Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

‘Did you beat him?’ Harlewin growled. ‘Look at the state of the poor bugger’s balls!’

‘Not more than we needed to catch him. And when we had caught him, we beheaded him. As was our duty.’

‘What of the other man?’

Andrew shoved his way forward. ‘We had no idea about him being there, Coroner. We saw this man and his servant in their camp and asked them whether they had seen Dyne pass by. This servant said he’d seen a face in among the trees. Who else could it have been? We went into the woods. The good knight, I suppose, came after us, but we didn’t see him.’

‘I think it’s clear that this man Dyne took the knight’s knife and stabbed him to steal his purse, then met with you two. You executed him, rightly, but you failed in your legal duties,’ Harlewin said, and slowly an unpleasant smile spread over his face. ‘You wanted no one to know what you had done, did you? You failed to confess. More to the point, you failed to bring back his head!’

He stomped over to the bodies and picked up the head once more. ‘This man was a confessed felon who had sworn to abjure the realm, and as such you should have brought his head back here to be lodged in gaol. I fine you five shillings each.’

Nicholas put out a hand to Andrew. Andrew had taken a quick step forward on hearing this large sum announced, but feeling his brother-in-law’s touch, he pursed his lips silently, breathing stertorously through nostrils flared like a horse’s.

‘May I put a question or two, Coroner?’ Baldwin enquired mildly, and when Harlewin nodded, he turned to the two men. ‘I find it odd that you came back from the south. You must have already passed Dyne.’

Nicholas nodded. ‘That’s correct. We rode past him earlier in the day and carried on to a tavern near Silverton to eat. Then we came back.’

‘And your first thought was naturally where this felon had got to?’ Baldwin mused. Dyne was a felon – he had confessed to rape and murder. Baldwin had every reason to wish to see justice, and that included justice for the dead girl; he was not minded to throw the first stone at a man who avenged his daughter. But he was intrigued by the death of Sir Gilbert. ‘I cannot see how this feeble-looking young man could have grabbed the dagger from a knight’s belt and stabbed him.’

Nicholas shrugged and gave Baldwin a thin smile. ‘Sir, you of the fighting class can understand this kind of thing more easily than us. We are merely merchants.’

‘True enough,’ Baldwin agreed, but with a puzzled expression. ‘But there are aspects which seem curious. For example, did Dyne still have the knife when you came across him?’

‘He dropped it,’ Andrew said. ‘It was in his hand when I saw him. I knocked it away with my sword.’

‘So you, a merchant, could defend yourself against Dyne when he was armed although an armed knight could not,’ Baldwin noted. ‘Was anyone else about?’

It was William who answered. ‘There was a woman.’

‘Did you recognise her?’

‘No. She was well-dressed,’ William said musingly. He allowed his gaze to drift over the crowd watching. ‘She wore a hooded cloak, green, but her face was covered.’

Standing at the back of the crowd, Cecily felt her husband’s grip on her shoulder. He pulled her roughly around. ‘You don’t have a green cloak.’

‘No, husband. Why?’ she asked and then allowed the acid to enter her tone. ‘Did you think I had killed him? Me? Murder a knight I had never met?’

He stared at her with his brow furrowed like a man who was going mad and could feel his sanity teetering on the brink. ‘You were there with your man.’

‘Husband, how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have a lover,’ she said with slow, pained deliberation.

He curled his lip in disbelief but could not tell her he knew she was lying. That would mean confessing to following her.

Turning on his heel, he walked from the court.

Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple walked through the streets of Tiverton plunged deep in thought.

Other men tended to move aside when he approached. He always found his path clear, no matter how crowded the road or alley. It was the natural order exerting itself on his behalf. Sir Peregrine was a lord, one of the Bellatores , the fighting class, and if another man stood in his path or offered an insult, Sir Peregrine was wealthy, powerful and strong enough to force him to regret his rashness.

Sir Peregrine was relatively content with the way things were progressing. He had much to do still to persuade Lord de Courtenay to his own way of thinking, that it would be sensible to set up an alliance with the Marcher Lords, but the matter would be easier to deal with now that the Despensers’ emissary was dead.

It had been alarming to hear that Sir Gilbert had met Lord Hugh. Sir Peregrine had heard by a chance remark from one of his gatehouse men: while Sir Peregrine was out comforting Emily, Sir Gilbert had arrived and asked to see Lord Hugh. Lord Hugh met him in his private solar and they spoke for some little while. Sir Peregrine himself returned before Sir Gilbert had left and instantly set a man to follow him. It was that man who had seen Sir Gilbert’s horse. ‘He’s from the Despensers, Sir Peregrine.’

That was a complication Sir Peregrine wished to do without. He had no desire to see the cautious progression of his own persuasion wrecked by Sir Gilbert. It was crucial that Lord Hugh should join the ranks of the Welsh Marchers. Sir Peregrine himself was an enthusiastic supporter of theirs and had no wish to find himself fighting at the side of Lord de Courtenay against those he thought should be their friends. Better by far that he should persuade Lord de Courtenay to join his natural allies. After all, although the Despensers were exiled, that was no guarantee that they wouldn’t return. King Edward II had recalled Gaveston; he could as easily ask his lover Despenser to return.

Sir Peregrine found his steps slowing as a pensive mood came over him. Surely a messenger would have brought something to prove his master’s integrity: some form of reward for friendship? Sir Gilbert of Carlisle would not have come empty-handed to the castle.

He lost his train of thought as he arrived at Emily’s house. It stank, and the refuse all about made him curl his lip, but he had to know how she was. ‘Emily? Are you there?’ Ducking under the low lintel, he gazed about him with consternation. The hovel had been cleaned and swept, the table moved, the bed tidied.

While he stood there dumbfounded, a woman entered behind him. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Emily?’

‘Childbirth. Baby killed her. They bury her tomorrow.’

Sir Peregrine swallowed but kept his face set. He nodded coldly, pushed past the neighbour and made his way back towards the castle, taking deep breaths as he walked.

Dead! His child gone, taking his woman with it. Sir Peregrine had never married and Emily had been the closest he had ever known to a wife: gentle, kind, grateful for the small presents he had given her.

Sir Peregrine had never been able to win the affection of a courtly lady. There had been one once, a woman in Barnstaple over fifteen years ago, but she was dead now. Emily had attracted him with her ready smile, her soft voice and calmness. It seemed impossible that she had gone for ever. The thought made him stumble, and when he recovered himself, he found his eyes had filled with moisture and he had to blink it away.

He felt as though someone had cut out his heart.

Father Abraham scratched as quickly as his reed allowed, stopping regularly to resharpen the tip, occasionally discarding old ones and picking up fresh, hating the work.