Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

Overhead, flags fluttered gently in the breeze. Fresh air was certainly welcome, for the high walls of the city trapped the air within and Sir Gilbert’s nostrils were assailed with the stench. Sweat from the men and women all about him vied with animal and human excrement and the persistent tang of urine, thickened by the reek of putrefaction from the tanners on Exe Island. Fanning the air disgustedly, Sir Gilbert bought a bunch of herbs and held it beneath his nose in a vain attempt to drown out the surrounding odours.

At Nobles Inn, Sir Gilbert paid off the boy and he and William ordered ale, sitting at a bench outside, the leather saddlebag containing the sacks at Sir Gilbert’s feet. Merry sat at his side, but Aylmer rolled over and was soon snoring gently.

‘Where to now?’ William asked, glancing up at the sun.

Sir Gilbert emptied his pot and waved at the surly tavern-keeper for more. There was no point in concealing their destination. ‘We try to find out where the Lord is. He may well be here or at Oakhampton. Maybe up at Tiverton.’

‘You’re planning on seeing Lord de Courtenay?’ William asked, aghast.

‘Yes.’ Sir Gilbert held out his pot to be refilled and cast a quick look at the sailor.

William was blank for a moment, but nodded. ‘I could ask about: find where he is, if you want.’

‘You know this city? I didn’t think the river was navigable.’

William shrugged. ‘It’s not got its own port, but down at the head of the estuary there’s another town, Topsham. Ships delivering goods for Exeter go there, and sometimes after we’ve paid the customs we load up smaller craft to ferry them up the Exe to the city. I’ve been here several times.’

‘Good. In that case, ask your friends where we might find de Courtenay and his retinue. I shall be here waiting.’

William stood, glanced up and down the narrow thoroughfare, and strolled off towards Cook Row. Sir Gilbert meanwhile ordered himself a coffin filled with fish, this being Friday and a fast day, and munched on the pie. Once they were outside the city he was determined to rest in a river and clean himself. His flesh itched from dried sweat, and he was unpleasantly aware that he had grown verminous. There was an unpleasant tingling at his armpits and groin as if creatures were scuttling.

But he had other things to occupy his mind.

No man would entrust a large fortune to an emissary without trying to ensure its protection. But the two men Despenser had sent to accompany Sir Gilbert were dead or wounded before they had left London. When William Small showed himself willing to join him, Sir Gilbert had been grateful. On a ship no secrets could be kept; Sir Gilbert had assumed that William had heard of the money and chose to stay with Sir Gilbert to see that his master’s bribe was protected. But he was no fool and now he considered once more the other possibility. William plainly hadn’t thought Sir Gilbert ever intended delivering the chest – he could see that now. He obviously believed Sir Gilbert was going to steal it for himself, and if so, William was determined to share in the profits.

The knight sat back and eased himself into a comfortable position, cradling his pot in his large hand, resting it on his flat stomach. Merry looked at him, then scratched idly at an ear and lay down, chin on paws, but watching every passer-by.

Sir Gilbert smiled down at his dog and patted the tawny flank. If William wanted to rob him, he would find it very difficult.

Two days later, Philip Dyne blinked as he left the safe confines of the church. The sun was blazing in a clear blue sky, painful to his eyes after so many days locked in the dark. He had to shield them with a hand. The gloom of the church was preferable.

As he blinked, wincing at the pain, colours appeared before him; brilliant hues and stunning shades. His head ached with the magnificence of the greens of grass and leaves, the brightness of coats and tunics, dull-coloured hose for the poorer, parti-coloured reds and blues for the rich. His legs buckled beneath him and he was struck with a feeling of vertigo as he saw the faces ranged before him.

‘Get your hand off me!’ Father Abraham snarled as Philip grabbed at his sleeve to stop himself falling. Father Abraham snatched his arm away and strode on to the Coroner’s side by the little gate.

The waiting crowd stood silently at the other side of the fence and Philip eyed them with a sense of doom. If they decided to attack him, the thin palings would be no protection. There was an occasional curse uttered in his direction, but for the most part they stood quietly, waiting. Oddly he found that their loathing pricked at his pride, gave him a little strength, and he willed himself on, alone, dressed only in his threadbare tunic and coat, a pilgrim’s cross stitched to his breast. The felon about to flee the scene of his crime.

Father Abraham, at the gate to the churchyard, held up his hand and scowled at the folk about him until they were silent, awed by the slim, regal figure clothed in the garb of a priest. When their muttering had died away, he beckoned to Philip and snapped, ‘Come here, Dyne.’

He could not watch Dyne approach. It was disgusting that the pervert should have entered his church at all, let alone dare to claim sanctuary and stay inside for so long. Quite deplorable. Better that the mob should catch him. It was vile that he, a priest, should be expected to give such a creature food. It was enough to make one sick! He would order the sexton to see the whole sanctuary scrubbed clean to remove Dyne’s foul contamination.

It was at times like this that he wished he had not joined the Church and instead had joined a warrior Order, something like the Knights of St John. Better to fight for God than to pander to felons.

The crowd agreed with his view; he could see that at a single glance. There were some who were merely observers: farmers and others from outside town come to visit the market who had spotted the huddle at the gate and strolled over to investigate; others were locals who had gathered out of mild interest to see what the sanctuary-seeker looked like before he fled. These were no trouble; it was the others who gave Father Abraham concern.

Andrew Carter was at the back, a large, grossly proportioned man, red of face, with fleshy lips and heavy jowls, dark hair under his velvet hat, and a vindictive frown twisting his features. Next to him was the merchant Nicholas Lovecok, Carter’s brother-in-law, a weakly-looking man with unnaturally bright eyes in his pale face and little hair on his bare head. The sight made the priest purse his lips. He could see Lovecok’s lips moving, and he held his hat in his hand, twisting it and turning it as he prayed, no doubt, for the felon’s painful death. About these two was a small gathering of what looked like the dregs of the nearby alehouses. Rough, drink-coarsened men, some still with jugs or pots in their hands, were watching the solitary figure with ill-concealed hatred, measuring interest or vague bafflement, the degree of concentration depending upon the quantity of ale they had already drunk.

It was understandable, Father Abraham thought. Even the expression of sheer loathing on Coroner Harlewin le Poter’s face was justified. No one liked the murderer of a young wench.

Coroner Harlewin’s face was bleak as Philip approached the low picket fence. He held up his hand both to halt the felon and silence the crowd, which had begun to murmur.

‘Quiet!’ he thundered, glaring about him, then crooked his finger at Philip. ‘Come closer, boy. You can’t reach the fu–…’ he swallowed the automatic expletive when he felt Father Abraham stiffen ‘…Um Gospels from there.’

Father Abraham hadn’t missed his near-lapse and made a mental note to demand a severe penance. The Coroner was a brutish knight, low-born and with the manners of a hog. He disgusted Father Abraham.