Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Baldwin was hardly listening. He was staring down again at the figure of Sir Gilbert.

Seeing the direction of his attention, the rat-catcher motioned towards the body. ‘You knew him?’

‘Not really,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I helped to find his body and investigate his death. He was a stranger to the town, and I knew he wouldn’t be allowed a grave in the yard.’

‘No, course not. Can’t have strangers buried in a Christian yard. Poor old sod! And he seemed so cheerful.’

‘Yes, poor devil,’ Baldwin agreed absently and then started. ‘What do you mean, “he seemed cheerful”?’

But Hick had no time to answer; Father Abraham was with them. Baldwin swallowed his urgency and concentrated while the priest ran through what sounded like a very terse version of the funeral rite. Finishing, Father Abraham stood looking down a moment, before suddenly hissing: ‘Lie there in great opprobrium, excommunicate! Your heresy at least is finished.’

And before the astonished Baldwin could angrily demand what he meant, the priest had swept around and was marching back to his church.

After attending a short Mass in the castle’s chapel, Simon went to the buttery and broke his fast with a hunk of bread washed down by a quart of thin ale. Feeling replete, he walked from the hall and stood in the doorway to the yard, idly scratching at an insect bite on his groin while he studied the servants and guests milling about in the yard.

It was a busy place, this castle. Much more so than Lydford, which was little more than a simple gaol now, with its courtroom above. Women hurried past carrying pails of milk; men rolled barrels ready to be stacked in the buttery; a girl walked slowly and carefully from the kitchen, not yet ten years old from the look of her, frowning with concentration, her tongue protruding pinkly as she took an over-full pitcher of cream to the hall; a pair of grooms recently returned from exercising a pair of Lord de Courtenay’s mounts rubbed them down with handfuls of straw; dogs snapped and barked, a pig wandered slowly rummaging through the detritus, and a cock crowed time after time while one of his hens called enthusiastically the loud cry that Simon’s father had once told him meant, ‘An egg , an egg , an egg !’

Simon rubbed at his back. He was one of a few men who had come alone, without a wife to keep him company and, since bedrooms were at a premium even in a castle the size of this he had been forced to find a bench to sleep on in the hall near the fire. Men with wives were allocated rooms with other couples so that the women should be spared the draughty hall and the indignity of enduring the lascivious gazes of other men at night. Simon had spent an uncomfortable night while drunken guests snored, servants giggled, men and maidservants coupled in the dark and dogs scratched flea bites. Gradually, to add injury to insult, Simon came to realise that he too had caught fleas.

But the sun, already high in the sky, was welcome and after his ale he felt a little more comfortable and less snappish. He fetched a new pint of strong ale, and took it outside to a low wall near the stables where he could sit and nod in the clear sunshine.

‘So, Bailiff. Did you sleep well?’

‘Sir Peregrine, a good morning to you. Yes, I slept well, I thank you,’ Simon lied cheerfully. ‘I trust you did too?’

‘I did not,’ said Sir Peregrine bitterly. ‘There were two couples in my room: one man snored so loudly I thought the foundations of the castle were endangered, while the other two held a whispered argument until almost dawn. I understood from it that the husband had been paying too much attention to one of the serving girls and too little to his wife. From listening to her,’ he added grimly, ‘I would have done the same.’ Then he sighed. ‘I feel I should apologise for my mood last night,’ he said stiffly.

Simon smiled and proffered his pot of ale. Sir Peregrine lifted it in grateful salute and sipped. His depression had not left him. He would have liked to have witnessed Emily’s burial, but he was his Lord’s man and he must do his work.

‘A good brew. Lord Hugh does himself well here,’ Simon said.

‘It’s a well-run castle. With sensible advice the Lord Hugh should be able to keep it.’

Simon knew that Sir Peregrine was leading towards the previous night’s discussion and swore to himself. He was about to deflect the bannaret’s attention to another subject when they heard shouting.

‘God’s blood! What is it this time?’ Sir Peregrine roared.

A man appeared in the gateway and, seeing Sir Peregrine, ran to him. Stopping before the bannaret, he had to pause to get his breath back.

‘Sir Peregrine, can you come? A body has been found – a body in the river.’

‘Here to see the man buried, Keeper?’ Cecily Sherman asked, and she was rewarded by seeing Sir Baldwin start with surprise.

Exchanging greetings with him and his wife, Cecily thought that Sir Baldwin looked rather handsome in the morning’s thin light, with the sun filtering through the thick columns of smoke which rose upwards in the still air from the cooking fires of the town. The sun treated him kindly, smoothing out some of the interesting, deep lines at his forehead and reducing the impact of the scar that reached from one temple almost to his jaw.

‘You are here early, Lady,’ he answered.

‘I wanted to see the woman and her child buried. One always feels sympathy for a woman who dies in childbirth.’

‘You have no children of your own?’ Jeanne asked.

‘No, my Lady, but I pray and hope.’

Baldwin indicated the hole nearby into which Hick was studiously shovelling soil. ‘That knight Sir Gilbert – did you see him alive?’

‘Me, Sir Baldwin? Heavens, no! How would I?’

‘He was camped down at the river, I understand, but he was riding about the country the previous day. His man even said that he had come here to Tiverton,’ said Baldwin, casting a glance at Hick.

‘Oh, I fear I rarely leave the town. My husband might have seen him, though. He was visiting South Molton the night that this good fellow was killed.’

‘You didn’t see him in Tiverton?’

‘Do I look the sort of lady who would wander the streets whenever her husband is abroad?’

‘Oh, no. No, of course not. I didn’t intend to imply…’

She waved aside his protestations. ‘No matter, sir. No insult was taken, I assure you.’

Something in her tone made Baldwin shoot a look at her. Cecily looked demure, but when he caught her eye she gave him a fleeting, saucy wink. Instantly he reddened, and saw that she was amused by his reaction. It made him angry: a woman hardly half his age, and a momentary flicker of the eye could make him colour like Wat with Petronilla! His temper made his voice harsh. ‘Is there anyone who can confirm you were at home?’

‘My servants, of course.’ She indicated a woman standing a few yards behind.

‘Anyone else?’

‘Sir Baldwin, do you suspect me of riding out to an assignation with this knight?’ she asked archly. She determined that she would not confess to her affair in front of this fellow. ‘In any case, I understand the man’s dog died too. Do you think I would be capable of wrestling a hound to the floor?’

‘The dog…’ Baldwin frowned.

‘And I thought the Coroner had closed the matter – saying that the felon killed the knight, then was himself executed.’

‘Well, I believe that someone murdered Sir Gilbert of Carlisle – and, if he was distracted, a woman could have stabbed him as easily as a man.’

His words made her protest with apparent honesty. ‘Sir Baldwin, what possible reason could I have for killing someone I had never met?’