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.
How a man could murder a sweet, innocent child like Joan, Matilda didn’t know. Her daughter was never spiteful or unkind. If anything, she was a little too quiet. And for her murderer to be granted safety in church was mad. There were rumours that he would be allowed to escape justice completely. While Joan lay in her grave, he might be allowed to run away.
Hearing steps on the gravelled pathway, she hurriedly wiped at her eyes, composing herself.
It was her maid, Clarice. ‘Mistress? Can I fetch you a cup of wine?’
‘No. I am all right, Clarice. Quite all right.’ Matilda sniffed, then she burst out: ‘I just miss her! I feel so alone without her. You know my husband only values me for my money and the ties I have with my brother.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘It’s true. What’s the point of denying it? He only comes to me in our bed when he is desperate and there are no whores to tempt him. And to keep him happy, I allowed him to shut poor Joan away.’
‘I’m sure Joan was happy, Mistress.’
Clarice’s words went ignored.
‘And she was so pretty. So pretty. As she grew older she became more so, but I missed her growing. I should have been there to watch her, to guide her; I should have been there for her to describe the first man she was attracted to, to help her dress and learn how to comport herself. I should have been there.’
‘You were there when she needed you.’
‘How can you say that?’ Matilda flashed. ‘She needed me when she met that bastard Dyne! She needed me to tell her that the man was evil – that he would kill her!’
‘You couldn’t predict that,’ Clarice pointed out reasonably.
‘How do I know?’ Matilda wailed miserably. ‘How can I tell? But at least I would have been there for her, instead of ignoring her for so long.’
‘It is the way of children that they are put to their work,’ said Clarice, who had left her mother and home when she was eight. She patted her mistress’s hand sympathetically. ‘You did all you thought best for her.’
‘And now whenever I go to celebrate Mass, he’s there, watching me with his piggy little eyes, like a demon,’ Matilda said. ‘He killed her, and now he claims the protection of the altar in my own church. Even Father Abraham supports him.’
‘It is the law.’
‘Stuff the law! I want revenge!’
It was a relief when August came and Baldwin could see how well his crops were doing. To him this time of year was rewarding and reassuring, proof of Dame Nature’s fruitfulness.
There was always much to be done, but at least his manor was heading towards the culmination of the annual effort. Soon the men would be trooping off to the fields to rake the corn for the harvesters. Those with scythes would be sweeping the great blades from side to side, mowing the slender yellow stalks; women in thick fustian aprons would bundle up the sheaves and stack them in stooks, while the children, chattering and laughing, their slings or bows in their hands, would prepare to shoot the rabbits and hares that would bolt from the fields as their cover was cut down. Afterwards, while the threshers flailed the grain from the stalks, the gleaners would crouch among the stubble, picking over the dirt to gather as much of the fallen grain as possible before the birds got it all.
And overnight many would celebrate, drinking heavily from cider or ale jars, snoring under the stars, both because walking home was too strenuous, and because Baldwin’s haywarden would willingly pay them to stay in the fields to prevent thieves taking the precious crop – and nine months later the parish priest would have a rash of squalling children to baptise.
But Baldwin was not content. Although his land was fertile and the harvest looked to be good, he heard that the fighting in Wales was spreading and he wanted more, much more: enough to fill his granaries and give him the confidence that his people would have plenty of food for the winter in case war came to his lands.
He had altered his routine now. Rising soon after dawn, he practised with a sword or cudgels on the flat grass before his house. It was normal for a man-at-arms to perform such ritual dances with weapons of all types, but Baldwin knew that many of his peers did not bother. They relied on the cavalry charge, the weight of steel, chargers and knights welded together in an unstoppable phalanx.
Baldwin had seen the shattering effect of a troop of heavily armoured knights on horseback, but he was not convinced that modern fights would be won that easily. He had kept in touch with developments across Europe where resolute Swiss farmers had destroyed an Austrian army at Morgarten and Flemish peasants had massacred France’s elite at Courtrai, while nearer home the Scots had slaughtered the English at Bannockburn. There was an unpleasant sense of the natural order being overturned, if the chivalrous could be killed by villeins.
Whatever nasty surprises battle might hold, Baldwin intended to ensure that his own lack of preparation would not be a contributory factor. That was why he spent his mornings swinging weapons in the guard positions while balancing solidly on both legs, moving to protect his right flank then his left, striking at imaginary foes, thrusting, parrying, stepping quickly to one side or another. Sometimes his servant Edgar joined him and the two would cautiously dance about each other, their sword-blades shimmering and gleaming in the sun. Both men gathered fresh scars. They only used unrebated weapons, and if one or the other lost concentration for a moment he was likely to regret it.
After a bout or two, whether with a real or an imaginary opponent, Baldwin would go for a ride, usually up over the hill towards Bickleigh but sometimes south to Crediton, to attend court or just to pick up whatever gossip he could from the inns. The news was rarely good, and it concerned him to see how men had taken to wearing weapons. It wasn’t only he who practised; there were enough fighters in Crediton from old King Edward I’s wars to form a small army.
When he returned to his manor, he would often soak in a bath. This was a luxury he had been forced to live without when he was a Templar, for the Rule of the Order forbade bathing, but now he saw to it that all the wood ashes were gathered from the fires, and these were boiled with mutton fat to produce his solid soap cakes. While bathing he could forget the troubles besetting the kingdom. Cleansed, he would dine with his wife before walking with her over his lands, or taking his dogs to hunt some kind of venison – boar, deer, rabbit or hare.
But even as he chased his game, always at the back of his mind was the anxiety of the political situation. War would come. It might not be this month or the one after, but the loathing between the King and his lords was strong, mutual – and irreconcilable.
That was why, when he received the invitation to visit Tiverton Castle during the feast of St Giles, he was not overly surprised. The de Courtenay family would want to test the loyalty of their knights if they were soon to be tried in battle. The saint’s feast and the fair which celebra
ted it would give Lord Hugh de Courtenay the excuse he needed to speak to all his men.
Chapter Four
Once they arrived in Exeter Sir Gilbert began to wonder where their next destination should be. The noise was deafening, the city heaving. It was a Friday, and the whole place seemed full of farmers and other peasants who had turned up to sell their produce at the market or to buy provisions. Sir Gilbert dropped from his stallion and gave the reins to a boy. Glancing at the teeming marketplace in the Cathedral precinct, he saw it was packed with what looked like the whole of Christianity. Men and women shouted their wares, gaily dressed girls bustled about offering drink, beggars shuffled on crippled legs, piteously calling for alms; a child with a belly distended by starvation squeaked for food at his mother’s feet, a scrawny woman who sat with her back against a wall feebly watching passers-by with eyes made immense with hunger; Sir Gilbert threw the pair some coins.
He paused at the ring, where a massive bull was trampling a dog, spraying blood and gore with defiant tosses of its head. Bulls had to be baited before death to tenderise their flesh, but Sir Gilbert was confident this hoary beast would have iron bands for muscles: even after baiting and hanging he would be inedible.
An official jostled him, hurrying by with two scruffy men carrying long staves; behind them, a man was led by a rope, bawling his innocence – he was a tavern-keeper found selling short measures. There would be little sympathy for him here. Sir Gilbert’s dogs both lunged at the little procession, but he had put them on leashes as he entered the city and now he hauled them back. They were unsettled in so large a crowd and the knight decided to find somewhere to sit and rest.
Overhead, flags fluttered gently in the breeze. Fresh air was certainly welcome, for the high walls of the city trapped the air within and Sir Gilbert’s nostrils were assailed with the stench. Sweat from the men and women all about him vied with animal and human excrement and the persistent tang of urine, thickened by the reek of putrefaction from the tanners on Exe Island. Fanning the air disgustedly, Sir Gilbert bought a bunch of herbs and held it beneath his nose in a vain attempt to drown out the surrounding odours.
At Nobles Inn, Sir Gilbert paid off the boy and he and William ordered ale, sitting at a bench outside, the leather saddlebag containing the sacks at Sir Gilbert’s feet. Merry sat at his side, but Aylmer rolled over and was soon snoring gently.
‘Where to now?’ William asked, glancing up at the sun.
Sir Gilbert emptied his pot and waved at the surly tavern-keeper for more. There was no point in concealing their destination. ‘We try to find out where the Lord is. He may well be here or at Oakhampton. Maybe up at Tiverton.’
‘You’re planning on seeing Lord de Courtenay?’ William asked, aghast.
‘Yes.’ Sir Gilbert held out his pot to be refilled and cast a quick look at the sailor.
William was blank for a moment, but nodded. ‘I could ask about: find where he is, if you want.’
‘You know this city? I didn’t think the river was navigable.’
William shrugged. ‘It’s not got its own port, but down at the head of the estuary there’s another town, Topsham. Ships delivering goods for Exeter go there, and sometimes after we’ve paid the customs we load up smaller craft to ferry them up the Exe to the city. I’ve been here several times.’
‘Good. In that case, ask your friends where we might find de Courtenay and his retinue. I shall be here waiting.’
William stood, glanced up and down the narrow thoroughfare, and strolled off towards Cook Row. Sir Gilbert meanwhile ordered himself a coffin filled with fish, this being Friday and a fast day, and munched on the pie. Once they were outside the city he was determined to rest in a river and clean himself. His flesh itched from dried sweat, and he was unpleasantly aware that he had grown verminous. There was an unpleasant tingling at his armpits and groin as if creatures were scuttling.
But he had other things to occupy his mind.
No man would entrust a large fortune to an emissary without trying to ensure its protection. But the two men Despenser had sent to accompany Sir Gilbert were dead or wounded before they had left London. When William Small showed himself willing to join him, Sir Gilbert had been grateful. On a ship no secrets could be kept; Sir Gilbert had assumed that William had heard of the money and chose to stay with Sir Gilbert to see that his master’s bribe was protected. But he was no fool and now he considered once more the other possibility. William plainly hadn’t thought Sir Gilbert ever intended delivering the chest – he could see that now. He obviously believed Sir Gilbert was going to steal it for himself, and if so, William was determined to share in the profits.
The knight sat back and eased himself into a comfortable position, cradling his pot in his large hand, resting it on his flat stomach. Merry looked at him, then scratched idly at an ear and lay down, chin on paws, but watching every passer-by.
Sir Gilbert smiled down at his dog and patted the tawny flank. If William wanted to rob him, he would find it very difficult.
Two days later, Philip Dyne blinked as he left the safe confines of the church. The sun was blazing in a clear blue sky, painful to his eyes after so many days locked in the dark. He had to shield them with a hand. The gloom of the church was preferable.
As he blinked, wincing at the pain, colours appeared before him; brilliant hues and stunning shades. His head ached with the magnificence of the greens of grass and leaves, the brightness of coats and tunics, dull-coloured hose for the poorer, parti-coloured reds and blues for the rich. His legs buckled beneath him and he was struck with a feeling of vertigo as he saw the faces ranged before him.
‘Get your hand off me!’ Father Abraham snarled as Philip grabbed at his sleeve to stop himself falling. Father Abraham snatched his arm away and strode on to the Coroner’s side by the little gate.
The waiting crowd stood silently at the other side of the fence and Philip eyed them with a sense of doom. If they decided to attack him, the thin palings would be no protection. There was an occasional curse uttered in his direction, but for the most part they stood quietly, waiting. Oddly he found that their loathing pricked at his pride, gave him a little strength, and he willed himself on, alone, dressed only in his threadbare tunic and coat, a pilgrim’s cross stitched to his breast. The felon about to flee the scene of his crime.
Father Abraham, at the gate to the churchyard, held up his hand and scowled at the folk about him until they were silent, awed by the slim, regal figure clothed in the garb of a priest. When their muttering had died away, he beckoned to Philip and snapped, ‘Come here, Dyne.’
He could not watch Dyne approach. It was disgusting that the pervert should have entered his church at all, let alone dare to claim sanctuary and stay inside for so long. Quite deplorable. Better that the mob should catch him. It was vile that he, a priest, should be expected to give such a creature food. It was enough to make one sick! He would order the sexton to see the whole sanctuary scrubbed clean to remove Dyne’s foul contamination.
It was at times like this that he wished he had not joined the Church and instead had joined a warrior Order, something like the Knights of St John. Better to fight for God than to pander to felons.
The crowd agreed with his view; he could see that at a single glance. There were some who were merely observers: farmers and others from outside town come to visit the market who had spotted the huddle at the gate and strolled over to investigate; others were locals who had gathered out of mild interest to see what the sanctuary-seeker looked like before he fled. These were no trouble; it was the others who gave Father Abraham concern.
Andrew Carter was at the back, a large, grossly proportioned man, red of face, with fleshy lips and heavy jowls, dark hair under his velvet hat, and a vindictive frown twisting his features. Next to him was the merchant Nicholas Lovecok, Carter’s brother-in-law, a weakly-looking man with unnaturally bright eyes in his pale face and little hair on his bare head. The sight made the priest purse his lips. He
could see Lovecok’s lips moving, and he held his hat in his hand, twisting it and turning it as he prayed, no doubt, for the felon’s painful death. About these two was a small gathering of what looked like the dregs of the nearby alehouses. Rough, drink-coarsened men, some still with jugs or pots in their hands, were watching the solitary figure with ill-concealed hatred, measuring interest or vague bafflement, the degree of concentration depending upon the quantity of ale they had already drunk.
It was understandable, Father Abraham thought. Even the expression of sheer loathing on Coroner Harlewin le Poter’s face was justified. No one liked the murderer of a young wench.
Coroner Harlewin’s face was bleak as Philip approached the low picket fence. He held up his hand both to halt the felon and silence the crowd, which had begun to murmur.
‘Quiet!’ he thundered, glaring about him, then crooked his finger at Philip. ‘Come closer, boy. You can’t reach the fu— . . .’ he swallowed the automatic expletive when he felt Father Abraham stiffen ‘. . . Um Gospels from there.’
Father Abraham hadn’t missed his near-lapse and made a mental note to demand a severe penance. The Coroner was a brutish knight, low-born and with the manners of a hog. He disgusted Father Abraham.
The Coroner continued, ‘We all know why we’re here. This man, Philip Dyne, apprentice to the spicer John Sherman, murdered a young girl from this town: Joan Carter. The posse nearly caught him, but he managed to escape by claiming sanctuary within the church. Unless someone saw him outside the church during his imprisonment, or saw him eating anything other than the water and bread supplied by the priest here, he can abjure the realm . . .’ He peered at the crowd, a hopeful tone creeping into his voice. ‘Did anyone see him outside?’
The Traitor of St. Giles Page 4
