The Traitor of St Giles aktm-9

by Michael Jecks

  There was a sharp intake of breath from one of the sailors. Sir Gilbert ignored it: he wasn’t used to paying attention to the feelings of menials and servants. He assumed it was simply the gasp of a tired man pulling at oars. Shrugging himself lower into his sodden coat, he tried to protect his neck from the chill breeze. In his gloomy mood he thought there was a dull blanket of dampness over everything, even smothering the torches and braziers at either bank.

  It was only when he realised that the breath was hissing through the teeth of the nearer sailor, a swarthy, pox-scarred man with a shock of tawny hair and small, shrewd eyes, that Sir Gilbert glanced up. The man was staring over Sir Gilbert’s shoulder and after a moment the knight peered back as well.

  There, casting a great white bow-wave, was a small ship, a galley-type, moving speedily towards them. ‘What is it?’ Gilbert asked.

  ‘It’s that whoreson Badlesmere, I’ll bet. Whoever it is, they mean to catch us – board us or ram us.’

  The vessel was closing fast now, and instinctively Sir Gilbert pulled the chest up to his lap, cradling it protectively as he might a child. When he next looked over his shoulder their pursuer was scant yards away.

  An order was grunted. Without warning the sailor and his mate behind him lifted their oars from the water; the other men on the opposite side hauled. Sir Gilbert was no expert seaman and he was thrown bodily to one side, almost losing his grip on the box, while one dog yelped in alarm, ears flat back in fear, and the other stood scrabbling on the slippery wood trying to remain upright. The boat lurched once, then again, and there was a loud crack as the ship struck their side, knocking him from his seat.

  A man sprang down, axe in hand. Sir Gilbert was on his back in the bilgewater and could only stare up in horror. He saw the axe swing and embed itself in the head of one of his guards: the man shrieked. A kick sent him overboard as a second boarder leapt down. The first pirate made a hideous gargling sound deep in his throat and Sir Gilbert saw him clutch at his neck even as a warm, fine spray settled on his face. Then he saw the knife’s hilt showing. All at once the pock-marked sailor was up. He grabbed his dagger from the one, shoved, and in an instant both boarders were over the side.

  ‘What…?’ Sir Gilbert managed, clambering to his seat and gazing about him in the murky light.

  ‘They tried to overhaul us; we slipped aside before they could ram us,’ the sailor grunted, once more at his oar. ‘They’ll need to tack to come back at us. Can’t do that in a hurry, so they’ll try to land some men to catch us as we moor. We’ll just have to beat them to it.’

  They ran the boat scraping up a shallow ramp and one of the crew waded to land and held the boat while the others helped Sir Gilbert out. There was no need to help the dogs: Aylmer jumped quickly from the boat and hared to the top of the ramp away from the water, while Merry stepped lightly onto land and stood there sniffing at a wall.

  ‘Wait here,’ said the sailor and darted silently across the yard to a gate in the encircling wooden fence. Soon he was back, the knife in his hand shining in the light of the torches. ‘It’s safe enough.’

  Sir Gilbert glanced at his remaining guard, who hefted the chest. The sailor glanced at it, his face twisting with sympathetic amusement. It was the same expression that Sir Gilbert had seen other sailors wearing as they watched lubbers clumsily moving about the ship.

  ‘What?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘You’re in London, Sir Gilbert. You may be on the Surrey and Kent side, but this is still London, where sluts, cutpurses, horsethieves and footpads mingle. What are you going to do? Walk up to an inn, bold as a cock, and ask for a horse, holding your little box at your shoulder?’

  ‘No one would dare attack me with my dogs here,’ Sir Gilbert said coldly, but the man had a point. Sir Gilbert hadn’t expected to be put ashore here, he’d been hoping to be further upriver, nearer the London Bridge. Instead, here he was, with a long walk ahead of him and no horse or carriage. And only one guard, not two.

  The sailor saw his expression and shook his head. Turning, he issued instructions to the other men before walking ahead to the gate again, beckoning to Sir Gilbert.

  ‘What is this?’ Sir Gilbert demanded.

  ‘You need help to cross London. This is a seaman’s land, not fit for a country knight.’

  ‘We can protect ourselves.’

  The sailor watched him tap his sword. ‘You think so? While protecting the box?’

  Sir Gilbert considered.

  ‘Come, Sir Knight. I’ll join you. You can be certain that I won’t betray my Lord Despenser, not while he wins me rewards from the ships he takes. With two guards there’s more chance of your mission succeeding.’

  It was hard to believe he’d come to this. Philip Dyne squatted on the floor by the altar within the sanctuary and gazed ahead of him unseeing. It was dark now, and the place was lit by a few candles this late in the evening. The priest himself, the sepulchral Father Abraham, had gone to his bedchamber hours before, and Philip was alone in the great cold room.

  He shivered. The memory of men pounding after him lingered; never in all his years had he known such terror. It was one thing to be found pilfering the odd spice and being soundly thrashed by his master for trying to supply it on the quiet, but this!

  His legs ached, and he shifted uncomfortably while keeping a grip on the altar cloth. He wanted no mistake about his right to claim sanctuary here, not while he had no knife, no staff, nothing with which to protect himself.

  Moving his legs, he carefully avoided the small pile of excrement where a dog had relieved itself. He was astonished that the priest hadn’t cleaned the spot, but then Father Abraham was very jealous of his position, proud of his standing. He would refuse to clean the place; that was the job of the sexton, not the priest.

  From here Philip could see the pictures on the walls, large, round, flamboyant depictions of biblical scenes, of the seven deadly sins and the seven cardinal virtues, with angels on one side receiving Christian souls into Heaven while on the other angels sternly pointed the way to Hell for sinners.

  He stared at them despondently. Every now and again he sniffed, too exhausted to sob; his emotions had been used up over the last few nights.

  This church held no mystery – he’d been here so often, watching Father Abraham thundering on about the evils of sin from this very place, pointing out the pictures, ranting wide-eyed as the spittle flew, berating his congregation as he tried to instill his own loathing for pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth. Philip and his friends had enjoyed those sermons with the priest roaring away, scaring maids and upsetting children. It had been fun. He could still grin weakly, recollecting the time when a pigeon had been startled from the rafters and left a deposit on the priest’s tonsured head.

  His face hardened. It was all over now. His only escape was to leave England, to abjure the realm and become an exile. All for the death of Joan. Whenever he thought of her his eyes filled with tears. She was fun, exciting and bright. That was why they became engaged.

  That first night together down by the river, she had thrilled him so much, lying almost naked in his arms. Then they realised how late it was and she breathily giggled into his shoulder that she couldn’t get home now: the house’s doors would be locked. It was already too late; with her warm flesh filling his hands he wouldn’t have let her go anyway. Not that she wanted to. Her hands pulled impatiently at his tunic, untying the thongs that held up his hose, releasing them so that she could lift the cloth from him before he rolled her on her back and covered her body with his own.

  Her father had gone mad when she got home, she told him the next time they met. He knew she’d been up to no good. Joan laughed as she described Andrew Carter’s towering rage. Then she pulled Philip along behind her, back to their meadow, and made love to him again.

  ‘You won’t leave me, will you?’ she asked seriously afterwards.

  ‘No, ‘course not.’

  And he hadn�
��t. She had left him.

  By dying.

  Chapter Three

  As the end of July drew near, Sir Gilbert of Carlisle gratefully approached the West Country. Reaching the top of a rise, he gazed ahead and halted. There before him he could see the hills and woods of Devonshire.

  The journey had not been easy. Before long he had been forced to appreciate the stolid sailor who stayed with him when his second guard was lost. His name was William, the sailor said; William the Small.

  It had been the panic of London’s folk that had cost him his second guard. Not only were Londoners anxious at having Hugh Despenser aboard his ship in the Thames, they also had the country’s great magnates ringing the city with their armies. The Mortimers were the guests of the Knights of St John at Clerkenwell, Hereford was at Holborn, Damory at the New Temple, and Audley at St Bartholomew’s Priory at Smithfield. The city was enclosed and while the King vacillated, reluctant to banish his friend, yet fearful of the response of the Marcher Lords if he refused to do so, the lords themselves grew annoyed to hear of the King’s trips to the Despensers’ ship, or young Despenser’s visits to the shore to feast with the King.

  The unease in the city had come to a head the day before Sir Gilbert landed. Parliament had met at the great hall at Westminster, and the lords demanded that both Despensers should be exiled. They were guilty of greed and treachery, they were enemies of both the King and his people.

  In the streets, supporters of the Despensers hurled stones or fired arrows at the men from the marches; their attacks were returned with gusto. Before the parliamentary meeting there had been threats to fire the city of London, and that brought out the burgesses to protect their homes. Now, instead of running fights between two groups, there were battles between all three and Sir Gilbert arrived with his men in the middle of it all. London Bridge was closed, as were all the main gates while the emergency continued, and Sir Gilbert and his servants were forced to seek an inn in which to stay until they could continue their journey.

  They found one close to the Black Friars’ Priory, down at the Thames where the River Fleet met it. Sir Gilbert would have been happier to have been nearer London’s bridge, but William pointed out that here they had two rivers over which they could make an escape at need.

  On the second day the situation changed: the King finally agreed to exile the Despensers. Sir Gilbert breathed a sigh of relief, paid his reckoning, and he and his men left – but they had forgotten the armies about the city.

  Horses had been promised, but in the new climate friends of the Younger Despenser were hard to find. Sir Gilbert had to threaten one of Despenser’s grooms to provide him with three horses. The fellow agreed with a bad grace and it was while he was preparing the mounts that Sir Gilbert went to see the Temple: he couldn’t resist taking a look at the symbol of his old Order. However, as he and his men turned a corner, they found themselves confronted by five scruffy men-at-arms.

  One sat at a table drinking, while two stood behind him in a tavern’s doorway. All had the bleared voices and ruddy faces of men who have been drinking for many hours. They were egging on two more men who were practising fighting with daggers. As soon as Sir Gilbert and his little retinue appeared, the fighters stopped and eyed them with interest.

  Sir Gilbert avoided meeting their eyes, but hefted his wooden chest beneath an arm and carried on.

  ‘Oi! Stop a moment, my Lord.’ It was the large, broad-shouldered man at the bench who spoke, his face remarkably smooth and youthful, with light-coloured brown hair, and only one blemish: a thick, pink scar which followed the line of his eyebrows like an obscene crease. Bright blue eyes gleamed with humour but, when he motioned, the men with daggers moved to stand in Sir Gilbert’s path.

  Instantly the dogs were at Sir Gilbert’s side, Aylmer standing still, head low as he scowled forward, Merry crouching slightly before taking two stiff-legged steps towards the men blocking the path.

  Sir Gilbert paused, his hand falling to his sword.

  ‘Master, there’s no need for violence,’ the seated man said mildly, and his men chuckled. ‘But I think I should like to peep inside your little box there, just to make sure you haven’t got something you shouldn’t.’

  ‘The box stays shut,’ Sir Gilbert said flatly, staring at the dagger men.

  ‘That’s a pity, isn’t it, Toker?’ said one of them, addressing the seated man.

  ‘I think it is, Perkin. Owen thinks so too, don’t you, Owen?’

  The other dagger-fighter said nothing. If anything he looked unhappy about the way things were developing.

  Sir Gilbert heard a slight noise: the man called Toker had spanned a crossbow. It was a powerful modern one with a metal bow and it rested, cocked, on the table. As Sir Gilbert watched, the man placed a quarrel in the groove and shifted it until it pointed at him. Sir Gilbert weighed the distance. If he could throw the chest, it would make the man duck. He’d almost certainly miss his aim, and that would give Sir Gilbert time to take on the leader. Sir Gilbert was a Templar: he had no fear of the odds, not with his dogs at his side.

  Before he could move, his plans were wrecked. His remaining guard sprang forward, sweeping out a short sword. The crossbow moved and the string hummed as it spat out the bolt which passed clean through the guard, who nonetheless ran on at full tilt. Lifting the crossbow, Toker lazily blocked the clumsy sword-thrust before punching the guard to the ground.

  Simultaneously Sir Gilbert heard a sharp rap, then a cry. Turning, he saw that William, smiling mildly, was grasping a six-foot pole. At his feet were the two men from the doorway, one lying on his back and snoring, the other retching drily into the gutter, gripping his belly. William held his quarter-staff aimed at Toker’s face. Shrugging good-humouredly, Toker let his crossbow fall to the table.

  Aylmer had forced the man called Perkin up against a wall, while Merry had knocked the other to the ground and now stood guard over him, snarling each time he moved, his bared teeth at the man’s throat. Sir Gilbert almost pitied the fellow when he saw the grimace of terror on the silent man’s face.

  Sir Gilbert called and the dogs returned to his side – Merry with a certain reluctance. William Small the sailor took out his knife and slashed at the crossbow’s string, which snapped with a loud twanging report. A small crowd had appeared, and for a coin or two one man agreed to fetch a physician for the wounded guard. Meanwhile the man called Toker remained calm and smiling, even calling for more ale.

  Sir Gilbert and William left the scene as soon as they could. The moment they had put some distance between them and the inn, the knight asked: ‘Where did you find the staff?’

  ‘It was one of theirs. I noticed it leaning by the door there,’ William told him.

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ the other said. ‘I have a duty to see that the money gets to Devon, just like you. But rather than trying to set ourselves up as targets for every footpad and outlaw between here and Devon, let’s lose the chest.’

  ‘Lose it?’

  ‘Throw it in the river,’ William said shortly. ‘You can put all the stuff into a sack. At least it wouldn’t be so conspicuous.’

  Sir Gilbert considered. ‘You’re right.’ He found a merchant and bought a pair of small sacks. While William mounted guard, Sir Gilbert crouched in an alley and transferred the contents of the chest to them.

  That was many leagues ago and now, as Sir Gilbert approached the country where he had spent so much of his youth and young adulthood, he felt his mood lifting. The weather was poor (just as it always used to be, he sighed happily), with heavy, storm-filled clouds hanging threateningly in the sky and puddles on the ground. At each step of his horse the mud spattered, and the two dogs kept their distance.

  William was a curious man. Sir Gilbert had discovered a little about him: he had been a man-at-arms serving in the King’s army in Flanders in 1297 and later in Scotland in 1303; not long afterwards he had turned to the sea.

  ‘Why?
’ Sir Gilbert had asked.

  William had a badly pock-marked face, but his hair was thick and curling, his shoulders broad, and he had a steadiness in his green eyes that spoke of a stable nature. He glanced now at Sir Gilbert. ‘The sea is clean compared with the land, sir. On land, everyone is owned by someone and tied like a dog. At sea, when the wind blows we’re all equals. The man is a king who can save the cog, and if there’s discipline, there’s freedom too; on land a man has to behave as he’s told.’

  Sir Gilbert nodded and left the matter there, but he was aware of something else. William was a fighter; it was obvious in the way he had handled his staff. There was good money to be earned by a fighter on a ship – especially one like Hugh Despenser’s which was about to turn pirate and steal whatever it could. A sailor would be unwilling to jump back to land just to help protect his master’s cash from felons. He would want to be at sea with his boat where he could help win prizes and make his fortune.

  Perhaps William was with him less to guard Sir Gilbert, more to protect his mission and Hugh Despenser’s money.

  Unless William was a thief and simply sought an opportunity to take the lot for himself, of course.

  While they continued on their way, Matilda Carter was sitting in Tiverton with her eyes closed, the tears running down her cheeks. This part of her garden had always been a delight to her. It was peaceful here at the back of their burgage plot with the stream running along the lawn’s edge; the noise and bustle of the townspeople seemed a thousand miles away. Here the turfed seats stayed cool in the hottest weather and the scent of the little dog roses wafted to her on each small breeze. It was her sanctuary; she came here when she had need of silence and reflection, but now she would never know peace again because that man was safe in the sanctuary of her church.

  It was obscene! Andrew, Matilda’s husband, had railed against Joan for being no better than a whore when she eventually returned from her first meeting with the lad, but Joan had appeared unimpressed with his rage. She was handfast, she said; she would marry Philip Dyne. But before she could, her lover had throttled her.