Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

It was still a cause for regret that he had failed to get his hands on Sir Gilbert’s little chest in London. No doubt it had contained enough for him to have been able to afford a tavern of his own and retire. William had told them Sir Gilbert had had it when they camped, but when the knight was bumped off, the money had gone. Toker knew that William would have told them where it was if he had known. He’d have been glad to tell them by the time they’d finished with him, especially when Perkin kicked him in the bollocks. The memory made Toker smile: how William’s eyes had popped! Yes, if he’d known where the money was, he’d have told them, all right. Once he’d stopped puking.

And now this other knight was causing trouble and needed to be disposed of. Toker was happy to oblige. As far as he was concerned if Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was annoying folks, he had to be removed. If he was arrested for his part in this, Toker knew he could rely on his friends for aid. In Tiverton’s courts two men held all the power: Lord Hugh and the Coroner. The Coroner answered to Lord Hugh and the man who told everyone what Lord Hugh thought was his reliable, trustworthy gatekeeper, Sir Peregrine.

No, if Toker or any of his lads were caught and accused of murder, they’d be set free at the Court of Gaol Delivery before they could even get put into prison.

Toker leaned back against the wall and contemplated the road once more. This was dull. He daren’t go into the tavern to seek Sir Baldwin, for that would be too obvious, but it was boring out here, especially knowing that Sir Baldwin and his mate were sitting at a table and enjoying a quart of ale or something. Just what he could do with, Toker thought.

His eyes narrowed as someone appeared in the doorway. It was Nicholas Lovccok, and Toker relaxed slightly, but then he saw the two men behind and he stiffened with anticipation.

Wat had been glad to avoid walking about the Fair. It was beneath him, staring at all those stupid lengths of cloth, having to listen to all the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ that Lady Jeanne and Petronilla, whom he generally credited with far better brains than most other girls, would gasp when confronted with arrays of coloured and gaudy strips of materials. Women’s business! Far better to be here in the castle learning how a man-at-arms could serve his lord.

Not that Wat had managed to learn much so far. His first essay into the skills of service had led to him trying to bring a cup of wine to a guest: he had gone to the buttery before the steward, who had cuffed him about the head when he tried to pour wine, telling Wat to leave off the Lord Hugh’s stocks, and took the filled pot from him to carry to the hall. Wat had tried to explain he was helping, but his expostulations had led to his almost tripping the steward, and he earned a second clip around the ear for his efforts.

Then he had gone to watch two men-at-arms practising with swords and daggers, and in his attempts to follow what they were doing, had convinced them that he was apeing their efforts. Both stopped their bout to hurl stones at him. One caught him on the rump, the other on his forehead, and now a trickle of blood ran down his face.

He scuffed the dirt, wondering moodily how a boy was supposed to learn the skills of arms or courtesy if no one was prepared to help teach them. He was out near the gateway, watching while guests of Lord Hugh wandered in and out. Some had their own boys with them, several already wearing long daggers or swords, and most of them younger than he. That was his trouble, he knew. He had been born to a cattleman, so he was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a cattleman in his turn.

When Sir Baldwin had asked him to help in the house, his father had been enthusiastic. ‘Look, boy, it’ll keep you indoors more, not out in the freezing cold in winter, or smothered with flies in summer. You can learn lording properly, always having a filled belly and a pot of wine never far from your hand.’

It was attractive the way he had put it, but Wat could see from the boys here how he had been wrong. Wat could never learn fighting. He was a country peasant, no more. To be a gentleman in a great house you had to have been born to it, so that your parents could send you away to learn your business at an early age, ideally about eight or younger. He would have been sent away to a friend of his father’s, or maybe to his master, and trained in fighting.

Across the yard two boys were dragging a friend, who was seated upon a wheeled wooden horse and gripped a lance, across the cobbles towards a quintain. When he hit his mark, they all crowed with delight, but their pleasure only served to increase Wat’s gloom. He would never know such simple happiness. His was to be a peasant’s life.

Head down, he kicked a pebble and scuffed away towards the hall’s door, wondering who might be inside. At the door was Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple. He didn’t seem to notice Wat, but Wat was used to being invisible in this castle. Men tended not to notice him; he was merely one of several brats about the place. The only time, Wat had discovered, he was likely to be seen was when he didn’t want to be, such as when he had just dropped a bowl of wine and splashed the stuff all up a wall, or when he was caught in the kitchen filching biscuits.

Idly he watched as Sir Peregrine walked across the yard to the gatehouse and entered. Wat wondered whether he could slip into the buttery and serve himself a pot or two of wine.

Harlewin le Poter felt good as he left his house. With an expansive gesture he stretched, reaching his arms up to the sky, and groaned with pleasure as he felt bones crack and muscles slip over each other. It felt good to be alive.

The Fair was still on, and so far he’d seen hardly any of it, so he set off, sauntering cheerily towards the noise, considering what he could buy his wife as a present. Probably a pleasant little necklace or ring, he thought. Nothing too expensive, but a trinket such as she would like. Luckily he and Cecily had agreed a while ago that they would never purchase anything for each other. There was no point when nothing they received could be put on show. It wasn’t as if she was going to be able to fasten on a new necklace in front of her husband and say, ‘Nice, isn’t it? Harlewin gave it me.’

With that thought the Coroner gave a broad smile. It was the attractive aspect of a lover: this simplicity. A wife would complain, ‘You never buy me presents, you can’t love me,’ whereas a lover was grateful for a more basic, no less sincere, proof of adoration.

He had to cross several poorer areas, and he moved down the alleys and along streets with no urgency, but a constant caution, a man always on his guard and aware of his surroundings. At fairtime even a small town like Tiverton could attract petty thieves prepared to knock a man on the head for what he carried in his purse – and a friend of Earl Thomas should always be on guard in these troubled times.

At the end of the last alley he came into bright sunlight and stood a moment sniffing the air. Over the way he saw the tavern, Simon and Baldwin in the doorway.

Toker pushed himself away from the wall as Sir Baldwin stepped out into the street. Resting a hand on his dagger, Toker tested it in its sheath – it moved easily enough, as it should after the amount of grease he had rubbed over it from the kitchen’s pots. There was no need for a sword for a quick assassination like this, he knew. One swift stab upwards into the knight’s heart and lungs and he would be gone. No more trouble.

Sir Baldwin and Simon were walking away, their backs to him. He made to walk over the cobbles but a horse passed, slowing him. Once it had gone he moved forward and gave a significant look at his men in front. They walked into the street lazily, and paused as if to chatter. When Toker glanced left he saw Perkin coming level with him. Soon the men in front would pull out their knives and the sight would make the knight and his friend pause in surprise, then in anger, and before they could pull their blades free, they would be dead, stabbed in the back. Toker and his men had done it all before.