He tossed the head to his man-at-arms with a feeling of satisfaction. ‘This won’t take long. Recognise him?’
It was good to have a case in which the whole sordid story could be seen at a glance. So often there were surly crowds who denied all knowledge as he manhandled their dead. Commonly the cause of death was mundane: a stab-wound or a throat slitted like a pig’s. Occasionally there was a broken skull or a drowning, but usually it was just a fight that had gone too far.
And the reasons were just as earthy. A man who found his wife lying in an adulterous bed – that was a little close to home, Harlewin acknowledged – or a woman who retaliated after a heavy beating and committed the hideous act of petty treason, stabbing her man while he lay abed.
So many murders were incomprehensible, but with war looming Harlewin knew more deaths would occur. When men grabbed their swords and knives, people began to die even at a distance from the battlefields. Especially when there was a thieving, avaricious bastard like Despenser running the place.
At least this death was straightforward.
‘Dyne?’ the man-at-arms asked, peering into the half-closed eyes.
‘Yes. Looks like he left his road.’
Baldwin heard him muttering to the guard, but his own attention was fixed upon the body sprawled on its back in the long grass near the trees. There were marks about the wrists which Baldwin could not miss: he had been bound before his head was swept off. While Harlewin muttered in an undertone, Baldwin cast about and in a few moments he had found a thong lying atop a flattened expanse of grass nearby; it had been cut in two and its thickness matched the bruises on the wrists.
Continuing with his hands, he felt around the flattened area. ‘Ouch!’ Carefully he parted the grass to discover what had cut his hand: a knife. Within a few inches, broken pieces of wood; a snapped crucifix, while a short distance away was a purse, large and made of good leather, with some coins inside. The cords which should have bound the purse to its owner’s belt were cut through with a sharp blade.
‘Coroner, would you like to see this?’ he called.
‘Interesting, eh?’ Harlewin sniffed. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’
The whole figure had stiffened, and it was only with an effort that Harlewin could drag the tunic off, swearing as it caught. ‘Oh, God’s teeth!’ he snarled and took the dagger from Baldwin, slicing up the sleeves to the shoulders, then easing the cloth free. Baldwin noticed how sharp the blade was, like a fighter’s.
Beneath the tunic was a simple, rough shirt and hose. These Harlewin cut off as well, to reveal the figure of a young man.
Harlewin pointed with the knife. ‘As I thought: extensive bruising on the chest, more here on his belly, and he has been kicked hard in the bollocks from the look of it,’ he said, indicating the swollen groin. ‘No stab-wound.’
‘No,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘It looks like someone beat him, bound him and beheaded him like a common felon. And broke his cross.’
‘Killed him like a wolf,’ Harlewin agreed, grunting as he pushed himself up into a standing position, and gazed down. Leaving Sir Baldwin at the side of the corpse, he strode off. The whole affair was tidy, he reflected. The outlaw had been caught and despatched. There must be a good reason why someone had done so without complying with the law.
The second body was a few hundred feet away in the next clearing. Harlewin was almost at its side when he heard the low rumble.
‘Leash that hound,’ he snarled. The dog had moved forward menacingly as he leaned over the body.
The man-at-arms reached for its collar, but it crouched, growling in a long, ferocious, steady timbre and the man hastily withdrew his hand.
‘Fetch a bow or something,’ Harlewin said irritably. ‘I can’t be standing here all the damned day! I’m supposed to be seeing my Lord de Courtenay. Go on, shoot the blasted mutt.’
‘All right.’ Wandering to his horse, the man pulled his crossbow from the saddle. It was a powerful one built of wood and bone, and he put his foot in the stirrup, bent his legs and caught the string in the hook at his belt. Slowly straightening, he spanned the string until he saw it catch on the sear. Walking to the Coroner’s side, he selected a steel-tipped quarrel from his belt’s quiver and set it on the bow’s groove.
‘Go on, man!’ Harlewin rasped.
The man-at-arms lifted it and aimed the arrow’s tip at the dog’s throat. His hand moved to the long trigger and he was about to fire when he heard a bellow at his side. Startled, he caught a glimpse of something moving before a bunched fist struck the stock of his bow, releasing the bolt high over the dog’s head to thud into an oak.
‘Don’t you dare slay the hound for protecting his master’s body,’ Baldwin roared, enraged. ‘The beast is a good servant.’ He walked slowly towards the dog.
‘You may regret it, Sir Baldwin,’ Harlewin called. ‘The damned thing looks almost mad to me.’
Baldwin ignored him, squatting near the dog. Unconsciously, he suddenly realised, he had started kneading the flesh of his forearms where Uther had bitten him in his death-throes. It made Baldwin feel a sharp pang. This dog was very different from Uther. It growled, more from fear than anger. It was stupid, Baldwin reflected, to try to save the beast for no purpose, especially since he might get bitten. He glanced at the other dog a few yards away, dead. The pair were raches, hunting dogs which relied more on scent than sight. Handsome animals, with sleek black coats, brown eyebrows and cheeks, strong jaws and powerful chests, they were built heavily, like mastiffs.
He recalled the pastries he had grabbed before leaving the hall. Some were still in his purse, and he pulled them free, much crumbled and broken, and tossed a piece on the ground. The dog glanced down but didn’t eat. Baldwin held out his hand with a piece of pastry in it.
‘Come on, it’s been a while since you ate, hasn’t it, old fellow?’ he asked gently.
‘Aylmer won’t eat like that from a stranger, he needs the order. Aylmer: feed! Good boy.’
The dog dropped his head and snuffled at the pie on the ground. Behind Baldwin stood a swarthy man with a pockmarked face.
‘I am called William the Small, sir. I was servant to Sir Gilbert.’
For the first time Baldwin looked at the dead man, and as he did so, he felt the breath catch in his throat as he recognised the face.
Chapter Nine
Andrew Carter wiped a hand over his face and walked to his buttery where he bent at a large cask and filled a jug with an unsteady hand, carrying it through to his small hall. His belly rebelled, but he forced the wine down, and soon its soothing warmth calmed his nerves again. In his mind’s eye he saw once more the great gout of blood as the head fell from Dyne’s shoulders. God! It made him want to heave again.
And he had so much to do for St Giles’s Fair. Tomorrow was the vigil, marking the start of the three-day event: vigil, feast and morrow of St Giles. There were other fairs at Tiverton, three others through the year, but there was an especial significance to this one, as Andrew Carter knew only too well. At this fair all Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s senior advisers and knights were present. And while their women and victuallers strolled among the tents and stalls of the fair, while all that money was being made, Andrew Carter, merchant, sat here in his room with his belly roiling after bringing justice on Philip Dyne.
He couldn’t keep from worrying at the memory like a dog with a marrow bone. Swallowing, he tried to force his mind to business instead.
It was an anxious time. Andrew Carter knew as well as anyone how fragile was the kingdom’s peace; much of his business was conducted with the north of the country, for there were good profits to be made from importing good English wine from the King’s lands in Guyenne and sending them up to the wild lands of the Scottish marches, especially to certain clients of his, such as Thomas of Lancaster.
Not that Andrew had ever met Lancaster, of course. Earl Thomas was the son of King Edward I’s brother and Queen Blanche, and thus of higher birth than almost
all the other nobles in the land. Powerful men tended not to soil their hands in dealings with the lowly, such as Andrew – and, by God’s saints, Thomas was powerful! Five earldoms were his: he had inherited Lancaster, Leicester and Derby, and acquired Salisbury and Lincoln when he married Alice Lacy. When the government decided to buy peace with him at Leake, they had to negotiate with him in the same manner as they would a separate, independent state.
That was three years ago, when Andrew Carter had decided to tie his purse-strings to Lancaster’s future. The Earl was the Steward of England, the most powerful man in the land, even more so than the King in many ways, and he was happy to pay a merchant for information about affairs down in the south.
It had been the obvious choice. King Edward II, as everyone could see by then, was a weak, effeminate waster. He spent his time in idleness, employing actors and jugglers and flattering parasites in his court. Whereas his father, King Edward I, had lived an austere life, dressing simply, keeping his hair trimmed, and practising the skills which made him a good king – sword-fighting, riding, tilting with the lance – his son delighted in wrestling with peasants or swimming: fine accomplishments, these, for a king!
Thomas of Lancaster was in every way a better leader. Andrew had no doubts on that score, but the question that exercised him was whether his Lord de Courtenay would see that. If the news was to be believed (and Andrew invested a fair amount of his own money in good networks of information to protect his business) the two Despensers had fled the kingdom. The armies which had camped outside London’s walls had forced the King to accede to their demands. Hugh the Younger and his father had gone: the older man had taken up a relaxed life in France, but his whelp couldn’t. He would find life difficult in the French King’s domains, for he was Edward II’s father-in-law, and the French King resented how his daughter had been supplanted by the royal favourite even in their bed, if the rumours be true. Despenser the Younger had taken a ship and now he raided shipping in the Channel, whatever flag it flew. No vessel was safe.
Lord de Courtenay showed little inclination to go over to Lancaster’s side. If anything, he was more keen on supporting the King than before. Still, that was all right so long as the Despensers were abroad and Earl Thomas had power.
Andrew stared into his cup, lips pursed into a single white line, then hurled it against the far wall. The earthenware shattered, shards flying, and wine spattered and dribbled like blood sprayed from a wound as he rested his aching head in his hands again.
He’d been over and over this: the risks of the Younger Despenser’s return and the strengthening of the King compared with Lancaster’s continued grip on the reins of power. All he could do was pray that Lancaster remained all-powerful. And if the Despensers did come back, maybe he could join them instead. They were dangerous enemies.
‘Brother? Are you all right?’
‘Nicholas! Yes. Yes, I am fine. Just thinking again about . . .’
‘If you’re thinking about him, don’t. He deserved his end,’ Nicholas said thinly.
‘But what about the knight?’
‘Christ Jesus, Andrew, did you kill him? I didn’t! I never even knew him! The bastard probably deserved it. More important now is that you come back to the hall.’
‘Very well, brother,’ Andrew sighed, rising to his feet. Nicholas was studying him with a jaundiced eye. ‘Well? What in God’s name’s the matter now?’ he flared up.
‘Nothing. Just keep your temper under control. You don’t want people to see your mood.’
‘I’ve got nothing to fear.’
‘I know that as well as you!’ Nicholas said sharply. ‘My concern is that people don’t get the wrong idea – or the right idea: that we have both forsworn our loyalties to de Courtenay and tied ourselves to Lancaster.’
‘Who would guess that?’ said Andrew dismissively.
‘You damned, whoreson cretin,’ Nicholas spat, and took a pace forward, clenching his fists. ‘You think you’re so clever, and yet out there I’ve heard three men commenting on your absence. Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple has already asked me whether you find the food of a loyal subject to the King less flavoursome than a traitor’s!’
‘The castle’s keeper said that? The bastard should—’
‘Let’s hope he keeps his views to himself, but in the meantime you, brother, had better come with me; because war is on its way, and if any man doubts your loyalty to de Courtenay, you will be removed from Tiverton – and if you are very lucky you will have a swift death!’
Simon disliked William Small on sight. There was something about his pock-marked face that singled him out for dishonesty and faithlessness.
The bailiff had joined Baldwin as he tried to feed the dog. Seeing his friend’s shock at the sight of the dead knight, Simon decided to say nothing in front of the other men; instead he moved to the sailor while Baldwin gentled the dog and tied him to a tree.
‘You say you’re a sailor?’ Simon demanded.
‘Yes, sir. But I agreed to help this knight in his journey. To guard him.’
‘Not very successfully.’
‘That wasn’t my fault, sir!’ William flashed back.
‘Perhaps. Where did you meet him?’
‘London.’
‘And you came all the way here?’
William shrugged. ‘He said he wanted to come to Devonshire, and I brought him to Exeter. I know that city from sailing.’
Simon eyed him cynically. ‘Why were you coming up here?’
‘He wanted to go to Tiverton,’ William said hesitantly.
‘For St Giles’s Fair?’ Harlewin asked. He had walked to over to the two men and now stood on Simon’s left watching the sailor with suspicion.
‘I don’t think so, sir. I think he was intending to meet with my Lord de Courtenay.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Harlewin burst out. ‘You’ve been drinking, man. Ach! I’ve got better things to do than listen to this.’
‘Why do you think a lord would speak to someone like him?’ Simon enquired, jerking a thumb at the dead man.
‘Sir Gilbert was a Knight Templar from a village not far from here, a place called Templeton. He knew Lord de Courtenay and wanted to speak to him.’
Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple had been called to the gatehouse soon after Lord Hugh entered the hall. He went reluctantly; if he could, he would have gone to see his woman, Emily, but he had to locate his man Toker and learn what news he had. Still, as the knight crossed the yard to the gatehouse, his thoughts were not on the realm’s political troubles or London; his mind was fixed upon the little room where Emily was in labour with his child. It was only as he entered his room that he could force himself to consider the business at hand.
Toker was one of his better finds. A Devonshire man through and through, Toker had been one of the survivors of King Edward II’s army that had been destroyed at Bannockburn. There he had been a squire in the retinue of Gilbert Clare, Earl of Gloucester, a man he respected and loved as lord and warrior. When Clare died at Bannockburn Toker was distraught, but being a loyal servant to his master, he had gone to Clare’s widow, Maud, Countess of Gloucester, and sworn fealty to her in her husband’s memory.
But even the most loyal servant is feeble protection against an army. In an act of cynical opportunism, Despenser the Younger seized the Countess’s castle at Tonbridge and from that day Toker had been the implacable enemy of the Despensers: their intolerable greed was the spark that fired his loathing. Chivalry demanded responsibilities, but the Despensers ignored duties and followed their own avarice.
It was his history which made Toker so invaluable. His hatred was boundless. Not only had Despenser cruelly shattered Toker’s belief in chivalry, he had stolen Toker’s future. Toker had dreamed of being knighted, but without a lord he had no opportunity. Without the largesse of a lord to support him, he had become what he himself detested: a wandering, lordless, impecunious scavenger. During the famine, starving, he became an outlaw.
Sir Peregrine had rescued him. Toker had been caught poaching Lord Hugh’s venison and something in Toker’s eyes intrigued Sir Peregrine. Little by little he pieced together the man’s story. He felt certain Toker could prove useful.
And useful he had been. Now Sir Peregrine’s only concern was that he might one day find himself without a focus for Toker’s energy, and then he would have to work hard to ensure that the man’s resentment did not become targeted upon him.
Toker was seated negligently in one of his chairs, waiting.
‘You’re back, then, Toker,’ Sir Peregrine said, walking to his own chair.
‘It was interesting, Sir Peregrine, and worthwhile.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Sir Peregrine had sent Toker, together with Perkin of Croydon and the Welshman, Owen of Harlech, off to London to gather information on the latest developments to do with the Despensers – to find out what the people of London thought, and how the Lords of the Marches planned to get rid of them.
Everyone who could afford to had sent men to watch. Abbots, merchants and lords – all had observers there to witness the unfolding events. No man could afford to be ill-informed when the kingdom was so near to civil war.
‘The Despensers have gone?’
‘Yes, Sir Peregrine,’ said Toker. ‘The King wasn’t happy, but he had little choice. Now the sire is in France while his whelp lies in the Channel and robs any ship he can.’
‘Let’s hope one of the ships he stops is full of men-at-arms ready for him. The bastard deserves death for the ill he’s stirred in the country.’
‘Yes, my Lord. The sooner they’re dead the better.’
‘What was the mood in London?’
The Traitor of St. Giles Page 9