Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

It was stupid. He knew that as it happened: his foot had turned on a loose cobble. He felt the tendons snap, a curious sensation like lightning shooting through his ankle, and felt himself begin to fall. And then something supported him. Something was holding him up. He coughed as the thick bile rose in his throat, choking him, and he couldn’t breathe easily. It was odd, he thought, especially the dragging sensation at his breast.

When he looked up, he saw Edgar’s face only a few inches from his own, then he felt himself fall as Edgar, with a moue of distaste, twisted his sword and let Toker’s body fall from it.

Harlewin was soon with them, and when Owen had been called and explained the reason for the attack, the Coroner declared that there was no crime to be investigated: felons had tried to murder innocent men and those men had defended themselves. The amputee with the stained tourniquet about his wrist and the snoring Perkin were taken away to the gaol.

When the impromptu jury had dispersed and the priest was rolling up his wallet of pens and ink, Baldwin thanked the groom. ‘Without your help I might well have died.’

‘My pleasure. Seeing the bastard spring out like that got me angry.’

Baldwin gave a lopsided smile. ‘I know how you felt.’

And in truth he did. A mist of hatred had enveloped him, a mist composed of anger and loathing, which had lent him the energy to keep the men away. He was helped by his training, but then, when he had seen the attack form on Simon and saw Edgar appear as if from nowhere, the mist had turned to red and he wanted only to kill, to slaughter those who would attack him, those who would murder his friend. It had hardly been the behaviour of a humanist who valued human life – it had been the reaction of a man of war when threatened. He felt no shame, for the men would have killed him if they could, and the reversal of their fortunes was a fact which he could not regret.

‘The good bailiff has recovered himself,’ Edgar said.

‘I owe you a life now, Edgar.’

‘Sir Baldwin, you saved my life once and I am happy if I can provide you with any service.’

Baldwin smiled at his servant. Edgar appeared embarrassed by his gratitude. Rather than cause him more, the knight gripped his forearm and held it a moment.

‘Is there any wine in this benighted street?’ Simon asked.

He was fit enough, so far as Baldwin could see, although his normally ruddy complexion was pale and he wore a vague frown.

‘Come, gentlemen, I have a small barrel of wine in my stable. If you can tolerate the scent of horses, I’d be happy to celebrate our victory against these miserable, thieving bastards,’ the hackneyman said.

Trying to smile, Baldwin accepted. It was not easy, for the man who had helped to save his life was still a fawning fellow, too sycophantic for him to respect, but they were comrades-in-arms now and it would have been rude to refuse. Helping Simon with an arm each, he and Edgar walked behind the hackneyman to his stable. At the door Baldwin realised that Harlewin was with them. ‘Friend Coroner, could you leave us here? We shall see you back at the castle very soon.’

Harlewin looked upset at being dismissed this way, and Baldwin had to smile.

‘Coroner, my wife is back there worrying about me, and I would consider it a generous act were you to return and let her know that the bailiff and I are perfectly fine, apart from Simon’s headache.’ His voice dropped. ‘It would be churlish to refuse the hospitality of a man who may have saved my life, but I look upon it as a duty more than a pleasure, and I swear I shall soon be with you.’

The Coroner gave a faint smile at his explanation and swore to carry word to Jeanne before anyone else. Before long he was striding with the priest along the road towards the castle.

At the stable door the hackneyman began laughing at the recollection of the man he had hit. His loud guffaws caused the shutter opposite to swing open again. ‘Will you be quiet you ignorant damned peasant!’

In answer, the hackneyman picked up a lump of horse dung and flung it in a deadly accurate arc. There was a brief squawk, a horrified splutter, then the shutter was hurriedly slammed shut. ‘Always wanted to do that,’ he said contentedly. ‘What a day! What a day!’

Inside, seated upon empty barrels, Baldwin took a cup of wine from him. Simon and Edgar too had cups but these three appeared to represent the total of the hackneyman’s drinking vessels for he himself was forced to sup from a wineskin.

‘Your health,’ Baldwin said in toast, and the others all echoed his sentiment. Taking a sip, Baldwin set the drink down at his side fervently hoping that someone would knock it over. It was sweet, heavily spiced and, to Baldwin’s taste, almost undrinkable. ‘And my thanks for knocking down that mad staff-man.’

‘He was big, but he fell fast enough.’

‘You are good with a pair of cudgels.’

‘A man who spends his life dealing with some of the lowlifes who hang around a stable needs to know how to defend himself. I learned how to use cudgels when I was a lad, but they are just as effective for an old sod like me as a boy of ten,’ their host declared with satisfaction.

‘You must see many strangers here,’ Baldwin considered.

‘Oh, I get all sorts. Travellers from all over.’

‘Did you know the felons that attacked us?’

‘Toker and his mob? Oh, yes. They were often down here. Not that I wanted too much to do with ’em. No, they weren’t the sort I wanted hanging about. Gives the place the wrong sort of reputation, having private armies in here.’

‘Tell me, friend: have they ever brought in horses for sale?’

‘Them?’ Baldwin was watching as he answered, but there was not the faintest hint of deceit as he gazed at the knight and declared without hesitation, ‘No.’

It was his openness that made Baldwin jerk his thumb at the stable. ‘There was a large, scruffy horse here when we first came to see you. It had mud over it.’

‘Ah, yes. You are a good judge of horseflesh, that is certain, Master,’ the man said. ‘That one should fetch a…’

‘Friend, we have fought off felons together,’ Baldwin said with a degree of sharpness. ‘You don’t have to give me your usual patter. Just the facts.’

The hackneyman looked innocent. ‘But there is no patter to it, Master. Only the horse isn’t for sale yet.’

‘May I see it?’

‘Of course.’

He led the way to a series of stalls out at the back of the stables. Muttering to himself, he counted down to one, at which he stopped, gazed over the rail which served as a gate, then nodded. ‘This is the one.’

‘Let’s see it,’ Baldwin said, and darted under the bar.

‘No, sir, just let me…’

Baldwin ignored his sudden nervousness and patted the beast’s flanks confidently to soothe it. The mud, although dried, still adhered to neck and rump, but Baldwin had a good idea why. He grabbed a handful of straw and rubbed at the muck. Soon the dusty mess was falling away and he was rewarded by seeing the marks he expected.

‘Come, now,’ he said sternly. ‘This horse is not yours to sell, as you know well.’

‘It is a good working horse, sir.’

‘You know better than that. This is a heavy animal, certainly, but it was never used for draught. It’s a knight’s.’

‘Oh… I did wonder.’

‘Of course you did. You know a good mount when you see one. But we are comrades: I have no interest in betraying your secret.’ Baldwin ducked under the rail again. ‘Just tell me this: did you find it yourself or did you see it in another’s hands?’

The hackneyman tilted his head as if assessing his risks. ‘I didn’t find it, sir, it was brought here to me.’