Baldwin could see that his attention was equally split between Jeanne as a prospective customer, and his wife Cecily, who had gathered a circle of admiring men about her like a candle attracting moths. Some of them, Baldwin thought to himself, could soon end up scorched. If looks could burn, many of Cecily Sherman’s entourage would be singed already.
While his wife listened attentively, Baldwin’s mind wandered. If there was any fairness in the world, Philip Dyne would have been left alone to leave the country. Perhaps he would have been able to rebuild his life abroad, found a new woman, married and produced children. Except he was unlucky enough to have Andrew Carter on his trail, a man who sought to kill him to conceal his own crime.
If life were straightforward, Sir Gilbert would have been overcome by the lad, his knife stolen and used to stab him. Except Baldwin knew that a trained knight would not easily submit, far less permit an unarmed thief to steal his dagger. And as for his dog sitting by and waiting until his master was dead, before leaping forward to be spitted on a dagger – well that beggared belief.
Baldwin racked his brains, thinking again of the people who could have wished Sir Gilbert dead. Nicholas Lovecok, to keep his secret; the Templar-hating Father Abraham, who had also been there. Harlewin and his lover had passed by the road to the west of the scene of the murders, although Harlewin had remained on the road to stop Dyne’s escape. John Sherman had been there too, and Matilda, and today she had proved that she could kill by slaughtering her husband.
Harlewin and Cecily Sherman had ridden past, she first, Harlewin following, until he met Sir Gilbert. Sir Gilbert had turned back and ridden into the woods, and presumably had never seen Cecily.
There was always Nicholas. It was possible that he or Andrew Carter could have come across the knight in the dark and slayed him by accident, thinking he was the felon. Matilda would have tried to back them up, if she had seen them kill the wrong man, perjuring herself to protect the men who she thought were trying to avenge her daughter.
Suddenly Baldwin felt a tingle creep up his spine to his neck: the knight had surely died on his feet; not on horseback.
When Harlewin had seen him, Sir Gilbert was still riding about in the woods. For some reason his dog was not with him. Baldwin was suddenly sure that the dog was already dead. When he had seen Uther dying it was natural to crouch at his side to comfort him. Surely Sir Gilbert would have done the same. Was it possible that someone could have killed the dog beforehand, as a trap, and that Sir Gilbert had seen the hound’s body and gone to help it?
Sir Peregrine had been there. He had ridden off as if the hounds of Hell were after him. Perhaps that was right and a hound was after him, Baldwin reasoned – if Sir Peregrine was the mysterious man in the woods who had been watching William and Sir Gilbert that day. When the dog was released, it must have chased after the man it had noticed before: the man whose scent it had caught on the wind. Everyone who had seen Sir Peregrine said that he was riding at speed.
And behind him, Sir Gilbert saw his dog. Riding in Sir Peregrine’s wake, he had come across his hound’s dead body, perhaps. Like Sir Baldwin, Sir Gilbert would probably have dropped from his horse – not that it would have helped the dog. What then? Did Sir Gilbert remount and chase after the killer of his dog? Could Sir Peregrine have been attacked by Sir Gilbert and killed him in defence? No. Sir Gilbert was struck in the back. Could he have been stabbed that way while on horseback?
His horse! A great heavy creature – a destrier. It still hadn’t appeared. Suddenly Baldwin was sure that he had found a crucial clue. The mount should have turned up by now, unless it had been stolen or . . .
He turned sharply to his friend. ‘Simon – that horsedealer we went to. Didn’t he have one mount which stood out?’
Simon gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Sherman was less subtle. ‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’
‘Think!’ Baldwin urged his friend, ignoring the spicer. ‘When we went in to talk to that man about horses, there was one decent mount in there, wasn’t there? A large animal, just like a destrier.’
‘I suppose so,’ Simon agreed. ‘But it looked a mess, just like all the others.’
‘Simon, we are fools. If stupidity was a felony we would deserve to be thrown into gaol. Come with me!’
Jeanne sipped her wine as Baldwin gripped Simon’s elbow and half-dragged the bailiff from the hall, giving his wife a brief wave as they went.
‘Is he mad?’ Sherman asked, bewildered.
Jeanne smiled, but coldly. ‘I find him perfect,’ she said, but as soon as she saw the hurt in his eyes, and the way he guiltily cast a look at his wife, chatting so easily and happily with her circle of male friends, Jeanne felt embarrassed for him and ashamed of talking so curtly. ‘Would you like more wine?’ she asked gently, and he nodded gratefully.
Chapter Thirty
Toker was sitting in the undercroft listening to the babble of all the people in the room overhead when Perkin, who was at the door, hissed and beckoned. ‘It’s them!’
On his feet instantly, Toker joined him in time to see two men walking swiftly past under the gatehouse. ‘You sure?’ he demanded, but he so wanted Perkin to be right that he already had a hand reaching out for his sword to test the blade in the sheath.
In answer Perkin grabbed his favourite weapon, a staff some six and a half feet long, and set off at a jog. Toker waved at the others and they climbed to their feet grabbing their weapons and following Toker.
All but Owen. He hung back in the doorway.
He was content to attack an enemy in battle or raid, but ambushing the innocent felt wrong. The very thought gave him a queasiness in the bowels. Even two or three men fighting against one was all right, to his way of thinking, but trapping men like this was wrong. It was no better than the behaviour of a felon and Owen was no felon. He was Sir Peregrine’s man, not Toker’s. He had had enough.
The girl was still tossing stones at a target. Owen was sickened by the band – especially by Toker. All he wanted to do was to sit and talk with this pretty, fair woman. Toker was standing at the far end of the gateway watching, and Owen felt a twinge of anxiety curling in his belly. The other man had scarred him for life for missing with an arrow – what would he do if Owen neglected to take part in this? The knight had made the gang look like a bunch of amateurs and Toker wanted to punish him.
Catching the Welshman’s eye, Toker meaningfully drew his dagger and kissed the blade. Owen shivered at the sight. He knew what that meant: Toker would come to find him. Toker would kill him. But Owen was no footpad. He watched their leader turn and stride from the yard, and as he looked about him, Owen saw a figure he recognised. He walked over to Edgar. ‘Are you the knight’s man?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Edgar said, peering after Toker and his men distractedly.
‘You must go after them. They intend catching your master and killing him. He’s got their gold – and Perkin wants revenge for the kick the bailiff gave him.’
Edgar didn’t say a word: he was already halfway to the gate. Owen saw him halt at the porter and point back. Two guards glanced at each other and came to arrest Owen, but before they got to him, Edgar had disappeared.
‘Here it is!’ Baldwin declared and pounded on the door. It was wide and tall enough to allow a wagon to enter or a man on horseback, and the timbers rattled as he banged.
‘Hoy! Stop that row!’
Baldwin turned to see a woman glaring at him from a window on the opposite side of the street. ‘I want to speak to the groom running this place,’ he shouted.
‘Well, you can’t – he’s not there.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but you start that banging again and I’ll get the Constable onto you.’
‘You fool! I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace, so tell me where this damned horse-trader has gone.’
‘If you were a Keeper you’d be up at the castle in your finery instead of rattl
ing people’s doors at this time of night, so go on, bugger off!’ She banged the window shut.
‘That damned . . . What are you laughing at?’
Simon shook his head in innocent denial. ‘Nothing, Baldwin. But since the man isn’t here, why don’t we go to the nearest alehouse and see if he’s there having a drink?’
‘All right, but when we get back I’ll rattle that miserable old besom’s doors too,’ Baldwin muttered vindictively as they walked up the road to where a bush bound to a pole over a doorway showed that drinks could be bought.
It was a poor woman’s hovel: there was hardly space inside for the seven men who sat at a table staring at the dice with bleared eyes and supping ale, while the alewife squatted on the floor. She looked up when Baldwin entered, ducking under the low lintel.
The hackneyman was at the table. He recognised their faces and instantly a smile transfigured his features. ‘Sirs! You require more mounts? I have the very ones for you. Good, comfortable and biddable beasts. Perfect for a short run into the country or a longer ride if you need. Excellent turn of speed, too.’
He stood with little apparent regret. Simon was convinced he had lost heavily. The bailiff pulled a coin from his purse and passed it to the man, who glanced at it, smiled more widely, finished off his ale and led the way up the street to his stable.
The light was fading swiftly now. Twilight was darkening the streets, and in the shadow of the tall buildings Baldwin thought he caught a glimpse of movement. At first he thought that a rat had scuttled away – a common enough sight at the best of times – but then he heard a scrape and recognised the sound of metal being pulled from a scabbard.
All at once he realised that his message of giving up the hoard, mentioned so confidently in the hall, might not have filtered down to the felons who had tried to attack him and Simon earlier. He cleared his throat to warn Simon, but before he could say anything the attack was underway.
Perkin sprang into the street, a heavy staff held cross-wise over his chest. He grinned, saying, ‘Remember me, you bastard? You kicked my arse . . .’ His tone dropped to a malevolent rasp. ‘Now I’ll eat your liver!’
Baldwin felt someone at his back and just had time to leap a side and whip out his sword as Toker’s first slash scythed through the air. Baldwin caught the blade on his own as he lifted the flashing blue steel to guard his right flank. Toker’s eyes narrowed, and he stamped forward, his blade whirling left in a feint, but Baldwin had seen his swift change of foot and was ready when Toker darted right, knocking the blade away with almost contemptuous ease. He would have continued with a lunge to Toker’s throat had he not, from the corner of his eye, seen Simon crumple as Perkin’s heavy staff caught him at the base of his skull. ‘Simon!’
Then there were four at him, Toker and another with swords, a short villein with one eye but two long-bladed daggers, and Perkin with his long, iron-tipped staff. That was the weapon Baldwin feared most. A good staffman was a dangerous adversary with a greater reach than a swordsman, and this man knew how to hold his. He kept himself away from Baldwin, fighting like a man-at-arms, gripping it like a quarter-staff, one hand near the middle, the other at the farther end, thrusting at Baldwin, shoving him whenever he got his blade within a few inches of Toker or the others. The two swordsmen were biding their time, waiting until Baldwin was tired, and when he was they would come at him from either side. If they failed, the man with the daggers would finish him off.
Baldwin gave more ground, feeling the inevitability of his doom. Simon groaned, Baldwin saw him roll, trying to get on all fours, shaking his head, but although Baldwin hoped none of the men would hear, hoped that Simon might be able to come to his aid, he saw the man with the daggers glance over his shoulder.
‘No!’ Baldwin bellowed, but he saw the man flick a dagger up, catching it by the tip of the blade ready to throw. There was a flash as a blade caught the light, a scream, and Baldwin felt his heart lurch.
But Simon hadn’t screamed. The bailiff was shaking his head like a groggy fist-fighter, falling back to rest on his haunches, while the felon with the daggers was staring at his handless stump, at the blood flying upwards in a fountain and at the hand holding a knife which had fallen to the ground before him.
Toker saw Baldwin’s attention waver and moved to take advantage, but a fine spray of blood misted into his face and he shouted a curse, wiping it away with disgust. Vaguely through it he saw a figure loom, a figure who shrieked ‘Beauséant!’ before flying at him; dimly he recognised Baldwin’s servant Edgar.
He fell back, almost tripping, his sword up to defend his chest, but the flying sword aimed first at his breast, then his legs, swiping quickly at an arm, then at his throat, almost so fast that Toker couldn’t see it move.
The battle cry brought a stinging lump to Baldwin’s throat. Beauséant, the battle cry of the Knights Templar, the call of the men to rally, the name of their flag, the call that meant ‘be good, be noble.’
‘Beauséant!’ Baldwin roared in his turn. He could have wept for joy.
He heard a fresh shout: ‘Take that, you thieving bastard!’ There was a crack and Baldwin saw Perkin collapse like a steer with a spike hammered in his skull, eyes wide with astonishment. Behind him Baldwin caught a fleeting glimpse of the stableman gripping a pair of cudgels and aiming a vicious kick at the fallen outlaw’s groin.
Now Baldwin had only the one man attacking him, and this was a man he knew he could beat. His concern for Simon, his shock at the sudden violence, and the sheer rage at being waylaid, lent his arm more vigour than he would have thought possible, and his regular practice showed in the way that he plied his weapon.
‘Yield!’ he demanded, but the felon, though frightened by the sudden turn of events, merely slashed and cut at him. Baldwin roared again, this time a wordless bellow of pure animal ferocity. He drove forward, his sword up and then swept it low, taking his enemy’s blade on the cross-guard and knocking it out of the way, before reversing the manoeuvre and thrusting forwards and up. Baldwin shoved his body forward, his whole weight behind his blade, saw the point sink in below his opponent’s chest, rammed the metal into the man’s body, feeling his hand become slick with blood, ripping upwards through his torso while the man gave a high, keening scream.
The man’s sword was still in his hands, but Baldwin was close enough to grab at it and tug it from the now-feeble hand. He jerked his own blade higher, sawing through bone and slicing deeper, higher with his sharp, peacock-blue blade, wrenching it further into his enemy’s body. The fellow shivered twice, then slumped, and Baldwin kicked him to release his blade. It came free, smeared as if with a thin oil and, panting, he looked about him for Toker and Edgar.
They were a short way farther up the lane, and Baldwin ran to them, shouting again, ‘Yield! Yield!’
Toker daren’t take his eyes from the whirling man before him. Edgar moved like a fluid dancer, constantly changing his position, but always with his feet coordinated, flat and stable on the ground before striking forwards or taking a defensive position. Toker couldn’t shake him or get him off-balance, couldn’t make him slip. He was too good. Toker was giving way almost steadily now. At first he’d managed to make Edgar retreat a little, but now he doubted whether it was genuine. It felt more like Edgar had been gauging Toker’s ability, allowing himself to be pushed so that he could see how powerful Toker’s blows really were, see how quickly Toker could respond to a counter-attack after launching a stabbing thrust. Now Toker was beaten – it was only a matter of time before he felt the blade slicing through his jack. He felt the presence of the knight nearby, and risked a short glance. Baldwin was too close, less than a yard away, and Toker couldn’t defend himself from a man that near. He shifted his weight and made to leap away, but a sharp pain stopped him.
It was stupid. He knew that as it happened: his foot had turned on a loose cobble. He felt the tendons snap, a curious sensation like lightning shooting through his ankle, and felt himself begin to fall. A
nd then something supported him. Something was holding him up. He coughed as the thick bile rose in his throat, choking him, and he couldn’t breathe easily. It was odd, he thought, especially the dragging sensation at his breast.
When he looked up, he saw Edgar’s face only a few inches from his own, then he felt himself fall as Edgar, with a moue of distaste, twisted his sword and let Toker’s body fall from it.
Harlewin was soon with them, and when Owen had been called and explained the reason for the attack, the Coroner declared that there was no crime to be investigated: felons had tried to murder innocent men and those men had defended themselves. The amputee with the stained tourniquet about his wrist and the snoring Perkin were taken away to the gaol.
When the impromptu jury had dispersed and the priest was rolling up his wallet of pens and ink, Baldwin thanked the groom. ‘Without your help I might well have died.’
‘My pleasure. Seeing the bastard spring out like that got me angry.’
Baldwin gave a lopsided smile. ‘I know how you felt.’
And in truth he did. A mist of hatred had enveloped him, a mist composed of anger and loathing, which had lent him the energy to keep the men away. He was helped by his training, but then, when he had seen the attack form on Simon and saw Edgar appear as if from nowhere, the mist had turned to red and he wanted only to kill, to slaughter those who would attack him, those who would murder his friend. It had hardly been the behaviour of a humanist who valued human life – it had been the reaction of a man of war when threatened. He felt no shame, for the men would have killed him if they could, and the reversal of their fortunes was a fact which he could not regret.
‘The good bailiff has recovered himself,’ Edgar said.
‘I owe you a life now, Edgar.’
‘Sir Baldwin, you saved my life once and I am happy if I can provide you with any service.’
The Traitor of St. Giles Page 31
