Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Jeanne threw occasional glances at her maid. Petronilla appeared to have forgotten her trial of the day before. Fresh-faced, happy, calm, she looked as if she had never imbibed to excess. In comparison Jeanne felt like a doddery old woman; her head was light, her back ached, and someone appeared to have sanded the interior of her eyelids – all because she had sat up half the night with Edgar to make sure Petronilla didn’t vomit and suffocate.

Although the Fair was not of the same dimensions as the one at Tavistock, where Jeanne had first met Baldwin, Tiverton had a respectable mix of goods for sale and she was soon immersed in the relative merits of the silks and velvets on offer.

Edgar too eyed the various materials. His wife-to-be was becoming demanding, now that he had put off their wedding day for so long, and a good fur trimming or piece of fine linen might soothe her impatient breast. He wasn’t sure, but he was wondering whether she was the right woman for him after all.

He was so used to being a bachelor that the thought of having a woman in his home was daunting – all the more so since he had been granted the opportunity of seeing how a woman could affect a household. Watching Jeanne move through Baldwin’s hall and alter tapestries, throwing out all the older and tattier ones, discarding chairs, replacing all Baldwin’s comfortable white tunics with brightly coloured cloths made Edgar look askance at the idea of a woman in his life. He wasn’t sure he could cope with it.

And there was always the temptation of other women. Edgar had always been attracted, and proved attractive to, women of all kinds. Cristine was a lovely woman – tall, slender, fair, with a caustic wit and an intellect that often made men quail before the lash of her tongue. She made Edgar laugh, and when he was with her, he was happy, but when they were apart, like now, he found himself thinking of other women.

And not only when he was away from Furnshill. He was just as sorely tormented there as well, especially now that Petronilla had come from Throwleigh. She too was tall, slim and fair, and when he looked at her, with her gentle manner and soft speech, he was struck by the difference between her and Cristine. The comparison was not favourable to Cristine.

It was a difficult business and Edgar was swiftly coming to the conclusion that he would be happier if he were to stick to the oath of chastity he had made as a Templar.

Unfortunately, he had sworn his hand to Cristine. He eyed a small selection of furs. Petronilla was roughly the same complexion as Cristine, he reminded himself, and he gauged the colour of the furs against her colouring: red-gold hair and blue eyes – although Cristine’s flesh was paler than Petronilla’s since the tavern-girl spent so many hours indoors.

Catching a glimpse of his expression, Petronilla felt an anxious thrill. Since first meeting Edgar she had felt a warmth in his presence, but after his rescue from the overly-ardent Coroner she had become aware of something stronger – a feeling of security. But she knew it was wrong. Edgar was already betrothed to another woman. Although she was personally quite sure that she would be better for him than some common alehouse wench, she could not escape the fact that she had an illegitimate child.

That fact could make her weep. It made her look as common and foolish as a tavern-girl. Certainly she had always thought it would prevent Edgar from looking at her, but now she was struck with the thought that he might reciprocate her feelings, and she was aware of a nervousness. Edgar was so worldly-wise and dashing, she was sure that she’d be an embarrassment to him.

She moved nearer to Jeanne as if feeling the need for support. Edgar was an enormously good-looking man, but she daren’t encourage him. Unhappily aware that he was watching her, she was also aware of a guilty sympathy for Cristine. Petronilla had lost the father of her baby and felt for any woman who had her man stolen from her; she didn’t want to inflict the same suffering on Cristine.

It was while Petronilla was miserably trying to convince herself that she could live contentedly without Edgar that Jeanne drew their attention to a large bolt of blue velvet. Petronilla and Jeanne fingered it, adding to the grubbiness of the material’s edge, but Petronilla was aware only of Edgar standing so close beside her that she could practically feel the heat of his body. His proximity made her shudder with longing.

Avicia Dyne walked through the Fair with a sense of unreality as she took in the noise, the bustle and the cheerful shouting all about her. It seemed incomprehensible to her that people could be capable of enjoying themselves when such an appalling injustice had occurred. To her the death of her brother was so hideous as to blot out any comprehension of pleasure. She saw people laughing and grinning, but all she recognised was the inane gambolling of apes.

Shivering, she wrapped her arms about herself and let her head fall so as to avoid the gaze of anyone else. In her misery she had no wish to meet the expressions of happiness in other people’s faces. It would be too painful to see how others remained sublimely unaware of her depression.

When she had almost left the Fair, when she was out at the opposite end of the ground, she heard a voice she recognised. Turning quickly, she caught sight of Andrew Carter standing near an ale stall with a large pot in his hand.

Avicia stared at him. He appeared to be trying to put on a brave face, smiling and giving occasional short laughs as jokes were told about him, but all the time she could see that he wasn’t himself. Usually he would be more expansive in his gestures, more emphatic. Today he was jerky, twitching his arms rather than sweeping them about him. His face held a grin, but all the time his eyes darted hither and thither, as if wary that at any moment someone might approach him with unwelcome news, or perhaps an accusation? she wondered.

Acting on impulse, she approached and stood nearby, waiting for him to catch her eye, but he seemed so taken up with the other men about him that he didn’t notice her. At last, nerves wound taut as a ship’s cable, she shuffled forward the last few steps and tugged at his sleeve.

‘What?’ He spun around and gave her a gentle smile. ‘My dear young thing, what is it?’

‘Sir, I would like to speak… about your daughter.’

His face went blank, and she saw for an instant the naked emotion behind his eyes. Fear, sadness, guilt all flashed through them, and then he wiped at his brow with a sleeve. ‘She’s dead,’ he said brokenly.

‘I know, and the wrong man was killed for it. He was innocent.’

Carter pulled back, his lip curling in revulsion. ‘Child, that is all done. I want to hear nothing more about it.’

‘But sir, I am sure that the Coroner was responsible!’

Carter suddenly turned and marched off, moving surprisingly swiftly for a man so heavily built. Avicia made as if to follow him, but a friendly voice at her side said, ‘No!’ and held her elbow. It was a woman.

‘Let me go, I have to talk to him! He has to know my brother didn’t kill his daughter.’

‘Are you Philip’s sister?’

‘Yes.’

‘You poor thing.’

‘Who are you? Did you know Phil?’

Felicity nodded and smiled comfortingly. ‘Look, take a pot of wine with me and tell me what’s so important that you should tell Andrew. I’ll let you know whether he’ll be interested.’

‘You know him?’

Felicity’s smile widened, but somehow there was less humour in it as she glanced after the disappearing merchant. ‘Oh, yes, I know Master Carter.’

When Baldwin and Simon returned to the yard there was no sign of the castle’s gatekeeper, and for safety Simon wanted to walk out to the town. He was unpleasantly convinced that Baldwin was in danger of so enraging Sir Peregrine with his questions that Sir Peregrine could offer him a challenge.