The Traitor of St. Giles (11 page)

‘It’s all right, my Lady,’ Petronilla said quietly. ‘He’s in the dairy. I sent him there to help since so many of the maids are in the kitchens.’

‘Well done,’ Jeanne said. If Wat was occupied there was less chance he could embarrass her or her husband. Glancing up, Jeanne saw Petronilla move away from a passing man. ‘Are you well?’

Petronilla nodded, but didn’t speak for fear of shaming herself. It was daunting in here, with knights, bannarets, even lords and their ladies. Some might think the same as the Coroner.

Horrible man, she thought, shuddering. All greasy and slimy, like a fat reptile. As he’d gone out, he’d put his arm around her in the hallway, his hand grasping her buttock, trying to force her to kiss him. It was only for a moment, and his thick-lipped face had been so close, slobbering like a great dog inches from her.

‘Come on, pretty little maid, give me a kiss or later you might regret it!’

Petronilla was revolted. She had turned her head away, and before he could do more than grope her breast and backside, Edgar had appeared. He quickly stepped close and the Coroner hastily fell back. ‘Yes?’

Edgar instantly moved between them. With a muttered prayer of relief she had fled back into the buttery. At the door she had glanced back. The Coroner had looked angry, but before he could say anything there was a call: Simon and Baldwin had arrived with their horses. The Coroner stalked out.

Now Petronilla was determined to remain close to Edgar. He would protect her. He was like that: kind and generous.

Jeanne was unaware of the anguish in Petronilla’s face. All she saw, she thought, was petulance, as if Petronilla resented having to help serve guests in another household. ‘Edgar, take Petronilla out and see if you can help in the kitchen or the buttery.’

Nodding, he led the way. As she left, Petronilla threw Jeanne a look of immense gratitude, which Jeanne recognised but couldn’t understand. Musings as to her maid’s feelings were cut short as Sir Peregrine called loudly: ‘My Lords and Ladies, Lord Hugh de Courtenay.’

Baldwin’s cry of warning reached Simon a second before his chest struck the branch squarely with a hollow thud that made Baldwin wince.

The breath was forced from Simon’s lungs with an audible ‘
Oof!
’ and Baldwin gave a bellow of laughter as his friend hooked both arms over the branch to stop himself being knocked to the ground. However, his horse kept going, leaving Simon clinging to the tree. The white-faced bailiff was held in mid-air staring after his mount as it stopped and began to crop the grass once more. With a slow inevitability, Simon’s weight begin to bow the branch, until with a report like black powder exploding, the tree gave up its limb and Simon dropped smartly onto his rump with a curse. Snorting and snuffling, desperate not to laugh, Baldwin persuaded his reluctant beast to walk to Simon’s side.

‘God’s Saints! If all you can do is grin,’ Simon growled from beneath the branch, ‘I’d prefer you to get someone who can help. Better still, fetch yourself a bow and shoot that bloody horse!’ He lifted the branch and threw it aside. ‘Rotten! Typical! I get flung from a horse by a twig that’s not got enough strength to cleave to its tree.’

Baldwin set his features into a stern mask of agreement, but before he could ride off in pursuit of Simon’s horse, Piers appeared and caught it by the reins. ‘Didn’t you see the tree?’

Simon ignored him as he took the reins. His backside had hit the ground with a solid thump, and he was aware of tension in his lower back and arse. He daren’t rub it for the delight he knew he would see on his friend’s face and, largely to take his mind off the pain as he settled gingerly in his saddle once more, he spoke to the baker.

‘How far?’

‘It’s close, sir.’

They ducked under more boughs, avoiding the thicker brambles. Soon Piers pointed. ‘That’s where the headless one lies.’

Simon allowed his pony to move at a slow walk. He had no intention of asking it to move in a jerking trot, up and down. Ahead was a clear area, bright in the sunshine, and it was a pleasure to be in the warmth after the shade of the trees. At the furthest corner of the glade he saw the Coroner and his man-at-arms.

‘Come on,’ said Baldwin, and even his voice was subdued as they approached the patch of blood-reddened grass.

The Coroner picked up the head and stared at the battered face of Philip Dyne.

There were many who believed that all Coroners were corrupt. Harlewin le Poter knew better. Some no doubt were, but Harlewin was committed to his job. It might be a regal pain in his backside – having to ride to all parts of the shire at a moment’s notice, seeking the bodies of the suddenly dead, holding inquests before all the men in a village or the neighbours in a town, making a decision before this or that jury, formally demanding the deodand (the value of the weapon that had killed the dead man), while old men hissed angrily on hearing the level of the fine to be imposed on them . . . yes, all this
was
aggravating, but when there was a murder, Harlewin was proud of his reputation of commitment. Justice was important. Killers had to be caught and must pay the price for their crimes. Harlewin believed that a man’s life was too important to go unavenged.

He tossed the head to his man-at-arms with a feeling of satisfaction. ‘This won’t take long. Recognise him?’

It was good to have a case in which the whole sordid story could be seen at a glance. So often there were surly crowds who denied all knowledge as he manhandled their dead. Commonly the cause of death was mundane: a stab-wound or a throat slitted like a pig’s. Occasionally there was a broken skull or a drowning, but usually it was just a fight that had gone too far.

And the reasons were just as earthy. A man who found his wife lying in an adulterous bed – that was a little close to home, Harlewin acknowledged – or a woman who retaliated after a heavy beating and committed the hideous act of petty treason, stabbing her man while he lay abed.

So many murders were incomprehensible, but with war looming Harlewin knew more deaths would occur. When men grabbed their swords and knives, people began to die even at a distance from the battlefields. Especially when there was a thieving, avaricious bastard like Despenser running the place.

At least this death was straightforward.

‘Dyne?’ the man-at-arms asked, peering into the half-closed eyes.

‘Yes. Looks like he left his road.’

Baldwin heard him muttering to the guard, but his own attention was fixed upon the body sprawled on its back in the long grass near the trees. There were marks about the wrists which Baldwin could not miss: he had been bound before his head was swept off. While Harlewin muttered in an undertone, Baldwin cast about and in a few moments he had found a thong lying atop a flattened expanse of grass nearby; it had been cut in two and its thickness matched the bruises on the wrists.

Continuing with his hands, he felt around the flattened area. ‘Ouch!’ Carefully he parted the grass to discover what had cut his hand: a knife. Within a few inches, broken pieces of wood; a snapped crucifix, while a short distance away was a purse, large and made of good leather, with some coins inside. The cords which should have bound the purse to its owner’s belt were cut through with a sharp blade.

‘Coroner, would you like to see this?’ he called.

‘Interesting, eh?’ Harlewin sniffed. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

The whole figure had stiffened, and it was only with an effort that Harlewin could drag the tunic off, swearing as it caught. ‘Oh, God’s teeth!’ he snarled and took the dagger from Baldwin, slicing up the sleeves to the shoulders, then easing the cloth free. Baldwin noticed how sharp the blade was, like a fighter’s.

Beneath the tunic was a simple, rough shirt and hose. These Harlewin cut off as well, to reveal the figure of a young man.

Harlewin pointed with the knife. ‘As I thought: extensive bruising on the chest, more here on his belly, and he has been kicked hard in the bollocks from the look of it,’ he said, indicating the swollen groin. ‘No stab-wound.’

‘No,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘It looks like someone beat him, bound him and beheaded him like a common felon. And broke his cross.’

‘Killed him like a wolf,’ Harlewin agreed, grunting as he pushed himself up into a standing position, and gazed down. Leaving Sir Baldwin at the side of the corpse, he strode off. The whole affair was tidy, he reflected. The outlaw had been caught and despatched. There must be a good reason why someone had done so without complying with the law.

The second body was a few hundred feet away in the next clearing. Harlewin was almost at its side when he heard the low rumble.

‘Leash that hound,’ he snarled. The dog had moved forward menacingly as he leaned over the body.

The man-at-arms reached for its collar, but it crouched, growling in a long, ferocious, steady timbre and the man hastily withdrew his hand.

‘Fetch a bow or something,’ Harlewin said irritably. ‘I can’t be standing here all the damned day! I’m supposed to be seeing my Lord de Courtenay. Go on, shoot the blasted mutt.’

‘All right.’ Wandering to his horse, the man pulled his crossbow from the saddle. It was a powerful one built of wood and bone, and he put his foot in the stirrup, bent his legs and caught the string in the hook at his belt. Slowly straightening, he spanned the string until he saw it catch on the sear. Walking to the Coroner’s side, he selected a steel-tipped quarrel from his belt’s quiver and set it on the bow’s groove.

‘Go on, man!’ Harlewin rasped.

The man-at-arms lifted it and aimed the arrow’s tip at the dog’s throat. His hand moved to the long trigger and he was about to fire when he heard a bellow at his side. Startled, he caught a glimpse of something moving before a bunched fist struck the stock of his bow, releasing the bolt high over the dog’s head to thud into an oak.

‘Don’t you dare slay the hound for protecting his master’s body,’ Baldwin roared, enraged. ‘The beast is a good servant.’ He walked slowly towards the dog.

‘You may regret it, Sir Baldwin,’ Harlewin called. ‘The damned thing looks almost mad to me.’

Baldwin ignored him, squatting near the dog. Unconsciously, he suddenly realised, he had started kneading the flesh of his forearms where Uther had bitten him in his death-throes. It made Baldwin feel a sharp pang. This dog was very different from Uther. It growled, more from fear than anger. It was stupid, Baldwin reflected, to try to save the beast for no purpose, especially since he might get bitten. He glanced at the other dog a few yards away, dead. The pair were
raches
, hunting dogs which relied more on scent than sight. Handsome animals, with sleek black coats, brown eyebrows and cheeks, strong jaws and powerful chests, they were built heavily, like mastiffs.

He recalled the pastries he had grabbed before leaving the hall. Some were still in his purse, and he pulled them free, much crumbled and broken, and tossed a piece on the ground. The dog glanced down but didn’t eat. Baldwin held out his hand with a piece of pastry in it.

‘Come on, it’s been a while since you ate, hasn’t it, old fellow?’ he asked gently.

‘Aylmer won’t eat like that from a stranger, he needs the order. Aylmer: feed! Good boy.’

The dog dropped his head and snuffled at the pie on the ground. Behind Baldwin stood a swarthy man with a pockmarked face.

‘I am called William the Small, sir. I was servant to Sir Gilbert.’

For the first time Baldwin looked at the dead man, and as he did so, he felt the breath catch in his throat as he recognised the face.

Andrew Carter wiped a hand over his face and walked to his buttery where he bent at a large cask and filled a jug with an unsteady hand, carrying it through to his small hall. His belly rebelled, but he forced the wine down, and soon its soothing warmth calmed his nerves again. In his mind’s eye he saw once more the great gout of blood as the head fell from Dyne’s shoulders. God! It made him want to heave again.

And he had so much to do for St Giles’s Fair. Tomorrow was the vigil, marking the start of the three-day event: vigil, feast and morrow of St Giles. There were other fairs at Tiverton, three others through the year, but there was an especial significance to this one, as Andrew Carter knew only too well. At this fair all Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s senior advisers and knights were present. And while their women and victuallers strolled among the tents and stalls of the fair, while all that money was being made, Andrew Carter, merchant, sat here in his room with his belly roiling after bringing justice on Philip Dyne.

He couldn’t keep from worrying at the memory like a dog with a marrow bone. Swallowing, he tried to force his mind to business instead.

It was an anxious time. Andrew Carter knew as well as anyone how fragile was the kingdom’s peace; much of his business was conducted with the north of the country, for there were good profits to be made from importing good English wine from the King’s lands in Guyenne and sending them up to the wild lands of the Scottish marches, especially to certain clients of his, such as Thomas of Lancaster.

Not that Andrew had ever met Lancaster, of course. Earl Thomas was the son of King Edward I’s brother and Queen Blanche, and thus of higher birth than almost all the other nobles in the land. Powerful men tended not to soil their hands in dealings with the lowly, such as Andrew – and, by God’s saints, Thomas
was
powerful! Five earldoms were his: he had inherited Lancaster, Leicester and Derby, and acquired Salisbury and Lincoln when he married Alice Lacy. When the government decided to buy peace with him at Leake, they had to negotiate with him in the same manner as they would a separate, independent state.

That was three years ago, when Andrew Carter had decided to tie his purse-strings to Lancaster’s future. The Earl was the Steward of England, the most powerful man in the land, even more so than the King in many ways, and he was happy to pay a merchant for information about affairs down in the south.

It had been the obvious choice. King Edward II, as everyone could see by then, was a weak, effeminate waster. He spent his time in idleness, employing actors and jugglers and flattering parasites in his court. Whereas his father, King Edward I, had lived an austere life, dressing simply, keeping his hair trimmed, and practising the skills which made him a good king – sword-fighting, riding, tilting with the lance – his son delighted in wrestling with peasants or swimming: fine accomplishments, these, for a king!