The Traitor of St Giles aktm-9

by Michael Jecks

  Hucksters bellowed their wares, alewives scurried about filling pots and jugs, prostitutes lounged at corners smiling at the men and boys who visited from outside the town, and Joan felt her mood lift. The atmosphere was happy, bustling and enthusiastic, especially at the small ring where a couple of men had set their dogs against each other; spectators cheered on the two, particularly the winning animal as he ripped open his foe’s neck, spraying blood over a pair of young girls who screamed with glee and giggled, taking shelter behind their mother’s skirts as she smiled indulgently.

  Joan grinned, at first because it felt good to see people enjoying themselves, but soon she was smiling simply because she felt happy to be away from the house – free!

  It was rare for her to feel this light-hearted. Lonely, desperate for the comfort of a companion, she tried to make friends with the servants but they were scared of her and withdrew. They knew her secret. She was outcast from their company: solitary and shunned.

  That was how she sometimes saw herself: a separate creature of sadness and despair, almost otherworldly, unable to join in festivities or engage in normal conversation. Yet she generally managed to keep from gloom. She told herself that God would reward her if she endured.

  Turning a corner she found herself before a small tavern. Standing there she had a moment’s nervousness: it was daunting to enter a common alehouse on her own. Her father would be appalled if he heard. The thought made her stiffen her back proudly and almost before she realised, she’d made the decision and walked in.

  She bought a quart of wine and looked about her for a table. A man glanced up as she hesitated, giving her a smile and casual glance up and down. He was quite good-looking, Joan thought to herself, square-faced and robust-looking. Well-dressed without being showy, with his clean shirt and velvet cotte. At least he didn’t appear drunk. When he stood, she saw he was tall, at least six inches above her, and he had warm, dark eyes set beneath a high, intelligent brow.

  ‘You want to sit?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, thank you, I’m only here for a short time,’ she said, ducking her head and walking on to a space near the window. It was so rare for a man to speak to her that she hardly knew where to look. It was embarrassing, silly, for a stranger to talk to her. Why should he? What did he think she was? Some kind of strumpet from the streets? The hot blood of shame leaped into her cheeks and she determined to leave as soon as she could.

  Sitting at last, she glanced back and saw that although his friends around the table were laughing as they drank, the man who had spoken was still smiling admiringly at her. The sight sent a thrill of warmth flowing through her veins. Perhaps she needn’t leave quite so soon.

  In the dark the boat rocked alarmingly as Sir Gilbert of Carlisle climbed in, and he grabbed the sides swearing as the sailors began pulling on the oars.

  Yet another ally of Despenser had resiled. It was difficult to find any men who would hold true to their oaths of support for the Despenser family now that armies were marching against them; no one wanted to be on the losing side. It was hard for Sir Gilbert to see how to advise his master, Hugh Despenser the Younger, when all the men he attempted to negotiate with either refused to see him at all or, if they did, laughed in his face. Everyone was now convinced that Despenser would have to leave the kingdom. And that meant Sir Gilbert was faced with a stark choice: face exile with Despenser or stay and seek a new lord.

  Not an easy choice. Sir Gilbert had suffered once before from membership of an outlawed group. As a Knight Templar he had been an honoured warrior monk, revered wherever he went, until the French King invented foul lies about the Order so as to steal their wealth. Templar lands had been taken, shared out among the notaries and clerks who had persecuted members of the Order in France; Sir Gilbert himself had been cast aside, evicted from the lands he managed for the Order and forced to wander, masterless. He could still remember the loneliness and despair of his time on the road; he was too old now to go through all that again and to rebuild his life afresh – but the idea of following Despenser into exile filled him with dread.

  As the boat rustled through the water towards the sea and the moored Despenser ship, Sir Gilbert had a clear view of both shores of the Thames, and he eyed them unenthusiastically as he passed. This city of London was a swirling pot of lies and intrigue. The King had sowed dissatisfaction by overtly favouring his friends – and now he was reaping the harvest of war.

  It was Despenser’s avarice which had brought this disaster down upon all their heads. Hugh Despenser had set about snatching land from brothers-in-law, from neighbours, from anyone weaker than himself, with the sole aim of becoming rich. Then he had set his heart upon the Gower, an obscure piece of southern Welsh territory. With it, Despenser would control the Bristol Channel. William de Braose owned it and was happy to sell to the highest bidder, but then he died and before Despenser could act, de Braose’s son-in-law, John Mowbray, seized it.

  Despenser was furious. Going to the King, he persuaded his friend to confiscate the lands. King Edward complied, but neither had realised the strength of opposition. The action confirmed the Lords of the Marches in their concern that their own lordships were threatened. If Despenser could force one lord to lose his inheritance, he could do the same to others, they reasoned, and all rose in arms against Despenser, declaring him to be an enemy of the King and demanding that he should leave the country. Earl Hereford, the Mortimers, Audley, Maurice Berkeley and Damory, were jointly ransacking Despenser lands, marching behind the King’s own banner, declaring themselves to be fighting for him against an evil counsellor. Soon they would be here in London – and what then for Sir Gilbert’s chances of survival?

  While the King sulked in his palace, refusing to see any ambassadors from the Marches, men machinated: those who had sworn fealty to Despenser negotiated with new lords in anticipation of Despenser’s exile. The whole nation felt like a keg of black powder on glowing coals, ready to explode at any moment. When the explosion came, Sir Gilbert was determined to be sheltered. But abroad with Despenser – or in England with a new lord?

  The King himself supported Despenser, of course. That must count for something. If there were to be a fight, the King would stand at the side of the Despensers – and surely villeins and knights would prefer to remain loyal to their monarch rather than follow upstarts from the Marches who had been declared to be in revolt.

  In the meantime, the King had ordered the Marcher Lords to London where he could hear their complaints. If the rumours were true and they were bringing their armies with them, Sir Gilbert might have to change his allegiance. It was hard to see where else he could go – but then, while thinking of the Templars, Sir Gilbert remembered Devon.

  When the Templars had been destroyed, he had been living in a small Templar manor near Tiverton. In those days he had often met Lord Hugh de Courtenay, a baron who, like Sir Gilbert himself, was keen on his hunting. Sir Gilbert hadn’t been back for over a decade, but he knew de Courtenay was an important man, one who could control his own small army, a man who was potentially useful. And someone who could give good advice.

  At last – some sort of solution! Sir Gilbert smiled to himself. He would suggest to Despenser that he should sound out de Courtenay. That way, he could see how influential barons viewed the Despensers and decide whether his own loyalty was misplaced.

  Feeling a little less anxious now, Sir Gilbert settled back in the boat, unaware that his decision would lead to his death in a matter of weeks.

  Joan drained her cup and set it carefully down on the table before her. As she contemplated getting up and leaving, a shadow fell over her and she looked up to see the handsome stranger. He was holding a fresh jug in his hand.

  ‘I wondered if you would like a drink with me’, he said.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You looked lonely, and I thought perhaps we could talk.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked, peering around him at the crowde
d table he had just left.

  He beamed. ‘My friend Daniel there has just finished his apprenticeship and we’re here to help him to celebrate!’ To reinforce his words he up-ended his pot and set it down empty next to hers with a belch of content. ‘Sorry!’ Filling both their cups, he shot her a look. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’

  ‘You haven’t been looking hard, then,’ she rejoined tartly.

  ‘You’ve lived here long?’

  ‘Almost all my life. What of you?’

  ‘I was born in Exeter. My father wanted to make sure I learned a decent trade so he sent me here thirteen years ago, when I was eight.’

  ‘What trade?’

  ‘I am to be a spicer, although,’ his eyes took on a thoughtful expression, ‘I am not sure that I should remain here. I think there’s more money to be made in Exeter.’

  ‘Really?’ she said cynically. His words sounded boastful to her.

  ‘Yes,’ he grinned and mimicked her. ‘Really! I work for John Sherman now, but when I’m trained, Exeter will beckon. There’s more potential for a spicer there.’

  ‘You’re bold enough, anyway. Coming over here without introducing yourself. Or did you think me…’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said laughing, and gave a mock-serious bow. ‘I am called Philip Dyne, or Phil of Exeter. And no, I did not think you a common tavern girl. You don’t behave like one.’

  ‘I am Joan. Joan Carter,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a good name. Can I buy you a jug of wine?’

  She thought a moment. Philip Dyne had already chased away the residual dregs of her gloom and made her laugh. With another sip of wine strange but exciting thoughts beset her. She noticed that his lips seemed very full and attractive, and the thought of kissing them was appealing.

  Later, much later, the noise in the tavern grew deafening. When there came a loud guffaw and roar from an adjacent table, Dyne gave a fleeting frown, and she could guess what he was thinking: it was not conducive for talk here.

  She knew men and their earthy desires. They weren’t like girls. But she felt she’d be happy to satisfy this man; she’d be happy to stroll with him, or better, lie with him in the long grass that bordered the riverbank down in the meadow.

  Sipping her wine, she considered him speculatively. With a boldness that surprised her, she knocked back the remainder of her pot with gusto, then refilled it. This too she drank quickly. A fire started in her belly, warming her whole body.

  She wanted him, but not here. As another burst of laughter exploded at the next table, she gave him a shy, coquettish grin and nodded towards the doorway. He eagerly took her hint and stood; with delight he helped her from her seat. They interlaced their fingers while they drained their jugs, and then walked from the tavern, still hand-in-hand, and Joan led the way to the riverbank.

  Chapter Two

  Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace for Crediton, mounted his wife’s Arab mare and set spurs to her flanks.

  With something of a belly, now that his wife ordered his kitchen, Sir Baldwin was a tall, dark-haired man with a weathered complexion from his years of living in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Unlike his contemporaries he wore a black beard that followed the line of his jaw. Proof of his fighting background lay in the scar which stretched from his temple to his jaw, but the lines of sadness and despair that had once scored his features were gone. He felt comfortable and happy as he followed the smooth track that led along the front meadow to the roadway. Here he paused and glanced behind him, waiting for his mastiff.

  ‘Uther! Uther, come here.’

  The dog ignored him. Nose deep in a bush at the roadside, tail moving slowly, the huge beast joyfully inhaled.

  ‘Uther!’

  The dog’s head turned to him, tilted a little as if in enquiry. Sighing, Baldwin gave up. ‘Chopsie!’

  At his call the tawny dog padded quietly to his side and looked up with an expression that was so much like a smile, Baldwin had to chuckle despite his annoyance. Uther was young but there appeared to be nothing Baldwin could do to teach him his real name. No matter what he did, the dog only responded to the silly name which Baldwin’s servant, Edgar, had given him.

  But it was impossible for Baldwin to feel angry at the renaming of his dog, least of all towards the dog himself. For Uther Baldwin felt only affection, especially on a fine day like this. The sun shone brightly while a cool breeze stopped the heat becoming overpowering; high overhead, larks sang busily, shooting up as he came close, then dropping silently back to their nests after he had passed. A blackbird flew off close to the ground, its harsh warning call alerting all other creatures to Baldwin and Uther’s presence.

  It was good land here. Trees covered much of the landscape still, for few town-dwellers could be bothered to travel so far to fetch firewood or building materials, and there were not enough peasants to clear areas for growing crops. From here he could see many areas of agriculture, but each was discrete, separated by swathes of woodland through which the roads cut meanderingly, following hillsides or riverbanks. At this time of year, July, the trees still wore their covering of lighter-coloured, newer leaves. Oak, elm, chestnut and beech gave the hills a pleasing verdant tone, while in those areas where there was space the ground was bright with the yellow of buttercups or scattered with daisies. Baldwin rode slowly, enjoying the sights and scents of this, his land.

  But for all the pleasure of the journey, his mind could not leave the threatened war. No matter where he went, it was the main topic of conversation and he was worried that the whole country could soon be engulfed in flames.

  His concern was for his wife, for Baldwin had only recently been married. He knew perfectly well that if war came he would be called away to fight for his master, Lord Hugh de Courtenay. If Baldwin died, or worse, if the war came here to Furnshill, he would not be able to protect her; that thought tore at him with each fresh rumour of battle.

  Lady Jeanne, his wife, was a tall, slender woman with red-gold hair and the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen; to him she was the very picture of perfection. Her face was regular, if a little round; her nose short and too small; her mouth over-wide with a full upper lip that gave her a stubborn appearance; her forehead was perhaps too broad. And yet to Baldwin she was the most beautiful woman he had seen.

  When they first met, he had been filled with reticence; his affection for her had felt wrong, because he had taken the Knight Templar’s threefold vows: of obedience, poverty, and chastity. Sir Baldwin had felt confused, knowing his desire for Jeanne was unchaste, and it had taken some time for him to come to terms with his new position as a married man.

  And now he had more or less accepted it, the kingdom was threatened by the greed of a few lords. He reined in at the top of the hill looking south towards Crediton and Dartmoor, surveying the sweep of the land while Uther snuffled in the ferns that lined the roadside.

  Baldwin had been a Templar and survived the persecution of his Order. The experience had given him a loathing of intolerance of any kind. It was this that made him an effective official. Many times he had investigated murders and other felonies, convinced that an arrested man was innocent and fired with the determination to see justice prevail.

  But justice would go by the board if there was a new war. Baldwin had a gloomy certainty that no matter who won a war it was the peasants and poorer knights like himself who would lose all – perhaps even their lives. His wife had already been widowed once; Baldwin was not sure how she would cope with losing a second man.

  Suddenly, a black shape exploded skywards from his side, giving a harsh shrieking cry like metal scored with rough stone, and Baldwin’s mount reared. When he had the beast under control, he saw Uther, who had sprung the black grouse, chasing off after the bird, paws windmilling as he tried to equal its speed. Baldwin laughed for joy and spurred his mare on.

  A canter, then a gallop, and Baldwin tore past Uther, who lumbered at full speed staring up at the grouse, ignoring the
land ahead. Baldwin too failed to notice the change in the grasses before him. Suddenly there was a splash and a jerk; Baldwin’s mare stopped dead, and the astonished knight found himself flying through the air. For a brief moment he saw the ground racing towards his face and then he landed with a splash in a foul-smelling bog.

  An hour or so later, when Uther had been installed for the night in the stable, a groom instructed to clean the mare and a servant called to fetch a clean robe so that Jeanne would not see the state Baldwin was in, many miles away Sir Gilbert of Carlisle was clambering down from the moored Despenser ship, clutching the leashes of his own two recalcitrant hounds. While the small craft rocked and bucked under the weight of the three passengers, the sailors took up their oars for the trip back to shore.

  It was cloudy and a thin wind was blowing a fine spray at them. Sir Gilbert’s coat of best wool was soggy, its smell reminding him of old, wet sheep. Compared with the foul odour of sewage and putrefaction that hung over London, it was almost pleasant.

  Before they set off an iron-bound chest was let down on a whip, caught by a sailor and thrust quickly at Sir Gilbert, who stowed it away between his feet. He rested his hand on it for reassurance.

  It was his own fault, he reflected; he had suggested this journey down to Devon. At the time he hadn’t realised the wind was blowing from the west. It would take an age for the old single-masted cog to beat up into the breeze; she was ever a slow ship, but tacking constantly would take an age, and Hugh Despenser the Younger had need of speed. He proposed that Sir Gilbert should land in London and make his own way to Devon using horses owned by the Despensers.

  So here he was, setting off for a long journey with his dogs and two guards for company, and this box. With a grim smile Sir Gilbert patted his dogs’ heads. With the wealth held inside he needed all the protection he could get.