It was a fair point, but her reasons were perfectly clear. She was upset at the death of her friend, the one dead from childbirth. No one liked to lose a pal and drinking partner. Harlewin could understand that.
He walked along the main thoroughfare, past the church and up the road towards the castle. Here the wind was in his face, and the stench of excrement from the pots emptied into the street’s single sewer was strong enough to make him wrinkle his nose. A hog rooted in the filth, chewing at a piece of flesh, and Harlewin watched it queasily. It was enough to put a man off his bacon. A bitch with engorged teats began barking at it, snapping at the hog’s hindquarters until it moved off, still munching, and only then did Harlewin see it was chewing on a puppy.
Glancing up he realised where he was. This was the spicers’ area; his feet must have guided him here unconsciously to see his woman. Looking up at the window he couldn’t help but smile a little. He knew the room where she slept with her husband was at the back of the shop, in their solar, but he gazed through the opened shopfront hopefully. Seeing John Sherman with his new apprentice at the rear of the shop, Harlewin hurried off.
It was a relief to be away from Cecily’s knowing gaze. That young woman was a little too sharp for her own, and other people’s, good. Before Baldwin went to seek her husband, he stood fingering two bright penny coins at the gravedigger’s side. ‘Friend, I know the good Father Abraham takes coins for looking after the Masses for the dead, but I feel it is only right that a man who performs the physical duties for the dead body should also be rewarded.’
Hick studied the two coins, then his gaze rose and met Baldwin’s, giving a short grunt of wary agreement. Taking the pennies, he dropped them carefully into his small purse.
Baldwin smiled. ‘This knight. You had seen him alive?’
‘Aye. He was here. I saw him.’
‘This would be when?’
‘Four nights ago. I was down at the alehouse near the castle and saw him with Master Nicholas Lovecok. They were coming out of the tavern further up the hill.’
That would be the night before his murder, Baldwin noted. ‘What time?’
Hick scowled with concentration. ‘It was just before Father Abraham was called to Father Benedict, so it was a little after Compline.’
‘Father Benedict?’
‘He was the priest at the chapel in Templeton. He was dying. Father Abraham spent most of the day with him, then came home for Vespers, but not long after a boy came to say that the Father was sinking fast and Father Abraham went back to ease his passing.’
Baldwin said, ‘And you saw Sir Gilbert leaving the tavern with Lovecok?’
‘Yes. And a moment later one of Sir Peregrine’s men came out and followed them.’
‘Why should that be, I wonder. Do you know who that man was?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
Hick screwed up his face. ‘It was dark, sir. I saw the badges on his tunic, but not his face.’
Jeanne smiled engagingly at Hick. ‘I suppose Nicholas Lovecok and the knight were very friendly?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘Were they very drunk, do you think?’
‘They could walk,’ Hick said surprised. ‘They just looked like old friends.’
‘More,’ Baldwin murmured looking down into the grave, ‘than you could say for the priest. He seems to hate the man.’
‘Yes,’ Hick agreed. ‘You should have seen him yesterday, when he was talking about him and the Templars like him. Said the Templars cost us the Kingdom of Jerusalem, that they had taken up devil-worship or somesuch…’
While Baldwin listened appalled, the rat-catcher rattled on happily about the priest’s fearsome denunciation of the Templars.
‘So that’s why he hated Sir Gilbert,’ Baldwin said when Hick was done.
‘I expect so, Sir Baldwin,’ Hick said, hopefully fingering his purse in case more coins might be forthcoming.
‘But how,’ Baldwin wondered, staring back at the castle, ‘would a knight like Sir Gilbert have known a merchant like Lovecok? And how did Father Abraham know Sir Gilbert was a Templar?’
‘Ah, you’ll need to ask him that.’
‘Yes, I shall, shan’t I?’ Baldwin said. He smiled at his wife. ‘Shall we go and call on the good Father, my dear?’
They found the priest in his chamber, a small room with a pleasant fire crackling in the middle of the floor. Father Abraham was putting his book and vestments into a chest at the side of his table. Seeing who his guests were, he looked surprised, but was polite if not effusive in his welcome. ‘Please come in. Can I serve you with anything, Lady Jeanne?’
‘A little wine?’
‘Of course.’ He walked to a small barrel stamped with the mark of Lord Hugh and turned a small wooden tap, filling a bowl. ‘Sir Baldwin?’
Baldwin was staring thoughtfully at the chest, which remained open. Propping the lid up was a long-bladed knife in a sheath.
Seeing the direction of his eyes, the priest smiled. ‘A man must protect himself when the country becomes so dangerous. Even I, a priest, must carry a weapon to defend myself.’
‘You should be careful, Father. Many a man unused to a dagger has come to grief against a man well trained.’
Father Abraham gave a short laugh. ‘I pity the felon who attacks me! I was brought up in a knight’s household and was trained to arms. I would be able to shock any outlaw, I assure you. Now, would you care for some wine?’
‘No, thank you. I would prefer some mental nourishment.’
Father Abraham glanced at Jeanne, wondering whether she should be present, and asked, ‘Would you like to come to the church, then?’
‘No, Father. I wanted to ask how you discovered that Sir Gilbert was a Templar.’
Father Abraham froze. ‘You heard my words?’
‘It would have been difficult to miss them,’ Jeanne said.
He looked at her coldly. ‘Then I can hardly deny it, can I? I learned he was a Templar when I was visiting an ill colleague: Father Benedict of Templeton. He was dying, and I went to give him what comfort I could.’
‘He has died?’
‘I fear so. He died on the same night as the heretic and the felon. I was with him and could listen to his confession.’
‘I see. And he told you that Sir Gilbert was a Templar?’
‘While I was with Benedict the Templar went to the chapel. I believe he used to be one of the devil-worshippers who once lived there until our Holy Father the Pope showed us how evil they were. Then he scurried away like all the other cowards.’
Baldwin restrained himself with an effort. The priest was scathing about his comrades, about his Order. It was hard to swallow his pride and continue, but continue Baldwin must – and without letting the priest realise that he himself had once been a Templar. ‘Did you speak to Sir Gilbert?’
‘My God, no! Speak to a foul heretic?’ His face showed his disbelief and disgust at the suggestion. ‘I should rather cut out my tongue! I was there with the good Father Benedict as a kindness. Although he was once a priest in that foul Order, he recanted and remained to help the poor of his little manor; this proud Templar Knight never recanted. His presence there proved it! Do you know what he did? Eh? He walked into the chapel. He must have gone there to pray! He cannot have adopted the true faith if he still believed in the holiness of his foul Order. I was with Father Benedict for a long while, and Sir Gilbert remained in the chapel all that time.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘I don’t know. It was late afternoon, I suppose. The sun was low in the sky.’
‘Did you leave when the good Father died?’ Jeanne asked.
‘No, Lady. He was still alive. He died much later, at night. I was called to him by a boy from his parish.’
‘You went back after dark?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘Why… yes. Why?’
‘And which road did you take to go there?’
/> ‘There is a track that leads almost straight there.’
‘And which also leads along behind the road to Crediton, does it not?’ Baldwin said. He smiled, but his face had no humour. ‘Along the woods in which Sir Gilbert, the man you hated so much, was murdered. By someone skilled with weapons.’
He was almost at the castle gate when Harlewin saw her, and his ruddy face beamed at the sight.
True enough, Cecily Sherman was not the most beautiful woman in Tiverton, but to Harlewin she was a breath of invigorating air. Cecily was short and dark, with the flashing eyes of a Celt. Her belly was full and round, her breasts large and appealing, her face a pleasing spherical shape: perfect and warm to cuddle up to on a chill evening, he reflected – unlike Felicity who was little better than a sack of bones. Cecily Sherman’s complexion was fine and smooth, unmarked by the pox, and of a beautiful creamy-pink colour. She looked as ripe and wholesome as a peach just plucked from the tree, and tasted as delicious.
There was no shame in her, either. When she saw him, her eyes widened invitingly, her smile broadened. Her maid was with her, but neither Cecily nor Harlewin feared that rumours of their meetings would be spread abroad. Harlewin, when all was said and done, was the Coroner. He could invent almost any offence and have a maid installed in her own private gaol if she were foolish enough to give him reason.
‘My Lord Coroner,’ Cecily curtsied. ‘It seems such a long time since I last saw you.’
‘You think so? I swear to me it seems only yesterday, my Lady.’
‘And yet for me the passing of even a minute without you seems like an hour,’ she sighed.
‘Rubbish, woman,’ he growled as they passed into a shadow, and he grabbed her to him and placed a smacking kiss on her lips.
Chuckling throatily she pulled away and ducked beneath his second attempt to grapple her. ‘Sir! Not in the street like a whore and her client, thank you.’
‘Then let’s go off to the mill.’
‘Do you think me a fool?’ she asked, and this time there was a trace of asperity in her tone. ‘With all the people come to the town for the Fair?’
‘Er, no. Perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed. He hadn’t considered how many eyes could witness him riding off with her, but now she mentioned it, it would be foolish to risk so much. John Sherman already suspected their affair – he’d shown his suspicions in the hall when he’d almost accused Harlewin of corruption or whatever the damn-fool spicer was on about. Not that Sherman was a man to fear a great deal. If he wished to force Harlewin into a duel, so be it. Harlewin was reasonably sure he could win any bout with the fellow.
Cecily continued, ‘Has that knight from Furnshill spoken to you yet? He’s just been asking me all about that night.’
‘Sir Baldwin has?’ he asked. That put a new complexion on things. ‘Why?’
‘He doesn’t seem to think that Sir Gilbert was killed by the felon. You should be careful. I don’t want John to find out about us because of a meddling Keeper. Can’t you silence him?’
He grinned and shrugged. ‘We have nothing to fear. Perhaps if we were to go to the mill later we could talk about it?’
Cecily Sherman waved her maid away with a small frown. ‘Later?’
They had reached the entrance to an alley. He shot a look up and down the street, then darted in, pulling her giggling after him. Kissing her, he lifted her skirts while she responded with enthusiasm, thrusting her hips forward to him, returning the ardour of his embrace with a quick wantonness that excited him beyond caution, and as suddenly she pulled away and patted his face with one hand while she let the other rest on his groin. ‘Not here.’
‘The mill this evening,’ he panted. ‘You must come.’
‘How can I? My husband is no fool: he will suspect. Anyway, I have to be early to bed… no, Harlewin, not with you! John is entertaining merchants at our hall tomorrow morning.’
‘He’ll be at the castle with the other guests. You remain at home pleading a bad head, then ride for the cottage when he’s gone.’
‘A bad head? Good God, Coroner, you aren’t very inventive, are you? It’d need to be better than that.’
‘Well, you think up something. I’ll leave the hall early and see you there.’
‘You? But you’ll have to be at the feast, too, won’t you?’
He gave a low, animal snarl. ‘You think I can sit and eat when I can picture you lying on my bed? Ach, woman, stop your teasing!’ he said and pulled her hand from his groin. ‘You can do that later – when we’re alone.’
Chapter Seventeen
Nicholas Lovecok ensured that the wines and ales he had delivered to the castle were stored correctly for the feast. In the storerooms and buttery he checked barrels to see that the drink would flow, tasting wine and smacking his lips as he sought to assure himself that he had not failed Lord Hugh. De Courtenay could be a painful client if the level of service he received fell short of his expectations.
Finished and generally satisfied, Nicholas sat on a barrel and filled a jug with wine. So much had happened in the last few days that he had a lot to muse over, and little of it was of a pleasant nature.
Meeting Sir Gilbert had been traumatic. It had been so long, fifteen years almost since they had last met, that Nicholas had practically forgotten the man. Seeing him again so unexpectedly had been like getting a sword-thrust in the guts.
He had been walking back from the castle, on his way to his brother-in-law’s place, and had decided to take a detour, to work up an appetite. Andrew’s hospitality was good, provided you didn’t mind a thick mess of food at each meal, enough to adequately feed a whole family. For Nicholas, whose bachelor existence had made him appreciate smaller but more varied dishes, the massive quantities Andrew saw as essential were almost sufficient to make him feel sick.
Perhaps that was unfair. Now he looked back on it, maybe it was more the impact of his sister which made mealtimes at Andrew Carter’s house so much of a trial. Poor Matilda sat in her chair like a saint undergoing torture. Wan, unspeaking, anxious and fretful, she picked at her food, speaking seldom, rarely listening, sunk in her own gloom-filled nightmare. When she was spoken to, she snapped or merely stared uncomprehendingly. Luckily she had recovered a little since Dyne’s death.
But then it had been a joy to get away from the mourning woman and her nervous husband. Andrew Carter had sat gnawing at his nails while he observed his wife gradually sinking deeper into her hysterical depression as they approached the hour when Philip Dyne would be released on his oath of abjuration. Nicholas had thought that his black mood would be replaced by elation when they had taken Dyne’s head off, but it had only seemed as if the full horror of their action had somehow killed off a part of his emotions.
The beheading was a memory Nicholas wanted to erase but he couldn’t. Like a picture painted upon glass, it was always in his mind: the flash of the sword swooping down and the first fine spray of blood from the man’s neck; a moment later the huge gouts spurting as the head rolled away, the eyelids snapping wide, then fluttering, the mouth opening and shutting as if Dyne was cursing the two men. But without a voice.
Nicholas shuddered at the memory. It was wrong for him to have got involved. Joan was his niece, true, but she would have been as effectively avenged by hiring men to commit the deed, and then there would be none of this lingering horror.
He forced his mind to the other night, the one before Dyne’s death. It was in the tavern. Boisterous noise: roaring and bellowing as ebullient traders drank to each other’s health, knocking pots or jugs together as they toasted their success at the coming Fair; musicians with harp and bagpipe in one corner competing with a crowder scraping his bow frantically in another; two dogs fighting, egged on by a small group of bystanders.
The room was small, the atmosphere smoky from the fire. It had been like wandering inside a small oven, but welcome for all that, being gloriously free of Andrew and his consumptive wife.
Walking in with a s
ense of relief, Nicholas ordered himself a large pot of wine and, as he waited, noticed a face that looked oddly familiar. Sir Gilbert had been sitting near the corner, out of the way, and Nicholas, with that sixth sense which he had honed so well since he had first moved to Devonshire, had realised someone was fixing their attention upon him. Instantly he felt the old terror welling up, filling his soul, reaching out and clinging to his every organ and limb, making any movement feel clumsy and conspicuous, like a guilty man waiting to be arrested.
He had thought himself safe here in Tiverton. It was almost ten years since he had fled here, him, his sister and her young daughter. And now someone who knew him, someone from his past, had found him. He had to force himself to drink his wine casually, and then turned, determined to put a bold face upon whatever might come to pass.
And found himself looking into the face of Sir Gilbert of Carlisle. A brother Templar.
Sherman’s shop was not far from the church and Baldwin happily snuffed the air outside. ‘I always adored that odour.’
‘Then you may buy me spices for the house,’ Jeanne said.
‘Oh, I did not bring money with me. All I have is a few pennies,’ Baldwin protested.
‘I am sure the good spicer will take your word and offer you credit, Husband.’
Baldwin submitted with a wry grin and held the door open for her. They walked into a small hall, with pots racked upon the shelves that lined the walls. Beneath were sacks filled with aromatic spices and herbs. The air smelled sweet and musty, and Jeanne sneezed twice as she entered.
A youth was serving, a thin and pale lad of not more than twelve or thirteen years. While Jeanne spoke to him, Baldwin walked to the door at the back; as he peered up at some of the pots above it, the door opened and John Sherman came out.
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