Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Moving at a comfortable canter that was not quick enough to overtire his mount but which would eat the miles easily, Harlewin le Poter made his way homewards.

Nicholas drank a quart of ale before he felt ready to face whatever questions the Keeper might pose. He felt his stomach complain. It wasn’t that his belly rebelled against the morning whet, for after all that was a normal drink first thing in the morning; it was more a reflection of his nervousness about meeting Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.

Baldwin had acquired a reputation in Devon for being fair but rigorous, and when necessary, ruthless. It was said that he had caused the number of hangings in Crediton to increase in the last four years because men were convicted on his word when in the past they wouldn’t have been; men knew they could trust his judgement. They had never trusted his predecessor’s.

Nicholas had heard much about the Keeper of Crediton. The town wasn’t far from Exeter, and any official who was apparently innocent of corruption was a figure of some interest, if only for novelty’s sake.

The noise in the tavern was growing. Nicholas could hardly think in here, and even if Baldwin was waiting outside, he needed air. He went out and stood blinking in the roadway. Momentarily dazzled by the brightness after the gloomy fug indoors, he stood squinting and confused. When he heard hooves approach, he hardly connected them with any danger, but then the Coroner was almost on him, and with a, ‘Move aside, you clumsy bugger!’ he passed.

Nicholas’s hand went to his sword as the words of challenge rose to his mouth. It would be so easy to throw down the gauntlet to this arrogant popinjay, the first time in years. He was no weakly coward, he was a trained soldier and knight, a man of honour. Hadn’t he taken the threefold vows of chastity, poverty and obedience? He had remained faithful, had he not? Never had he taken a woman since giving his oath; never had he forgotten his obedience to the Order, even when he stole the Order’s money. At the time the Order was destroyed and he had taken the money not from his companions, but from the King, who was trying to take anything moveable from the Templars before handing their properties over to the Hospitallers. As for poverty, he had been forced to make money to help his sister and poor young Joan. When he died he would be laid in a sombre coffin without adornment, laid in a plain winding sheet, and buried without pomp or show of any sort. It would be stated in his will when he was ready to die. He had adhered to his vows. Many hadn’t.

The internal justification stiffened his resolve, but the near-accident had renewed his pride as well, and when he heard the calm voice of Sir Baldwin, he was able to turn graciously and face him with a refreshing sense of resolve.

‘I was looking for you, Keeper. You have some questions for me, I understand.’

Matilda stared at them all before curling her lip and practically screaming her rejection. ‘You mean to tell me that my own husband deliberately murdered my daughter? You’re mad! Insane! How could you think that – it’s obscene!.’

Felicity held out her hands as if pleading. ‘Yes. Your husband killed your daughter.’

‘So you say, whore! Why should I believe you? Did you see my daughter with him? Did any of you? No !’ Matilda leaned back in her chair, a hand raised in a gesture of denial. The prostitute had taken it upon herself to accuse her husband and had simultaneously set herself up as judge and jury, but her motives were clear: she had been dropped by Andrew in favour of Rose, a younger, more attractive girl. All the other stuff was lies, pure invention. Of course her Andrew wouldn’t have slept with Joan, much less killed her. He probably hadn’t even been out that night.

He had, though, she recalled; he had come back late that evening, and when she asked where he had been, he laughed oddly and said he had been drinking. She thrust the thought aside. Felicity was after revenge, that was all. She was warped, vicious, stupid . ‘Rose, go back to your duties. Clarice, I shall want to speak to you later. As for your two, leave my house! You have done all you can to wreck my faith in my husband, but you have not succeeded.’

Avicia could only gape. Matilda covered her face again, making Avicia feel sorry for her once more; Felicity stood back with Rose, with what Avicia thought was an unpleasant smile twisting her features. Clarice rubbed her mistress’s neck and back, murmuring soothingly but Matilda pushed her away; her ministrations were intolerable. ‘Don’t touch me! Tell that whore and her friend to go. I will not listen to them!’

‘Will you do nothing? Will my brother never be proved innocent? Won’t your daughter be avenged?’ Avicia burst out with a wail. She couldn’t believe that this last possibility was being shut off to her.

Matilda leaned back in her seat and cast an eye over her. ‘What are you doing here? Are you here to enjoy my grief? Do you want to wallow in my despair? Is it pleasing for you to witness my misery?’

‘Oh, mistress, how could I wish someone else the same misery I myself feel?’ Avicia gasped.

‘You can know nothing of my feelings,’ Matilda said shortly. ‘I have lost the life I created, the last remaining link with the husband I loved. You can know nothing of my loss.’

Felicity sneered, ‘And you cared so much for your first husband, so much for your only daughter that you will ignore the facts. He killed your daughter to keep her silent. You know it is true.’

‘You’re a liar! You were thrown from this house…’

‘Yes. He ruined my life. Luckily he didn’t need to kill me – but with your daughter he felt he had no choice. If she told her lover about his drunken fumblings beneath her skirts, then Philip Dyne could have attacked him. Ask Rose again; ask Clarice – ask any of the other girls you employ. You know it’s true .’

‘No,’ Matilda said, but her voice was losing its force. Andrew had been most peculiar that night. And Rose had admitted his attentions to her had begun just after Joan’s death… A spark of loyalty – or maybe it was pure defiance? – made her square her shoulders. ‘No, that’s rubbish.’

The whore stepped forward. ‘This girl is like me, like Joan. She’s a victim of your husband’s passions. She deserves the same consideration as I do, that Rose does, that your Joan would have.’

‘You think to claim that you deserve my sympathy?’ Matilda asked, her tone rising to a shriek. ‘After this ? Go! In God’s name, leave me! And don’t return!’

Baldwin and Simon took seats at a bench while Nicholas toyed with a tankard of wine opposite them. Rather than enter the tavern, they had chosen to sit outside in a shaded part of the alehouse’s yard. Here Simon gratefully stretched his legs while Baldwin radiated discomfort.

His hangover had returned: his body was heavy, slow and hot; he felt sweaty in the sunlight and his hands wanted to shake. He had to keep flexing them to stop them from clenching into claws – and all the time his belly bubbled and spat bile up into his throat.

To forget his ill-ease, he turned his attention to Nicholas. The merchant had long fingers, he noticed, with carefully cleaned nails and almost perfect smooth skin which showed no calluses or warts. He was the image of the wealthy, well-to-do merchant.

‘Well, Sir Baldwin. What do you want from me?’

‘First, where were you on the night before last?’

‘Me?’ Nicholas was unsettled by the knight’s pale, angry-looking glower and short manner. ‘I was here in the tavern. Ask the landlord.’

‘I will. You know that Sir Gilbert’s man was killed that night?’