Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

‘I know,’ said Simon ruefully. Baldwin didn’t laugh but peered all the more intently at Nicholas.

‘Some short way in, there was a loud crashing, and I saw Sir Gilbert riding towards me. He told me that if this was a genuine felon it was his duty to aid us. Well, I thanked him and he rode off to my left, widening our area still further.’

Baldwin was still peering intently at him. ‘How long did it take you to find the fellow?’

‘I couldn’t say. Andrew found him. He told me he rode back some way without luck but when the moon came out, he lurched into a clearing and there before him was Dyne. Andrew spurred round to cut him off, and shouted for me, but I didn’t hear at first, what with the sound of twigs breaking and so on. So Andrew blocked his escape and bellowed for me.’

‘What did you find when you got there?’

‘The boy was on the ground and Andrew was kicking him.’

‘Poor devil,’ Baldwin muttered.

‘It wasn’t your niece he raped and strangled,’ Nicholas said hotly. ‘I picked him up by the shoulders and held him kneeling. Andrew took up his sword. I think the boy realised what was happening, because he gave an awful, shrill scream as Andrew swung, and… well, that was that.’

‘There is one thing that I am convinced of, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘That he was far from the road when we saw him? I tell you this, he was breaking the law and his oath long before we saw him.’

‘Not that,’ Baldwin said irritably, resting a hand on his belly. ‘I meant Sir Gilbert must already have hidden his money somewhere if he was prepared to leave his camp in William’s hands.’

At her house Cecily Sherman walked sedately into her hall. Inside were several men with their wives, all gripping pots of wine and talking. Cecily smiled at faces she recognised and inclined her head to others when they made her welcome. It was easy for her to be friendly with several of the men here, for two of them had been her lovers and one in particular she had earmarked for when Harlewin lost his lustre.

Only one man appeared to be unimpressed with her entrance. John, her husband, stood with his back to the fire and glowered as she walked in. She approached him with her head a little downcast and halted before him, curtseying. ‘My Lord.’

‘I was expecting you earlier,’ he grated. ‘After you couldn’t join us last night, I thought you would sleep so well that you would be able to be punctual this morning.’

She met his gaze innocently. ‘But my Lord, didn’t you receive my message? I sent to let you know that I would be delayed because I had stopped at the church.’

‘You “went to church?” ’ he mimicked cruelly. ‘What time was this, my dear?’

‘Before dawn, Husband,’ she said, permitting a faint tone of hurt to creep into her voice.

‘Truly! What a religious wife I have, to be sure. I had no idea.’

‘I was so unwell last night that I prayed to be cured, and it worked: I slept. When I woke this morning I went straight to church to celebrate Mass and give confession in gratitude, Husband,’ she said, her voice registering still more pain.

He smiled, but without humour. ‘Oh, well perhaps I shall go and thank the priest myself later. And I can get myself shriven at the same time, can’t I?’

‘You can thank him now, good my Lord,’ she said.

‘How? Do you expect me to leave all our guests to gallivant about the town? He might well not be there.’

‘He isn’t, Husband. He walked back with me,’ she smiled and stood back to introduce Father Abraham.

It was a shame, Jeanne felt, that her husband was once more investigating crimes when she wanted him with her to help select goods for the house.

Jeanne was no shrew but she would have liked to have had her husband’s company a little while in this new town, especially since he knew that they needed new linen and cushions. Not that he would have been able to help much, she considered as she led Edgar and Petronilla through the narrow alleys between stalls. Edgar was more interested in clothing and fashion and he had an infinitely better eye for detail than Baldwin.

She adored her husband but she would never have described him as fashion conscious. That was a modern fad: men with particoloured hose, or velvet jackets with expensive linings, cut carefully to show a man’s figure. They spent more time primping and preening than womenfolk, Jeanne sometimes thought. It must be a reflection of the time and the King’s own habits.

Every so often she glanced around, and twice she thought she caught a slightly odd expression in Edgar’s eyes. It was when he had been looking to his right, as though watching Petronilla – but he wouldn’t, surely… Jeanne scolded herself for trying to see love, admiration, lust, whatever, wherever she looked. It was all too easy to imagine that others were feeling the same urges as she, her love for Baldwin was so strong. It almost made her want to cry out for sheer pleasure.

She took a right turn down an alley she had missed the day before. Here she saw a gorgeous scarlet, a bolt of bright red cloth that shimmered in the sunlight from fine metallic threads woven into the material. ‘Oh, look!’ she gasped, and glanced at Petronilla.

The girl’s face was a picture. Petronilla was not so adept an actor as Edgar, and her features, turned towards him, radiated affection of the most obvious and intense kind.

‘Oh-oh,’ Jeanne breathed. ‘That will delight Baldwin; just what he needed to round off the perfect trip to Tiverton. A servant who’s about to break his engagement vow, and a woman about to take his manservant to her bed.’

Toker waited at the street corner. There was only the one entrance to the tavern and he had three men with him – Owen he had left in the castle; the Welshman didn’t fill him with confidence when it came to fighting, he was too much Sir Peregrine’s man. All the escapes were blocked: that was the good thing about having a small company of men to command. They could ambush even the most determined of victims.

Picking his nose, he wiped the solid residue on the house’s wall behind him and snorted, then hawked and spat. Before long, if Sir Peregrine was right, they would be at war again. Then towns like this had better be wary! If he could, he’d love to break in and have a look around a place like Sherman’s or Carter’s. Both had nooks and crannies filled with rich stuff, silver and pewter plates, gold-chased cups, no doubt, and lots of spoons. When he had been in the service of Lady Maud, he had seen her spoons. She had more than twenty; he had often dreamed about owning such wonderful pieces of craftsmanship himself.

It was war that gave opportunities for a man to get rich. Only in war could a man prove his valour. And once he’d done so, he might be allowed his own chevauchée – a licence to ride out over nearby territory to see what could be won: gold, silver, wine, women – whatever. That was the life! Better by far than standing idle in a shit-stricken dump like this and hoping to remove some knight who’d become a threat.

France, that would be a good place to go. Tough, of course, because the French had the biggest and best army in Christendom, the most numerous knights, the heaviest cavalry, but in a land so wide a man with a small company could get lost and, with a little ingenuity, could become very rich very quickly. There was so much money out there, it would be a miracle if a fellow with his head screwed on right couldn’t take a bit for himself.

To get rich in war, a man needed a good war-leader, and Toker was satisfied that Sir Peregrine was potentially just that: shrewd, cunning, and well-connected. Under him, Toker was sure he could take a fortune.