The Traitor of St. Giles (38 page)

‘We have heard that another man was seen out on the road the night Sir Gilbert was killed,’ Baldwin said.

Harlewin groaned and lifted a hand to his brow in an elegant display of boredom. ‘Not that again! I have decided that he died, as I told you, because a felon murdered him for his purse.’

Baldwin grinned drily. ‘Didn’t you see Sir Peregrine? Someone else told us he was there.’

‘No. No, I didn’t. Only Father Abraham.’

Baldwin nodded, but almost instantly Simon saw a frown fleet across his features. ‘So Sir Peregrine must have disappeared in the woods too. Who else might have done?’ He wondered aloud.

Soon Simon and he were making their way back to the castle, but all the way Baldwin kept silent, his attention fixed upon the ground.

Toker saw his man up on the right alter his position. The man peered up the road then gave a low whistle to attract Toker’s notice. Toker waved to his other lookout. With any luck it was Perkin and Owen and they might come back laden with gold and with a story to tell about two dead men.

There was no haul. He could see that at a glance.

Toker waited in the road while the two approached. ‘Well?’

‘They saw us or something,’ Owen said, his voice a whine of self-justification.

‘Saw us my arse! There was nothing
to
see. This sod missed. Only a couple of feet away, and he missed. Pathetic!’

‘They came past at a gallop – the best archer in the land would have missed them,’ Owen said, glowering.

‘Call that a gallop?’

‘What would you call it then? A trot? You know sod all about horseflesh, but even a—’

‘Yeah? Even a what?’ Perkin said, reaching over to grab Owen’s jack again.

The Welshman leaned away on his pony and spurred it out of range, spitting in Perkin’s direction. ‘If you’d fired, I’d take my part of the blame, but you couldn’t even get your arrow nocked.’

‘Shut up!’ Toker said quietly, but his voice carried authority and anger. ‘Where are they now?’

Owen scowled at the ground. ‘They rode past us so fast we lost them.’

‘Did they find anything?’

It was Perkin’s turn to evade Toker’s eye. ‘They had something; they threw it over a saddle before they rode past. It was in two sacks, I think.’

‘Good. Perhaps they’ll bring it back here,’ Toker smiled. Taking Perkin’s bridle, he smiled up at him. Suddenly he caught Perkin’s foot and thrust upwards. Perkin gave a roar, but before he could stop himself he was flying over his horse’s back, then falling headfirst. He hit the cobbles with a loud crack.

Owen’s horse skittered nervously, moving backwards into the castle’s wall and he cried out, ‘No, Toker, no!’

Toker scarcely glanced at him. ‘Get Perkin inside. Useless pile of dung that he is! Owen, take his horse and see that both are looked after. Then meet me in the yard.’

Owen nodded. He slowly dismounted, his eyes on Toker’s back, while the nearest lookout caught hold of Perkin’s legs and hauled him into the yard. Perkin’s horse was standing quietly, blowing every now and again through his nostrils, and Owen caught up his trailing reins and led him under the arch of the gatehouse with his own mount, but before he could enter the yard, he felt a knife at his throat.

‘But Owen, my little Welsh friend, if I ever hear that you’ve failed again, I’ll slit your guts from groin to gizzard – understand? This’ll remind you!’ A dull dragging sensation caught at Owen’s cheek and he automatically raised a hand to it as Toker shoved past him and swaggered inside.

When he felt the flap of skin dangling, the bile rose in Owen’s throat even before he saw the blood on his hand.

Edgar saw the weeping man cross the yard to the stable and install the horses there, watching while a groom took them and began the long process of removing harnesses and brushing them. As far as he could see, the men had all come in now, so he sent Wat in to inform Jeanne of this and to ask her if he could see Petronilla for a moment.

She left her child and was soon at his side.

‘I think that man over there in the stable is one of the outlaws who tried to ambush Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar told her. ‘Could you speak to him and see whether you can find out anything about him and his master? Offer him some help with his cut. And ask how he got it.’

Petronilla nodded slowly. She hadn’t much hope of discovering anything, but the man certainly needed help.

It was demeaning being commanded like this. Edgar had no right. She had hoped that he had asked for her to join him because he wanted to speak to her in private, but instead it was merely to send her to entice a man into performing an indiscretion. It was tempting to give him short shrift and storm off, but then she saw the anxiety in his eyes and the concern that creased his brow, and felt her heart swell at the knowledge that he had asked her for help in this.

Not, she reminded herself, that there was anyone else he could ask in this place.

‘I shall constantly be within a few yards of you. You need not fear that he could hurt you,’ Edgar whispered as they walked slowly over the yard.

Petronilla avoided a pile of horse dung and skirted around a sow suckling her young. As Edgar paused at the wall to the stables, she walked on to the side of the silently weeping Welshman.

‘Are you all right, master?’ she asked, setting her tone at a quietly sympathetic level. ‘Ooh, your cheek! It’s deeply cut, you need some cloth. Come here into the light.’

Owen found himself being led into the late afternoon sunlight, where Petronilla examined his wound carefully.

‘It isn’t as deep as I’d thought,’ she murmured as if to herself. ‘Come, I shall fetch cloth and clean it for you.’

‘No, it’s not hurting or anything,’ he lied, ashamed now of his tears, but she shook her head solemnly.

‘Do you want to have it fester and give you a fever? Stay there. I’ll get wine.’

She was as good as her word. In a few minutes she was back with a jug of wine and a pot. She filled the pot and gave it to him to hold while she dipped her clean cloth in the horse trough, wiping away the blood. ‘This may hurt a little,’ she said, soaking the cloth in his wine and gently washing the edges of the wound.

Owen winced and his shoulders clenched with the sharp sting, but although he closed his eyes firmly, he gave no cry.

‘Are you part of the garrison?’

He nodded, hardly trusting his voice: the wine burned like fire.

‘So you serve Lord Hugh?’

‘Yes. I am one of Sir Peregrine’s men – except he’s put me with Toker’s band.’ He drew in his breath sharply as she dabbed too hard.

‘Oh, sorry, sorry. What’s your name?’

‘Owen, Miss.’

‘Well, Owen, you’ve travelled far from your home, from your accent.’

‘This is nothing. We’re only just back from London.’

‘London? What’s it like? I’ve never been so far.’

‘It’s a great huge city, but it was dangerous when we were there. All the great lords were rattling their swords outside the city while the King decided what to do.’

‘That must have been exciting.’

‘Toker, he’s used to excitement. He’s served many different lords,’ Owen agreed dismally. ‘All over the country, and in the King’s lands in Gascony.’

‘Why are you here now, then? It sounds too exciting for you to be content to stay in Tiverton,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the trough, finished.

Owen indicated his wound. ‘This is as much excitement as I care to take,’ he said wryly.

‘Did a cutpurse do it?’

‘Ha! No, it was Toker. He wanted to show me . . . well, he wasn’t happy with me.’

‘That’s terrible! It’s one thing to thrash a servant, but to scar you for life like that!’

‘Well, I failed, see. So I got punished.’

‘What didn’t you do?’

Owen shuffled his feet. ‘Never mind that. It’s nothing, really.’

‘It must have been something pretty important for him to cut you like that. Maybe I should ask someone to complain to Sir Peregrine for you.’

But Owen was no longer listening. In the roadway he heard horses’ hooves, and now they rang on the cobbles under the gatehouse.

Simon and Baldwin rode across the yard to the stables and chatted happily as they dropped lightly from their mounts, then strolled to the hall. Owen hardly noticed them. Bleakly he took in the sight of the two saddles. Both now empty of sacks.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ he said sadly.

Baldwin saw Sir Peregrine walking to greet them as soon as they entered the hall. ‘Look out, the bannaret is coming.’ It was with a feeling of considerable satisfaction that Baldwin saw an already partly drunk guest engage Sir Peregrine in conversation. The bannaret tried to break away politely, but the guest was persistent.

‘You were delayed long, Husband,’ Jeanne said. She had been waiting at the door for their approach, and now she joined them.

‘It will soon be too hot in here for a person to keep from perspiring.’

Glancing about him Baldwin could see what she meant. The hall was filling quickly as guests arrived for the celebrations of the morrow of St Giles’s Day. It was not so splendid an occasion as the previous night, but the women were all dressed in their finery, the men wearing their best velvets and furs. Men-at-arms in the de Courtenay colours stood at the walls, while servants wearing Lord Hugh’s livery moved among the people with silver plates piled high with pies and drinks.

‘I have a terrible feeling I’ve been here before,’ Baldwin told himself, and grabbed a handful of pies and a large pot of wine. The knight felt horribly under-dressed in his dusty and faded riding tunic, but even as he considered leaving the room there was a change in the atmosphere.

Simon sniggered, but before he could reply he, too, noticed the subtle difference in the conversation as Lord Hugh himself walked in. He stood a short way into the room smiling at his guests, taking a large cup of wine and lifting it in a toast.

‘I think we should make our presence known,’ Baldwin said softly and walked up to the lord. Jeanne looked from him to Simon, then followed her husband.

‘My Lord, I thank you for inviting me here,’ Sir Baldwin began.

Sir Peregrine at last broke away from the unwelcome conversation of the drunken man and he marched to Lord Hugh’s side.

Baldwin acknowledged his presence with a polite smile, then resumed: ‘Lord Hugh, I thought you should know that a treasure has been discovered. I and the Bailiff here found it at Templeton. We think it was owned by Sir Gilbert of Carlisle and concealed in the chapel there by him.’

‘I am glad to hear it is held safely,’ Lord Hugh said, and his eyes held a happy twinkle. ‘It would be terrible for such a find to be made by a wandering outlaw.’

‘There was no risk of that, my Lord. Now it is safely installed with the Coroner.’

‘Harlewin le Poter? Good. In that case there is little more to be said about it. Such a shame about the knight himself. I understand Sir Gilbert was an experienced man. He could have been invaluable as a member of my household, don’t you think?’

‘I scarcely knew the man, I fear.’

‘Anyone who could come all the way here carrying a treasure trove would be an interesting man to meet, wouldn’t you say, Sir Baldwin?’ Lord Hugh said mildly.

‘Interesting to meet and talk to, I suspect,’ replied Baldwin.

A few moments later the lord excused himself and went to make conversation with someone else farther along the room. Sir Peregrine hesitated, then stepped after him.

‘I think the bannaret wanted to speak to you,’ Simon said pensively.

‘Probably. But there’s nothing much for us to say to each other, is there – not now he knows that the Despensers’ cache is lost. He realises – I hope – that his ambitions to see the Marcher Lords win ascendency in Lord Hugh’s court will probably succeed. He has no need to worry about Despenser money going to bribe anyone. I hope, too, that he realises there is no longer any point in ambushing us. We can’t give
him
the money either!’

Jeanne frowned from one to the other. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘We had a little trouble in town today,’ Simon began.

‘Not trouble exactly,’ Baldwin hurriedly interrupted. ‘Just a near . . .’

‘Husband, please leave our friend and me to talk unhindered,’ Jeanne said with poisonous sweetness. ‘So, Simon. I had heard a little of this, but I should appreciate a few facts. You were saying?’

‘It was nothing. Some men tried to ambush us, but they failed. The Coroner saved us.’

‘That in itself must make you both unique,’ she observed caustically.

‘The interesting thing is what we heard from the Coroner,’ Baldwin said and told her of the arrest and murder of Andrew Carter.

‘All very fascinating, but it hardly helps to show us who killed the knight,’ she pointed out.

Baldwin pondered. ‘No, it doesn’t. But I think we are getting close to discovering who it might have been.’

Simon held up his pot and inspected the wine within. ‘The trouble is there seem to have been so many people who could have wanted him never to get here.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘From Sir Peregrine there, trying to keep his master from accepting Despenser’s bribe, to Cecily Sherman and Harlewin le Poter, wishing to conceal their liaison. The priest, if he knew Sir Gilbert was a Templar, and Nicholas himself, to prevent anyone hearing about his past.’

‘What past?’ Jeanne asked.

‘I forgot to mention it,’ Simon said, missing Baldwin’s swift look. ‘Lovecok used to be a Knight Templar.’

Baldwin was sure he felt his heart stop. He dared not meet his wife’s gaze for a minute in case he saw her face transfigured with disgust at the thought that a man she had met might have been a part of that hated Order. When he heard her response, he could have grabbed her and kissed her before all the assembly.

‘So what?’

Owen held a cloth to his cheek. It had stopped stinging now, and instead the slash felt like a burn across his cheekbone. ‘That’s what I saw,’ he stated stolidly. ‘All the stuff was gone.’

‘Damn!’ Toker said. He and his men were in the undercroft below the great hall. It was one of the few places where they could talk in peace. Perkin was upright again, glowering sullenly in the corner and holding his bruised and battered head. The others were ranged about the floor or on barrels.