The Traitor of St. Giles (22 page)

‘He has died?’

‘I fear so. He died on the same night as the heretic and the felon. I was with him and could listen to his confession.’

‘I see. And he told you that Sir Gilbert was a Templar?’

‘While I was with Benedict the Templar went to the chapel. I believe he used to be one of the devil-worshippers who once lived there until our Holy Father the Pope showed us how evil they were. Then he scurried away like all the other cowards.’

Baldwin restrained himself with an effort. The priest was scathing about his comrades, about his Order. It was hard to swallow his pride and continue, but continue Baldwin must – and without letting the priest realise that he himself had once been a Templar. ‘Did you speak to Sir Gilbert?’

‘My God,
no
! Speak to a foul heretic?’ His face showed his disbelief and disgust at the suggestion. ‘I should rather cut out my tongue! I was there with the good Father Benedict as a kindness. Although he was once a priest in that foul Order, he recanted and remained to help the poor of his little manor; this proud Templar Knight never recanted. His presence there proved it! Do you know what he did? Eh? He walked into the chapel. He must have gone there to pray! He cannot have adopted the true faith if he still believed in the holiness of his foul Order. I was with Father Benedict for a long while, and Sir Gilbert remained in the chapel all that time.’

‘When did you leave?’

‘I don’t know. It was late afternoon, I suppose. The sun was low in the sky.’

‘Did you leave when the good Father died?’ Jeanne asked.

‘No, Lady. He was still alive. He died much later, at night. I was called to him by a boy from his parish.’

‘You went back after dark?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘Why . . . yes. Why?’

‘And which road did you take to go there?’

‘There is a track that leads almost straight there.’

‘And which also leads along behind the road to Crediton, does it not?’ Baldwin said. He smiled, but his face had no humour. ‘Along the woods in which Sir Gilbert, the man you hated so much, was murdered. By someone skilled with weapons.’

He was almost at the castle gate when Harlewin saw her, and his ruddy face beamed at the sight.

True enough, Cecily Sherman was not the most beautiful woman in Tiverton, but to Harlewin she was a breath of invigorating air. Cecily was short and dark, with the flashing eyes of a Celt. Her belly was full and round, her breasts large and appealing, her face a pleasing spherical shape: perfect and warm to cuddle up to on a chill evening, he reflected – unlike Felicity who was little better than a sack of bones. Cecily Sherman’s complexion was fine and smooth, unmarked by the pox, and of a beautiful creamy-pink colour. She looked as ripe and wholesome as a peach just plucked from the tree, and tasted as delicious.

There was no shame in her, either. When she saw him, her eyes widened invitingly, her smile broadened. Her maid was with her, but neither Cecily nor Harlewin feared that rumours of their meetings would be spread abroad. Harlewin, when all was said and done, was the Coroner. He could invent almost any offence and have a maid installed in her own private gaol if she were foolish enough to give him reason.

‘My Lord Coroner,’ Cecily curtsied. ‘It seems such a long time since I last saw you.’

‘You think so? I swear to me it seems only yesterday, my Lady.’

‘And yet for me the passing of even a minute without you seems like an hour,’ she sighed.

‘Rubbish, woman,’ he growled as they passed into a shadow, and he grabbed her to him and placed a smacking kiss on her lips.

Chuckling throatily she pulled away and ducked beneath his second attempt to grapple her. ‘Sir! Not in the street like a whore and her client, thank you.’

‘Then let’s go off to the mill.’

‘Do you think me a fool?’ she asked, and this time there was a trace of asperity in her tone. ‘With all the people come to the town for the Fair?’

‘Er, no. Perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed. He hadn’t considered how many eyes could witness him riding off with her, but now she mentioned it, it would be foolish to risk so much. John Sherman already suspected their affair – he’d shown his suspicions in the hall when he’d almost accused Harlewin of corruption or whatever the damn-fool spicer was on about. Not that Sherman was a man to fear a great deal. If he wished to force Harlewin into a duel, so be it. Harlewin was reasonably sure he could win any bout with the fellow.

Cecily continued, ‘Has that knight from Furnshill spoken to you yet? He’s just been asking me all about that night.’

‘Sir Baldwin has?’ he asked. That put a new complexion on things. ‘Why?’

‘He doesn’t seem to think that Sir Gilbert was killed by the felon. You should be careful. I don’t want John to find out about us because of a meddling Keeper. Can’t you silence him?’

He grinned and shrugged. ‘We have nothing to fear. Perhaps if we were to go to the mill later we could talk about it?’

Cecily Sherman waved her maid away with a small frown. ‘Later?’

They had reached the entrance to an alley. He shot a look up and down the street, then darted in, pulling her giggling after him. Kissing her, he lifted her skirts while she responded with enthusiasm, thrusting her hips forward to him, returning the ardour of his embrace with a quick wantonness that excited him beyond caution, and as suddenly she pulled away and patted his face with one hand while she let the other rest on his groin. ‘Not here.’

‘The mill this evening,’ he panted. ‘You must come.’

‘How can I? My husband is no fool: he will suspect. Anyway, I have to be early to bed . . . no, Harlewin, not with you! John is entertaining merchants at our hall tomorrow morning.’

‘He’ll be at the castle with the other guests. You remain at home pleading a bad head, then ride for the cottage when he’s gone.’

‘A bad head? Good God, Coroner, you aren’t very inventive, are you? It’d need to be better than that.’

‘Well, you think up something. I’ll leave the hall early and see you there.’

‘You? But you’ll have to be at the feast, too, won’t you?’

He gave a low, animal snarl. ‘You think I can sit and eat when I can picture you lying on my bed? Ach, woman, stop your teasing!’ he said and pulled her hand from his groin. ‘You can do that later – when we’re alone.’

Nicholas Lovecok ensured that the wines and ales he had delivered to the castle were stored correctly for the feast. In the storerooms and buttery he checked barrels to see that the drink would flow, tasting wine and smacking his lips as he sought to assure himself that he had not failed Lord Hugh. De Courtenay could be a painful client if the level of service he received fell short of his expectations.

Finished and generally satisfied, Nicholas sat on a barrel and filled a jug with wine. So much had happened in the last few days that he had a lot to muse over, and little of it was of a pleasant nature.

Meeting Sir Gilbert had been traumatic. It had been so long, fifteen years almost since they had last met, that Nicholas had practically forgotten the man. Seeing him again so unexpectedly had been like getting a sword-thrust in the guts.

He had been walking back from the castle, on his way to his brother-in-law’s place, and had decided to take a detour, to work up an appetite. Andrew’s hospitality was good, provided you didn’t mind a thick mess of food at each meal, enough to adequately feed a whole family. For Nicholas, whose bachelor existence had made him appreciate smaller but more varied dishes, the massive quantities Andrew saw as essential were almost sufficient to make him feel sick.

Perhaps that was unfair. Now he looked back on it, maybe it was more the impact of his sister which made mealtimes at Andrew Carter’s house so much of a trial. Poor Matilda sat in her chair like a saint undergoing torture. Wan, unspeaking, anxious and fretful, she picked at her food, speaking seldom, rarely listening, sunk in her own gloom-filled nightmare. When she was spoken to, she snapped or merely stared uncomprehendingly. Luckily she had recovered a little since Dyne’s death.

But then it had been a joy to get away from the mourning woman and her nervous husband. Andrew Carter had sat gnawing at his nails while he observed his wife gradually sinking deeper into her hysterical depression as they approached the hour when Philip Dyne would be released on his oath of abjuration. Nicholas had thought that his black mood would be replaced by elation when they had taken Dyne’s head off, but it had only seemed as if the full horror of their action had somehow killed off a part of his emotions.

The beheading was a memory Nicholas wanted to erase but he couldn’t. Like a picture painted upon glass, it was always in his mind: the flash of the sword swooping down and the first fine spray of blood from the man’s neck; a moment later the huge gouts spurting as the head rolled away, the eyelids snapping wide, then fluttering, the mouth opening and shutting as if Dyne was cursing the two men. But without a voice.

Nicholas shuddered at the memory. It was wrong for him to have got involved. Joan was his niece, true, but she would have been as effectively avenged by hiring men to commit the deed, and then there would be none of this lingering horror.

He forced his mind to the other night, the one before Dyne’s death. It was in the tavern. Boisterous noise: roaring and bellowing as ebullient traders drank to each other’s health, knocking pots or jugs together as they toasted their success at the coming Fair; musicians with harp and bagpipe in one corner competing with a crowder scraping his bow frantically in another; two dogs fighting, egged on by a small group of bystanders.

The room was small, the atmosphere smoky from the fire. It had been like wandering inside a small oven, but welcome for all that, being gloriously free of Andrew and his consumptive wife.

Walking in with a sense of relief, Nicholas ordered himself a large pot of wine and, as he waited, noticed a face that looked oddly familiar. Sir Gilbert had been sitting near the corner, out of the way, and Nicholas, with that sixth sense which he had honed so well since he had first moved to Devonshire, had realised someone was fixing their attention upon him. Instantly he felt the old terror welling up, filling his soul, reaching out and clinging to his every organ and limb, making any movement feel clumsy and conspicuous, like a guilty man waiting to be arrested.

He had thought himself safe here in Tiverton. It was almost ten years since he had fled here, him, his sister and her young daughter. And now someone who knew him, someone from his past, had found him. He had to force himself to drink his wine casually, and then turned, determined to put a bold face upon whatever might come to pass.

And found himself looking into the face of Sir Gilbert of Carlisle. A brother Templar.

Sherman’s shop was not far from the church and Baldwin happily snuffed the air outside. ‘I always adored that odour.’

‘Then you may buy me spices for the house,’ Jeanne said.

‘Oh, I did not bring money with me. All I have is a few pennies,’ Baldwin protested.

‘I am sure the good spicer will take your word and offer you credit, Husband.’

Baldwin submitted with a wry grin and held the door open for her. They walked into a small hall, with pots racked upon the shelves that lined the walls. Beneath were sacks filled with aromatic spices and herbs. The air smelled sweet and musty, and Jeanne sneezed twice as she entered.

A youth was serving, a thin and pale lad of not more than twelve or thirteen years. While Jeanne spoke to him, Baldwin walked to the door at the back; as he peered up at some of the pots above it, the door opened and John Sherman came out.

For a merchant, his visage held little of the gracious welcome that Baldwin would have expected. Instead the man looked nervous, smiling weakly. ‘Keeper. What can I do for you?’

‘Not me, Sherman. It is my wife.’

Sherman appeared relieved. ‘Your lady? Ah, I see.’

Baldwin wondered at his change in demeanour. A devil made him ask, ‘I hear you were away in South Molton the day Sir Gilbert died. What were you doing there?’

‘Meeting a business partner,’ Sherman said pompously.

‘And who would that have been?’

‘Why do you need to know?’

‘A man was murdered.’

‘That was nothing to do with me. It wasn’t even the same road. And the matter is closed: the inquest found Dyne killed the knight.’

‘Not everyone believes that,’ Jeanne said distinctly.

‘Which is why,’ Baldwin continued, ‘I might have to make sure you were where you say.’

Sherman threw a harassed look at his apprentice. ‘You’d better come out here, Sir Baldwin,’ he said and stood aside. Jeanne went off to investigate more spices, while her husband followed their host through the door at the back.

Behind was a small chamber, largely filled with sacks and barrels, and Sherman sat on an upturned butt, waving the knight to another. ‘Look, I wasn’t really in South Molton,’ he said without preamble, ‘but I don’t want people hearing where I was. My wife . . . Cecily has been making a fool of me for some time. I can’t trust her. I told her I was going to South Molton, but really I was going to follow her. Except she went out earlier than I expected and I missed her.’

‘Did you ask her where she had gone?’

‘How could I? That would mean admitting that I’d been spying on her!’

‘You could have told her that someone had called here, and found her from home.’

‘I didn’t think,’ he admitted gloomily. ‘I just went after the man instead. Harlewin le bloody Poter! Fat sod! Only he’d already gone too, so all I could do was ride out in the direction I thought they’d have taken.’

Harlewin! Just as Avicia Dyne had alleged, Baldwin thought.

Sherman continued, ‘He’s in the pocket of Earl Thomas, you know. A year ago he let one of the Earl’s servants escape justice, saying there wasn’t enough evidence against the fellow. There were three witnesses, for God’s sake!’

‘You think Earl Thomas had reason to want Sir Gilbert dead?’

‘Sir Gilbert was Despenser’s man – it’s common knowledge. The last thing Earl Thomas wants is messengers from Despenser persuading barons to follow
him
. That could make the Earl’s position very difficult.’