The Traitor of St. Giles (6 page)

‘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.

The Coroner continued, ‘We all know why we’re here. This man, Philip Dyne, apprentice to the spicer John Sherman, murdered a young girl from this town: Joan Carter. The posse nearly caught him, but he managed to escape by claiming sanctuary within the church. Unless someone saw him outside the church during his imprisonment, or saw him eating anything other than the water and bread supplied by the priest here, he can abjure the realm . . .’ He peered at the crowd, a hopeful tone creeping into his voice. ‘Did anyone see him outside?’

Father Abraham was sure that this was not a part of the normal procedure for an abjuration; the Coroner was tempting the audience to bear false witness. ‘He did not leave,’ he said sharply. ‘I was there all the time. If he had left I would have known.’

Harlewin grunted without satisfaction. ‘In that case,’ he mumbled, then cleared his throat. ‘Very well, Father, let him confess. Come here, Dyne!’

Philip Dyne cast a look at the people before him, and Father Abraham saw him shiver. Pathetic! he thought. A typical peasant. He jerked his head, saying shortly, ‘You heard him, Dyne. Come here and make your confession. If you don’t, you cannot abjure; that’s the law.’

‘I admit that I took the girl, um . . .’

‘Go on, you bastard! Tell us all about it, how you raped my daughter and slaughtered her!’ roared a voice. Father Abraham turned and made a swift cutting movement with his hand.

‘
Enough
! Carter, be still! I will not have men here incited to murder to the ruin of their immortal souls – no, and you must not risk your own, either. You regret the loss of your daughter, but you forget yourself; this place is proof of God’s mercy, and this lad may be able to serve God’s purpose if he contritely and honestly confesses. Don’t presume to question His judgement. There has been a terrible crime committed, don’t let’s make things worse.’

Philip, eyes closed, made his confession, shivering slightly. ‘I killed her. I met her down near the river where we always met and wanted her body. When she refused me, I took her anyway and strangled her to make sure she couldn’t tell anyone. I sincerely regret it, and beg God’s forgiveness. As I live this is true.’

The Coroner nodded and Father Abraham turned to his sexton who carried the immense book. Taking it, Father Abraham bowed his head over it, making the sign of the cross, then held it out. Philip Dyne swallowed and rested his hand on the cover with a wide-eyed, wondering fear.

Harlewin then spoke. His voice, filled with the authority of his position, carried over the whole crowd with ease, scaring the rooks in the oaks and elms of the churchyard and sending them fluttering upwards, chattering and squawking to each other.

‘Philip Dyne, you have remained in the sanctuary of this church for forty days. You have made a free confession of your guilt, and now you must make your oath of abjuration. Repeat after me: “I, Philip Dyne . . .” ’

‘I, Philip Dyne . . .’

‘ “Do swear to leave this realm . . .” ’

Father Abraham saw Philip Dyne’s cheeks were running with tears.

‘Never to return . . .’

The book felt heavier in his hands, as if Dyne was leaning on it for support.

‘Unless with the permission of the King or his heirs . . .’

Using the Gospels in that manner was irreverent. Father Abraham considered snapping at him to refrain.

‘I will hasten by the most direct road to a port . . .’

No. He decided not to: it would only create more fuss. Better that this ceremony should be completed swiftly and this beggarly creature should finally be ejected from the town.

‘Never leaving the King’s highway . . .’

Father Abraham saw the young man swallow again as if he feared the next words.

‘On pain of arrest as a felon and being beheaded instantly.’

There was a slight quiver in his voice. Good, thought Father Abraham. Perhaps the immensity of his crime is driven home to him at last.

‘And on arriving I shall seek diligently for a passage across the sea.’

‘Very well!’ said the Coroner and stood back as Father Abraham passed the precious book back to the patiently waiting sexton. ‘I order that this man be allowed to leave the town by the road to Bickleigh, thence to Exeter, from whence he must find a ship to remove him from King Edward’s lands. He must not remain at any inn or vill for more than one night. At Exeter’s port he must seek diligently for a passage, delaying only one tide. If there is no ship when he arrives, he must walk into the sea up to his knees each day in demonstration of his willingness to cross it, and if he has still failed after forty days he must take sanctuary again at the port.’

He stopped and fixed Dyne with a stern, unsympathetic eye. ‘His goods are all forfeit: he can take with him only a wooden cross and a bowl. Nothing else.’ He pointed southwards towards Crediton. ‘Go! Don’t delay, but leave the country as soon as you possibly can.’

Philip Dyne’s head hung low; the crowd began hissing again, jostling forward, a young boy on his father’s shoulder cried out as an inaccurate stone hit his cheek, raking a long scratch. Harlewin le Poter’s head shot round, and seeing the boy weep, a hand touching the bleeding scar, he swept out his sword. Two men-at-arms thrust their way through to his side, their long polearms swinging like heavy, iron-shod clubs, prodding away any who came too close.

‘
Back
, you lot!’ the Coroner roared. ‘Serfs and bastard whoresons, the lot of you!
Back
, I said: give him space, in the King’s name – and no more rocks. If I see any of you with one you’ll be in the castle’s stocks so fast your feet will burn –
is that clear
? The man’s not to be pilloried, he’s abjured.’

A thin gap appeared as reluctant, muttering people pulled away from each other.

‘That’s better. Now, felon,
sod
off! And never come back!’ the Coroner said. He shoved his sword away, then pushed Dyne along the channel, crossing his arms and watching.

At his side Father Abraham curled his lip. Watching Dyne scuff through the people, his head low, avoiding all the eyes on him, wincing and turning away when a man hawked and spat, the spittle running down his neck, Father Abraham muttered vindictively: ‘And if you should stray from the road so much as a single foot, I hope you will be seen and executed on the spot. God protect your executioner!’

In her room Matilda Carter chewed her lip and rubbed her hands together in a tortured near-frenzy. She didn’t know where her husband was, and she needed his support. Andrew Carter and Nicholas, her brother, had both left the house earlier with their horses without telling her where they were going. What was she to do? The murderer who had killed her child was escaping.

Until today she had known hope: that Dyne could be struck down in the church, that he might commit suicide, that someone might slay him as he went to abjure – but
no
! Even that small comfort was denied her. She must sit and tolerate his escape. Let him go without a murmur.

She wouldn’t – she
couldn’t
! There was a resolve within her. She wanted Joan to be avenged so that her only child could rest peacefully in her grave. Matilda walked to her chest and lifted the lid. Inside was Joan’s clothing from the day she had died. Matilda lifted it aside and reached beneath. Her hands closed upon her knife.

Tying it to her waist, she pulled out a green cloak and draped it over her shoulders before walking composedly out to the stableyard.

When he died, it wasn’t with a whimper but a great howl. Baldwin had seen many deaths in his time, but he knew that poison was evil, and since the time of Eve the serpent’s bite was the death that revolted all men.

He and Jeanne had been riding with their hounds seeking quarry for their lunch. It was the first time that he had brought Jeanne to this hill since their marriage; it was a sheltered area over to the eastern edge of his demesne, largely left as waste, with the nearest barton some mile or more southwards hidden deep in a valley near Sir Baldwin’s own mill.

They had ridden here in the bright sunlight of midday. Jeanne’s high-spirited Arab mare, which he had given her on their wedding day, was eager for exercise. As the land opened up and they left the trees behind, the thoroughbred began tossing her head, whinnying and prancing, and at last Baldwin had laughed and pointed ahead through the gorse bushes to a lone oak. ‘I’ll wager a new Baltic Squirrel skin to a penny that I can beat you to the tree there!’

Jeanne showed her teeth in a smile and before he could say more, she applied her switch to the Arab’s rump and felt the animal explode into action beneath her.

It was startling whenever she allowed the beast to run at her own speed. Jeanne felt the muscles bunch and jarr as they propelled the animal forward into a rough, unbalanced gallop, but then the roughness was gone and in its place there was a smooth, steady regularity to the mare’s movement. The wind was in Jeanne’s face, tugging at her wimple, and suddenly it was gone, torn away, and she felt her braided hair whip loose. Unconsciously she crouched over the mare’s neck; the sense of motion, of speed, of onrushing bushes which were before her, level, and then gone in a moment, was so exhilarating Jeanne had an urge to scream with an almost pagan delight.

As she approached the tree she glanced over her shoulder to see where her husband was. He was taking a longer route, and she gave a brief frown wondering why – but then her mare turned. Startled, Jeanne tried to wrench the horse back, but she refused to obey and continued up the hill a way before heading back towards the tree.

When they arrived, Baldwin was there already, innocently picking at his teeth with his fingernail, a knee crooked over his horse’s withers. ‘You took a while.’

She glared at him before studying the ground carefully. ‘You cheated! That’s a bog.’

‘It can get damp,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘But it’s not deep, only wet.’

‘And I could have gone straight through it!’

‘Not with your mare, my love,’ he laughed. ‘She fell into it once before, and never goes near it now. I think you owe me a penny.’

She lifted her chin in imitation of disdain and looked down her nose at him. ‘Certainly, Sir Knight. If you think the wager that important, I shall be glad to pay you when we return.’

Catching hold of her bridle, he grinned, glancing all about them with a meaningful air. ‘If you can’t pay, I shall be forced to demand payment in kind.’