The Traitor of St. Giles (27 page)

He was still there when Owen came out of the dark carrying a large pot of ale. Toker took it and drank deeply. ‘That knight from Furnshill wants to find out who killed the man here.’

‘So?’ Owen shrugged.

Toker grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him forward. The smaller man stumbled as he met Toker’s furious stare. ‘Don’t speak like that to me, you little bastard, not unless you want me to cut out your tongue! The knight’s getting too interested in our business, right? I think we’ll have to stop him before he learns too much.’

Sir Peregrine sat in his small room above the gatehouse and stared at the fire. He had attended Evensong with Lord Hugh in the small chapel in the solar block, a privilege granted only to those men Lord Hugh trusted. Now he waited while his master prepared for the feast.

But all the time his mind wandered over the deaths. First Sir Gilbert and now William were dead, and Sir Baldwin and his friend appeared to have an unhealthy interest in both cases. It was curious that a man should have so much interest in their deaths but Sir Peregrine had a shrewd idea that Baldwin and Simon were trying to find out more about Sir Gilbert’s visit to Tiverton. Sir Peregrine slammed one fist into the other. The god-damned knight from Crediton was too persistent with this constant enquiring after people; especially when he had the temerity to ask Sir Peregrine where he had been when the servant died. It was an insult.

If only Emily hadn’t died. His thoughts should be more clear and logical, but each time he tried to consider what course to take, her face returned to haunt him.

Sir Baldwin’s determination was not normal. It wasn’t the behaviour of a man who was visiting his lord. Such a one should be spending his time demonstrating his courtesy with the women and his peers among the guests, not traipsing over the town looking for clues in a murder hunt when the Coroner had already declared that there was
no murder!
And in the case of the servant last night, that was probably just a cut-purse trying his luck with a drunk who retaliated and paid the price. A dead servant was hardly a fit subject for Sir Baldwin’s enquiry. It was the duty of the jury to provide clues to the Coroner in a matter of suspicious death, their duty to accuse the man they thought guilty, not that of an impoverished Keeper of the King’s Peace from a benighted town like Crediton.

Impoverished
– the word hung in his mind like a flag fluttering and he recalled his thoughts of the previous day.

If a man thought there could be gold in an investigation, he would be tempted. There was nothing to indicate that Sir Gilbert had money on him – yet Sir Gilbert was the emissary of the Despensers. He should have brought a present, a sweetener, for Lord Hugh if he wanted the lord’s influence, so where was it? Sir Peregrine bit at his lip. If it wasn’t money, could there be something worth money – a note from the Despenser family which made dangerous offers? Such a letter could be useful, especially if it promised attractive inducements to Lord Hugh.

The last thing Sir Peregrine wanted was for a letter to be found which promised something worthwhile after Sir Peregrine had spent all his efforts persuading Lord Hugh that the Despensers were best left alone, and that Lord Hugh should bend his support towards the Marcher Lords; if his work so far should be ruined, his credibility as an adviser would be wrecked. Not only that, his whole position in the castle could be demeaned. If Lord Hugh were to go over to the Despensers, he’d hardly be likely to entrust the guardianship of his gate to the very person who had told him never to go near the Despensers. He would send Sir Peregrine away, to a place like his holdings down towards the Cornish border.

With a shudder, Sir Peregrine called the place to mind. Bleak was a word which scarcely did the area justice.

Hearing steps above him, he rolled his eyes. It must be time for the meal. Cursing softly under his breath, Sir Peregrine strode to his washstand and rubbed soap into his face and neck, rinsing and then drying himself on a towel, trying to calm the desperate beating of his heart.

In the staircase he met his lord coming down, two men with him, his wife a few paces behind.

‘Ah, Sir Peregrine. Are you ready to eat your fill and beyond? Come. Let’s feast for Saint Giles.’

Leading his wife into the great hall, Baldwin was struck by its magnificence. It soared above, a massive room hung with flags and tapestries to show the importance of the lord who lived here. Even he, a man who had visited some of the greatest halls in Christendom, was struck by its splendour, a splendour enhanced by the rich clothing of the people within.

Entering from the screens passage, he was momentarily deafened: music played above him in the gallery and people were trying to chatter over it, creating a racket that made him wince. Then his wife gave his hand a little pressure and he became acclimatised.

A short time later Lord Hugh entered with Sir Peregrine and a sense of expectation filled the room as the lord walked slowly to his table and sat. Servants appeared, young squires and heralds with towels over their left arms and about their necks, carrying large cloths. As Lord Hugh sat, these men swiftly spread cloths over the table in front of him, first one over the edge facing the hall, then a second over the tabletop, smoothing them out carefully until not a wrinkle could be seen.

The guests took their seats, those who were unsure being directed by young squires, and then more cloths were brought in, these not so fine as that of the lord, and when all were seated Baldwin was pleased to find that he was given a good trencher of bread. He wasn’t keen on the modern fad for wooden platters. They didn’t soak up so much juice, and couldn’t be used to feed the poor. A napkin was placed at his side, and he pulled his spoon from his wallet ready to feed.

Now the salt was brought to the top table and placed directly before Lord Hugh, a massive cellar in the shape of a crouching dog made from cunningly fashioned silver. The carver opened the salt and delicately used his knife to spread a little on his lord’s trencher. Baldwin watched while Lord Hugh’s knife and bread were both kissed and wiped clean by his cupbearer to
assay
them, to prove that no poison had been spread on them, and then the cupbearer tasted the water before Lord Hugh washed his hands.

As soon as he was done the food was brought in.

This first course was not too fearsome. Five dishes of meat, five with birds, one of fish and several pastries. There was little here that was designed to cause anxiety, but still Baldwin, whose stomach was queasy in the presence of heavily spiced foods, peered at the offerings with anxiety, only to be overcome with relief. All the dishes appeared to have only roasted or boiled meats.

He ate with gusto. It felt like an age since his last meal, and he consumed thrushes smothered in cinnamon, some snipe and a slice or two of swan.

While he ate he gazed about him. He was seated against one wall, while on his right-hand side was the dais with Lord Hugh. Near Lord Hugh was Sir Peregrine, and Baldwin noticed that Simon was almost opposite. When he caught Baldwin’s eye, he raised his pot in a toast, his mouth filled, and slurped happily.

‘I think Simon will regret his drinking tomorrow,’ Jeanne said thinly.

‘He has never learned that the way to avoid a foul head is to avoid drinking too much,’ Baldwin agreed, sipping at his own drink again. After walking about the town he was desperately thirsty. ‘I have always been moderate.’

‘I would have expected him to associate the two by now: quarts of wine followed by a morning head that, if it were to fall off, would only be a blessed relief.’

‘Simon resolutely denies that the two are connected in any way. He believes always that it is the quality of the food that causes his hangovers. I have seen him consume ale, then wine, then mead, and when his head seemed to labour under the impact of sixteen hammers all together the next morning, he put the blame squarely onto a single bad egg that he ate.’

Jeanne chuckled. As they spoke the servants had darted about the room again, and now the first course was removed and the subtlety was brought in, a splendid ornament of whole marchpane, which the cook had managed to fashion into the image of a hind.

‘What is that?’ Jeanne asked.

‘If I remember my history correctly, St Giles was hit by an arrow from a king when the king was hunting a hind. He fired at her, but she took refuge with the saint and the arrow struck the saint instead. I think the cook has done his best to remember that event.’

Jeanne watched greedily as the hind was cut into pieces, and took hers with delight. She always had a very sweet tooth, and loved the almond flavour of the marchpane.

To her the sight of the next course was a pleasure. The same was not true for Baldwin. Servants brought in dishes filled with a rich mixture of pounded and minced, battered and coloured, beherbed and spiced foods. One concoction of blue and green pastes quartered in a large bowl gave him particular cause for concern and he found it difficult to draw his eyes away from it, emptying his wine with a gulp. A bottler refilled it.

Jeanne nudged him. ‘What is it?’ he demanded, taking another nervous gulp of wine.

‘Sir Peregrine seems hardly able to keep his eyes from you.’

‘Hmm? Maybe he has a sense of humour and expects me to explode,’ he grumbled.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. Even as she spoke a servant entered and ran to Sir Peregrine. He listened, his eyes on his trencher, and then nodded. The servant hurried across the room to Harlewin le Poter and whispered in his ear. While Jeanne watched, Harlewin rose, bowed to Sir Peregrine, walked to Lord Hugh, bowed again and shrugged expansively in apology.

‘My lord, I fear duty . . .’

Lord Hugh waved a courteous hand. ‘Of course, we must all be obedient to our responsibilities, mustn’t we?’

With another low bow, Harlewin turned and marched from the room, head high and proud.

Jeanne would have thought nothing of it, but then she glanced back at Sir Peregrine, and this time she saw he wasn’t looking at her husband. Following the line of his eyes, she saw he was staring at another man.

‘Yes?’ Baldwin asked, feeling in his mouth for a fishbone. He had hoped the fish pie would be safe from spices, but it had been filled with so much mace he couldn’t detect the fish except by the large quantities of bones.

‘Look.’

He saw John Sherman half rise, lick his lips, shoot a look at the high table, and make as if to get up. Sir Peregrine muttered to a servant and sent him to Sherman. Sherman wanted to leave, but he sat back with a bad grace, his attention fixed upon the door through which Harlewin had just left.

At the far side of the hall, Father Abraham had seen the Coroner go and the sight made his lip curl disdainfully. He hadn’t missed the absence of Cecily Sherman and he guessed shrewdly that the Coroner was off to his harlot.

It was repellent the way the woman flaunted herself like a bitch on heat. She flirted with every man she came across – unless her husband was in the room, in which case she was a little more circumspect – but generally she was a shameless whoring wench who deserved to be exposed for her adultery.

Sherman had gone quite pale. Father Abraham sneered at him, shaking his head. If the priest had been married to a bitch like Cecily Sherman, he would have left her and taken the tonsure for escape, and even if he hadn’t the strength for that, he would have thrashed the devils from her.

Yet her husband made no move to stop her affair. The priest wondered at that for a moment. Was it because Sherman was worried that she knew something, that she could harm him if he beat her? There were rumours about his business – that he was less than generous in his measures, but would that be reason enough for him to leave her alone?

Father Abraham doubted it, but he eyed the merchant with interest for the rest of the meal, wondering why a man should allow himself to be so publicly cuckolded.

It was much later that Toker saw the mass of guests leave the hall.

He knew the routine of events like this perfectly well. It was the same as any other castle or hall. The first to leave were the women, who chose to go to their beds before they could be molested by drunks other than their husbands; after them came the wives who hoped to tempt their alcoholically-lecherous husbands to bed before they could drink too much. Soon the less inebriated men would come out, some to walk about the yard, some to talk in undertones about the political situation away from listening servants, others to vomit or urinate. Then, in varying degrees of drunkenness, the rest would pour from the hall, some upright, one or two crawling, many stumbling, and a few being carried by servants.

Usually the servants would eat with their lord and his household in the hall, but tonight, with so many guests visiting the place, men-at-arms and others had to eat in parallel, taking their own food where they may. Toker had avoided the service held over a small portable altar set up in the small hall near the gatehouse, preferring to sit in the open air with an ale rather than indoors while some fool of a chaplain preached about St Giles’s saintliness.

Compared with many, Sir Peregrine was as sober as normal, but Toker was sure he had drunk plenty of wine from the way he walked so precisely and cautiously. Lord Hugh was just behind him, belching happily while he gripped his belt with both hands as if fearing that its weight might lead it to fall to the ground. As he went to the gatehouse he giggled in that high tone of his as he recalled the jokes told at his table, his wife still exclaiming at the feats performed by jugglers and acrobats.

Sir Peregrine gave Toker a good night, but as Sir Baldwin and his lady passed Sir Peregrine, Toker heard his voice change. ‘Damn you, Sir Baldwin,’ he hissed. ‘If only someone would rid me of you, my Lord would be safer.’

Toker smiled to himself. ‘Always a pleasure to oblige you, Master,’ he muttered under his breath.

Returning to her room after the feast, Matilda sniffled as she drank another pot of wine. Andrew had gone to his own room again, leaving her to cope with her desolation alone. He rarely came to her bed now.