Read The Traitor of St. Giles Online
Authors: Michael Jecks
Other characters have been entirely invented. There
was
no Sir Gilbert of Carlisle to my knowledge, nor was there a Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple. My merchants, breadmakers, whores, men-at-arms, ratcatchers and others are also the result of my imagination.
For those who wish to learn more of the history of the period, I can recommend Mary Saaler’s book
Edward II
and May McKisack’s
The Fourteenth Century
. For more about the Templars, look at John J. Robinson’s
Dungeon, Fire and Sword
and Edward Burman’s
Supremely Abominable Crimes
, while for a marvellous summary of the persecution itself, Norman Cohn’s superb book
Europe’s Inner Demons
shows how the Order was destroyed through malicious propaganda – and how such persecution continues down the ages.
There are some terms and concepts in these pages which might cause readers to think I have not checked my proofs or that my copy-editor missed whole pieces of text. Life was considerably more simple in those days. Justice was more a means of ensuring that revenues to the Crown were protected, rather than ensuring that villeins and other subjects had
their
interests protected.
It was the duty of the jury in the first instance to report to the justices what crimes had been committed and who they thought was responsible. This was the jury of presentment. They reported by issuing their
veredicta
, which were their charges, and the miserable felon would then be hauled off to wait for the trial of gaol delivery, which was when he would be tried by the visiting justices. Here again the jurors would present the facts and the justices would make their decision.
As well as the jury presenting their indictments, other folk could
appeal
a man’s offence. This was a formal accusation of felony which was laid by the victim against the criminal and meant that a jury’s indictment wasn’t necessary – although there were risks. If a felon was found to be innocent, he could then immediately accuse anyone who had appealed against him of ‘conspiracy’ and demand damages.
For those who wish to learn more about criminal trials and the processes, look at J. G. Bellamy’s
The Criminal Trial in Later Medieval England
.
One last topic may arouse interest and that is the subject of fighting. Throughout history the English have exercised a series of martial arts. At times practitioners have been lauded and given approval by governments and kings; at others they have scared those in authority and have had their rights to practise curtailed.
That does not change the fact that experts in fighting have existed for centuries. The
Liber Albus
(c. 1180) mentions them, King Edward I tried to ban the teaching of fencing in London (unsuccessfully) and it was King Henry VIII who finally gave a Royal Warrant to ‘Maisters of Defence’, effectively a martial arts commission. This put the group on a professional footing, like lawyers, and gave them monopolistic rights over controlling all aspects of training men in fighting.
The sole remaining sport which provides evidence of those days is boxing. Hundreds of people flock to watch boxers demonstrating their skill, stamina and speed; in the past there were similar exhibitions, but our forbears were rather more sanguine in their approach to life. Their fights were conducted by men with swords, knives, cudgels, or bare fists – and their weapons were not blunted. Savage wounds were inflicted or received, and one must assume that many of the contestants must have died.
In the twentieth century it is hard to imagine anyone being prepared to fight in this way, but that is because we are conditioned to think differently. To gain an insight into how our ancestors’ minds worked, I cannot recommend Terry Jones’s thoroughly accessible book
Chaucer’s Knight
strongly enough. For evidence of the fighting arts you need look no further than Samuel Pepys’s
Diary
for 1 June 1663, 9 September 1667 and 12 April 1669. On each of these dates he mentions watching bouts. Other letter-writers and diarists also give us tantalising glimpses into the way professional fighting was organised. And of course there were female fencers, dagger-fighters and bare-knuckle fighters as well; this was
not
a male preserve.
The British have exercised with a wide variety of weapons over the centuries. Bows and arrows gave way to swords and sabres, pistols and rifles. However, one type of deadly weapon which has been in constant use for defence in this country is the simple stick. Films show us Little John fighting with Robin Hood, both using staffs, but up to the turn of the last century men protected themselves about town with weighted walking sticks. And back in history, we read in
Piers the Ploughman
that a man would go to protect his wife with his ‘cudgels’, beating off the crowd that beset her.
If you are interested in the history of the English fighting arts, you should read Terry Brown’s
English Martial Arts
. This shows many methods of fighting which have been painstakingly researched by Terry as well as giving the best history of the ‘Maisters of Defence’ I have read.
For my other readers whose interest lies in the stories themselves, I can only hope that this book will be an enjoyable diversion. I had great fun writing it and I sincerely hope you get as much pleasure out of reading it.
Michael Jecks
Dartmoor
July 1999
In the servant’s hall of her father’s house in Tiverton, Joan Carter yawned and stretched. She had been working hard removing the old rushes and strewing fresh ones, but now the light was fading she had to stop. Soon the servants would be finishing their own work for the day and returning out here to the hall where they ate, drank and slept each night.
This room was always dim, set as it was at the back of the house and overshadowed by the merchants’ houses at either side, but Joan was used to the gloom. She had spent much of her young life in this place, here at the back with the servants instead of in the main house with her mother. Not that she slept here with them. Even that comfort was denied her.
She went to the door and peered out. Earlier there had been a thin mizzle falling but it had cleared and the air was dry, with thick clouds hanging apparently motionless in a clear sky. Although it was late and the church bells had already rung for Vespers, she could hear the people in the streets trying to divest themselves of the few remaining goods they had to sell. That meant there were still some four hours until dark, and Joan was determined to enjoy them. She had been cooped up indoors all day, and felt she deserved a rest.
Pulling on a loose-fitting coat she strolled out into the busy cobbled thoroughfare; a quiet, contemplative young woman not yet in her twentieth year. In the lanes it was dim and intimidating, and the smell from the open sewer was foul, mingling with the scent of decomposing flesh from the tanners to create a doubly unwholesome stench. Joan hardly noticed it, however. The alleys and lanes were always fetid in summer, and the people who lived in Tiverton were used to it.
Hucksters bellowed their wares, alewives scurried about filling pots and jugs, prostitutes lounged at corners smiling at the men and boys who visited from outside the town, and Joan felt her mood lift. The atmosphere was happy, bustling and enthusiastic, especially at the small ring where a couple of men had set their dogs against each other; spectators cheered on the two, particularly the winning animal as he ripped open his foe’s neck, spraying blood over a pair of young girls who screamed with glee and giggled, taking shelter behind their mother’s skirts as she smiled indulgently.
Joan grinned, at first because it felt good to see people enjoying themselves, but soon she was smiling simply because she felt happy to be away from the house –
free
!
It was rare for her to feel this light-hearted. Lonely, desperate for the comfort of a companion, she tried to make friends with the servants but they were scared of her and withdrew. They knew her secret. She was outcast from their company: solitary and shunned.
That was how she sometimes saw herself: a separate creature of sadness and despair, almost otherworldly, unable to join in festivities or engage in normal conversation. Yet she generally managed to keep from gloom. She told herself that God would reward her if she endured.
Turning a corner she found herself before a small tavern. Standing there she had a moment’s nervousness: it was daunting to enter a common alehouse on her own. Her father would be appalled if he heard. The thought made her stiffen her back proudly and almost before she realised, she’d made the decision and walked in.
She bought a quart of wine and looked about her for a table. A man glanced up as she hesitated, giving her a smile and casual glance up and down. He was quite good-looking, Joan thought to herself, square-faced and robust-looking. Well-dressed without being showy, with his clean shirt and velvet cotte. At least he didn’t appear drunk. When he stood, she saw he was tall, at least six inches above her, and he had warm, dark eyes set beneath a high, intelligent brow.
‘You want to sit?’ he enquired.
‘No, thank you, I’m only here for a short time,’ she said, ducking her head and walking on to a space near the window. It was so rare for a man to speak to her that she hardly knew where to look. It was embarrassing, silly, for a stranger to talk to her. Why should he? What did he think she was? Some kind of strumpet from the streets? The hot blood of shame leaped into her cheeks and she determined to leave as soon as she could.
Sitting at last, she glanced back and saw that although his friends around the table were laughing as they drank, the man who had spoken was still smiling admiringly at her. The sight sent a thrill of warmth flowing through her veins. Perhaps she needn’t leave
quite
so soon.
In the dark the boat rocked alarmingly as Sir Gilbert of Carlisle climbed in, and he grabbed the sides swearing as the sailors began pulling on the oars.
Yet another ally of Despenser had resiled. It was difficult to find any men who would hold true to their oaths of support for the Despenser family now that armies were marching against them; no one wanted to be on the losing side. It was hard for Sir Gilbert to see how to advise his master, Hugh Despenser the Younger, when all the men he attempted to negotiate with either refused to see him at all or, if they did, laughed in his face. Everyone was now convinced that Despenser would have to leave the kingdom. And that meant Sir Gilbert was faced with a stark choice: face exile with Despenser or stay and seek a new lord.
Not an easy choice. Sir Gilbert had suffered once before from membership of an outlawed group. As a Knight Templar he had been an honoured warrior monk, revered wherever he went, until the French King invented foul lies about the Order so as to steal their wealth. Templar lands had been taken, shared out among the notaries and clerks who had persecuted members of the Order in France; Sir Gilbert himself had been cast aside, evicted from the lands he managed for the Order and forced to wander, masterless. He could still remember the loneliness and despair of his time on the road; he was too old now to go through all that again and to rebuild his life afresh – but the idea of following Despenser into exile filled him with dread.
As the boat rustled through the water towards the sea and the moored Despenser ship, Sir Gilbert had a clear view of both shores of the Thames, and he eyed them unenthusiastically as he passed. This city of London was a swirling pot of lies and intrigue. The King had sowed dissatisfaction by overtly favouring his friends – and now he was reaping the harvest of war.
It was Despenser’s avarice which had brought this disaster down upon all their heads. Hugh Despenser had set about snatching land from brothers-in-law, from neighbours, from anyone weaker than himself, with the sole aim of becoming rich. Then he had set his heart upon the Gower, an obscure piece of southern Welsh territory. With it, Despenser would control the Bristol Channel. William de Braose owned it and was happy to sell to the highest bidder, but then he died and before Despenser could act, de Braose’s son-in-law, John Mowbray, seized it.
Despenser was furious. Going to the King, he persuaded his friend to confiscate the lands. King Edward complied, but neither had realised the strength of opposition. The action confirmed the Lords of the Marches in their concern that their own lordships were threatened. If Despenser could force one lord to lose his inheritance, he could do the same to others, they reasoned, and all rose in arms against Despenser, declaring him to be an enemy of the King and demanding that he should leave the country. Earl Hereford, the Mortimers, Audley, Maurice Berkeley and Damory, were jointly ransacking Despenser lands, marching behind the King’s own banner, declaring themselves to be fighting
for
him against an evil counsellor. Soon they would be here in London – and what then for Sir Gilbert’s chances of survival?