Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Father Abraham glanced at Jeanne, wondering whether she should be present, and asked, ‘Would you like to come to the church, then?’

‘No, Father. I wanted to ask how you discovered that Sir Gilbert was a Templar.’

Father Abraham froze. ‘You heard my words?’

‘It would have been difficult to miss them,’ Jeanne said.

He looked at her coldly. ‘Then I can hardly deny it, can I? I learned he was a Templar when I was visiting an ill colleague: Father Benedict of Templeton. He was dying, and I went to give him what comfort I could.’

‘He has died?’

‘I fear so. He died on the same night as the heretic and the felon. I was with him and could listen to his confession.’

‘I see. And he told you that Sir Gilbert was a Templar?’

‘While I was with Benedict the Templar went to the chapel. I believe he used to be one of the devil-worshippers who once lived there until our Holy Father the Pope showed us how evil they were. Then he scurried away like all the other cowards.’

Baldwin restrained himself with an effort. The priest was scathing about his comrades, about his Order. It was hard to swallow his pride and continue, but continue Baldwin must – and without letting the priest realise that he himself had once been a Templar. ‘Did you speak to Sir Gilbert?’

‘My God, no ! Speak to a foul heretic?’ His face showed his disbelief and disgust at the suggestion. ‘I should rather cut out my tongue! I was there with the good Father Benedict as a kindness. Although he was once a priest in that foul Order, he recanted and remained to help the poor of his little manor; this proud Templar Knight never recanted. His presence there proved it! Do you know what he did? Eh? He walked into the chapel. He must have gone there to pray! He cannot have adopted the true faith if he still believed in the holiness of his foul Order. I was with Father Benedict for a long while, and Sir Gilbert remained in the chapel all that time.’

‘When did you leave?’

‘I don’t know. It was late afternoon, I suppose. The sun was low in the sky.’

‘Did you leave when the good Father died?’ Jeanne asked.

‘No, Lady. He was still alive. He died much later, at night. I was called to him by a boy from his parish.’

‘You went back after dark?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘Why… yes. Why?’

‘And which road did you take to go there?’

‘There is a track that leads almost straight there.’

‘And which also leads along behind the road to Crediton, does it not?’ Baldwin said. He smiled, but his face had no humour. ‘Along the woods in which Sir Gilbert, the man you hated so much, was murdered. By someone skilled with weapons.’

He was almost at the castle gate when Harlewin saw her, and his ruddy face beamed at the sight.

True enough, Cecily Sherman was not the most beautiful woman in Tiverton, but to Harlewin she was a breath of invigorating air. Cecily was short and dark, with the flashing eyes of a Celt. Her belly was full and round, her breasts large and appealing, her face a pleasing spherical shape: perfect and warm to cuddle up to on a chill evening, he reflected – unlike Felicity who was little better than a sack of bones. Cecily Sherman’s complexion was fine and smooth, unmarked by the pox, and of a beautiful creamy-pink colour. She looked as ripe and wholesome as a peach just plucked from the tree, and tasted as delicious.

There was no shame in her, either. When she saw him, her eyes widened invitingly, her smile broadened. Her maid was with her, but neither Cecily nor Harlewin feared that rumours of their meetings would be spread abroad. Harlewin, when all was said and done, was the Coroner. He could invent almost any offence and have a maid installed in her own private gaol if she were foolish enough to give him reason.

‘My Lord Coroner,’ Cecily curtsied. ‘It seems such a long time since I last saw you.’

‘You think so? I swear to me it seems only yesterday, my Lady.’

‘And yet for me the passing of even a minute without you seems like an hour,’ she sighed.

‘Rubbish, woman,’ he growled as they passed into a shadow, and he grabbed her to him and placed a smacking kiss on her lips.

Chuckling throatily she pulled away and ducked beneath his second attempt to grapple her. ‘Sir! Not in the street like a whore and her client, thank you.’

‘Then let’s go off to the mill.’

‘Do you think me a fool?’ she asked, and this time there was a trace of asperity in her tone. ‘With all the people come to the town for the Fair?’

‘Er, no. Perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed. He hadn’t considered how many eyes could witness him riding off with her, but now she mentioned it, it would be foolish to risk so much. John Sherman already suspected their affair – he’d shown his suspicions in the hall when he’d almost accused Harlewin of corruption or whatever the damn-fool spicer was on about. Not that Sherman was a man to fear a great deal. If he wished to force Harlewin into a duel, so be it. Harlewin was reasonably sure he could win any bout with the fellow.

Cecily continued, ‘Has that knight from Furnshill spoken to you yet? He’s just been asking me all about that night.’

‘Sir Baldwin has?’ he asked. That put a new complexion on things. ‘Why?’

‘He doesn’t seem to think that Sir Gilbert was killed by the felon. You should be careful. I don’t want John to find out about us because of a meddling Keeper. Can’t you silence him?’

He grinned and shrugged. ‘We have nothing to fear. Perhaps if we were to go to the mill later we could talk about it?’

Cecily Sherman waved her maid away with a small frown. ‘Later?’

They had reached the entrance to an alley. He shot a look up and down the street, then darted in, pulling her giggling after him. Kissing her, he lifted her skirts while she responded with enthusiasm, thrusting her hips forward to him, returning the ardour of his embrace with a quick wantonness that excited him beyond caution, and as suddenly she pulled away and patted his face with one hand while she let the other rest on his groin. ‘Not here.’

‘The mill this evening,’ he panted. ‘You must come.’

‘How can I? My husband is no fool: he will suspect. Anyway, I have to be early to bed… no, Harlewin, not with you! John is entertaining merchants at our hall tomorrow morning.’

‘He’ll be at the castle with the other guests. You remain at home pleading a bad head, then ride for the cottage when he’s gone.’

‘A bad head? Good God, Coroner, you aren’t very inventive, are you? It’d need to be better than that.’

‘Well, you think up something. I’ll leave the hall early and see you there.’

‘You? But you’ll have to be at the feast, too, won’t you?’

He gave a low, animal snarl. ‘You think I can sit and eat when I can picture you lying on my bed? Ach, woman, stop your teasing!’ he said and pulled her hand from his groin. ‘You can do that later – when we’re alone.’

Nicholas Lovecok ensured that the wines and ales he had delivered to the castle were stored correctly for the feast. In the storerooms and buttery he checked barrels to see that the drink would flow, tasting wine and smacking his lips as he sought to assure himself that he had not failed Lord Hugh. De Courtenay could be a painful client if the level of service he received fell short of his expectations.

Finished and generally satisfied, Nicholas sat on a barrel and filled a jug with wine. So much had happened in the last few days that he had a lot to muse over, and little of it was of a pleasant nature.

Meeting Sir Gilbert had been traumatic. It had been so long, fifteen years almost since they had last met, that Nicholas had practically forgotten the man. Seeing him again so unexpectedly had been like getting a sword-thrust in the guts.