‘Perhaps when we know that we shall know more about the whole affair,’ said Baldwin, patting Aylmer’s head. But as they set off to the door Baldwin’s hand slipped to his sword.
Andrew Carter was about to cross the road and enter his house when he paused. The noise in the street was loud enough, but he was sure he heard the barking, harsh laugh of the Coroner, and even as the merchant stared up and down the street, his ears told him where that voice had come from: his own hall.
It wasn’t unusual for the Coroner to come and see him, but such visits were usually foreshadowed by some form of warning. Still, Andrew Carter prided himself on being a good host and he was prepared to make le Poter most welcome. Especially since he had hopes of discovering more from the fellow about the Lord Hugh’s plans.
Before he could go inside, however, he spotted the hurrying figure of the priest. ‘Father, were you coming to see me?’ he smiled.
‘Do you have anything to confess to me, Carter?’ His voice was as cold as a moorland stream.
‘What is it, Father? Have I upset you?’
‘Is it true? Did you sin against your own daughter?’ Abraham hissed.
Carter felt as though his blood was congealing in his veins. ‘M-me? Sin against poor Joan?’
‘If you have, confess your sins to me now! The Coroner is in there with Felicity and another to arrest you. Is it true? Are you an incest?’
His face frozen into a blank, Carter merely inclined his head. ‘May I make my confession now?’
‘Is it true you killed your daughter?’
‘Yes.’ Carter glanced at his door. It was hard to believe, but he now knew that his life was about to change utterly. He wondered how he could escape.
‘You are evil! Evil! You knew that you were yourself guilty, yet you murdered Philip Dyne!’
‘How else could I escape? May I make my confession to you, Father?’
‘No, you pervert! You can go inside and admit your crime to Harlewin le Poter. Then, when you are in your cell I shall come to you to hear your last confession.’
‘But Father . . .’ Carter reached for him, pleading, but the priest recoiled.
‘Don’t touch me, murderer! I will give you no absolution. You raped your own daughter, then killed her, and blamed another man, murdering him as well. Don’t look to me for sympathy! If you won’t admit your guilt, I shall tell them all myself!’
‘You can’t, Father. I have confessed to you because you are a priest. You must not tell any others about my crimes,’ Andrew smiled thinly.
Father Abraham spat at the ground between them, then darted past Carter and in through his door.
Carter daren’t enter. He was no fool: if Felicity was there with Harlewin, she must have convinced the Coroner that Carter was guilty – he must have believed her. Slowly, cautiously, Carter backed away from his door. He couldn’t walk through the screens to the back of the house to grab a horse, for he would be seen. There were private stables in town, and when he weighed his purse in his hands, he thought there might be enough there to rent one, but that would use up all his money, and there wouldn’t be enough to take a room for an evening – not even enough to buy a meal. He couldn’t rent a horse.
He was being stupid! His stables gave out onto the back streets. All he need do was walk around the house and command a groom to saddle his mare. Then he could be off.
With this resolve he hurried around the corner and out to the back of his yard.
Wat glanced upwards. Edgar was frowning as he stared at the man leaning at the gateway.
‘Are you sure, youngster?’
Wat bridled at the note of doubt in Edgar’s voice. ‘What do you think? The master, he listened to me, he said to tell you – he never thought you’d not trust me.’
‘It sounds very peculiar,’ Edgar noted. ‘However, as you say, I’ve been ordered to protect my Lady. How many did you say went out after Sir Baldwin?’
‘Two, sir. They went out as soon as they could, taking some horses from men who had just come back from hunting and their mounts were tired.’
‘That is all to the good, anyway.’ Edgar stood a moment longer. As he watched he saw Toker stiffen, the knife still in his hand as he stared at the gateway. A moment later Edgar heard horses, saw Toker nod and settle back into his lounging attitude as a pair of horses rode in. ‘I see. They are watching for Sir Baldwin’s return – or that of their men,’ he breathed.
He walked from the door. ‘Stay here and let me know if he moves from that spot,’ he said before striding off.
Jeanne was sitting in her guest room in the solar with a cup of wine, imperiously instructing Petronilla as the maid stacked cloths in a priority known only to Lady Jeanne. Edgar smiled and bowed. ‘My Lady?’
‘What is it? Can’t you see we’re busy?’ Jeanne scolded him mockingly. ‘Don’t you know better than to interrupt a lady and her maid when they are ordering their purchases?’
‘Your husband has ridden off, my Lady, but this morning he was attacked and the men he beat are here lying in wait for him. My orders are to remain here with you, but with your permission I shall wait in the yard where I may be able to help Sir Baldwin if he is attacked in the gateway.’
Jeanne had frozen when she heard the word ‘attacked’ and now she passed her wine to Petronilla before stepping up to him. ‘You are sure of this?’
‘Wat told me,’ he said dismissively, ‘but I have confirmed to my own satisfaction that the men in the gateway are planning an ambush.’
‘Then go! Take Wat with you and send him to me if you need anything. I shall wait here,’ she said.
Perkin jogged along uncomfortably. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Oh, shut it!’
Perkin reached over and grabbed Owen’s jack, hauling him half off his saddle. He hissed, ‘You try telling me to shut it again, and I’ll tear out your liver and feed it to the dogs, understand?’
‘Yes.’
Releasing him, Perkin glared irritably at the road ahead. They had already taken two wrong turnings; Owen maintained it was because the earth was too dry to leave tracks, but Perkin suspected it was because the little Welsh sod didn’t fancy a fight. Perkin himself wanted to see Simon disembowelled. He hadn’t been kicked before, and he wouldn’t let the bastard who had done that to him live. Perkin would kill Simon before the day was over.
Unfortunately, to catch Simon he had to depend upon this gibbering fool from Wales.
It would have been much easier if they had set off after the knight and bailiff as soon as the two left the castle, but Toker, that clever, smarmy git Toker, hadn’t thought they’d be buggering off so soon. It was only when they saw the missing horses that they realised.
Perkin sneered. Toker hadn’t managed to get much right at all in the last few weeks, had he? He’d got them to London where that bastard sailor-boy had beaten them while they had their eyes on the chest. Toker hadn’t been hurt, of course, and neither had Perkin, but Perkin wasn’t fool enough to attack a man wielding a sword when he only had a dagger. Especially when it was a man like Sir Gilbert who had held his sword so aggressively, his face a mask of rage. Perkin had seen faces like that before, and he knew well enough that it brooked no argument. He’d backed off, especially when the hound streaked towards him.
Nah, Toker hadn’t got them anywhere. He was the leader; it was his job to get them money and there had been little enough of that recently.
‘Where are they?’ he shot out. That was why they were here – to see whether the little chest had been hidden out here. And whether it was or not, Perkin was determined to kill Baldwin and Simon. He wanted revenge for the kick on his arse. Not that Owen was likely to be much use. The little bastard looked like he hadn’t the guts to kill a rabbit, let alone a man. ‘Well?’
Owen bit back the reply and merely jerked with his chin. ‘We’re following their trail. What more do you want? Hold on!’
Perkin grunted his displeasure as the Welshman kicked hi
s feet from his stirrups and slipped to the ground. He immediately crouched, his face near the dusty soil. They were at a junction, a common on the right, a lane off to the left. ‘I think they went down there,’ he pointed.
‘There?’ Perkin hawked and spat out a gobbet of phlegm. ‘What would a Keeper be doing in a place like that?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The chapel was quiet, but at least it had a roof still. At the door Baldwin glanced at Simon. The bailiff nodded, and Baldwin quietly pulled the door open.
Inside all was bewebbed, but not dirty. There was a fusty smell, the odour of damp and decay, and fungus had crept up the woodwork and plaster of the walls. It was swept and clean, but neither noticed as they walked in, their boots ringing dully on the heavy flags. Their attention was on the dark figure ahead of them, who crouched at the altar.
‘Have you found it yet, Nicholas?’ Baldwin called.
Nicholas spun around, astonished. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Probably the same as you. Looking for whatever Sir Gilbert left.’
‘How did you . . . Did you follow me?’
Baldwin smiled. ‘A Templar Knight, who must surely have possessed a large sum, would look to conceal it in a place he knew, wouldn’t he? And he knew of this place for he used to be a Templar here. But what of you, Nicholas?’
‘Me? What of me?’
‘You too were a Templar, weren’t you? That was where you knew Sir Gilbert from.’
‘No, not me.’
‘There is little point denying it. Your sister more or less told us by accident. And at the tavern you said a knight looked to his mount. You were a knight, weren’t you?’
Nicholas felt a fist of ice clench in his belly. ‘Of course not. What makes you think I’d . . .’ His voice trailed off. He couldn’t maintain the pretence any longer. His whole life for fourteen years had been devoted to hiding his past, and now that this Keeper had guessed at the truth, the whole edifice Nicholas had so carefully constructed seemed to collapse.
‘You were a Templar. At Witham. Did you kill Sir Gilbert?’
‘No! Why should I?’
‘Because Sir Gilbert could betray your secret. You thought he might tell other people about your background.’
‘Why should that worry me? If he did, he’d have to tell everyone about himself.’
‘Ah, but would you have cared about him? You would be more worried about your friends and business partners finding out about your background. They might not care for a man who had once given his oaths to the Temple.’
Nicholas stared, then guffawed with laughter. ‘You honestly think those ignorant, avaricious arseholes could give two damns about my history? Merchants are not devout religious, you know; not members of an Order. They only care for one thing, Sir Knight, and that is the ability to make money. If other merchants think I can increase their wealth, they will invest with me. If I begin to falter they may discover a new religious fervor and move to other men.’
Baldwin gave a small frown. Simon glanced at him and grinned. ‘I think he’s got a point there, Baldwin.’
‘Which makes the matter rather more intriguing, doesn’t it? If he knew that his brother merchants wouldn’t worry about his background, why should he conceal it? Especially as Templars were known to be thoroughly competent with money. His life with the Order could have helped guarantee riches. Couldn’t it, Nicholas?’
‘Some might not have reacted so favourably,’ the merchant said. ‘What about that priest?’
‘Abraham? Yes, I concede that he could have been troublesome. Perhaps more than that, for his beliefs seem to preclude the concept of forgiveness.’
‘How could a priest forgive a renegade heretic? An excommunicate? It is not within his power. No, I simply wanted to avoid any accusations – any difficulties.’
‘Where was your preceptory? South Witham?’
Nicholas tried to smile as if unconcerned. ‘You have heard of it?’
‘I have heard that a Templar there called de Gonville was the treasurer and that he took all the money from the preceptory and disappeared.’
‘Interesting, but hardly . . .’
‘What were you doing here?’ Simon asked.
‘I came to pray.’
‘There is a church in Tiverton.’
‘It is not so peaceful as this small chapel.’
‘This is precisely the place to which a Templar would turn. How did you get started as a merchant?’ Baldwin asked mildly.
‘My sister’s money. It was a good purse.’
‘And that was enough to set you up?’
‘Yes. I fear I didn’t inherit, as the younger son.’
‘Nicholas,’ Baldwin said gently, ‘let us stop beating about the bush. You were a Templar. Your name was de Gonville and when your Order was destroyed you took the money and fled, bringing your sister and her daughter with you.’
‘What else could I do? There was only death and ruin if I stayed – the Pope had set the Inquisition upon us! You know what that means – no access to a lawyer, no defence considered, because if you refused to confess you could be imprisoned for life until you did, and all the time you would be tortured.’
He suddenly fell to his knees, the scabbard at his side crashing loudly on the flags, and covered his face in his hands.
‘You can’t imagine how it was – first the Order collapsing, then my brother-in-law dying and leaving me to look after Matilda and little Joan. When she was told she couldn’t stay in her manor, we didn’t know what to do. What was the point of leaving all that money to go to waste? It was better to use it, to look after all three of us. And that’s what I did. I used it for the good of my sister and I. And when I had begun to make enough money, I paid more than I needed in alms for the poor to help those who hadn’t been so lucky.’
Baldwin raised his eyes to Simon. The bailiff was watching the merchant with a sympathetic expression and Baldwin knew he was thinking how a man would behave when he found his profession declared illegal, his sister and her child and he himself suddenly homeless.
‘I think there is no need for us to mention this to anyone,’ Baldwin said. ‘Your secret is safe with us, Nicholas.’
‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin. You are kind to promise that.’
‘But if I hear you have lied to me, I will not hesitate to denounce you.’
Nicholas sniffed and wiped his eyes.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘When I met Sir Gilbert in the tavern, one reason why I feared being noticed was that one of Sir Peregrine’s men was there and seemed to be watching us. It was an impression, no more, but when Sir Gilbert and I left the place, I saw him rise too. I think he followed Sir Gilbert.’
Simon suddenly recalled the bowl. ‘Has someone been living here?’
‘The old priest, Benedict. But he’s dead now. Died the night Sir Gilbert was killed.’
‘What was he doing here?’
‘He was the priest when this was a Templar manor. He stayed on.’
‘That’s why this chapel is still quite clean.’
‘And died here alone,’ Baldwin mused sadly.
‘No, Father Abraham was here.’
‘Of course.’ Baldwin nodded. That was why Harlewin had seen the Father on the road that night.
‘Will you help us to look for the money?’ Simon asked.
‘Can we share it three ways?’ Nicholas enquired hopefully.
‘The bollocks we can!’ Simon exploded.
‘I think my friend is pointing out that the whole amount is owned by the King,’ said Baldwin suavely.
Nicholas smiled thinly. ‘I don’t think you need me getting in your way, then.’
Simon’s sympathy had evaporated. ‘Do you mean to suggest we’d take it for ourselves?’
‘Oh, I suppose you’ll put it straight into the King’s own hands, won’t you!’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Baldwi
n thundered. A twinge of pain shot through his head and he glowered still more angrily. ‘Remember this, cretin! I am a King’s officer, and I will do my duty as I have sworn. That means that this wealth, if I find it, will be taken straight to the Coroner, Harlewin le Poter, for him to dispose of. If any man has a legal right to it, he can appeal the justices when they arrive on their tourn.’
‘You mean to tell me you’ll give it to that thieving bastard?’ Nicholas burst out. ‘You might as well throw it in the Exe for all the money the King will see from it.’
‘You idiotic fool! Do you think the owner will readily forget all this? You know whose money it is, don’t you?’
Nicholas faltered. Baldwin’s angry conviction made the merchant quail. ‘It’s Despenser money, but what of it? They’ve been exiled.’
‘Who is Hugh Despenser’s best friend and ally? The King! Who will receive an account of the full sum here? The King! To whom will he pass it? His friend Despenser. And before you whine, “He’ll keep it for himself ”, remember that the King’s favourites have a habit of returning when Parliament has forced him to exile them. If you steal this money, the King will know about it, and so will the Despensers. And they will come to ask what has happened to it.’
‘I’ve had enough of this!’ Nicholas said, throwing his hands into the air. ‘You mean to take the money – that’s fine, but don’t try to convince me you’ll take it to that fat fool in Tiverton. That’s trying my credulity too far.’
‘Where are you going?’ Simon demanded.
‘Back to Tiverton. If you want to see whether you can get the gold, go ahead! You’re welcome to it.’
He stamped out, slamming the door shut behind him, and instantly ran on light feet to his horse, untying the reins with a panicked urgency, his attention focused on the church. There was no doubt in his mind that the two men were going to take the hoard for themselves, and he feared that they might try to silence him. He expected them to come storming through the door at any moment.
But as he swung his leg over the saddle, hastily finding the stirrups, he saw no one rushing to catch or kill him. Breathing a sigh of relief he realised that they must have been so lured by the thought of the money that they had decided to remain and seek it out. Stupid, he considered. If he had been them, he would have ensured the silence of any witnesses before searching.
The Traitor of St. Giles Page 28
