chin in the cobbled yard and the headless body was that of another man.

A ring of men stood around them, four and twenty or more, with several male children among them – the jury. The priest was already there, unpacking his roll of vellum or whatever he used, setting his reeds and inks just so on the trestle-table put up for him. He glanced up and met Andrew’s eye. There was a slight flicker there, but then he looked away again, and Andrew suddenly felt queasy. He should never have paid the priest to ensure the man’s escape. The priest knew what he’d done.

At the far side of the men was his brother-in-law, and he walked slowly to Nicholas’s side, reaching him just as Piers Bakere and William Small were led out.

‘Nick?’

‘Quiet! You know what to say.’

‘Yes,’ Andrew agreed and anxiously looked back at the two bodies.

Cecily stood with her husband at the back of the crowd. John Sherman didn’t usually like seeing inquests, but this time he had insisted that they should go and watch. She had thought it was because of something to do with the Coroner, but now she wasn’t sure. Sherman stood with a bitter scowl twisting his features. She put out a hand to his arm, and he looked at her as though he didn’t recognise her.

‘Husband?’

‘I… I’m sorry. I don’t feel well,’ he said.

But she had seen that his gaze had been fixed with horror on the body of Sir Gilbert. She looked again. It was odd, she thought, the similarity. It could have been her husband lying there.

Two men were playing dice in the stable and one let out a shrill cry of delight at a winning throw just as Harlewin appeared, Simon and Baldwin following. In the sudden silence the shout was almost an abomination, like a heretic in church screaming his rejection of God.

Harlewin walked over to the bodies and glowered at the men all about him. ‘Come on, lads, give me space, will you? You may be the jury, but I have to have room. Are you ready, Father?’ Seeing the priest nod, he walked to Sir Gilbert’s body and began to strip it. ‘See here, all the clothing on this man. He was said to be a knight, and his clothing proves it. Now,’ he said as he struggled with the quilted gambeson, then the shirt beneath. Soon both bodies were naked, and the assembled men were sombrely quiet. One or two of the younger ones, especially a boy of some nine or ten years, looked close to tears as the last shreds of cloth were pulled away; others craned their necks with fascination.

About the knight’s neck was a small cord, on which was a crucifix and a small iron key. Harlewin took these and studied them a moment before tossing them on top of the pile of clothes. Baldwin reached down and picked them up.

Standing over Philip Dyne, Harlewin held up the head for all to see.

‘I find that this man was beaten about the face. He was bound, laid down and had his head struck off by a blow from a sword or axe or similar weapon.’ Setting the head down, he returned to the naked body and hauled it over and over. ‘There are no stabs on his back, chest, or limbs. His hands have cuts at the fingers, which shows he struggled to defend himself, catching the sword aimed at him.’

He rose, blowing a little from his exertion, and walked to the knight’s body. ‘This was different. A tall, well-built knight. He died from a single stab-wound in his back, here.’ He rolled over the body and pointed. ‘I think it probably penetrated the heart,’ he said, frowning thoughtfully as he stuffed his forefinger deep in the hole. Pulling it free, he studied the blood on it, then wiped it clean on the knight’s shirt. ‘Yes, he must have died almost immediately.’

He stood before the jury and set his hands on his hips. ‘Does anyone have any comments to make?’

One grizzled old man nodded at the headless body. ‘That man was Philip Dyne, the abjurer. If he left the road, he was outlaw, lawful prey of any man finding him. As outlaw he deserved beheading.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, and someone did behead him,’ Harlewin noted testily. ‘What of this knight? Anyone know anything about him?’

William spoke up. ‘He was Sir Gilbert, my master and a Knight Bachelor. He was on his way here and went into the woods to seek the felon. Those men told us Dyne had gone,’ he added, pointing at Andrew and Nicholas.

‘Sir Gilbert was found stabbed in the back without his purse,’ Harlewin noted. ‘That was with Dyne, together with the knight’s knife – which suggests to me that Dyne killed him. Now, can you two gentlemen add anything?’

Nicholas stepped forward, his head bowed. His voice was low and humble – practically obsequious. ‘My lord, I never thought this fellow would comply with your commands. Andrew and I rode after him to watch and make sure he adhered to his oath of abjuration as you had instructed him. He didn’t. We saw him in the woods and realised he must have chosen the life of the outlaw. As law-abiding men we rode after him. It took us some little while to find him, in among the undergrowth, but we managed to…’