The Traitor of St. Giles (7 page)

‘And how could a poor woman pay?’ she demanded, then squealed with delight when he tickled her ribs and pulled her towards him.

‘Only a kiss, my Lady, for now. In a moment, we could leave the horses to feed while we take some wine and rest in the grass.’

‘What do you think I am, a milkmaid?’ she asked, but could not maintain the pretence of indifference and began to chuckle.

He dismounted and stood at her side, holding out his hands. She took a quick look about her, checking that they were alone, before letting herself drop down, feeling his arms encircle her. Soon she was lying on her back, her husband above, smiling down at her, his hand on her belly, stroking and teasing, his face coming closer.

At that moment they heard the loud, tortured bellow of agony.

Uther had wandered idly away from Baldwin and Jeanne. He was used to occupying himself when his master dithered and there were plenty of odours to entrance him here: rabbits, a hare, foxes, and dogs, plenty of dogs. And when he saw the burst of movement nearby – a swirling of dust in the sunlight and a shimmer of green silk – he shoved his short nose closer to the viper . . .

When the old priest coughed, he brought up blood. Squeezing his eyes tight shut with the pain, he prayed for a speedy release.

He had sent the boy from the nearest farm to fetch Father Abraham from Tiverton, but neither had returned yet. Father Benedict found it hurtful that Abraham should not have responded more urgently to his summons, for after all they were brothers in God’s service.

The Father lifted his head at the sound of hooves clattering down the track, an exhausted man old before his time. He sipped water from his bowl and unsteadily rose to his feet, feeling the phlegm in his lungs threatening to choke him, and hobbled to the doorway to see who it was, but when he squinted into the daylight he felt as if he was seeing a ghost.

‘Merciful and gracious God! Is it really him?’

Sir Gilbert dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, removing a saddlebag before he realised he was being watched. Whirling around he glowered fiercely, his hand flashing to his sword.

‘Brother Gilbert, there’s no need for that!’ Father Benedict exclaimed with a low chuckle. As it degenerated into a hacking cough, he saw the knight’s face fill with solicitous concern.

Spitting out a gobbet of blood, he waved a hand. ‘Do not fear for me, Brother Gilbert. I’m dead. It’s just that this old body of mine refuses to topple over.’

The Father allowed his visitor to help him inside, and once there Sir Gilbert insisted on Father Benedict lying on his palliasse. He curled his lip at the rank-smelling water and instead went and fetched a wineskin from his horse, holding it to the priest’s mouth until he sipped a little.

Father Benedict tried to reject his ministrations, but Sir Gilbert refused to leave his side until the priest from Tiverton had come to listen to his confession. ‘If I don’t wait here, you might die unshriven,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Where else would an old fool like me go? Here there is water and the locals are kind to me. None of them believe the nonsense told about us.’

‘You have stayed here at Templeton all this time?’

‘I did think about leaving – but who would then look to the interests of the parishioners here? I doubt whether Father Abraham could be bothered to come so far, and although Witheridge should be in charge of this chapel, the priest there prefers his wine and food to travel. The folk about here are used to me, they remember me from my time as the chaplain to the chapel for the Order, and while I was seeing to their souls, I felt I was doing God’s work.’

Sir Gilbert rested with the elderly and dying cleric. He daren’t leave. If no one else came along he must listen to Father Benedict’s confession as was his duty as a Christian. It was good to see the chaplain from his past, but it was also a relief to hear hoofbeats approaching. Going to the door Sir Gilbert saw a cleric and a young lad riding down the lane. It reminded him why he was here, but first he knelt at Father Benedict’s side. ‘I must go, Father. Please, could you bless me?’

Father Benedict choked, but the tears in his eyes had nothing to do with the illness which held him in its grip. He smiled, muttering in Latin, finishing with the sign of the cross. ‘Go with my blessing, my son.’

‘First, where is the reliquary, Father?’

The surprised priest told him, and Sir Gilbert took his hand and kissed it reverently. Rising, he took up his bags and strode off. A short while later Father Abraham appeared.

‘I am sorry to take so long. A man was in my sanctuary and I was witnessing his abjuration. Who was that?’

Father Benedict would have been more cautious if he hadn’t felt so ill but his pain made him careless. ‘Sir Gilbert of Carlisle. He used to be here with me when I was chaplain for the Order.’

It was hot in the heavy fustian tunic in which a pilgrim should be clad, and Philip Dyne was taken by an itch that he couldn’t clear. His sweat was soaking into the cloth, and each drip seemed to attract a number of hairs, each of which prickled and irritated.

The road was thankfully flat now. Left was the slow, meandering river, while on his right the hill rose up, covered with tall, ancient trees. The road itself was a mere slash through the trees and grass, although wild plants fought for prominence at the roadside: gorse, valerian, foxglove, buttercups and daisies. Occasionally he inhaled their strong, sweet scents. There was a constant gurgling from the river here and another, less welcome sound. At first he thought he had mistaken it, but as he continued, gripping his little wooden cross firmly in his left hand, head lowered devoutly, he heard it again: horses.

Once more he was filled with foreboding. It was the same every time he met someone on the road. His guilt was apparent from his garb and demeanour, and he felt the shame that both conferred upon him, although most travellers he had encountered tended to ask him with interest what he had done, rather than try to insult or threaten him. One girl had even appeared to be fascinated with his crime, stating her conviction that he must be a murderer and asking what it was like to have killed a man. She offered him her body, but her ghoulish curiosity repelled him.

Now so taken with his gloomy thoughts, Dyne hardly heard the horses as they came close. It was only when one was almost upon him that he darted from beneath its hooves, stumbling over a stone to fall flat on his face at the verge.

‘You can move fast enough at need, then.’

Rolling over he saw it was Andrew Carter and he hurriedly climbed to his feet. The hatred in Carter’s eyes told him his life was in danger. Carter was pale, his features twisting with emotion, and as Philip Dyne watched him, the man’s hand strayed to his knife’s hilt.

‘Wait, Andrew,’ said the man at his side, Nicholas Lovecok, putting his hand to his brother-in-law’s before Andrew could pull his dagger free of its sheath.

Andrew threw him a furious look and spat on the ground between them. ‘Christ! But he’ll escape – and after he murdered poor Joan.’

‘The evil shit won’t get away with what he did,’ Lovecok said, glancing coolly at Dyne, who knelt gripping his cross with hands that shook.

That look, the expression of malevolent certainty, told Philip Dyne that he would never succeed in getting to Exeter. These men would destroy him long before then. As the realisation burst upon him he heard more hooves. The relief was so acute he felt his head whirl. A large group of men and women on horseback were coming along the road, chattering and laughing as they rode. Some shot Philip Dyne a curious look, no doubt wondering what a man dressed like a penitent was doing, talking to two merchants so far from a town – or maybe it was the tense expressions on all their faces.

Philip was torn. If he were to admit to his position, he might be saved by the folk, but then again it was as likely that he would be held by them and slain – either with their consent or their active participation. Looking back up the hill towards the protection that the trees offered, he saw that he could never make it. Even at full tilt, it would take so long to cover the thirty or so yards that the horses would hardly need to hurry to catch him. What’s more, even if by some miracle he made it up the hill, the brambles there would trap him; pinioning him as effectively as a felon in irons. A perfect target.

He opened his mouth to shout for help, but as he did so Andrew Carter kicked his horse and rode on. Nicholas Lovecok smiled coldly at Philip Dyne, and as he moved away, he whispered in a chilling voice: ‘I look forward to seeing you again soon . . .
Very
soon.’

Baldwin was up in a flash, his hand on his riding sword, and he swept it out in a shimmering arc of blue as he crouched, seeking the source of the terrible cry.

In a moment he saw Uther, reeling drunkenly, shaking his head, and Baldwin almost laughed. He thought the dog had bitten a bee – Uther had done so before, snapping them from the air before regretting his temerity – but then he realised that the dog was in too much pain; was too terrified. And then Uther crashed to the ground in a frenzy, and Baldwin felt as if his own heart had been stabbed.

He ran up the incline to Uther’s side and dropped to his knees. The dog’s eyes had disappeared, rolled back so that the white alone showed, and foam whitened his mouth. A small, ridiculously small, speck of blood showed near his eye at the dog’s temple, and Baldwin smoothed it away, murmuring soft endearments.

For a moment Uther seemed to rally. His eyes reappeared and Baldwin could see him look up at him. Baldwin managed a smile although he felt as if his heart was bursting. His face felt hot, his eyes ready to flood with tears, and there was a clenching sensation at the back of his throat.

Uther gently took his forearm in his mouth and closed his eyes as another spasm burst through his body and Baldwin was scarcely aware of his own pain as the teeth gripped tighter and tighter before Uther died.

Andrew Carter spurred his horse on furiously, riding pell-mell along the road, ignoring Nicholas’s calls until he had worked the demonic anger from his system.

‘Brother, you cannot keep on like this,’ Nicholas panted when he had caught up with him.

‘Christ alive! I want the bastard dead for what he did!’ Carter spat, his fat features mauve with his emotion. ‘You know what he did to your niece – or had you forgotten?’

‘By St Peter, of course I do! How could I forget?’

‘He raped her, didn’t he? He admitted as much, and when he had done enjoying himself, he throttled her, right?’

‘For God’s sake, Andrew, keep your voice down,’ Nicholas said urgently.

Looking up the road, Carter saw a small group of travellers approaching. He kicked his horse and wandered off the road a short way, and when he spoke again his voice was a low, bitter rumble: ‘How do you expect me to keep calm when the girl has been murdered, eh? God’s blood, I want Dyne to suffer for what he did to her. An eye for an eye, that’s what the Bible tells me I deserve, and that’s what I want!
His
damned eye for hers; his blood for hers. I’ll make the shit suffer.’

Nicholas studied his brother-in-law’s face for a moment. ‘You’ll have his heart for what he did to Joan,’ he said softly. ‘But if you keep shouting your intentions to the world, you’ll be arrested yourself.’

‘Not if . . .’

‘I know,’ Nicholas interrupted, his patience wearing thin, and reaching forward he grabbed the bridle of the other man’s mount. ‘And if our plan works, we’ll be able to see to him, but if you keep breaking out into this sanguine temper every time we meet people on the way to Tiverton, not only will you not succeed, you’ll end up being attached at the nearest court as well. Is that what you want?’

‘I want his head on a plate!’

‘Then use
your
head, man, and stop this ranting. Jesus save us!’ His voice dropped to a low whisper. ‘Because if you don’t, much though I adored poor Joan, I’ll leave you here on your own and go back to Exeter. I won’t risk gaol or death to help a fool.’

Carter stiffened, meeting Nicholas’s solemn gaze with a sullen glower. After a moment he looked down, suddenly ashamed, and Nicholas released his horse.

‘And now, brother, let’s carry on and see whether we might be able to execute – ha! – your revenge.’

Andrew and Nicholas would not have ridden away so quickly had they known that Matilda was watching them. She had missed Dyne’s abjuration, but she asked men in the town’s square and soon learned which road he had taken. Riding off after him, it was not long before she saw him ahead of her, and she was about to ride up to him and slash at him when she saw her husband and brother approach him. She watched, half-thrilled to think that she was about to see Dyne die, but also jealous not to have the savage joy of executing her daughter’s murderer herself.

From her vantage-point partway up the hillside, Matilda couldn’t hear what her husband and brother said to the evil wretch, but she saw the way that the two men rode off, and saw the outlaw who had killed her daughter drop to his knees and cross himself, praying as a band of travellers appeared.

The sight made her shiver with contempt. This was a man who dared rape and murder, yet he begged God’s protection when others sought to avenge his victim. She was tempted to spur her mount, draw her blade and run him down there and then; there could be no doubt that she had justice on her side. Her feet swept forward to hack at her mount’s flanks, but then she hesitated, irresolute.

Executing the felon in full view of travellers on the way to St Giles’s Fair could lead to an unreasonable attack on
her
. Others might not realise the depth of Philip Dyne’s crimes. They might disbelieve her, or take his side and protect him, perhaps killing her if she attacked him. Matilda was only a woman. If she were to stab Dyne, she could be overwhelmed or run through as a madwoman – possibly before she’d killed Dyne.

She wanted him dead: she craved justice for Joan. But for that her blow must have a chance of success.

Fleetingly she wondered where her husband could have gone, and then she realised that Andrew and Nicholas must be setting a trap for Dyne further along the road. They were good men, her husband and brother. They wouldn’t feebly moan and complain about Dyne escaping. She was unfair to accuse them of such a thing. No, they were here to ensure Dyne’s execution for his sins. They would see to him.