The Traitor of St. Giles (15 page)

‘Ah, Coroner. I hope I find you well?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

Harlewin grunted noncommittally. ‘I’ve sorted out the death of the felon, though why the knight should have died is anyone’s guess.’

‘Surely the felon murdered the knight? That is what felons do.’

Harlewin sourly studied his drink. ‘Perhaps.’

‘It would make the life of your lord a great deal easier, Coroner.’ Seeing he had Harlewin’s attention, Sir Peregrine spoke softly. ‘Our Lord Hugh is a little perturbed that a murder has been committed here just as he’s preparing to hold a feast. He’d be much happier if I could inform him that the matter is closed, that you’ve found that the murdered man was killed by a felon, a man abjuring the realm, who was then himself shortly afterwards executed by two upright citizens of Tiverton. You understand me?’

Harlewin watched the knight stride away down the stairs and out to the yard. ‘So why do you want this knight forgotten, Sir Peregrine?’ he muttered cynically. ‘Or is it your Marcher Lords whom you seek to please?’

True, the knight’s suggestion would save a lot of difficulty; it was a logical explanation; and he had a duty to his Lord. Draining his pot, he marched back to the hall. Seeing Simon and Baldwin with Jeanne at the far side of the hall, Harlewin smiled broadly.

‘Bailiff Puttock, Sir Baldwin? Congratulate me! I have slept on the problem and already I have solved both murders!’

Toker stretched and walked into the bright daylight of the castle’s court. He didn’t notice Aylmer, who had found a cool patch of grass at the entrance to one of the servants’ rooms and lay down blocking the doorway. Toker knew he had come across the man he had seen the previous evening fairly recently, but much had happened over the last few weeks and he had met a great many new people.

Idly, he ran his mind over the last few days. He had detoured on the journey back to Tiverton, taking his men with him on the road to Bristol to hear the latest news from Wales.

The Despenser lands, he learned, were being systematically ruined, their crops destroyed, houses and castles burned or otherwise wasted. Eight Despenser castles were already wrecked. All the family’s possessions were being ransacked, their luxurious belongings stolen. The list of goods was proof enough of their greed: tables of ivory and ebony, chessboards with chessmen of fine crystal, rich clothing, silver and jewellery.

It wasn’t enough that the Despensers had lost it all: they had escaped into exile. If Toker could have had his way, both Despensers would have been hanged, drawn and quartered. They were an abomination: power-crazed thieves whose robberies were all the more obscene in the light of their already enormous wealth.

Toker spat and took a long draught of ale; William was completely forgotten now. The waste of the Despensers’ lands was good to hear. It proved that the tyranny of that deplorable family was ended. No Despenser would ever again be able to hold the kingdom in his hand. Even the King must recognise the damage done to his realm.

The attitude of people up towards Bristol had surprised him. They appeared to think the Lords of the Marches were acting from self-interest and were no better than the Despensers. Toker was convinced they were wrong. Without the Despensers, the country could be ruled once more by the King with wise and pragmatic advisers: men who looked more to the chivalric codes than to their own advantage; men who could be trusted. Perhaps he might even be able to find a little honour and forget the lawless period of his life. That thought brought a wry smile to this face, for he knew that when he had the chance he couldn’t help but return to his felonious ways. In London he had joined his men in looting a shop during a riot; on another occasion, while bonfires lit the night sky, he’d slipped inside a merchant’s house and walked away with a good collection of plate. The instinct to take what he could was too strong; the urge to serve himself in case he lost his lord again.

Toker knew himself. He would always tend to resort to theft when he could. He needed a war, a means of winning money. If the Despensers returned –
then
, Toker thought, he would be able to get enough to set himself up for life. He’d never have to work again; he could just sit in a tavern all day and drink.

‘Whose dog is that?’

It was Perkin; he was staring at the hound. Aylmer lay in a doorway out of the sun, but Perkin glared at him with loathing.

‘I’ve seen that mutt somewhere,’ Perkin said.

As he spoke Wat walked towards Aylmer. His foot caught a stone, which flew through the air and hit the dog’s shoulder. Instantly Aylmer woke and rose fluidly into a menacing crouch, his head below his shoulders, his legs bent ready to spring, while a low, vicious growl rumbled from deep in his throat.

Wat froze in fear. ‘Christ!’

A groom laughed: a maid from the kitchen cried, ‘Don’t touch him – he must be rabid.’

‘Yeah, mind out, dog!’ someone called with a laugh.

Toker’s men sniggered as Wat nervously retreated. ‘I only wanted to get to the storeroom. Someone call the dog off.’

‘Who owns the thing?’ shouted Owen.

Toker listened but didn’t look at him. The little Welshman was always nervous, and the anxiety in his voice was proof, if Toker had needed it, that the man was unreliable. Sir Peregrine had foisted him on Toker before going to London saying he was a good archer, but so far he’d been useless in fights. Anyway, why call the dog off ? Toker was like his men – he was interested to see how the dog would see off the brat. Yet the dog’s stance looked familiar . . .

‘He doesn’t like being kicked,’ said William. He lounged at the door to the hall, a large pot in his hand, leaning on the rough wooden handrail. The sun was warm on his face and he felt good. He didn’t notice Toker or his men, he was watching Wat with an amused grin. Taking a deep, contented gulp of ale, he said, ‘Aylmer gets angry when people prod him.’

Toker lifted his eyes to stare. It was that man again, and his voice was familiar . . . and then Toker remembered a street in London, two dogs, two servants and a knight.

‘He’s going to bite me – can’t you move him?’ Wat cried, close to tears.

‘Alymer –
move
!’ William shouted without looking.

Instantly the dog circled warily around Wat and walked to a patch of scrubby grass where he lay down. It was at the same time that Toker felt the burst of excitement in his breast as he remembered that interesting little chest. Slowly he made an oath, pulled out his dagger and kissed the blade.

Jeanne could see that her husband was astonished at the Coroner’s words.

Baldwin blinked and stammered, ‘How . . .? But who?’ Harlewin was evidently delighted to see how his words had stunned the knight. The Coroner chuckled fruitily, drained his jug of ale and tossed it towards Edgar, who just managed to catch it.

‘Fill that, man. Well, Sir Baldwin, the beheaded man, Philip

Dyne, was an abjurer.’

Jeanne raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Edgar, who stuck his nose in the air and sniffed scornfully before walking out.

Harlewin continued without noticing: ‘Philip Dyne had raped and murdered a girl here in Tiverton – Carter’s daughter. Caused quite a stir. Managed to get to St Peter’s and hide in the sanctuary. Of course I went and demanded that he should give himself up, but he wouldn’t: demanded his forty days of sanctuary. So that was that. I posted guards, hoping that one of them would sleep and give him a chance to escape so we could hunt the bastard down, but he knew he was safe in there. So, we held a formal ceremony of abjuration and off he went.’

‘Carter’s daughter?’ Simon cried.

‘Yesterday. Didn’t get very far, did he?’ He looked up as Edgar passed him a jug. It was filled, but the Coroner winced at the taste. ‘God’s bollocks, man! This is practically undrinkable!’

‘It is the normal ale, sir.’

Jeanne looked away, trying not to giggle. Edgar’s distant manner, his offhandedness, was as near to an open insult as a servant could go.

Baldwin frowned. ‘But so what? If the man made his confession and left, he was protected. He should not have been killed.’

‘No, Sir Baldwin, he shouldn’t. Unless, of course, he tried to commit another felony. Or left the road ordained.’

‘And that is what you think happened?’

Jeanne watched Harlewin as he drank. An unmannered man, he belched and wiped his mouth with his hand before picking his ear with an enquiring finger, studying the wax adhering to his nail with interest. Jeanne had the impression that he wouldn’t be capable of any flights of intellect. He was a simple man at heart.

Harlewin rolled the wax into a ball and flicked it away. ‘Yes, Sir Baldwin, I think that’s what happened. The fool saw the knight in among the trees and nipped in after him. While he was there, he stabbed Sir Gilbert and took his purse but then he was ridden down by two law-abiding men who took off his head for his crime.’

‘And who were these two upright men?’ Baldwin asked, and Jeanne could hear the sarcasm cloying his voice.

‘Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok. They should be here by now. Would you like to hear their evidence?’

Andrew Carter reluctantly gazed down at the bodies deposited on the cobbles; the knight with his clothing all awry, his long
cyclas
or surcoat ridden up about his waist to show his
gambeson
beneath, the linen stuffed with rags or wool to make a protective quilted jacket.

Alongside him, the headless corpse of Dyne looked scruffy, the cloth of his tunic filthy with the blood which had been spilled over it, the material loose where it had merely been draped over the body. His head sat alongside, resting on the ground with his eyes left open so that he looked alive, as if he had been buried up to his chin in the cobbled yard and the headless body was that of another man.

A ring of men stood around them, four and twenty or more, with several male children among them – the jury. The priest was already there, unpacking his roll of vellum or whatever he used, setting his reeds and inks just so on the trestle-table put up for him. He glanced up and met Andrew’s eye. There was a slight flicker there, but then he looked away again, and Andrew suddenly felt queasy. He should never have paid the priest to ensure the man’s escape. The priest knew what he’d done.

At the far side of the men was his brother-in-law, and he walked slowly to Nicholas’s side, reaching him just as Piers Bakere and William Small were led out.

‘Nick?’

‘Quiet! You know what to say.’

‘Yes,’ Andrew agreed and anxiously looked back at the two bodies.

Cecily stood with her husband at the back of the crowd. John Sherman didn’t usually like seeing inquests, but this time he had insisted that they should go and watch. She had thought it was because of something to do with the Coroner, but now she wasn’t sure. Sherman stood with a bitter scowl twisting his features. She put out a hand to his arm, and he looked at her as though he didn’t recognise her.

‘Husband?’

‘I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t feel well,’ he said.

But she had seen that his gaze had been fixed with horror on the body of Sir Gilbert. She looked again. It was odd, she thought, the similarity. It could have been her husband lying there.

Two men were playing dice in the stable and one let out a shrill cry of delight at a winning throw just as Harlewin appeared, Simon and Baldwin following. In the sudden silence the shout was almost an abomination, like a heretic in church screaming his rejection of God.

Harlewin walked over to the bodies and glowered at the men all about him. ‘Come on, lads, give me space, will you? You may be the jury, but I have to have room. Are you ready, Father?’ Seeing the priest nod, he walked to Sir Gilbert’s body and began to strip it. ‘See here, all the clothing on this man. He was said to be a knight, and his clothing proves it. Now,’ he said as he struggled with the quilted gambeson, then the shirt beneath. Soon both bodies were naked, and the assembled men were sombrely quiet. One or two of the younger ones, especially a boy of some nine or ten years, looked close to tears as the last shreds of cloth were pulled away; others craned their necks with fascination.

About the knight’s neck was a small cord, on which was a crucifix and a small iron key. Harlewin took these and studied them a moment before tossing them on top of the pile of clothes. Baldwin reached down and picked them up.

Standing over Philip Dyne, Harlewin held up the head for all to see.

‘I find that this man was beaten about the face. He was bound, laid down and had his head struck off by a blow from a sword or axe or similar weapon.’ Setting the head down, he returned to the naked body and hauled it over and over. ‘There are no stabs on his back, chest, or limbs. His hands have cuts at the fingers, which shows he struggled to defend himself, catching the sword aimed at him.’

He rose, blowing a little from his exertion, and walked to the knight’s body. ‘This was different. A tall, well-built knight. He died from a single stab-wound in his back, here.’ He rolled over the body and pointed. ‘I think it probably penetrated the heart,’ he said, frowning thoughtfully as he stuffed his forefinger deep in the hole. Pulling it free, he studied the blood on it, then wiped it clean on the knight’s shirt. ‘Yes, he must have died almost immediately.’

He stood before the jury and set his hands on his hips. ‘Does anyone have any comments to make?’

One grizzled old man nodded at the headless body. ‘That man was Philip Dyne, the abjurer. If he left the road, he was outlaw, lawful prey of any man finding him. As outlaw he deserved beheading.’

‘Yes, yes, yes, and someone
did
behead him,’ Harlewin noted testily. ‘What of this knight? Anyone know anything about him?’

William spoke up. ‘He was Sir Gilbert, my master and a Knight Bachelor. He was on his way here and went into the woods to seek the felon. Those men told us Dyne had gone,’ he added, pointing at Andrew and Nicholas.

‘Sir Gilbert was found stabbed in the back without his purse,’ Harlewin noted. ‘That was with Dyne, together with the knight’s knife – which suggests to me that Dyne killed him. Now, can you two gentlemen add anything?’