The Traitor of St. Giles (9 page)

Normally the portly baker wouldn’t have come: there was no point in his performing menial tasks like this when he had an apprentice, Jack, to do it for him. But Jack had some kind of sickness and was laid up, shivering as if he had the ague, sweating and throwing up. Piers’s wife had fetched the physician, who had inspected Jack’s urine for fully an hour, then his most recent stool, before declaring solemnly that the boy needed to stay in bed, get bled, and eat only food and drink for a hot, dry humour. Then he ran off to fetch the necessary potions. In the meantime it was obvious that the boy must remain in his cot in the hall. He could hardly lift sacks of flour in his present state.

His day was ruined, Piers brooded, and all because of that good-for-nothing brat. Jack was nearly eleven, or so his father had said, almost a man. Piers had never taken days off when
he
was an apprentice. An employee abed was no use to him. Yet while he irritably listed Jack’s faults, the anxiety wouldn’t leave him. The baker was fond of his apprentice and, much as he tried to conceal the fact from himself, he was worried about the boy.

He was just contemplating the next few days without Jack when he came across a man standing in the middle of the road.

‘Sir, sir – have you seen a knight on this road?’

Piers eyed the panting fellow doubtfully. From his pock-marked face to his tatty hose and tunic, made of the cheapest-looking cloth, this man looked more like a draw-latch or some other form of felon than a traveller. ‘No one. Why?’

‘My master, he’s gone missing!’ It was William Small, Sir Gilbert’s companion.

‘He’s probably gone to have a shit,’ Piers said dismissively.

‘It can’t be that. He went last night,’ William said. ‘Anyway, he wanted me with him.’

‘Really?’

‘Don’t look at me like that, man. I’ve guarded him all the way from London because he feared attack, and now he’s disappeared!’

Piers was about to speak when a call came from the woods. ‘What in
God’s name
?’ It was a shuddering howl of anguish, mournful and doom-laden.

‘Christ Jesus!’ Piers said, fingering his rosary.

‘God’s cods!’ said William with feeling, and drew his dagger. ‘Come on, help me.’

Piers jumped down and dug about in the back of his cart, dragging free a pair of cudgels – good, strong blackthorn clubs that could break a man’s skull. He cast an anxious look at his cart, fearing that it might be stolen, then grimaced and made off after the sailor.

The woods here were thick and overgrown. Brambles tore at Piers’s hose, snagging at threads and wrecking them. He glanced down fretfully, knowing how his wife would rail at him for making such a mess of his clothing, but then smiled grimly. There was little likelihood that she would worry too much about them when she realised he had lost a morning’s work chasing about in the woods after someone who could well have knocked him on the head.

‘This way!’

The baker was no fool. He knew that life was full of risks, and also knew that the man he was following could well prove to be the advance member of a gang of trail bastons, but no gang of thieves would bother to rob him. He wasn’t carrying money and if felons wanted to get rich they’d attack someone nearer the road. No one would steal a cart of flour. Unless they intended stealing his horse . . .

He hesitated. He was already some distance from the road, and he couldn’t see his cart or horse anymore. Chewing at his lip, he listened to the crashing of the other man as William sped forward. Another gloomy cry broke on the air, and now Piers could recognise it as a dog howling dolefully. He felt torn, unsure which way to go. To his right was a gap – he could see the sunlight falling on a pretty, buttercup-strewn glade – and deciding he could move faster across such a clearing, he made for it.

Long grasses rustled past his knees. His feet felt as though they were sinking into a thick carpet of the softest silk. Up ahead was the source of the noise, and Piers hurried along, his eyes fixed on the darkness beneath the trees from where the noises appeared to issue.

Thus it was that he didn’t see the lump until it was too late, and he went flying, falling on his cudgels and dropping both. ‘What in God’s name?’ he muttered angrily. Rising, he kicked out at the thing.

Before his terrified gaze he saw a man’s head fly up into the air, only to fall a short distance away, the eyes wide in horror, the mouth slackly open, the neck a red and bloody mess.

‘God! . . . Christ alive!’ Piers declared in shock, and the head stared back.

The baker clutched at his belly, trying not to vomit. Remembering himself, he made a hasty sign of the cross, then tugged his rosary free and muttered a prayer. There was something wrong with his beads; they felt slick and oily in his hands, and he looked down to see that they were smothered and beslobbered with semi-congealed blood. Then, a couple of paces away, he saw the headless body. He winced with revulsion. The ground all about him was red with blood. It was repellent to be covered in this filth. Flies buzzed about him already: he would stink by the time he got home if the sun stayed as warm all the way.

Hearing an anguished shout, he wiped his hands on clean grass, snatched up his cudgels, and ran towards the call without once glancing backwards. Jumping a low barrier of fern and bramble, he found himself in a darker area where the sun was blotted out by thick growth overhead. Dried leaves and twigs snapped and rustled under his feet as he hurried on, and then before him he saw another clearing.

When he broke in, he slowed in his onwards rush and gradually came to a halt. In the trees above him, three large black carrion birds noisily launched themselves into the air and flew away.

On the ground before him knelt William, but as Piers took in the scene he gasped and clapped a blood stained hand over his mouth.

Before William was the dead body of a dog, who lay in a thick pool of his own gore. A second large dog lay a few yards from William, and hearing Piers’s approach, this one raised his head and stared at him, head tilted a little as if in vague enquiry. The expression on the animal’s face was one of unutterable sadness, and after a moment he looked away, resting his chin on his paws and gazing at another corpse.

It was that of a man in his prime of life; a tall man, his head resting on a tree root, his hands clasped together at the hilt of the sword lying on his breast like one already laid in his grave.

A knight.

Tiverton Castle was not the largest Baldwin had ever visited, but it was in a strong position to guard the bridge over the river. South and west it was protected by the River Exe; north were marshes, and the castle had good, massive walls to enclose its lord. The court was oddly shaped, designed to fit the space, and stables and outhouses were filled. Men and women hurried on their duties, guards lounged and guests wandered around getting in everyone else’s way.

The great hall had been cleaned and decorated in honour of the feast –
and
to show off the best silver and pewter plate of the de Courtenay family, Baldwin added to himself. It was set out on a heavy sideboard, taking up four shelves – a proud display of the power and money the family commanded. On the walls hung tapestries with rich embroidery showing scenes of chivalric magnificence: unicorns and lions fought, knights tilted at each other or knelt praying while their serfs tilled the fields, sheared sheep, and drove carts filled with produce. The floor had been laid with fresh rushes, and their scent reminded Baldwin of long days idling in fields, although they did pose something of a risk to some of the ladies in their long gowns and skirts. Baldwin noticed several stumble as, unwittingly, they managed to sweep the rushes before them, building up a small rampart which they then tripped over.

The hall was crowded. Music from the minstrels in their small gallery over the screens meant people were forced to speak more loudly, although the freely-flowing drink encouraged them. Baldwin looked about him, recognising some of his peers from other towns: knights, esquires, clerics, advocates. More were arriving and he began to wonder whether they would all fit, especially with the numbers of servants on every side, passing jugs of wine and ale, handing platters of small pastries, tarts and titbits.

He saw a face he knew: Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple. Baldwin looked away hurriedly and walked off with his wife in the opposite direction.

There were many others he knew. The Coroner, like Sir Peregrine, Baldwin avoided. Men gained reputations when they won positions of power, and Coroner Harlewin le Poter had earned that of a womaniser, politician and corrupt official. It was a sad comment on the officers of justice that so many were similarly labelled, but Baldwin’s personal loathing of injustice led him to keep away from Harlewin.

Jeanne and he migrated to a corner with people whom Baldwin did not recognise. It was here that he met Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok for the first time, two men whom he was to get to know well. Andrew, he heard, was one of Tiverton’s leading merchants, while Nicholas hailed from Exeter – which was clearly not his original home: his accent was softened with the years, but there were strong traces of Welsh. Baldwin was struck by their appearance: both were pale as if from lack of sleep, and Andrew in particular was curt almost to the point of rudeness.

His wife Matilda was a slim woman in her late thirties. She appeared utterly indifferent to the people about her – indeed, Baldwin thought she was intentionally ignoring them, but then he saw the tic fluttering beneath her eye, noted her gaunt appearance and realised she was suffering from some deep inner sadness.

‘This is Cecily Sherman,’ Jeanne announced.

The newcomer was shortish, attractive, plump and dark-haired. Constantly smiling, she had a gushing manner that was in no way irritating, but more entrancing: the residual girlishness of a young woman. Baldwin placed her in her early twenties. While the men talked she rarely interrupted, but her comments were succinct and often very witty. Baldwin gained the impression that she was a skilled flirt.

When her husband John was pointed out to him, Baldwin saw a heavy-set man, tall, with grizzled hair, cleanshaven and heavy of shoulder. In appearance he looked much like a knight or some other trained martial artist, strong and proud. Baldwin was interested to see that Cecily Sherman rarely glanced at her husband. Her attention, Baldwin noticed, was more often upon the Coroner.

The party was proving enjoyable, if loud, but the jolly atmosphere was ruined when a guard hurried in with the bedraggled figure of Piers Bakere.

‘Did you recognise the corpses?’

‘No, Coroner. The beheaded one I didn’t give more than a glance to. I’ve seen dead men before – who hasn’t? – but tripping over a man’s head . . . well, it’s not something I’ve done before. As to the knight, I’ve no idea who
he
was.’

Harlewin le Poter was a vain man, Baldwin thought. He appeared to be listening intently to the baker – but Baldwin was sure that he was merely putting on an act and that belief rankled. The affair sounded too serious to be treated in a frivolous mood.

Baldwin could see the baker clearly. He looked nervous, and there was no surprise in that, with the poor fellow having to stand in front of the most important people in the shire. Piers was unkempt, and his hands seemed to be streaked and spotted with rusty stains. Only later did Baldwin realise that this was, in fact, dried blood.

‘You say that both men were outside the verge?’ Harlewin asked, studying his pot and sipping. He was dressed in bright reds and blues, with a plain white shirt under his blue cotte and red surcoat, and parti-coloured hose hiding his legs. From the size of his belly Baldwin guessed he was not a particularly dedicated officer of the law. If he were, he could not have grown so fat, for there were only two Coroners to cover the whole of Devonshire at present, and since they had the responsibility to investigate all sudden deaths so as to ensure that fines from the vills were all paid whenever the King’s Peace was broken, both should cover many leagues each week.

‘Yes, sir. They were in the woods a long way from the road, far from the town.’

‘And you are sure both were dead?’

A small frown passed over Piers’s brow. ‘You mean the beheaded one?’

‘Don’t be frivolous, fool! I can have you gaoled if you don’t behave respectfully,’ Harlewin snapped, flushing. ‘This knight: how do you know he was dead?’

‘He didn’t wake when his dog howled,’ Piers said as if reciting a story. ‘He didn’t wake when I called him, didn’t wake when I touched him, and his face was cold.’ He paused as if suddenly remembering and added, ‘Oh, and there was a stab-wound in his back.’

‘How did you know he was a knight?’

‘By his golden spurs and his belt,’ Piers said scathingly. ‘How else would you recognise a knight?’

‘Damn your soul, learn courtesy!’ Harlewin snapped, dashing his pot to the ground. ‘You can learn your position in the town’s gaol, if you prefer!’

‘I apologise,’ Piers said with oily sincerity, but Baldwin could see the contempt in his eyes. For some reason Baldwin found himself alerted to Harlewin’s stance and gestures. The man seemed unsurprised by the news, his actions and voice geared more to impressing his audience than extracting information.

Harlewin snapped his fingers to a servant and took another pot of wine. ‘You left these two bodies in the care of this other man?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I suppose I must organise the posse,’ Harlewin yawned. ‘Although it is most annoying.’ He glanced at the door through which at any moment Lord de Courtenay was expected to enter. ‘Since both were dead, you’ll both have to pay the sureties. You can consider yourself attached.’

‘Sir, I have to get back to my shop,’ Piers protested. ‘If I’m arrested, how’ll I be able to pay the fine?’

‘I hope you have the money. You know the law: if a man is found dead, the finder must be amerced – he has to pay a surety to show he will attend the inquest. You and this other fellow were the first finders, so you must both pay, as must those who live nearest the place where the bodies were found, although . . .’ he meditated a moment ‘. . . God only knows who lives nearest. Ah, well. I suppose we’ll have to attach and amerce everyone who lives along the road.’