Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

He had been walking back from the castle, on his way to his brother-in-law’s place, and had decided to take a detour, to work up an appetite. Andrew’s hospitality was good, provided you didn’t mind a thick mess of food at each meal, enough to adequately feed a whole family. For Nicholas, whose bachelor existence had made him appreciate smaller but more varied dishes, the massive quantities Andrew saw as essential were almost sufficient to make him feel sick.

Perhaps that was unfair. Now he looked back on it, maybe it was more the impact of his sister which made mealtimes at Andrew Carter’s house so much of a trial. Poor Matilda sat in her chair like a saint undergoing torture. Wan, unspeaking, anxious and fretful, she picked at her food, speaking seldom, rarely listening, sunk in her own gloom-filled nightmare. When she was spoken to, she snapped or merely stared uncomprehendingly. Luckily she had recovered a little since Dyne’s death.

But then it had been a joy to get away from the mourning woman and her nervous husband. Andrew Carter had sat gnawing at his nails while he observed his wife gradually sinking deeper into her hysterical depression as they approached the hour when Philip Dyne would be released on his oath of abjuration. Nicholas had thought that his black mood would be replaced by elation when they had taken Dyne’s head off, but it had only seemed as if the full horror of their action had somehow killed off a part of his emotions.

The beheading was a memory Nicholas wanted to erase but he couldn’t. Like a picture painted upon glass, it was always in his mind: the flash of the sword swooping down and the first fine spray of blood from the man’s neck; a moment later the huge gouts spurting as the head rolled away, the eyelids snapping wide, then fluttering, the mouth opening and shutting as if Dyne was cursing the two men. But without a voice.

Nicholas shuddered at the memory. It was wrong for him to have got involved. Joan was his niece, true, but she would have been as effectively avenged by hiring men to commit the deed, and then there would be none of this lingering horror.

He forced his mind to the other night, the one before Dyne’s death. It was in the tavern. Boisterous noise: roaring and bellowing as ebullient traders drank to each other’s health, knocking pots or jugs together as they toasted their success at the coming Fair; musicians with harp and bagpipe in one corner competing with a crowder scraping his bow frantically in another; two dogs fighting, egged on by a small group of bystanders.

The room was small, the atmosphere smoky from the fire. It had been like wandering inside a small oven, but welcome for all that, being gloriously free of Andrew and his consumptive wife.

Walking in with a sense of relief, Nicholas ordered himself a large pot of wine and, as he waited, noticed a face that looked oddly familiar. Sir Gilbert had been sitting near the corner, out of the way, and Nicholas, with that sixth sense which he had honed so well since he had first moved to Devonshire, had realised someone was fixing their attention upon him. Instantly he felt the old terror welling up, filling his soul, reaching out and clinging to his every organ and limb, making any movement feel clumsy and conspicuous, like a guilty man waiting to be arrested.

He had thought himself safe here in Tiverton. It was almost ten years since he had fled here, him, his sister and her young daughter. And now someone who knew him, someone from his past, had found him. He had to force himself to drink his wine casually, and then turned, determined to put a bold face upon whatever might come to pass.

And found himself looking into the face of Sir Gilbert of Carlisle. A brother Templar.

Sherman’s shop was not far from the church and Baldwin happily snuffed the air outside. ‘I always adored that odour.’

‘Then you may buy me spices for the house,’ Jeanne said.

‘Oh, I did not bring money with me. All I have is a few pennies,’ Baldwin protested.

‘I am sure the good spicer will take your word and offer you credit, Husband.’

Baldwin submitted with a wry grin and held the door open for her. They walked into a small hall, with pots racked upon the shelves that lined the walls. Beneath were sacks filled with aromatic spices and herbs. The air smelled sweet and musty, and Jeanne sneezed twice as she entered.

A youth was serving, a thin and pale lad of not more than twelve or thirteen years. While Jeanne spoke to him, Baldwin walked to the door at the back; as he peered up at some of the pots above it, the door opened and John Sherman came out.

For a merchant, his visage held little of the gracious welcome that Baldwin would have expected. Instead the man looked nervous, smiling weakly. ‘Keeper. What can I do for you?’

‘Not me, Sherman. It is my wife.’

Sherman appeared relieved. ‘Your lady? Ah, I see.’

Baldwin wondered at his change in demeanour. A devil made him ask, ‘I hear you were away in South Molton the day Sir Gilbert died. What were you doing there?’

‘Meeting a business partner,’ Sherman said pompously.

‘And who would that have been?’

‘Why do you need to know?’

‘A man was murdered.’

‘That was nothing to do with me. It wasn’t even the same road. And the matter is closed: the inquest found Dyne killed the knight.’

‘Not everyone believes that,’ Jeanne said distinctly.

‘Which is why,’ Baldwin continued, ‘I might have to make sure you were where you say.’

Sherman threw a harassed look at his apprentice. ‘You’d better come out here, Sir Baldwin,’ he said and stood aside. Jeanne went off to investigate more spices, while her husband followed their host through the door at the back.

Behind was a small chamber, largely filled with sacks and barrels, and Sherman sat on an upturned butt, waving the knight to another. ‘Look, I wasn’t really in South Molton,’ he said without preamble, ‘but I don’t want people hearing where I was. My wife… Cecily has been making a fool of me for some time. I can’t trust her. I told her I was going to South Molton, but really I was going to follow her. Except she went out earlier than I expected and I missed her.’

‘Did you ask her where she had gone?’

‘How could I? That would mean admitting that I’d been spying on her!’

‘You could have told her that someone had called here, and found her from home.’

‘I didn’t think,’ he admitted gloomily. ‘I just went after the man instead. Harlewin le bloody Poter! Fat sod! Only he’d already gone too, so all I could do was ride out in the direction I thought they’d have taken.’

Harlewin! Just as Avicia Dyne had alleged, Baldwin thought.

Sherman continued, ‘He’s in the pocket of Earl Thomas, you know. A year ago he let one of the Earl’s servants escape justice, saying there wasn’t enough evidence against the fellow. There were three witnesses, for God’s sake!’

‘You think Earl Thomas had reason to want Sir Gilbert dead?’

‘Sir Gilbert was Despenser’s man – it’s common knowledge. The last thing Earl Thomas wants is messengers from Despenser persuading barons to follow him . That could make the Earl’s position very difficult.’

‘Surely others support Earl Thomas in town?’

‘Carter and Lovecok, if I’ve heard right,’ Sherman agreed grudgingly.

Baldwin considered a moment. The spicer was too keen to accuse – his judgement was fouled with hatred because of Harlewin’s alleged affair with his wife. ‘That night, you followed Harlewin where?’ he said.

‘South then west. He’s got a share in a mill over that way.’

‘And did you see either him or the knight?’

‘No.’ His response was too quick, too sharp, and Baldwin merely stared at him.