Henry smiled to himself and rose. It was always pleasant to know the truth behind a mystery. Still, he would have to go and speak to Est and tell him to be more careful. There was no need to risk a cut throat for no reason.
No reason! In an instant his light-hearted mood fled and he felt the grimness return. There was plenty of reason for it, even if it were to drive him mad. Poor Est.
Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple, clad in a new green tunic, walked off to church that morning to participate in the mass for St Giles. He felt no fondness towards the saint; he had been at the market at Tiverton, held during the vigil, feast and morrow of St Giles’s Day, when the woman he had wanted for his own had died in the attempt to give birth to his child. The double loss had been overwhelming for a while, and had been the cause of a great change in his own outlook on life.
It was quite strange, when he came to think about it. He had loved twice in his life, once a well-born woman in Barnstaple, and the second time poor Emily in Tiverton, and both were dead. It was as though any woman whom he ever grew to love would always be taken away from him … for a moment he hesitated in his striding towards the cathedral. Perhaps God Himself had marked him out for punishment, and this loneliness was a proof of His disapproval. God would not help a man like him.
For a man who prided himself on his integrity as a Christian first and as a knight second, this was a deeply alarming reflection, and he stood stock still for a while, his green eyes fixed intently on the horizon.
He was a good-looking man, Sir Peregrine. Tall, he had the build of a knight who had trained with his weapons every day since the age of five, with the powerful shoulders of a man who had used sword, lance and shield in battles. His neck was thick, as befitted a man who wore a helm at speed on a horse, but there the appearance of a warrior ended. Although his body was strong, he had the semblance of a man dedicated to God. His face was long, with a high brow like a cleric’s. He looked as though he had been tonsured expertly, leaving only a fringe of golden curls like a child’s all about his head, which seemed strangely out of place on a middle-aged man’s skull.
Many had been deceived by those bright green eyes and the mouth that smiled so easily, and many of those remained deceived, because Sir Peregrine believed in results. If he was forced to distort facts in the service of his master, he had always thought that such behaviour was best kept to himself. From his head to his toes, he was a very competent politician.
But the thought that he could have upset God was nonsense! There was no action he had undertaken in his life that was so heinous as to make him the target of God’s vengeful wrath. Rather, there was plenty to boast about. He tried to be honourable and chivalrous: it was a measure of his worth that he had been elevated to knight bannaret. For some while he had been the Keeper of Tiverton Castle for his lord – although more recently he had suffered a fall from grace.
Lord Hugh de Courtenay was a good lord and a fair and loyal man, but there were times when even the most reasonable master had to divest himself of devoted servants. That was particularly true when politics came to the fore, as they now had.
Nobody who knew the two men well could doubt that Sir Peregrine was as devoted to Lord Hugh as a hound to his master. For Sir Peregrine there was no concept of loyalty higher than that of a knight to his liege-lord. He was content, as he set off once more, that his own record was enough to justify a certain pride.
It was painful to accept that it must be a long while before he could return to his place at his lord’s side, but Peregrine knew the reason for his eviction from the castle, and he was content that his master had justification. In compensation, Lord Hugh had petitioned certain people and gained this new post for Sir Peregrine, so now he was the King’s Coroner to the City of Exeter and surrounding lands. A good position, certainly, although fraught with fresh dangers, for it meant that he was always under the eye of the King himself.
Not that he was just now. In the last few months, ever since the escape of Mortimer from the Tower, the King had had other matters on his mind.
It was a source of amusement and not a little delight to Peregrine that King Edward II, who had caused so much damage to the country, who had depended on loyal subjects to support him, who had trampled on the rights and liberties of so many, finally slaughtering hundreds of knights up and down the country, even his own relatives, in his determination to keep his advisers the Despensers close by his side, should now shake at the knowledge that his own best warrior-leader, the man whom the King had himself disloyally imprisoned, was now his greatest enemy. There was a delicious irony in that, one which Sir Peregrine appreciated.
Sir Peregrine was not a natural regicide, but he would have been delighted to see this appalling king removed and destroyed. King Edward had proved himself to be incapable of ruling the kingdom. He chose to take his own advisers and stole lands, treasure, and even lives to enrich those he most loved: the Despensers. Their rapacity had led to the destruction of many, and it was in order to fight against these men that Sir Peregrine had counselled his lord to prepare for war. At the time, he had been certain that the Lords Marcher must win their battle against the King. As soon as they gave the word, men would flock to their side, Sir Peregrine thought.
But it had not happened. To his private astonishment, he had discovered that the Lords Marcher were not in fact prepared to raise their banners against King Edward. None could deny that he was their lawfully anointed king, and so they surrendered rather than take the field against him. Only Earl Thomas of Lancaster, the King’s own cousin, would fight, and he only because the King hurried to attack him. At Boroughbridge Thomas’s host was destroyed … and then the persecution began.
Sir Peregrine had reached the cathedral, and now he gazed about him before entering. This would, one day, be the most magnificent tribute to God. The two towers of St Paul and St John, with their squat spires thrusting upwards amidst the chaos of the building works, stood out as isolated beacons of sanity. Apart from them, it was a mess of builders, plasterers, carpenters and masons, all hacking and chiselling together in a cacophony of appalling proportions.
For his part, Sir Peregrine would take the word of the Dean and chapter that this would one day be a magnificent edifice, honouring God and His works; the best efforts of man would have gone into it in praise of Him. It would soar mysteriously over the heads of all the congregation, a fabulous, unbelievable construction that could only stand, so it would appear, by God’s grace. All would gaze down the length of the vast nave and marvel.
But at present it was nothing more than a building site, and Sir Peregrine could only cast about him with distaste at the sights and sounds of masons, smiths and carpenters as he made his way inside.
Even with the old walls still standing, it was long and broad enough to make a man wonder how the ceiling could be supported. Massive columns of stone rose up into the gloomy shadows high overhead. The ceiling was arched between them which, so Sir Peregrine had once heard, was the cause of its stability, but he made no claim to understanding such matters. As far as he was concerned, it was a matter of common knowledge that God existed, and in the same way he knew that ceilings were supposed to remain suspended without collapsing on the congregation below. Fortunately, such disasters were quite rare, although Sir Peregrine had heard that Ely’s cathedral tower had recently fallen. An appalling thought, he considered, glancing up into the darkness overhead.
Censers swung, filling the place with their incense, and the light was filtered by their smoke, while the bells calling the faithful to their prayers could be heard tolling mournfully outside, and Sir Peregrine bowed his head as the familiar sights and sounds took him back to that time only a few years before when he had been so happy. Keeper of his lord’s most important castle, a bannaret with the military skill and knowledge to lead his own men into battle, and at last content in the love of a woman who adored him. A poor woman, perhaps, whom he could not marry, but still a good woman who wanted to have his children.<
br />
And it had been the child that killed her, he reminded himself as the grief swelled in his breast, threatening to burst his lonely heart. His child had killed her during that difficult birth, and died in the process.
‘Who is he?’ Agnes asked quietly.
It was normal, of course, for people to be segregated by their sex as they entered the church; women to one side, men to the other. That way there was less chance of members of the congregation being ‘distracted’.
Juliana gave her sister a sharp look. There was no point in separating people in this way if her sister would insist on peering round all the time to see who was there and who wasn’t. It was one aspect of her sister’s nature that never ceased to astonish her, this inquisitiveness. When there was someone new in the city, she must try to learn as much as she could. Especially when it was a man. With a sigh, Juliana told herself she should be more patient.
‘I suppose you want to know whether he is married or not?’ she whispered in return.
‘It’s not that. I just wondered where he comes from. I’ve not seen him in here before,’ Agnes said, ignoring the reproof in her sister’s voice.
‘I dare say he is some wandering knight travelling past our city and you won’t see him again,’ Juliana said dismissively.
‘Perhaps so. Yet look at his behaviour! Is he really weeping?’
‘I neither know nor care, sister. Please concentrate.’
‘I shall … but I should like to know who he is.’
‘We can ask later,’ Juliana said. ‘I will ask my husband if you wish.’
She saw Agnes incline her head a little, and turned back to face the altar with a little sigh of annoyance. It was typical of her older sister that she should be so fascinated by a mere stranger. There was probably nothing of interest about him. Juliana glanced towards him and saw a man of some authority, but bent in silent prayer. He scarcely looked prepossessing enough to attract her sister.
That was unfair, of course. No man looked at his best when riven with grief, and this stranger knight appeared to be consumed with sadness, from the way he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, keeping his head down and his eyes closed. Perhaps Agnes had developed a maternal instinct at last, and would like to have taken him and cuddled him to ease his sorrow? The thought that Agnes could be so empathetic made her smile. Agnes was the least thoughtful or considerate woman Juliana had ever known.
Poor Agnes. Juliana stole a look at her, considering her features. In profile, they had grown more sharp and intolerant, much as many an older maid’s would. She had not been fortunate, of course. It was sad to have to say so, but the last years had not been kind to her, whereas of course Juliana herself had been enormously lucky. After all, she had a man who doted upon her. Where Agnes was lonely and dependent on others wealthier than herself, Juliana had money and security. And love, of course.
When the service was concluded, she walked outside with her sister, and she was surprised to see that the stranger was talking to the receiver, the most important man in the city’s hierarchy. Perhaps he was worth getting to know after all, she thought. And then she noticed the depth of his green eyes and found herself modifying her initial view.
Yes – she could understand Agnes’s interest. Handsome and powerful, this man could make her sister a good match. Juliana would speak to her husband at the first opportunity, and learn who he might be.
Chapter Two
Exeter, November 1323
Blithely unaware of the impact of his presence on Agnes, Sir Peregrine was soon conversant with the new responsibilities he had taken on – or, as he put it, which he must endure. It was an advantage to have the advice of the Keeper of the King’s Peace, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, who was in the city recuperating after being struck in the chest by a bolt.
Sir Baldwin was already greatly recovered, and when the weather was clement could often be found outside the inn where he was staying, his wife ministering to his needs. Always at his side was his servant Edgar, closely observing all those who approached his master. Edgar took his duties seriously, and his key role here was the guardian and protector of Sir Baldwin.
It was on the vigil of St Martin’s Day that Sir Peregrine would later feel that the case started. Although it had no resonance of especial significance for him when he first approached Sir Baldwin, in due course he would come to realize that this was the day on which God decided to play His cruellest trick on him. At the time, however, he had no inkling of the fate God held in store for him.
The convalescent knight was sitting on a bench indoors while his physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, studied his urine in a tall glass flask, holding it up in the sunlight shafting through a high window. ‘I don’t want my patient upset or excited today,’ Ralph said, sucking his teeth as he sniffed the urine thoughtfully. ‘The stars aren’t good for that. Not this week.’
Sir Peregrine had a healthy respect for battle-trained surgeons, because he had seen their skills demonstrated on the field of war, but for others, such as this piss-tinkering prick, he had none. He ignored the man. ‘Godspeed, Sir Baldwin. My Lady Jeanne, my sincerest compliments. You grow ever more beautiful!’
Sir Baldwin’s wife smiled in a rather embarrassed manner at being so praised, but she was also pleased. She knew Sir Peregrine was not prone to idle flattery.
He could not help but admire her. Lady Jeanne de Furnshill was a tall woman in her early thirties, entirely unspoiled by motherhood. Sir Peregrine had seen many women lose their attractiveness and charm when they had become mothers, but not Jeanne. She still had bright blue eyes that brought to mind cornflowers in a meadow on a summer’s day, and red-gold hair that reminded him of warmth at the fireside. Neither had faded with the years. She was slender, but not weakly; her face was a little too round, perhaps, her nose maybe a bit short and slightly tip-tilted, and her upper lip was very wide and rather too full, giving her the appearance of stubbornness. Yet all gathered together, her features made her an intensely beautiful woman, and one of whom Sir Peregrine would be eternally covetous.
‘When you’ve finished staring at my wife, would you like some wine?’ Sir Baldwin asked sharply.
Sir Peregrine laughed and sat at his side. Sir Baldwin was a tall man, running slightly to a paunch now, especially after some weeks recuperating, but he was striking in his manner and his looks. Used to power, he displayed a firmness and confidence in all he did, and his dark brown eyes had an intensity about them that many found intimidating. His face was framed by the flat, straight, military haircut over his furrowed brow, and below by the line of hair that clung to the angle of his jaw. Once, when Sir Peregrine had first known him, that hair had been black, but now it was liberally sprinkled with white, as was the hair on his head. A scar reached from one temple almost to his jaw, the legacy of a battle of long ago.
Now Sir Peregrine received the full force of those eyes.
‘Have you come to enquire after my health,’ growled Baldwin, ‘or to dally with my wife while I sit here as an invalid?’
‘Neither, friend.’ Sir Peregrine chuckled. He leaned forward as Lady Jeanne poured wine from a heavy jug into a pottery drinking horn. It was cheap, fashioned in the likeness of a bull’s horn with a man’s face embossed on the front, all glazed green, and he studied it a moment. ‘No, this is a little business which may be more to your taste than mine.’
‘You are the Coroner,’ Baldwin remarked.
‘This is not a matter of a body … not yet, at least. It is a matter of the King’s Peace. I have been told that there are some friars causing trouble again.’
Baldwin winced. ‘Rather you than me if it comes to a fight over rights and liberties between a friary and the city. Which friary is it?’
‘Worse than that.’ Sir Peregrine smiled. ‘It’s a straight fight between the friars and the canons. The friars are preaching in the streets against the canons. Apparently one of their older confraters is on his deathbed and wants to be buried in the friary, but the canons a
re determined to enforce their claim to the funeral.’
Baldwin did not smile. ‘I see.’
It was odd. Sir Peregrine had always respected Sir Baldwin, who was clearly a fighter of prowess and some courage, and yet Sir Baldwin could not bring himself to like Sir Peregrine. It was all because of his personal loathing for politics, as Sir Peregrine knew full well.
They had a different view of the world, so he thought. While he sought to improve the lot of the people by his own active involvement, Sir Baldwin tried to avoid any participation in the disputes and political struggles that so often absorbed the entire kingdom. In the last few years, since the accession to the throne of the weakly King Edward II, the realm had suffered from the greed of the King’s friends and advisers, first the grasping Piers Gaveston, and now the still more appalling Despenser family. The King appeared incapable of reining in their ambition, and it would soon be necessary, Sir Peregrine felt sure, to remove them by force. That was his firm conviction, and the attitude of rural knights like Sir Baldwin, who wanted to enjoy their quiet existence without running risks, seemed to him to be both selfish and short-sighted. Avoiding conflict only guaranteed that the strong would become bolder.
‘Has the Dean raised the matter yet?’ Sir Baldwin asked.
‘No. I have heard all this only from the city. The receiver wants no more disputes. The city can remember too clearly all the nonsense twenty years ago.’
Jeanne looked interested. ‘What happened then?’
‘I don’t know, nor do I care.’ Baldwin held up a hand. ‘It’s a matter for the Church, not for a king’s officer. If they wish to bicker amongst themselves, that is for them to decide. I know this: I have no jurisdiction over any of the men involved.’
The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) Page 4