Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

He wouldn’t. She would never give him reason again. He’d hurt her because she’d hurt his feelings, and beating his wife was a man’s right in his own house, just as he could beat the living daylights out of his maidservants – and menservants too, if it took his fancy.

No, she would never let that happen again. Since then she had always been careful to ensure that he couldn’t suspect her of infidelity. And yet he appeared to know something about her and Harlewin.

Harlewin the Coroner. Vain – yes; occasionally foolish – yes; large – without a doubt. But fun and essentially a risk-taker like her. Like her, too, he thrived on sex that was dangerous. He enjoyed her body, but both thrilled to the pleasure that came from their secret trysts. Every so often, not too regularly, they would ride to his place down near the river, miles outside town where he owned a mill, and spend the night in each other’s arms. As they had that night.

Somehow her husband knew something. He had been away, he’d said he had business in South Molton. A thought made a fist of ice clutch at her heart. He could have followed her; could have seen her there with Harlewin!

That was the fear that had so petrified her in the woods. But he hadn’t been there when she looked. It wasn’t him. Rationally she knew her panic was misplaced. If he’d seen them at the mill, he would have run in and killed them both. That was how his temper went. Fast and insane. He lost his veneer of calmness at the slightest provocation.

No, he couldn’t know. It was only a suspicion. Nothing more.

But the niggling concern kept pulling at her consciousness. Perhaps she should get an independent witness to give her an alibi – ask Father Abraham to confirm that she had been with him. Judging by his shame when she had seen him with the knight’s horse, he would be amenable to her plea. He wouldn’t like it, she thought – but then, he didn’t need to. This was the price of her silence.

It was more than an hour before the girl was capable of seeing anyone, long after the Coroner and his clerk had left, the one to eat, the other to perform a Mass, before both attended the inquest of Emily and her baby in childbirth.

When Jeanne at last came down to the hall from the solar with a slow, thoughtful tread, she found Simon and her husband sitting in the hall, both holding large pots of wine.

‘How is she?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Not well, but what would you expect after seeing her brother’s decapitated body?’

Baldwin gave a low whistle. ‘She was Dyne’s sister? My God, the poor girl.’

‘Her name is Avicia Dyne. She was horribly shocked and I’ve told her she needs to rest, but she wants to speak to you.’

Baldwin glanced at Simon, who shrugged. Simon knew what Baldwin was thinking: they had both seen people in every stage of distress and knew what to expect. There would be spirited denials of Philip Dyne’s guilt, closely followed by accusations against those in authority for having accepted bribes to divert the blame to him. Both men had seen the same situations repeated over and over again. ‘Come on, Baldwin, we may as well get it over with.’

‘Very well,’ Baldwin sighed, and followed his wife, Simon bringing up the rear.

Jeanne led them to a small, warm room that overlooked the court. It held little in the way of furnishing: a chest at one wall, a three-legged stool, and a small table with a jug of ale on it was all, apart from the modest little bed, which had no drapery, just a low wooden base with a palliasse on top. Thick, soft woollen blankets covered the girl.

In the yard Simon had been struck only by her misery on seeing her brother. He had hardly seen her features, but now he studied her with interest. Against the darkness of the room two candles had been lit, and their yellow flames illuminated the golden tints of Avicia Dyne’s hair, making it gleam in surprising contrast to the grey tone of her skin. Her eyes were sunken and dulled, her lips, pale and thin; her whole demeanour was one of despair.

She looked at them wanly as they entered, and Simon saw a single tear spring from the corner of her eye and leave a trail glistening in its wake as it slipped down her cheek. It was that, the lack of hysteria or any other emotion which struck him most forcibly. It was as if her whole life was ended and she had no more energy.

Simon stood at the back of the room in the darkness while Jeanne glided quietly to the girl’s side, pouring her a beaker of ale. Baldwin stood behind his wife.

‘Sir, I am grateful to you,’ Avicia told him, her voice stronger than he had expected. ‘I know you think I am only a mean-spirited thing, weak and emotional because of my brother’s death.’

Baldwin waved a hand as if in rejection, but she carried on swiftly before he could speak.

‘Please let me finish. Sir, my brother hasn’t received justice. This good lady has told me what the Coroner decided, but there are things you should know. Sir…’ She tried to sit up and her face worked with passion as she sought the best words to convince him. ‘Sir, my brother couldn’t have killed Joan. He loved her.’

Baldwin smiled sadly. ‘I have no authority here, child. Your brother confessed his guilt and was found away from the road. That is an end to–’

‘No, I can’t believe it!’ she said, shaking her head and making her hair swirl about her shoulders. ‘Sir, he couldn’t have hurt her, he couldn’t . He loved her, he was going to marry her. He wouldn’t have hurt her for anything.’

‘We often find that it is those who love who are the cause of the loved one’s death,’ Simon said quietly.

‘But he and she were handfast,’ she protested. ‘And Philip was never a lecher.’

‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The Coroner killed Joan and put the blame onto Philip to clear himself. Perhaps he told Philip that if he accepted blame the Coroner would allow him to escape and to find a new life abroad. It was the Coroner who urged Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok to chase after him and murder him.’

Baldwin ignored the word ‘murder’. Their execution of Dyne had been perfectly legal. ‘Andrew heard your brother admit to killing his daughter,’ he pointed out reasonably, ‘and Nicholas Lovecok heard him confess to killing his niece. What would be more natural than that they should follow the man who had confessed and execute him?’

‘But Philip couldn’t have done it! He wasn’t a murderer!’

‘Was he trained in fighting?’

‘No – why?’

It was not much, but it added to Baldwin’s feeling of wrongness. Commonly a close family member of a murderer would disbelieve his guilt, but the knowledge did not make Avicia’s distress any easier to bear. ‘Child, you know he confessed?’ He held up his hand to stop her before she could protest. ‘It is the truth, Avicia! He admitted killing Joan Carter after raping her – otherwise he wouldn’t have been allowed from the sanctuary to abjure the realm. The first rule is that a man must confess.’

‘But a man might be allowed to claim a pardon from the King if he was innocent!’

‘Well, of course. But in this case he–’

‘Philip was going to leave the country, yes, and he swore to abjure the realm, but he was innocent.’

Simon broke in, ‘Why would he do that? If he knew he was without guilt, he should have stood before the court and made his case.’

‘How can you say that, Bailiff? The jury here would have presented him to the court as a criminal and he would have been convicted. How could he defend himself?’

‘How could he expect to prove his innocence as an exile abroad?’ Simon pressed her.

‘Easier than if he remained here and hanged!’