There was no point in hanging about. If he did, they might see him and kill him. He couldn’t trust a man in authority; he knew how he himself had behaved when he had last been entrusted with someone else’s gold. No, he would go back to town, and just to make sure that they couldn’t get away with their theft, he’d broadcast news of their find ahead of them.
He felt sure that this would be the very last thing they would want. That idea appealed to him and he pulled his horse’s head around and kicked her up the slope. Riding up, he passed two scruffy-looking men and eyed them with cautious curiosity as any man would who passed strangers on a quiet road, but the two appeared to be more interested in the lane ahead than him.
Andrew Carter sidled in by the rearmost gate to his stable. In there he found a stable lad and sent him to the house to fetch a loaf of bread and a wineskin. Meanwhile Carter ordered a groom to saddle and bridle a horse.
‘Husband? Why didn’t you come to the front door?’
‘Matilda – my dear,’ he said a little stiffly. She looked odd. There was something different. Her dress. It was familiar but looked out of place on her somehow; unsettling. He put it from his mind. ‘A man is asking me to prove my credit, so I have to ride to Exeter to get papers signed. I should be back before long.’
She was watching him closely. Foolish woman. He wanted to be away, couldn’t she see that? He shot a glance to the doorway behind her, thinking he heard someone approach.
‘Is something the matter, Husband?’
‘Nothing. No, not at all. I should be back in a couple of days.’ The dress did not fit her perfectly. It was the wrong style for her… and yet it was familiar somehow.
‘That is a shame, dear,’ she said and smiled. ‘But I am sure you will return as soon as possible.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he lied. I’d say anything to get rid of you, you stupid raddled old bitch, he said to himself. Then he looked at her smiling face again. A small fist of trepidation clenched in his bowels. Something was wrong. She was too calm, too composed. She hadn’t been like this for days. Not since the death of her daughter. And that dress – what was it about that dress?
‘You like my new tunic?’ she asked, swivelling her hips to let the skirts open.
The fist in his guts became a sharp pain that almost made him gag: it was her dress; Joan’s. It was the one she had worn when he killed her. He felt the sweat break out on his forehead. She was mad! His wife had lost her head. The vapours had got to her at last. He started to move away, but her calm voice stopped him.
‘Your horse is almost ready. Would you kiss me before you go?’
‘Of course,’ he said, trying to smile. She lifted her face to his, eyes closed as always, and he thanked his stars that with luck he might never have to see her again. ‘Goodbye, my love.’
‘Goodbye!’
There was a flash, and he stared in disbelief as her eyes opened vindictively, then narrowed as she thrust the blade into his chest.
He hardly recognised the scream as coming from his own mouth.
‘Where could he have shoved it?’ Simon demanded.
Baldwin pulled the key on its necklace from beneath his tunic. ‘In a box or chest. You see,’ he continued, tapping at the flags near the altar, ‘when the Order was destroyed, most of the Temple’s places near London, Winchester, York and Oxford, were quickly taken by the King’s men, but preceptories in outlying areas like this, had a little more warning sometimes. They occasionally concealed some of their wealth.’
‘In case the Knights wanted it for themselves?’ Simon asked doubtfully. ‘It sounds a bit… well, sacrilegious.’
‘Not for themselves; for the Order. Most of us couldn’t believe that the Pope or the French King could seriously believe the propaganda they were putting about. We honestly thought that after a few weeks we and our Order would be reinstated. Few of us realised that it was a coordinated attack to extract every last item of value, so we hid our wealth where we could retrieve it and use it for the honour of the Order when we were back in business.’
‘And you think there might be a cache here? Why?’
Baldwin paused and threw him an exasperated look. ‘Simon, I don’t know anything about this place – but someone else did!’
‘Sir Gilbert!’
‘Of course. He served here. If he came here to hide his money, he knew there was somewhere to put it. And a man determined to save his money for the good of God would hide it somewhere near the altar, wouldn’t he?’
Simon nodded amiably as Baldwin roved over the altar itself, then tapped at the wall behind. All the time Baldwin’s face grew longer and longer, and Simon found himself offering up a prayer that they might succeed. It would be ridiculous for the secret of Sir Gilbert’s hoard to remain hidden. He allowed his eyes to rise to the window. It still had glass, a thick, heavy-looking glass, set in the thick stone wall. There was a large window-ledge.
He blinked.
‘Um – Baldwin?’
‘Not now, I need to think.’
‘Do you think he’d have stuck the lot in a box?’
Baldwin frowned at him. ‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘In a box like that one up there?’ Simon pointed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘Shut up,’ Perkin snarled. ‘You want them to hear you whingeing?’
‘But this is a Templar place,’ Owen declared nervously.
‘You scared of them? They’ve all gone long ago.’
‘You shouldn’t be so sure about that. They were dreadful.’
‘Not as dreadful as me, Owen, and I’m right here.’
Owen glanced at Perkin, then looked away. He didn’t want to be here; he was happy enough to go about his work just as he was ordered, but sitting here, waiting to waylay a man on Templar land felt wrong. It was worse than robbing a cleric somehow, doing it here, on Templar property. The Templars were all evil. His French priest had told him so when he had been to church back at home in Harlech. Owen had never thought he’d be forced to visit a Templar site like this.
Perkin was a miserable, brutal sodomite. Owen was quite sure in his own mind that Perkin would kill him for the slightest reason. Perkin liked killing. He was mad.
‘Hush!’ Perkin whispered. ‘I can hear something.’ Owen nodded disconsolately, nocking an arrow to his string. ‘Get ready,’ Perkin instructed and strung his bow.
Harlewin heard the scream and was out of his chair, his sword already in his hand before he got to the screens. Almost as soon as he reached the threshold to the yard behind the house he stopped, gaping.
The screaming had ended, and staring out he saw Andrew Carter stumble forward, his shirt a red, sodden mass. Mouth working uselessly, he reached for Harlewin pleadingly, but his eyes closed in pain and he stumbled to his knees.
‘Help! Bring help!’ Harlewin roared over his shoulder. As he did so, he heard another shriek, this time from inside as one of the women saw Andrew. Harlewin lurched past the dying man and out to the yard itself. ‘Come, Matilda. Drop the knife.’
‘The knife? Oh. Yes.’
Seeing it fall, he kicked it away before sheathing his own blade. Matilda smiled at him sleepily, as though vague from drink. In every way she looked the same as normal, except she was wearing a different dress. With a shock of horror he recognised it as Joan’s. It was the tunic which Joan had worn when she died.
Then it had been clean enough. Now the sleeves were smothered in blood. Andrew Carter’s blood.
‘How on earth did Sir Gilbert get up there?’ Baldwin had muttered, adding uncharitably, ‘There must be an easy way if he could get up there without a problem.’
Simon ignored him, staring up at the ledge. Then he walked to the tower. Inside was the ladder, which still rose up to give access to the bells and the roof above. He grabbed it and pulled it through to the chapel, set it against the wall and waved to Baldwin. ‘After you, Keeper.’
Baldwin smiled thinly. Simon knew about his vertigo. �
��Get up there, Bailiff.’
The box was solid and heavy. Simon had to call Baldwin partway up the ladder and pass it to him, for the weight was too great for him alone, and together they manhandled it to the ground. The box had a heavy hasp through which a thick padlock had been thrust.
‘This box comes from here. It has the name Templeton engraved here,’ Baldwin said as he lifted the necklace over his head. He put the key into the lock and turned it. ‘So, what have we here, then?’
Simon hadn’t been sure what to expect, but as the lid came up, he saw a pair of small sacks. Opening one, he whistled. ‘Christ’s bones!’
Inside was a collection of gemstones. Rubies and sapphires, emeralds and garnets trickled through his fingers. ‘This is a fortune.’
‘So is this,’ Baldwin said. He had unwrapped the contents of the other sack and now held up a silver salt formed in the image of a ship. ‘It must be immensely valuable.’
Simon was struck with a sense of awe and nervousness. ‘This is much more than I’d expected to find. Is there anything else?’
Baldwin had already been looking into the bottom of the box. ‘Only a few small items,’ he said. ‘The communion plate and some bits and pieces of wood.’
‘What are they?’ Simon wondered aloud, picking up a couple and turning them over and over in his hand.
‘I fear you now hold the things that the servants of this preceptory held most dear,’ sighed Baldwin. ‘Their only decent plate and some relics. Maybe they thought these were part of the Cross.’
Simon hastily dropped them back into the box. ‘You think so?’
‘This chest was the chapel’s reliquary. I think that when the Templars here realised that they were to be arrested, they put their valuables together into a chest and shoved it up out of the way. Father Benedict probably saw no reason to move it.’
‘We should take the hoard to Lord Hugh. It was intended for him.’
‘No, to the Coroner. We have no real knowledge to whom this belongs, nor for whom it might have been intended. But the plate and pieces of wood remain here.’
Simon was going to argue, but he saw the expression on his friend’s face. Baldwin would brook no argument. These were Templar goods, and Baldwin thought they should remain in a Templar chapel. ‘Very well.’
They locked the casket once more and replaced it, lighter now, on its ledge, then Baldwin took the ladder back to the tower. Outside, Simon threw the bundle over his horse’s withers. Slapping it, he grinned. ‘Never thought I’d carry this much money with me!’
‘He hid it in the only place he could think of,’ Baldwin mused as Simon mounted. ‘Everywhere else was fraught with danger. He must have been constantly fearful of being robbed.’
‘As we must be now,’ Simon said.
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘Hey – what’s the matter with the dog?’
Aylmer was bristling, walking stiff-legged towards the hedge. As Baldwin spoke Simon saw a wood pigeon heading for a tree a short distance beyond. He snared pigeons when he could: tasty creatures. This one looked good and plump, he thought, and as he did so it veered away from the tree at the last minute.
‘Baldwin, go hell for leather up that road!’ Simon hissed.
‘What? Why?’ Baldwin climbed onto his horse and eyed Simon with surprise.
‘Don’t ask, just ride!’
Both clapped spurs to their horses and they sprang forward suddenly, rushing up the slope. Simon hauled his sword free, crouching low and spurring the animal with enthusiasm, and when the arrow flew, it missed him, flying low over his crouching back and uselessly striking a stone at the roadside. Baldwin was with him a moment later, and the two men galloped up to the common land, where Simon reined in and gazed back down the road.
‘Who was that? Nicholas?’
‘You think he could use a bow? No, it was someone else. Perhaps we were followed from Tiverton.’
‘Should we see who it was?’
Baldwin was tempted, but: ‘No, we’re responsible for the hoard. We can’t afford to take any risks. Come! Let us return and dispose of it as soon as possible.’
Nicholas reached town in the late afternoon and left his horse in the street before Andrew’s front door. His temper had deteriorated as he rode back. He had hoped that the treasure hidden by Sir Gilbert would be a useful addition to his mercantile ventures; instead it would go to others, for Nicholas had no doubt that Sir Baldwin and his friend would be able to locate it.
‘Wine!’ he bawled as he entered the house. Without waiting for a response he strode into the hall and then stopped dead. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’
Father Abraham scowled. ‘Don’t blaspheme!’
‘My apologies, Father, but–’
‘Quiet!’ Harlewin rasped. ‘Lovecok, your brother-in-law’s dead.’
‘Andrew?’ He glanced over to the far wall of the room. ‘My God – what’s happened? Matilda! Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, Nicholas.’
And she was. All the gloom which had assaulted her for the previous weeks had gone as soon as her husband had died. She was filled with a sense of happiness. Her daughter was avenged, and the depression which had filled her was replaced with a fierce delight. She felt calm, satisfied, as though she knew that she had performed the final, most important service for her child.
Harlewin continued, ‘She killed him. That’s not her blood, it’s his. She stabbed him to death outside.’
‘Why?’ Nicholas demanded, and then his face lengthened as he heard the full story. ‘This can’t be true!’ he said with a broken voice. ‘You mean I am guilty of murder?’
Father Abraham nodded. ‘You were persuaded to kill an innocent man by an evil soul. He dragged you down into the filth of sin at his side. You helped provide the backing to the rapist and murderer of your own niece and then helped him murder the only man who could point to his guilt.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Nicholas said and collapsed into a seat. His whole body trembled as a cold panic washed down his spine, the full horror of his position dawning on him. ‘My God! What have I done?’
‘We will need another inquest. And I am afraid your sister must be arrested,’ said Harlewin.
Sir Peregrine crossed the yard to the hall. Looking out at the road, he wondered where Sir Baldwin and Simon could have gone. The two of them were potentially a threat, and at this difficult time he didn’t need the extra worry. He had enough to occupy him already.
Two of the guests at Tiverton Castle had been set upon by townspeople after they had tried to push farmers from their path in the road, and now both were being treated in a room above the hall. One had a bad cut to his shoulder where a knife had slashed him, the other had a broken arm from a cudgel; the skin wasn’t punctured, so he should survive.
Then there were the rumours of the King’s anger at being forced to exile his favourite. Edward had made his feelings known, and there were stories circulating that he was already considering inviting the Despensers back to England. The Marcher Lords were content that they had saved the nation, but now Sir Peregrine was unpleasantly certain that the King would vacillate and complain until he had reversed any decisions made under duress. He had done so over the sodomite Gaveston, he had over the Ordinances, and he would over the Despensers, too.
Which meant war.
He was about to ascend the stairs to the great hall, when he saw a man watching him from a storeroom’s doorway under the stairs. Sir Baldwin’s manservant.
‘Good afternoon, Sir Peregrine,’ said Edgar and bowed courteously.
‘Do you know where your master has gone? He should be here soon.’
‘I am sure he will return soon, Sir Peregrine.’
‘Good.’ Sir Peregrine began to walk up the stairs, but as he reached the top he glanced back. Edgar was still watching him, and for some reason Sir Peregrine found his expression very unsettling. It was like an accusation.
Harlewin left Father Abraham with Nichola
s and his sister. Both had need of a priest, although Harlewin was not convinced that the austere cleric would be the best man to comfort them.
It had been a long day and he felt the strain. Andrew Carter’s last scream still stuck in his mind, and Harlewin was looking forward to a pot of strong wine when he got back to his own hall. Shutting his door behind him, he had the fleeting sense of calm which closing his door against the outside world always gave him, but then he saw a dog and heard men’s voices in his hall and had to stifle a groan. More business.
‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock – how may I serve you?’ he enquired wearily.
‘It’s more the other way around,’ Simon said. ‘Look!’
To the Coroner’s astonishment the bailiff lifted a small sack and up-ended it on a table. A stream of gemstones fell and formed a pile. ‘What is this?’
‘It is what Sir Gilbert of Carlisle was bringing to reward all the friends of the Despensers,’ Baldwin explained, scrabbling on the ground to pick up a fallen ruby. ‘I suppose the larger share was to go to Lord Hugh if he agreed to offer support, but who can tell? There’s also that,’ he added, pointing to the salt.
‘Christ alive! What a hoard! Where did you find it?’
‘We’ll want a receipt,’ Simon pointed out. ‘I think that would be sensible for all of us.’
‘Er yes,’ Harlewin said, his eyes still transfixed by the glittering pile. He called for a servant and sent a boy to fetch Father Abraham. ‘He won’t be in a good mood.’
While they waited for Father Abraham to arrive, the Coroner briefly told Baldwin and Simon about the terrible murder of Andrew Carter.
When the priest arrived, he hardly spoke a word to any of the men, but stamped to the table where he scribbled down the numbers and approximate sizes of all the stones there, as well as recording a detailed description of the silver salt.
The Father’s demeanour intrigued Baldwin. ‘Father, are you quite well?’
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