The Traitor of St. Giles (17 page)

‘Thank you, Father.’

The priest walked out into the street. A hundred noxious scents assailed his nostrils, and he unconsciously hurried his steps as he made his way to his church.

Poor Emily, he thought. Her death reminded him that the minions of the Devil were waiting here, ever-present in the world, to ensnare any man who was foolish enough to submit to the temptations they offered.

That was the reason for anointing those soon to die, to keep devils away. After anointing, the soul lived in a shadow world until death came, and anointing protected the body. It meant devils couldn’t use the corpse, flying on it through the air to upset townspeople.

Those who died suddenly and without preparation were often saved by God’s Own grace. Although this knight would not be.
He
was an excommunicate. An evil heretic. Father Benedict had told him so. Sir Gilbert was a Templar.

Back at her house, Cecily Sherman waved her servants away and sat quietly with a jug of wine drawn from the best barrel in the buttery. Her husband was safely installed in his shop dealing with clients, and she was safe for a few moments of peace.

It was a good house, this. She glanced about her at the tapestries, the lamps, the thickly carved screen, the silverware, then, with a smile of self-satisfaction, at the pewter jug and small tankard on the table at her side. Yes, it was a very good house.

Oh, her husband wasn’t as bad as some. He was a bit dim on occasion – luckily! – but for the most part, if she was careful she could prevent the worst excesses of his temper. He’d only given her a beating the once, and well, she had been a bit obvious when she looked at that man in church. It was natural John should think she had insulted him: she had! It had been painful, though. He’d taken a willow wand to her, thrashing her until her back was bloody. She had been careful ever since to make sure that he wouldn’t ever feel the need to punish her again.

He wouldn’t. She would never give him reason again. He’d hurt her because she’d hurt his feelings, and beating his wife was a man’s right in his own house, just as he could beat the living daylights out of his maidservants – and menservants too, if it took his fancy.

No, she would never let that happen again. Since then she had always been careful to ensure that he couldn’t suspect her of infidelity. And yet he appeared to know something about her and Harlewin.

Harlewin the Coroner. Vain – yes; occasionally foolish – yes; large – without a doubt. But fun and essentially a risk-taker like her. Like her, too, he thrived on sex that was dangerous. He enjoyed her body, but both thrilled to the pleasure that came from their secret trysts. Every so often, not too regularly, they would ride to his place down near the river, miles outside town where he owned a mill, and spend the night in each other’s arms. As they had that night.

Somehow her husband knew something. He had been away, he’d said he had business in South Molton. A thought made a fist of ice clutch at her heart. He could have followed her; could have seen her there with Harlewin!

That was the fear that had so petrified her in the woods. But he hadn’t been there when she looked. It wasn’t him. Rationally she knew her panic was misplaced. If he’d seen them at the mill, he would have run in and killed them both. That was how his temper went. Fast and insane. He lost his veneer of calmness at the slightest provocation.

No, he couldn’t know. It was only a suspicion. Nothing more.

But the niggling concern kept pulling at her consciousness. Perhaps she should get an independent witness to give her an alibi – ask Father Abraham to confirm that she had been with him. Judging by his shame when she had seen him with the knight’s horse, he would be amenable to her plea. He wouldn’t
like
it, she thought – but then, he didn’t need to. This was the price of her silence.

It was more than an hour before the girl was capable of seeing anyone, long after the Coroner and his clerk had left, the one to eat, the other to perform a Mass, before both attended the inquest of Emily and her baby in childbirth.

When Jeanne at last came down to the hall from the solar with a slow, thoughtful tread, she found Simon and her husband sitting in the hall, both holding large pots of wine.

‘How is she?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Not well, but what would you expect after seeing her brother’s decapitated body?’

Baldwin gave a low whistle. ‘She was Dyne’s sister? My God, the poor girl.’

‘Her name is Avicia Dyne. She was horribly shocked and I’ve told her she needs to rest, but she wants to speak to you.’

Baldwin glanced at Simon, who shrugged. Simon knew what Baldwin was thinking: they had both seen people in every stage of distress and knew what to expect. There would be spirited denials of Philip Dyne’s guilt, closely followed by accusations against those in authority for having accepted bribes to divert the blame to him. Both men had seen the same situations repeated over and over again. ‘Come on, Baldwin, we may as well get it over with.’

‘Very well,’ Baldwin sighed, and followed his wife, Simon bringing up the rear.

Jeanne led them to a small, warm room that overlooked the court. It held little in the way of furnishing: a chest at one wall, a three-legged stool, and a small table with a jug of ale on it was all, apart from the modest little bed, which had no drapery, just a low wooden base with a palliasse on top. Thick, soft woollen blankets covered the girl.

In the yard Simon had been struck only by her misery on seeing her brother. He had hardly seen her features, but now he studied her with interest. Against the darkness of the room two candles had been lit, and their yellow flames illuminated the golden tints of Avicia Dyne’s hair, making it gleam in surprising contrast to the grey tone of her skin. Her eyes were sunken and dulled, her lips, pale and thin; her whole demeanour was one of despair.

She looked at them wanly as they entered, and Simon saw a single tear spring from the corner of her eye and leave a trail glistening in its wake as it slipped down her cheek. It was that, the lack of hysteria or any other emotion which struck him most forcibly. It was as if her whole life was ended and she had no more energy.

Simon stood at the back of the room in the darkness while Jeanne glided quietly to the girl’s side, pouring her a beaker of ale. Baldwin stood behind his wife.

‘Sir, I am grateful to you,’ Avicia told him, her voice stronger than he had expected. ‘I know you think I am only a mean-spirited thing, weak and emotional because of my brother’s death.’

Baldwin waved a hand as if in rejection, but she carried on swiftly before he could speak.

‘Please let me finish. Sir, my brother hasn’t received justice. This good lady has told me what the Coroner decided, but there are things you should know. Sir . . .’ She tried to sit up and her face worked with passion as she sought the best words to convince him. ‘Sir, my brother couldn’t have killed Joan. He loved her.’

Baldwin smiled sadly. ‘I have no authority here, child. Your brother confessed his guilt and was found away from the road. That is an end to—’

‘No, I can’t believe it!’ she said, shaking her head and making her hair swirl about her shoulders. ‘Sir, he couldn’t have hurt her, he
couldn’t
. He loved her, he was going to marry her. He wouldn’t have hurt her for anything.’

‘We often find that it is those who love who are the cause of the loved one’s death,’ Simon said quietly.

‘But he and she were handfast,’ she protested. ‘And Philip was never a lecher.’

‘What of it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The Coroner killed Joan and put the blame onto Philip to clear himself. Perhaps he told Philip that if he accepted blame the Coroner would allow him to escape and to find a new life abroad. It was the Coroner who urged Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok to chase after him and murder him.’

Baldwin ignored the word ‘murder’. Their execution of Dyne had been perfectly legal. ‘Andrew heard your brother admit to killing his daughter,’ he pointed out reasonably, ‘and Nicholas Lovecok heard him confess to killing his niece. What would be more natural than that they should follow the man who had confessed and execute him?’

‘But Philip couldn’t have done it! He wasn’t a murderer!’

‘Was he trained in fighting?’

‘No – why?’

It was not much, but it added to Baldwin’s feeling of wrongness. Commonly a close family member of a murderer would disbelieve his guilt, but the knowledge did not make Avicia’s distress any easier to bear. ‘Child, you know he confessed?’ He held up his hand to stop her before she could protest. ‘It is the truth, Avicia! He admitted killing Joan Carter after raping her – otherwise he wouldn’t have been allowed from the sanctuary to abjure the realm. The first rule is that a man must confess.’

‘But a man might be allowed to claim a pardon from the King if he was innocent!’

‘Well, of course. But in this case he—’

‘Philip was going to leave the country, yes, and he swore to abjure the realm, but he was innocent.’

Simon broke in, ‘Why would he do that? If he knew he was without guilt, he should have stood before the court and made his case.’

‘How can you say that, Bailiff? The jury here would have presented him to the court as a criminal and he would have been convicted. How could he defend himself?’

‘How could he expect to prove his innocence as an exile abroad?’ Simon pressed her.

‘Easier than if he remained here and hanged!’

‘This can get us nowhere,’ Baldwin muttered.

‘Then seek the murderer! When you know who caused Joan to die, you’ll have the murderer of her, of that knight and of Philip. And I can tell you who it was: it was Harlewin, the Coroner!’

When he had completed the Mass Father Abraham left hurriedly to attend Emily’s inquest. It was a depressing affair, sad and demeaning somehow for all who took part. The woman with the blood still drenching her legs, the child looking so innocent at her side, mute proof of the reason for her death.

The priest was surprised to see Sir Peregrine in the crowd, his long face sad, and when the Father had packed his few items, he found the knight falling into step beside him as if wishing to talk – or perhaps confess? It gave Father Abraham a wild sense of hope that the worldly knight might be tempted to ask him to shrive him.

His hopes were dashed. Sir Peregrine certainly wanted companionship in his loneliness, but the very last thing he needed was idle conversation. The death of his woman had left a pain that could not be assuaged. Since he had heard of her death he had wandered about the town, but that brought no mitigation of his suffering. Walking about and seeing how happy others were was no comfort to him. It merely added the poison of jealousy to his anguish. Toker’s words had been nothing more than an irritant, given his mood, and he had sent the man away. Stories of a London man defending himself again Toker’s boys were not important. Not now.

Father Abraham for once recognised that chatter would be unwelcome and the two walked to the church in silence.

Which was why they found the two of them.

As Father Abraham opened the door, he was welcomed by the sight of Hick the rat-catcher’s hairy backside, ramming up and down as Felicity, beneath him, complained about the cold floor and entreated him to get a move on. As a scene, it was one guaranteed to send Father Abraham into a paroxysm of rage.

At least Felicity hung her head in a show of contrition and held her tongue when Father Abraham berated her.

‘How dare you even
think
of coming here with your revolting clients!’ he thundered. ‘The . . . the shame of it! Don’t you realise that you were fouling the church itself with your disgraceful, lewd . . .’

‘I tried to tell her, Father,’ Hick interrupted helpfully.

‘Shut up, you pervert!’ Father Abraham roared.

‘I couldn’t take him to my rooms, not at Fair time. The landlord could have evicted me!’ Felicity protested.

‘That was no excuse for fornicating in my church!’

‘I told her you wouldn’t like it.’

Felicity turned on Hick, hands on hips. ‘You were happy enough to come here when I suggested it.’

‘Only ’cos you wouldn’t go to my dwelling.’

‘Dwelling?
Dwelling
? Don’t make me laugh! The place is practically falling about your ears, and you expect me to rut on the dirt floor with you?’

‘It’s no worse that the floor here.’

‘It’s covered in filth and mud, Hick!’

‘Silence, the pair of you!
God
give me patience!’

Sir Peregrine left them to it. The mundane little squabble was irrelevant. He had no wish to witness it, and he walked slowly over the church’s yard while he thought about his Emily. Her body, displayed like that for all the lewd-minded to see had left a bitterness in his mouth.

He was at the picket fence when he heard the church door creak on its hinges, and, in the dim light from the candles within, he saw the girl slip out. She had rearranged her clothing and now little of her form could be discerned beneath the heavy tunic, skirts and apron. Walking swiftly, she crossed the churchyard to him.

Under her layer of grime, he thought Felicity attractive. She had a long, slender frame with a heart-shaped face; her chin was small and the nose slightly snubbed, but her features were pleasantly regular. She approached him hesitantly.

‘Sir Peregrine, I was sorry about Emily.’

‘Thanks. I miss her.’

‘And the child.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed sadly, looking away. ‘That is why I am so lonely now.’

‘If you want comfort . . .’ she offered quietly.

He looked at her and she continued in a rush, ‘The King has a marshall of the royal prostitutes; I see no reason why
you
shouldn’t make use of one.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said with a dry chuckle. And yet when he thought about it, maybe another woman would help ease the burden of pain. At least she could help him forget for a while.

Felicity smiled at him sympathetically. She was a sharp woman: not yet twenty years old, she needed to be. Both her parents were dead, and since she had lost her job in the merchant’s house she’d endured every insult the world could fling at her, but the diminution of her social position had not decreased her intelligence.