Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

‘Course I would,’ he returned gruffly, untying his hose from his tunic and letting them drop beside his shirt. ‘If he hurt you, I ’d challenge him.’

‘To a duel?’

‘Of course.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I must confess to a certain surprise that you don’t seem to be scared he might find out about you.’

‘That’s easily answered.’ Her face lost a little of its gaiety and in its place she wore a colder, more calculating expression. He had never seen such a look on her face before and it made him pause a moment. ‘I am scared that he could find out. That is why I am very, very careful. He isn’t that bright, and provided I carry on being careful I should be safe enough.’

‘You’d have thought the dumb bugger would have got the message, wouldn’t you, eh?’ Harlewin said. He tugged his tunic over his head and threw it to the ground.

‘Not really, no. I can be devious when I want,’ Cecily said, pulling a long tress of her black hair to her mouth and sweeping it in teasing flicks over her lips and chin while she watched him. ‘I usually make sure he’s busy before I come out.’

‘What about tonight? He’ll be back after the feast and wonder where you’ve got to – especially since he knows I left the place early,’ he said, kicking away the last of his clothes and climbing into the bed beside her.

‘You have your alibi arranged?’

‘Yes. The fool wouldn’t dare cross me,’ he said, and nuzzled at her breast.

She giggled and cupped his head to her but after a moment he pulled away and looked up at her.

‘But what will you say tomorrow when he asks you where you have been?’

‘My husband doesn’t trouble me in my bed of a night. I lock my door and my maid will tell him I am asleep if he knocks.’

‘He could knock the door down and see you aren’t there.’

She touched his lip with a finger, smiling. ‘No. He will return home drunk and bang on my door angrily demanding to see me. His rage will make his frustration and impotence all the more painful for him. Rather than cause more of a stir in the household, he will swallow any story. He can’t face confrontations, you see. My maid will tell him I am asleep and he will go to his own chamber and collapse in a furious stupor. Tomorrow I shall be back before he wakes. I’ll leave here before dawn.’

‘So long as you don’t doze off.’

‘Am I likely to get bored?’ she asked innocently.

Baldwin awoke with a head that thumped madly and a belly that rebelled at the very thought of food. His bladder demanded release, but he couldn’t stand. The mere thought was an exquisite torture.

It was not only that he had eaten too much rich food last night, it was the fact that it was so late at night. They had finished their meal long after he would usually have been in bed. Looking back on it, Baldwin was quite certain that the priest would not have had time to retire to bed before going to his church to hold the nightly services. They were supposed to be conducted at the middle of the night, after all, and by the time the meal was done it was close enough to the middle watches.

Perhaps he had drunk a little too much as well, he amended as a dagger of pain stabbed at his temple.

‘How are you?’ Jeanne asked at his side.

He grunted. There was sympathy in her voice, but a certain tartness indicated that where he had passed an uncomfortable night, his movements and snoring had ensured that she suffered a sleepless one.

‘Do you want some wine?’ she asked, motioning to the jug on the chest.

‘Yes. A small pot, with water.’ He felt hot and shivery. The muscles of his hand wanted to clench for some reason and his stomach rumbled and hissed. It was some time before he could rise, not so much because of his head, but more because of his stomach. The thought of breaking his fast made him nauseous. Miraculously the wine helped.

‘You look dreadful,’ Jeanne observed. She had risen from the bed and covered her nakedness with a thin robe, standing near the window.

They were alone now. The other couple using the room must have already risen. He wondered whether they too had slept badly. With him as a neighbour he assumed they had.

‘Thank you, my Lady,’ he said and sipped. The wine slipped down more pleasantly than he would have expected.

Jeanne stood with the sun behind her, filtering through the thin gauzy material of her night-gown and showing her body beneath. Baldwin swallowed, feeling better after the wine. His smile grew broader and he patted the mattress beside him. ‘Lady, there is a comfortable bed here. We didn’t make good use of it last night, but now…’

‘Oh, no, Baldwin. We can’t. The household is up. They’d know.’

‘My wife, that doesn’t concern me,’ he said, stalking after her as she backed away.

‘Baldwin, we have to get dressed!’ she protested, but her voice was quiet and sounded on the brink of a giggle.

‘We shall get dressed,’ he murmured, adding, ‘later.’

‘What if someone should hear us?’

He caught an arm and tugged her towards him. She was trembling with laughter as he wrapped his arms about her, but then she kissed him slowly and he could feel the pace of her breathing alter. He picked her up and took her to the bed, settling her on the mattress before he slowly opened her robe.

‘Hurry, husband,’ she said and held out her arms to him. He went to her and as their lips touched he felt the blood pounding in his head.

It was matched by the pounding on the door. With a muttered curse Baldwin recognised Simon’s voice: ‘Baldwin, are you there? Are you awake?’

Jeanne froze, then was convulsed at the sight of the expressions that flew over her husband’s face: disbelief, shock, anger and finally, despair. ‘I think you should open the door, husband,’ she chuckled and pulled away from his embrace to hide behind a screen.

‘Baldwin? Wake up, man!’

Taking a deep breath, Baldwin went and unlocked the door.

‘That knight Furnshill and his friend Puttock the bailiff were here looking for you yesterday,’ Andrew said as he broke his bread and dipped a crust into his pottage.

Nicholas had been pouring himself a pot of thin ale, but on hearing his brother-in-law’s words he started and spilt it over the table. ‘Me? Why?’

‘Something to do with the death of another man. Sir Gilbert of Carlisle’s servant: the one who pointed us to where Dyne was in the woods.’

Nicholas set the jug down and shrugged. ‘We’ve told the Coroner all we know.’

‘They were asking about the night before that, too. Wanted to know where you were, what time you’d got in and so on.’

‘Did they say why?’ Nicholas enquired casually.

‘No.’

Their breakfast completed, Andrew said he would be going to the Fair to see how his stalls were doing. Nicholas said he would go along later, but in the meantime, he waited until Andrew had disappeared, then hurried to his roll of clothing in his chest near the hall’s doorway. Searching through it, he pulled out his old sword belt.

The blade was as clean and unmarked as when he had first been given it, almost twenty years ago now, in Lincolnshire, by a grizzled old warrior who had taken it from a Moor outside Acre. Nashki script ran along the fuller, saying, according to the older man, ‘Praise to God’ – although Nicholas had never learned Arabic or the strange letters that flowed over the metal like some kind of liquid fire. Now, as he studied the metalwork, he felt a little of his courage return. Any man who tried to make him out to be a heretic would have to fight him.

Putting the belt about his waist, he was tying the cords when his sister entered.

‘What are you doing with that? Has Andrew told you about Sir Baldwin?