Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Baldwin was deep in thought but shook his head, instead wandering to a bench and sitting. ‘There is something very peculiar about all this.’ He counted off the points on his finger. ‘The knight, Sir Gilbert, died with his hound – I think the dog died because he chased someone who had watched the camp all day; the same evening or night Philip Dyne was executed by Carter and his brother-in-law Lovecok; the night before, Gilbert was here in town, apparently drinking with Lovecok. We don’t know where he was before that.’

‘And now there’s this third murder with Sir Gilbert’s man thrown from the walls.’

‘Beaten severely first. And his was the fourth murder, not the third. You forget the girl Dyne was accused of killing.’

‘The girl whom Dyne’s sister insisted was murdered by someone else.’

‘Yes, she said that Joan Carter was murdered by the Coroner,’ Baldwin corrected. He glanced across the yard before walking to the room where Sir Gilbert’s belongings were stored. Aylmer was still inside, lying with his head resting on his paws, his eyes flying open as they walked in.

‘It’s all right, Aylmer,’ Baldwin said. At Aylmer’s side was a dish of biscuits and dried meat. The dog hadn’t touched it. Remembering how he had first met the animal, Baldwin commanded, ‘Aylmer, feed.’

The dog stood, stretched, and sank his nose into the pan.

While he ate Simon and Baldwin rummaged through the accumulated belongings of Sir Gilbert and William. There was nothing much of value, for obviously men who went on a long journey wouldn’t carry spare baggage, and with the country in its present state of turmoil there was no point in bringing expensive goods. They found little: three shirts of decent linen, tunics, some mail of fine blued steel, lightly rusted, Sir Gilbert’s sword and dagger-sheath, with the belt and spurs of his knighthood, and shoes and boots, all well worn. There were a few coins in a purse, but nothing significant. Then at the bottom of his pack they found the crucifix and key that had been about Sir Gilbert’s neck.

‘Bugger all money,’ Simon said suddenly.

His tone of voice made Baldwin shoot him a look. ‘So?’

‘Did the Templar have no idea of travel?’

‘Sir Gilbert would have had experience of much longer journeys.’

‘Was he expecting to remain here?’ Simon asked.

‘Not if he was a messenger as everyone appears to believe.’

‘Then how was he going to get back to his master?’ Simon demanded, holding out the handful of coins. ‘With this he’d not have had enough to get to Exeter.’

‘No,’ Baldwin breathed. He picked up the little key again and studied it.

‘What is it?’

‘This looks rather like some of the keys I used to see…’ Even though his friend knew about his past, Baldwin found it hard to talk of his life with the Order. Yet this key was very like those he had seen in some preceptories for opening chests. English-made metalwork tended to be functional, but this looked well-made, with intricate patterns carved upon the shaft and finger plate. Turning it in his hands, he felt sure it was Templar.

There was an old Templar preceptory nearby – one which Sir Gilbert had known, Baldwin recalled, and meditatively tapped his teeth with the key.

‘William was the only man who could confirm the details about what happened to Sir Gilbert,’ Simon said quietly. He had moved to the door and stood leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. ‘If Carter and Lovecok had lied in any way, William might have tried to get a bribe to keep quiet. Perhaps they didn’t like his demands.’

‘There’s no proof of any of that,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I certainly find it easier to believe in the two men ambushing Sir Gilbert, one holding him while the other stabbed him in the back. And since the gravedigger says that Lovecok knew Sir Gilbert, it may be useful to find out how they knew each other.’

He threw the key back onto the pile of William’s belongings. ‘Let us question Lovecok then. I want to find out what he was doing speaking to Sir Gilbert the day before his murder. I want to know if he had a motive to kill the knight. Although…’ he frowned with confusion ‘…although it sounded more as though the two were old friends and comrades. And why should a man kill his friend?’

Andrew Carter hurried through the crowds until he reached the far edge of the fairground; for a moment he stood breathing heavily, staring back the way he had come.

Thank God the whining bitch was out of sight! He was safe from her. With an effort he controlled his breathing and tried to stop his heart from racing. Her appearance had given him a massive shock when she said who she was, and as for what she was saying… about Philip being innocent, the last thing Andrew Carter wanted was for the townspeople to hear that Philip Dyne had been wrongly killed!

He strode off to the toll-booth and went past it, marching steadily and firmly until he got to the door of his own house, and there he slammed the door closed with a firmness that rattled the plates on his sideboard.

‘Sir?’ His maid Rose, a thin, short girl of some fourteen years, stood nervously in the screens passage wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Fetch me a quart of wine,’ he demanded and tramped through to his hall. There he dropped into his chair near the fire and drummed his fingers on the arm until the maidservant returned, her face flushed with anxiety at the appearance of her master.

‘Here, sir.’

‘Put it down, then!’ he snarled, pointing at the table at his side.

She did as commanded, then stood back downcast, not daring to meet his gaze.

Eyeing her, he sipped his wine. It was good, a fine flavoured drink. Gradually he felt his foul temper fade under its influence. By the time he had drunk the first pint, life appeared in a more pleasant light. True, that woman, Dyne’s sister, could make life troublesome, but that was no reason why he should be concerned. He had good friends. If the worst came to the worst, he could humour her for a while and warn Harlewin that she had accused him of Joan’s murder.

There was no need to worry, really, Andrew thought to himself. Rose was still standing before him, her head hanging. She really was a pretty little thing, he thought with satisfaction; in every way suited to his tastes. He smiled and set his cup down on the table again. ‘Come here,’ he said, and Rose looked up once, wildly, as though thinking of running away, but then she dropped her head submissively and obeyed.

Entering the tavern, Avicia blinked against the smoke. The place was ancient and had no chimney, just a baked patch of earth in the middle of the floor where a few logs glowed, surrounded by small rocks to stop the rushes being kicked in and starting a fire.

This wasn’t a place she’d been to before, and as soon as she walked in from the road she winced: it stank of sweat, piss and puke. At the fire a slatternly woman crouched, rat’s tails of hair dangling before her and concealing her face, stirring a pot that seemed to contain a thin broth. All about her men lounged on benches, some women draped near them, and another figure lay comatose near a wall. It was dark, foul, and noisome.

‘This a new girl?’ a man asked Felicity, and reached out to touch Avicia’s arm as if to test the smoothness of her skin.

‘Keep your hands off!’ Felicity snarled and slapped his hand away. ‘Does she look like a slut? She’s a lady, so leave off.’ She led the shrinking woman over to a table and sat her down. ‘Now tell me all about it.’

Slowly Avicia ran through her tale. The Coroner had been having an affair for some months with Mistress Sherman, and…

‘How do you know that?’