Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

That, Baldwin knew, was the nub: how could she have known Sir Gilbert? He would have left the Order in 1307 or 1308, and had not been here for years, if what William Small had said was correct. In those far-off days Cecily would not have been seven years old.

The spicer’s wife glanced over Baldwin’s shoulder to where the family stood near the other grave. She continued, ‘It’s so sad to look at poor Emily. And to think that her man has lost her.’

‘Her husband?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Oh, he left her ages ago. Even when he was with her, the useless devil didn’t bring in enough money to support the family. What little he earned he preferred to spend on ale and women in the taverns.’

‘But all those children… weren’t they his?’

‘ Emily had many,’ she corrected. ‘I understand the baby that killed her was Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple’s.’

‘Oh, the poor man,’ Jeanne breathed.

Baldwin considered how Sir Peregrine had been the previous night: distracted, fractious, unhappy. ‘I would like to speak to your husband,’ he told Cecily, and she beamed at him flirtatiously. ‘He is in the shop. Would you like directions?’

The Coroner slammed his front door behind him and strode away up the road, roaring at anyone who blocked his path.

It was so unreasonable of his damned wife! He had only gone to visit Felicity before the inquest on that blasted woman Emily and her child, the pair that died in the child’s birth, last afternoon to enquire about the dead woman – it was his job , for God’s sake! But no, his blasted wife Jenny had to assume the worst, didn’t she? Always thought he was out for a quickie, trying to poke his dagger in another woman’s sheath. The fact that she was right didn’t ease his mood.

And Felicity hadn’t been accommodating either, which didn’t make things any better. She was usually so gentle and understanding, but yesterday she’d seemed in a hurry to get away; hadn’t wanted to service him or answer his questions. ‘I’ve got to go before the market opens tomorrow, you know the rules,’ she’d told him. ‘I’m not allowed in town while the market’s on.’

It was a fair point, but her reasons were perfectly clear. She was upset at the death of her friend, the one dead from childbirth. No one liked to lose a pal and drinking partner. Harlewin could understand that.

He walked along the main thoroughfare, past the church and up the road towards the castle. Here the wind was in his face, and the stench of excrement from the pots emptied into the street’s single sewer was strong enough to make him wrinkle his nose. A hog rooted in the filth, chewing at a piece of flesh, and Harlewin watched it queasily. It was enough to put a man off his bacon. A bitch with engorged teats began barking at it, snapping at the hog’s hindquarters until it moved off, still munching, and only then did Harlewin see it was chewing on a puppy.

Glancing up he realised where he was. This was the spicers’ area; his feet must have guided him here unconsciously to see his woman. Looking up at the window he couldn’t help but smile a little. He knew the room where she slept with her husband was at the back of the shop, in their solar, but he gazed through the opened shopfront hopefully. Seeing John Sherman with his new apprentice at the rear of the shop, Harlewin hurried off.

It was a relief to be away from Cecily’s knowing gaze. That young woman was a little too sharp for her own, and other people’s, good. Before Baldwin went to seek her husband, he stood fingering two bright penny coins at the gravedigger’s side. ‘Friend, I know the good Father Abraham takes coins for looking after the Masses for the dead, but I feel it is only right that a man who performs the physical duties for the dead body should also be rewarded.’

Hick studied the two coins, then his gaze rose and met Baldwin’s, giving a short grunt of wary agreement. Taking the pennies, he dropped them carefully into his small purse.

Baldwin smiled. ‘This knight. You had seen him alive?’

‘Aye. He was here. I saw him.’

‘This would be when?’

‘Four nights ago. I was down at the alehouse near the castle and saw him with Master Nicholas Lovecok. They were coming out of the tavern further up the hill.’

That would be the night before his murder, Baldwin noted. ‘What time?’

Hick scowled with concentration. ‘It was just before Father Abraham was called to Father Benedict, so it was a little after Compline.’

‘Father Benedict?’

‘He was the priest at the chapel in Templeton. He was dying. Father Abraham spent most of the day with him, then came home for Vespers, but not long after a boy came to say that the Father was sinking fast and Father Abraham went back to ease his passing.’

Baldwin said, ‘And you saw Sir Gilbert leaving the tavern with Lovecok?’

‘Yes. And a moment later one of Sir Peregrine’s men came out and followed them.’

‘Why should that be, I wonder. Do you know who that man was?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Would you recognise him again?’

Hick screwed up his face. ‘It was dark, sir. I saw the badges on his tunic, but not his face.’

Jeanne smiled engagingly at Hick. ‘I suppose Nicholas Lovecok and the knight were very friendly?’

‘Yes, my Lady.’

‘Were they very drunk, do you think?’

‘They could walk,’ Hick said surprised. ‘They just looked like old friends.’

‘More,’ Baldwin murmured looking down into the grave, ‘than you could say for the priest. He seems to hate the man.’

‘Yes,’ Hick agreed. ‘You should have seen him yesterday, when he was talking about him and the Templars like him. Said the Templars cost us the Kingdom of Jerusalem, that they had taken up devil-worship or somesuch…’

While Baldwin listened appalled, the rat-catcher rattled on happily about the priest’s fearsome denunciation of the Templars.

‘So that’s why he hated Sir Gilbert,’ Baldwin said when Hick was done.

‘I expect so, Sir Baldwin,’ Hick said, hopefully fingering his purse in case more coins might be forthcoming.

‘But how,’ Baldwin wondered, staring back at the castle, ‘would a knight like Sir Gilbert have known a merchant like Lovecok? And how did Father Abraham know Sir Gilbert was a Templar?’

‘Ah, you’ll need to ask him that.’

‘Yes, I shall, shan’t I?’ Baldwin said. He smiled at his wife. ‘Shall we go and call on the good Father, my dear?’

They found the priest in his chamber, a small room with a pleasant fire crackling in the middle of the floor. Father Abraham was putting his book and vestments into a chest at the side of his table. Seeing who his guests were, he looked surprised, but was polite if not effusive in his welcome. ‘Please come in. Can I serve you with anything, Lady Jeanne?’

‘A little wine?’

‘Of course.’ He walked to a small barrel stamped with the mark of Lord Hugh and turned a small wooden tap, filling a bowl. ‘Sir Baldwin?’

Baldwin was staring thoughtfully at the chest, which remained open. Propping the lid up was a long-bladed knife in a sheath.

Seeing the direction of his eyes, the priest smiled. ‘A man must protect himself when the country becomes so dangerous. Even I, a priest, must carry a weapon to defend myself.’

‘You should be careful, Father. Many a man unused to a dagger has come to grief against a man well trained.’

Father Abraham gave a short laugh. ‘I pity the felon who attacks me ! I was brought up in a knight’s household and was trained to arms. I would be able to shock any outlaw, I assure you. Now, would you care for some wine?’

‘No, thank you. I would prefer some mental nourishment.’