Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Baldwin was quiet a moment. ‘Most likely Despenser. The Lords of the Marches have taken their armies to London and have all the help they need; Earl Thomas is not with them and has little need of your assistance, nor would he fear your enmity. But Despenser, he would want any help, any support he could win. He knows he is to be thrown from the kingdom.’

‘He has been,’ Lord Hugh said smilingly. ‘But, tell me. Which of all these great men would you advise me to support?’

Before Baldwin could answer this difficult question, he was interrupted.

‘My Lord, I am glad you have managed to speak to Sir Baldwin. It was a shame that he was not present during the meal, but I am sure he will be able to eat with you soon,’ Sir Peregrine said, striding in.

Baldwin saw a fleeting annoyance pass over Lord Hugh’s face, but for his own part he felt only relief.

Sir Peregrine watched Sir Baldwin narrowly. He could kick himself for spending so long with Felicity, but at least he felt some kind of release. She had soothed him, cradling him in her arms for a while, stroking his back and murmuring gently as he wept. Afterwards the guilt of not having been with Emily when she died returned, but he had enjoyed a moment of peace with the whore.

As soon as he had got back to the castle Toker told him that Lord de Courtenay was in the hall. It was the last thing he needed, his lord talking to an ally of Bishop Stapledon and being swayed into believing that the banishment of the Despensers was illegal, which was why he had marched straight in, giving Baldwin a suspicious look, wondering what the knight had discussed with Lord Hugh; he only prayed that Baldwin hadn’t persuaded Lord Hugh to side with the King as Bishop Stapledon no doubt wanted.

‘How are you, my Lord?’ he asked. With relief he saw that one of the guards with Lord Hugh was Owen, one of his own men. He would be able to find out what had been said.

Sitting, he glanced at Baldwin again. He was convinced the knight was an emissary from the Bishop of Exeter, Walter Stapledon, and Stapledon wanted the King to be allowed to invite the Despensers back; however he saw no shiftiness in Baldwin’s eye.

‘We were talking about the dead knight,’ Lord Hugh said.

Sir Peregrine forced a smile to his face. ‘Really?’

‘It does seem odd to me, you know, Peregrine,’ Lord Hugh continued. He leaned back contemplatively and stared up at the window with a slight frown. ‘This man was a Templar knight, someone trained with all forms of weaponry. He was out with a massive dog, I understand, and yet one single cut-throat managed to steal his knife and kill both him and his dog. Doesn’t that strike you as curious? I would have thought it was more the work of another trained fighter.’

‘I doubt another knight would have attacked him,’ Sir Peregrine said, but Baldwin saw how his face looked quite grey.

‘Very curious,’ Lord Hugh murmured. ‘A warrior like him allowing his knife to be stolen.’

‘It must have been the felon,’ Sir Peregrine asserted.

‘Stabbed in the dark,’ Baldwin mused, frowning.

‘What of it?’ Sir Peregrine demanded. ‘It’s how an outlaw would strike, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps. But if another man struck him down, perhaps the felon merely arranged the corpse neatly and took his purse. Since the knight wouldn’t need the money again, an honourable man could do that.’

‘Oh, really!’ Sir Peregrine sneered.

‘It could be one explanation. It is easier to believe that another trained man-at-arms of whatever rank killed him rather than a weakly abjurer.’

‘I hope you don’t mean to suggest…’

Baldwin smiled. ‘What could I mean, Sir Peregrine?’

The bannaret stood coldly, plainly angry. His eyes held Baldwin’s with a glittering intensity.

Simon wanted to interrupt them but daren’t. If he was not careful, he could insult one or the other and precipitate a duel.

It was Lord Hugh who relaxed the tension. ‘Come, Sir Peregrine, there’s no need for weapons to be drawn. Sir Baldwin meant you no insult.’

‘Certainly not, Sir Peregrine,’ Baldwin said guilelessly. ‘I was thinking aloud, no more.’

‘I apologise, then. I am becoming peppery. It must be this sad death. Sir Baldwin, Master Bailiff, would you walk with me in the yard while we await our evening meal?’

‘Naturally,’ Baldwin said, allowing the tension to leave him. The three took their leave of the lord and walked down the stairs to the yard. Baldwin had to flex his fingers to ease the clenching where he had bunched his fists, but more than Sir Peregrine’s sudden temper, Baldwin was fascinated by the reason behind his apparent loss of control.

William Small the sailor sat drinking ale. His guard had been removed when the Coroner decided he had no case to answer and now he sat alone, back against the ladder which led up to the walkway along the walls. Behind him was the doorway to the storeroom from which he had fetched his drink.

The sky was light, the clouds tinged with a vivid salmon pink as the sun followed its course down to the horizon, far out of sight from here, hidden as it was by the curtain wall of the castle. With its passing the yard was thrown into shade and the night chill was overtaking the place although the cobbles and stonework still gave off a little warmth.

It was ending a good day after all. He had feared that he might be attached to appear at the next court, having to pay more money in fines, but somehow he had escaped. It looked as though he was free. Everyone assumed that poor Sir Gilbert had been killed by the felon, and that suited William; it meant he need not be held for long here.

His belongings were all in the tack-room at the side of the stables, and as he sat near the hall, he noticed a man loitering nearby, in the doorway. For some reason William found himself studying him. It was a man-at-arms, a smartly turned-out fellow, who leaned as if casually against the door-jamb, but William was convinced that there was a watchful set to his shoulders. William had been a soldier, he could recognise the attitude of another who was on the scrounge.

William settled back with a smirk, certain that someone was inside the room rummaging through his things and those of the good, dead, Sir Gilbert. They were welcome, he thought. They’d find nothing in all his stuff. William had already been through the lot, looking for the money. It wasn’t there.

It must have been that day when the knight left him and went on alone, returning late reeking of wine. He had taken the bags with him, because William had searched through the camp after he’d gone and there was nothing there. But Sir Gilbert didn’t bring it back with him: it was all gone when the knight was found dead.

What the hell! Some you win, some you lose. William rested his head against the ladder. The beer felt good in his belly, he was fed and he was as contented as a man could be. Although he loved the sea in all her moods, he was happy to be living safely on land for a while.

There were footsteps nearby, but he ignored them, closing his eyes. He didn’t want to chat; he wanted a good sleep and an early start. Hardly had he begun to doze, however, when he heard a low, rumbling growl. The man outside the tack-room had also heard the noise and was standing fearfully, staring at Aylmer. Seeing such a large man worried by the dog made William grin to himself.

Then the humour was wiped from his face as he recognised the man: the scene from the street outside the tavern in London came back to him and he was suddenly struck with a quick fear. That man had been pinned to the wall by Aylmer before.

He was about to call out when a blade rested on his throat, a blade that felt as sharp as a razor, as cold as only polished steel could be, and a voice hissed in his ear. ‘If you call that sodding hound, you’ll die.’