The Traitor of St. Giles (14 page)

Back at his churchyard he walked past the church to his own little house. This, a two-roomed building set into the church’s wall, was already warmed from the fire his sexton had lit for him that morning. The cosy glow gave him a sense of comfort and ease which he had not known for some hours; especially after the ride yesterday. That reminded him: he went to the door and called for the sexton, ordering him to fetch Father Benedict’s body.

He returned to his room and sat on his chair by the fire. There was much to consider, especially now that all these lords and ladies were arriving. Father Abraham knew that he must make notes about each together with their political leanings for his lord, Bishop Stapledon of Exeter. The Bishop had been one of the key political leaders in the country, becoming the Treasurer of the Exchequer. He would want to hear how Lord Hugh was being advised.

Father Abraham shuddered as he recalled the gloomy clearing with the dead bodies of the knight and his dog. Stapledon would want to know of Sir Gilbert’s mission.

The warmth made his eyelids droop and he found himself nodding. The late night yesterday, he told himself. He let his chin fall forward onto his breast, and before long he was asleep.

At the castle’s gate Baldwin called to a man-at-arms and nodded towards William. ‘This man is a witness to the murder of Sir Gilbert and the felon on the Exeter road. You should keep him until the Coroner has decided what to do with him.’

William apparently saw no reason to protest and trailed along after the man without demur, the dog at his heels. Baldwin watched him for a moment, then shook his head and sprang down from his horse, giving the reins to a passing hostler. ‘Take them to the hackney man,’ he said, grateful that he would never again have to ride the nag.

Simon and he strode up to the hall and entered, keen to rejoin the throng.

In their absence food had been served on trestle-tables; the guests had watched it arrive, had sat and eaten, entertained by jugglers and musicians, and had risen again to drink large pots of wine or strong ale while servants came in to eat at the same tables before clearing away the debris and removing the tables again. By the time Baldwin entered glancing about for his wife, Simon casting about just as eagerly for food, all remnants of the midday meal had been disposed of: almost half had gone into the bellies of the guests, another two-fifths into those of the servants, and the remainder into the platters and bowls of the poor waiting hopefully at the door.

Already disappointed by the lack of food, it was with a feeling of the inevitability of his destiny that Baldwin saw his wife talking to Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple.

‘Oh my God!’ he groaned.

Simon looked at his friend. ‘What is it? Upset about missing the feast, old fellow?’

‘That man! Sir Peregrine!’

Baldwin spoke in an undertone, and Simon eyed the tall knight is conversation with Lady Jeanne without any idea what his friend meant. Simon himself had never heard of Sir Peregrine. Barnstaple was many miles from Lydford, and all he knew of the man was that he had instantly gone to Baldwin’s side when the Coroner and Sherman had begun their row earlier.

‘Sir Baldwin . . . I hope you managed to keep our good Coroner in check?’ The stranger said lightly, and Baldwin nodded as politely as he could.

His manner intrigued Simon, who was already sure that the man before him was not viewed by Baldwin as a courteous philanderer, nor as a serious physical danger. The fact that Edgar stood nearby without apparent concern also indicated that Sir Peregrine was not a dangerous lunatic who might threaten Baldwin’s life.

Sir Peregrine was as tall as Simon, with a high forehead and intelligent green eyes in a long, narrow face. His brow rose up to a shining dome as clear of hair as a cleric’s, and all about it was a thick fringe of golden curls, looking strangely out of place, like a child’s fluff on a middle-aged man’s head. His mouth smiled easily, and Simon could believe that Sir Peregrine would be popular with women, but he showed no sign of embarrassment, which he surely would have, had he been trying to cuckold Baldwin. Instead he studied Baldwin and appeared to like what he saw, his mouth widening into a calm and appreciative grin.

When Simon was introduced, Sir Peregrine cast a glance all over him, from boots to head and down again. ‘The Bailiff of Lydford under the Warden of the Stannaries, Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock? My friend, I have heard much about you. You are growing famous.’

‘I thank you, Sir Peregrine,’ Simon said, feeling foolishly flattered.

‘Oh no, I assure you, your name has been brought to my attention on several occasions, particularly by my very good friend Bishop Stapledon of Exeter. Do you tend towards his views on politics?’

Baldwin intervened smoothly. ‘My friend and I serve our masters as best we may.’

‘Of course, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Peregrine said agreeably, his eyes creasing in merriment.

Simon was struck by a sudden certainty that there was some kind of verbal jousting going on and although he had little idea what the matter was that the two men were warily skirting, he was happy to leave Baldwin in control of the conversation.

‘And I am sure you would agree that Simon’s master, his lord, Abbot Champeaux, is the only man with whom he could truly discuss allegiances? Any political decisions must be made by the good Abbot. It is Simon’s duty to obey,’ Baldwin continued.

‘Absolutely. Although he could, if he so wished, advise.’

‘Not if he wished: if he was
asked
,’ Baldwin said shortly.

‘Naturally,’ Sir Peregrine agreed suavely. ‘And another matter we should discuss is this affair of our Lord de Courtenay and the Despensers. And the King, of course.’

Baldwin glanced at Jeanne and to his relief she instantly read his mind. ‘Oh, Sir Peregrine, do you think we could return to this matter at some later hour? I know I am exhausted after our ride here this morning, and since our arrival I have had no time to recuperate. Could we take some little rest now – and I am sure that the good bailiff and my husband would be glad of refreshment, for both have been out to view the dead men and assist the Coroner.’

‘Of course, my lady,’ Sir Peregrine said and took his leave with a calm smile. As he walked away, he turned and spoke to Baldwin. ‘But we shall need to talk very soon, Sir Baldwin. Very soon.’

William walked from the stable with Aylmer at his heels, having seen the two remaining mounts into their stalls. He’d ignored the offers of a young groom and rubbed them down himself with handfuls of straw before running a hand over their legs to make sure all was well. He had learned early, when he was still a man-at-arms, that a horse should be protected and looked after more carefully than a companion. A companion might run away, while your mount could save your life.

‘You going to take all day?’ his guard had demanded.

‘Not much longer.’

‘Oh, Christ’s bones!’

Standing in the yard with the man, William breathed in the mixed odours: woodsmoke from the kitchen’s fires, roasting meat, pies and bread baking adding their wholesome scents to the tang of the horse and cattle droppings, human shit and urine that permeated the place.

They were the smells of life itself, he thought happily. Only one thing could improve matters: ale. The hall above the gatehouse looked best. There was bound to be a buttery in there.

‘Ale?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’ the guard grunted.

With a cheery determination William strode across the yard to the door. Aylmer sat and scratched an ear, then wandered off to a corner near the stairs where he cocked a leg and decorated the wall, before strolling about the yard inquisitively.

William didn’t notice Toker at the kitchen door, nor the way the blue eyes narrowed, watching as he climbed up the stairs to the hall’s doorway. Toker was sure he recognised William’s face, but couldn’t place him right away. But it would come back to him eventually. It always did.

Jeanne could see her husband’s mood even before he muttered a curse and snapped his fingers at Edgar, a rude method of beckoning his servant that he would normally have shunned. ‘My love, what is it?’

‘That primping, vain, conceited cockscomb . . .’

‘Sir Peregrine?’ she asked with genuine confusion. ‘But he was perfectly correct and chivalrous, husband. He offered no insult to me or to you.’

‘He wouldn’t. He is not that kind of man. No, his danger is more indirect. More insidious.’

Simon gazed at his friend with utter bafflement. ‘Baldwin, what are you talking about? As far as I could tell he was a pleasant man, better versed in courtesy than many others of his rank.’

‘You realise what his rank is?’

‘A knight, of course.’

‘Well, of course he is a knight, but
not
a knight
bachelor
; he’s a bannaret,’ Baldwin shot back. ‘Do you realise what that means? He can command other knights. In theory he could command
me
to fight with him.’

‘He’d be a good man to stand beside, wouldn’t he?’ Simon protested, still confused. ‘I don’t understand what your problem is.’

‘The man is not a loyal Courtenay knight. He is on the side of the Marchers.’

‘Surely he wouldn’t commit treason against my Lord de Courtenay,’ Jeanne burst out.

‘There is no telling what he might do,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘He’s a politician.’

Simon frowned uncomprehendingly. ‘If you’re sure of this, you should warn Lord de Courtenay.’

‘That one of his trusted advisers has taken a line tending towards one party? That in itself is no crime and Sir Peregrine is too shrewd to leave himself compromised.’

‘How can you be sure he’s loyal to the Marchers?’ Simon asked.

‘It is a matter of discussion in the shire,’ Baldwin said. ‘I have heard his allegiance talked about in Crediton and Exeter – I am surprised news of it has not spread to Lydford. There are many men who wonder what will happen now that the Despensers are banished from the kingdom. But it doesn’t do to speculate too much. Not when there is so much possible danger here.’

‘What danger?’ Simon asked.

‘Simon, have you not understood? We are confirmed as loyal subjects of King Edward because with all his faults, he was rightly anointed King; we are known to be friends of Bishop Stapledon, one of many Lords who deprecates the illegal expulsion of the Despensers. Sir Peregrine supports the Marcher Lords who forced the King to expel the Despensers. If you were a political creature trying to persuade Lord Hugh to throw his weight behind the Marcher Lords like Sir Peregrine, would you want two men like us advising Lord Hugh?’

‘Christ’s balls!’ Simon breathed. ‘Oh, sorry, Jeanne.’

‘I’ve heard worse,’ she said, but her voice was far away, and she stared with perplexity at Sir Baldwin.

‘What is it, my love?’

‘It occurs to me, if you are correct and Sir Peregrine is loyal to the Marchers, he is prepared to support those whom the King has declared his enemies. Would he be prepared to use violence against you?’

Simon watched his friend and saw the smile and brief shake of his head, but Simon also saw Baldwin’s expression harden as he glanced towards the screens where Sir Peregrine had left, and Simon was convinced that Baldwin thought Sir Peregrine would stop at nothing in support of his friends.

Striding through the castle gates late the next morning, Harlewin le Poter nodded to the porter before he crossed the yard and climbed the low staircase to the hall. It was the eve of the feast of St Giles, not a good day for an inquest. He walked into the buttery, where he found a small group of men sitting on benches, drinking and chatting. Their noise stopped as the Coroner entered and eyed them coldly.

Harlewin was not given to threatening people unnecessarily, but now and again he felt it was useful to demonstrate his position. This was one such occasion. He said nothing but stared coldly until the men moved aside, and only then, when he had a clear passage to the barrel, did he march forward and fill himself a quart pot.

His position was an important one. The Coroner enforced the King’s laws on the region. Gone were the days when a lord could impose a death penalty on any man he disliked: the Coroner had to agree and confirm the sentence. Coroners were among the most important of all the King’s officials, especially now that corruption and bribery had reduced bailiffs, sergeants and sheriffs to the standing of liars and thieves in the eyes of many.

Of course there was dishonesty among Coroners, just as there was in many professions. Harlewin had heard the stories: his counterpart in western Devon who had refused to visit the body of a dead woman for nine weeks at the height of summer because his extortionate fee had been rejected. He only agreed to go and inspect the stinking remains once his money had been paid. Then there was the story of the Coroner eastwards who had refused to hold an inquest into a baby’s death, stillborn as the result of a quarrel and fight, because the man accused of striking the mother had been the Coroner’s own servant; or the rumours that this same Coroner released men from gaol in return for gifts.

Harlewin grunted to himself, standing in the screens passage sipping at his drink. Many of these stories were perfectly true, and sometimes he had himself followed the example given. Once, as John Sherman had said, he had helped Earl Thomas, but what else could a man do when he came up against someone as powerful as the Earl? And he had not released a murderer. He wouldn’t stoop so low, not even for a lord.

For all the accusations of corruption levelled against Coroners which were correct, Harlewin had a shrewd suspicion that often the wrong man was accused. He knew that Father Abraham was, like many clerks, an enthusiastic collector of coins. Often enough he’d seen the priest pocketing a shilling or even two for recording the details of a peculiarly repulsive corpse. Andrew Carter had paid five shillings when the priest wrote up the inquest of young Joan’s body. A man like Andrew wouldn’t want salacious facts being scribbled down for any sick bastard to read. Yet no doubt many would assume Harlewin was corrupt because
he
was a despised Coroner, whereas Father Abraham was a holy servant.