Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

‘This can get us nowhere,’ Baldwin muttered.

‘Then seek the murderer! When you know who caused Joan to die, you’ll have the murderer of her, of that knight and of Philip. And I can tell you who it was: it was Harlewin, the Coroner!’

When he had completed the Mass Father Abraham left hurriedly to attend Emily’s inquest. It was a depressing affair, sad and demeaning somehow for all who took part. The woman with the blood still drenching her legs, the child looking so innocent at her side, mute proof of the reason for her death.

The priest was surprised to see Sir Peregrine in the crowd, his long face sad, and when the Father had packed his few items, he found the knight falling into step beside him as if wishing to talk – or perhaps confess? It gave Father Abraham a wild sense of hope that the worldly knight might be tempted to ask him to shrive him.

His hopes were dashed. Sir Peregrine certainly wanted companionship in his loneliness, but the very last thing he needed was idle conversation. The death of his woman had left a pain that could not be assuaged. Since he had heard of her death he had wandered about the town, but that brought no mitigation of his suffering. Walking about and seeing how happy others were was no comfort to him. It merely added the poison of jealousy to his anguish. Toker’s words had been nothing more than an irritant, given his mood, and he had sent the man away. Stories of a London man defending himself again Toker’s boys were not important. Not now.

Father Abraham for once recognised that chatter would be unwelcome and the two walked to the church in silence.

Which was why they found the two of them.

As Father Abraham opened the door, he was welcomed by the sight of Hick the rat-catcher’s hairy backside, ramming up and down as Felicity, beneath him, complained about the cold floor and entreated him to get a move on. As a scene, it was one guaranteed to send Father Abraham into a paroxysm of rage.

At least Felicity hung her head in a show of contrition and held her tongue when Father Abraham berated her.

‘How dare you even think of coming here with your revolting clients!’ he thundered. ‘The… the shame of it! Don’t you realise that you were fouling the church itself with your disgraceful, lewd…’

‘I tried to tell her, Father,’ Hick interrupted helpfully.

‘Shut up, you pervert!’ Father Abraham roared.

‘I couldn’t take him to my rooms, not at Fair time. The landlord could have evicted me!’ Felicity protested.

‘That was no excuse for fornicating in my church!’

‘I told her you wouldn’t like it.’

Felicity turned on Hick, hands on hips. ‘You were happy enough to come here when I suggested it.’

‘Only ’cos you wouldn’t go to my dwelling.’

‘Dwelling? Dwelling ? Don’t make me laugh! The place is practically falling about your ears, and you expect me to rut on the dirt floor with you?’

‘It’s no worse that the floor here.’

‘It’s covered in filth and mud, Hick!’

‘Silence, the pair of you! God give me patience!’

Sir Peregrine left them to it. The mundane little squabble was irrelevant. He had no wish to witness it, and he walked slowly over the church’s yard while he thought about his Emily. Her body, displayed like that for all the lewd-minded to see had left a bitterness in his mouth.

He was at the picket fence when he heard the church door creak on its hinges, and, in the dim light from the candles within, he saw the girl slip out. She had rearranged her clothing and now little of her form could be discerned beneath the heavy tunic, skirts and apron. Walking swiftly, she crossed the churchyard to him.

Under her layer of grime, he thought Felicity attractive. She had a long, slender frame with a heart-shaped face; her chin was small and the nose slightly snubbed, but her features were pleasantly regular. She approached him hesitantly.

‘Sir Peregrine, I was sorry about Emily.’

‘Thanks. I miss her.’

‘And the child.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed sadly, looking away. ‘That is why I am so lonely now.’

‘If you want comfort…’ she offered quietly.

He looked at her and she continued in a rush, ‘The King has a marshall of the royal prostitutes; I see no reason why you shouldn’t make use of one.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said with a dry chuckle. And yet when he thought about it, maybe another woman would help ease the burden of pain. At least she could help him forget for a while.

Felicity smiled at him sympathetically. She was a sharp woman: not yet twenty years old, she needed to be. Both her parents were dead, and since she had lost her job in the merchant’s house she’d endured every insult the world could fling at her, but the diminution of her social position had not decreased her intelligence.

The knight did look miserable. Not that his troubles worried Felicity overmuch. She had her own problems to think of, and his money would come in useful.

She could weep to think how low she had sunk, degraded and reviled by all the women who should have been her friends. Instead she was shunned – all because a certain man had raped her systematically and regularly, and then thrown her over. If there was any way to make the shame redound upon him, she would happily sell her soul to achieve it.

Felicity eyed Sir Peregrine warily. She’d no wish to be caught working during the Fair; in fact, she’d intended leaving for the duration but she’d been held up when the Coroner oiled round, the revolting old cockscomb. He’d said he wanted information about poor Emily, but it was obvious to Felicity that he wasn’t thinking of the inquest when he stared at her breasts. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d done business with him, but not immediately after asking about Emily: that was disgusting! As if a mere whore was of no importance, had no feelings or common decency.

It was his hypocrisy – and unintentional insult to her – which so enraged her. She told him to piss off, she wouldn’t sleep with him: he might report her. That was why, when Hick came round a little later, she had only agreed to take his money provided they went somewhere else. She didn’t want Harlewin to see her with Hick. He’d certainly have taken her in then – for accepting a shabby little man instead of him.

But it was terrible that the priest had found her in the church with Hick. She could have screamed at the unfairness. The inquest into Emily’s death should have run on for longer and the priest shouldn’t have returned so early.

Poor Emily. One of the few women who had been her friend, and now, almost before her body had cooled, here was Felicity chancing her luck with Emily’s lover. Sighing, she hooked her arm through Sir Peregrine’s. His face relaxed slightly in gratitude, but all she felt was loathing and self-disgust.

Father Abraham watched Hick sweep, rage making the priest’s eyes gleam vindictively as the hapless rat-catcher plied the sexton’s broom over the floor. Before he allowed Hick to leave, the priest made him donate two pennies to the church for his attempted blasphemy.

‘And think yourself lucky, you heretic!’ he hissed as Hick disconsolately passed him the coins. ‘Do you have anything to confess?’

Hick scratched at the flea-bites on his neck. It was one of the inevitable results of his trade, this constant itching. Rats held fleas, and some would always end up on their killer. ‘I don’t know, really,’ he began lamely, and then caught sight of the expression on the priest’s face. Quickly Hick knelt and began telling the history of every falsehood he had told, each covetous dream he had enjoyed and the times he had lain with Felicity when he should have been about his business or at church.