Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

It wasn’t that the task was difficult, but the ability to write was a God-given gift, and as such it deserved the concentration and dedication necessary to produce the most beautiful work possible. This hurried scribbling was an insult to Him; it was no better than a usurer’s records.

Looking up, he saw the knight from Cadbury, Sir Baldwin, stare at the ground for a moment before returning to his questions. He appeared to take the matter seriously, but as far as Abraham was concerned, the whole issue was immaterial. The felon was dead after committing a second horrible murder. He had received his just deserts.

Baldwin looked at Andrew with an air of thoughtful enquiry. ‘How long were you at the tavern?’

‘I don’t know. Not long. We only had a quart of ale each and a pie.’

Father Abraham scribbled and scratched in his shorthand, and tried to control his growing impatience. He had services to conduct. The implication of Sir Baldwin’s questioning was clear enough: he thought the two men had been trying to ambush Dyne. Likely they had, Father Abraham considered, scratching at his bald pate with his reed and incidentally smearing ink over it – but so what?

At the back of his mind was the fear that his own part in that previous evening’s events might become common knowledge. It made him anxious and fretful. If only Father Benedict hadn’t demanded the last rites; Father Abraham wouldn’t have been out on that road so late, so near the woods.

As Baldwin finished his interrogation and returned to Simon’s side, Father Abraham threw Cecily Sherman a scowling glance. She was standing serenely and saw his look, giving him a slight smile that made the priest sneer. And what were you doing there, whore? he thought to himself.

Simon saw that Baldwin was frowning thoughtfully at Aylmer. The dog was sitting tied to a post, head tilted to one side as he observed the deliberations of the jury and Coroner. ‘What is it, Baldwin?’

Baldwin murmured, ‘The dead dog: if a dog launches himself at a man, he aims for the throat or arms, and the only way a man can defend himself is by cutting the animal’s neck or stabbing him in the side of the chest once the jaws have closed on him. Only a brave man or a trained fighter would stand his ground and wait until the dog leaped, holding out his blade to pin the hound in the air. And if it were a long blade, the animal would be held at the full extent of the weapon, unable to reach an arm or leg.’

‘So?’

Baldwin scowled at the jury. ‘Although Dyne had no sword, he escaped being bitten.’

‘What of the knight’s knife?’

‘Ah well, Simon. There we have another little mystery, don’t we? First we wondered how the felon got a knife, then we saw he must have taken the knight’s. But someone stabbed the knight, so we have to swallow the frankly ridiculous: that the knight and his dog allowed a man to ambush them, disarm and kill the knight. Only then did the dog attack, being himself slaughtered for his temerity.’

Simon chuckled. ‘I see your point. And then the thief is discovered by a fat merchant who has no difficulty in knocking the felon’s knife away.’

‘Precisely. A fat merchant can succeed in a fight where a knight has failed? I find it incredible.’

‘But if he didn’t, who did?’

‘Well, now. There I think…’ His pensive mood was destroyed as the court rang with a shriek of horror.

‘Philip! Oh, God, no! Philip!’

Spinning, Sir Baldwin saw a young woman run to the ring of the jury, then stop, hands flying up to her face as she stared petrified with horror at the head and torso of Philip Dyne.

Her figure was slender but strong and sturdy, that of a peasant girl who often had to put herself to labour in fields. Auburn hair dangled where her wimple had come adrift, hanging down the back of her cheap green tunic.

Without speaking again she collapsed. Baldwin sighed. Glancing at Edgar, he motioned to his servant to carry her indoors.

Jeanne took upon herself the duty of nursing the girl with Petronilla’s help while the men stood huddled in the hall. Harlewin had decided that there was little more to be decided, and while the girl was carried indoors by Edgar to be installed on a cot in the solar, he declared that in his capacity as Coroner he was satisfied that Philip Dyne had murdered Sir Gilbert of Carlisle and had then been discovered by Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok who had obeyed the law and beheaded him. For their misbehaviour in not bringing the head back to town for the Coroner to set in the gaol, they were fined. Apart from that, Baldwin himself swore to Sir Gilbert’s Englishry and although he was not a member of the man’s family, Harlewin agreed that his word was sufficient. In the case of Dyne, since he was a confirmed felon legally executed, there was no need for anyone to swear to his Englishry.

Father Abraham blew heavily on his paper and studied it pensively. Even with the hideous scar running though it where the girl’s scream had made him jump, it was legible, which was all that mattered. Rolling it up carefully, he tied a short length of scarlet ribbon around it and began packing up his reeds, inks, knives and scrapers, storing them painstakingly in his wallet.

It was growing late. He had to hurry to return to the church and say Mass. There were bound to be many of his congregation waiting, especially on this, the vigil of St Giles. Market traders would be there asking the saint for his help to ensure a profit. Later he would have to write up Harlewin’s inquest on poor Emily too.

He sighed and stood. She could wait. Divine services came first. Nodding to Harlewin and Simon – Sir Baldwin had gone inside with his wife – Father Abraham walked past the thinning jury, scarcely glancing at the two bodies.

‘Father?’

Father Abraham turned to Harlewin with a feeling of resigned annoyance.

‘Could you arrange to bury the knight as soon as possible? In this heat…’

There was no need to say more. Father Abraham gave a nod. ‘Bring him to the church tonight. I will read the Placebo , the Evensong of the Dead, and arrange for the hearse and some deserving poor to sit up with him.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

The priest walked out into the street. A hundred noxious scents assailed his nostrils, and he unconsciously hurried his steps as he made his way to his church.

Poor Emily, he thought. Her death reminded him that the minions of the Devil were waiting here, ever-present in the world, to ensnare any man who was foolish enough to submit to the temptations they offered.

That was the reason for anointing those soon to die, to keep devils away. After anointing, the soul lived in a shadow world until death came, and anointing protected the body. It meant devils couldn’t use the corpse, flying on it through the air to upset townspeople.

Those who died suddenly and without preparation were often saved by God’s Own grace. Although this knight would not be. He was an excommunicate. An evil heretic. Father Benedict had told him so. Sir Gilbert was a Templar.

Back at her house, Cecily Sherman waved her servants away and sat quietly with a jug of wine drawn from the best barrel in the buttery. Her husband was safely installed in his shop dealing with clients, and she was safe for a few moments of peace.

It was a good house, this. She glanced about her at the tapestries, the lamps, the thickly carved screen, the silverware, then, with a smile of self-satisfaction, at the pewter jug and small tankard on the table at her side. Yes, it was a very good house.

Oh, her husband wasn’t as bad as some. He was a bit dim on occasion – luckily! – but for the most part, if she was careful she could prevent the worst excesses of his temper. He’d only given her a beating the once, and well, she had been a bit obvious when she looked at that man in church. It was natural John should think she had insulted him: she had! It had been painful, though. He’d taken a willow wand to her, thrashing her until her back was bloody. She had been careful ever since to make sure that he wouldn’t ever feel the need to punish her again.