She nodded. ‘I swear it on my soul.’
‘You mean that this bastard raped the girl he was supposed to protect, then murdered her to keep her silence? The sodomite!’
‘Worse than that,’ Father Abraham continued. He was feeling ill with horror at the terrible allegations made by Felicity and supported by Avicia. ‘He enlisted the aid of his brother-in-law to kill Philip Dyne.’
Harlewin hesitated. Even in the midst of his anger he could think clearly. ‘I think that Nicholas is innocent. He was as convinced as you and I over Dyne’s guilt. Damn Carter! Yet the lad confessed before us all, didn’t he? Why should we think he was lying?’
‘It is Felicity’s evidence that raises the suspicion,’ Father Abraham said.
The wine arrived and Harlewin threw his head back, emptying his pot at a gulp. ‘Then let’s go and confront the bastard!’
He picked up his sword belt and tied it on before leading the trio up the road towards the merchant’s house. Father Abraham halted.
‘Are you well, Father?’ Harlewin asked. The older man was waxen and faltering in his steps.
‘I am shocked by all this. I . . . I find it hard to believe, yet I must believe it.’ Such a hideous sequence of actions was difficult to absorb. The priest had never liked Carter, but to think that he could have killed his own daughter! And after committing incest with her, too. ‘I shall meet you at Carter’s house. I have to return to the church for a moment.’ He needed the solace that only the Gospels could give him. Perhaps he could clear his mind while praying. Prepare himself to meet Carter.
‘Very well, Father. We shall see you there,’ Harlewin said and continued on.
They missed Nicholas, who was at that moment climbing aboard a sturdy rounsey, and as the door was opened for them, Nicholas trotted off towards the castle, westwards, before taking the road to Withleigh, thence to Templeton.
‘I want your master,’ Harlewin rasped when the door finally opened.
‘He’s not here, sir.’
‘Then we’ll wait.’
It was after noon when Simon and Baldwin returned to the castle. They went straight to the stables and ordered their horses prepared. While they waited, Simon irritably tapping his foot, Baldwin sent a servant to see if his wife had yet returned. The man was soon back, shaking his head, and Baldwin nodded and turned to watch the grooms saddling his mount.
‘Sir Baldwin? Sir Baldwin, I must speak to you,’ Wat whispered.
‘What are you doing here? Have you been drinking?’ Baldwin asked, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his cattleman’s son’s pinched, anxious features. He was about to crouch and sniff at Wat’s breath when the lad’s next words made him stop.
‘Sir, I heard men saying they’d attack you. They said they would go for you first,’ Wat said.
‘And they did. Where was this?’
Wat glanced about him. ‘Here in the yard, sir. They said you’d hit them and they wanted their revenge; said they’d kill both of you, Sir Baldwin.’
Simon glanced at Baldwin. ‘They said we’d hit them? That must mean they were talking after the ambush. They intend to kill us.’
‘So it would seem. Did you see them, Wat?’
‘Yes. They are men from the castle here. I don’t know whose.’
Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look. The knight was the first to speak. ‘Can you see them now?’
‘No, sir. I think they went back to the buttery.’
‘We’d better wait until Edgar returns so at least we’ve got his protection at our backs,’ Simon recommended.
‘That is all very well, but if we wait here, this is where the danger lies; if we go to the Fair to find Edgar, we could be ambushed again – this time successfully. We may just as well go out to . . .’ Baldwin noticed a groom listening with interest and lowered his voice. ‘To where we were going.’
Simon saw his look and motioned to the groom. ‘Piss off! Don’t listen to the conversations of your betters.’
‘Betters?’ the man enquired as if with genuine doubt. As Simon’s face reddened angrily he laughed and strolled away.
‘Arrogant swine!’ Simon muttered.
‘Forget him. As I say, we may as well go.’
‘Very well, but leave a message with Wat here.’
‘Good idea. Wat, you will wait here to see Lady Jeanne and when she returns with Edgar, you will tell them what you just told us and let them know that we are going to Templeton.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you will watch the gate after we’ve gone. If anyone seems to try to follow us, you will tell Edgar who they were and how many.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Come then, Simon,’ Baldwin said and walked out into the sunlight with his horse. He hesitated, passed his reins to Simon, then darted back into the stable. When he returned, he was slipping a necklace over his neck – Sir Gilbert’s crucifix and key.
They mounted and clattered under the gateway. Aylmer rose and followed them. Baldwin noticed the dog when they reached Tiverton’s timber bridge, where they asked a man for the best way to reach Templeton. He pointed them to a road heading almost due west. It was too late to take the dog back to the castle and he loped along beside them as they rode.
Matilda sat composedly while Clarice combed and brushed her long hair. In the mirror she could see that her long tresses had become quite grey and straggly. Rose, she noticed, avoided her eye. ‘Are you well, Clarice?’
The sharpness in her tone made her maid start. ‘Yes, Lady.’
‘Then why do you look so miserable?’
‘It is nothing.’
‘It was all true, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘What those two sluts said. Has he been bedding you too? How often?’
‘I’m too old now.’
With an inward shiver Matilda saw the pained sadness in Clarice’s face. ‘He used to take you before?’
‘When I was younger. What could I do to refuse him? He was my master.’
‘When did he start with Joan?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Liar! It’s all over your face that you know.’
‘I think Felicity told the truth.’
‘You mean . . .’ It was hard for her to breathe for a moment. Her heart was pounding deafeningly in her ears as Matilda swallowed. ‘Tell me the truth. You think he began raping my daughter as soon as he threw Felicity out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Leave me.’
Once Clarice had gone, Matilda rose unsteadily. She put her hand to her face and walked to the wall opposite her window where she had a small cross hanging. ‘Please, God, don’t let this be true,’ she begged, but she knew there was nothing He could do to alter the hideous facts.
She went to the small chest in which her daughter’s few belongings had been stored and pulled out a tunic, then a robe and cloak. The things Joan had worn on her last day. They were the best clothes she possessed, selected carefully to impress the man she loved. Matilda laid them out on her bed and smoothed them, weeping. Then she threw herself on the bed and gave herself up to her overwhelming grief.
Toker was leaning against a house outside the castle near the gate when Lady Jeanne, Petronilla and Edgar returned to the castle’s court. He had a small knife in his hand and was carving at a piece of leather as he waited. As people approached the castle he looked up, but each time his men shook their heads. One was at one end of the street, a second at the other so that when the knight and his friend came back, Toker and his companions could take them right here. No one would expect to be ambushed so near to the castle’s walls.
He didn’t raise his eyes from his leatherwork when Edgar shouted for Wat in the yard and cuffed the boy over the ear for his slowness, nor see Wat going up to the hall clutching the armfuls of cloth and parcels that his mistress had laden him with. The hall was inside the castle and Toker knew that the knight and his companion were out. He had sent Perkin and Owe
n to follow them. Toker had no idea where they could have gone, but he was content to wait until their return and then see how best to spring his attack.
If he had kept the door to the hall under more careful observation, he would have seen the door open a fraction and Edgar and Wat peer round it at him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The roadway was almost empty and Simon and Baldwin made good time as they cantered to Withleigh. The whole of the town was behind them now, and Baldwin felt a lightening of his spirits as he trotted on. Towns were all very well for those who could abide living squashed together like rats in a hole, but Baldwin was a man bred to space and freedom; he hated being bound up in the strict confines of a town. Out here, with trees covering the gentle hills at either side, he felt as if a cloak of intrigue and danger had sloughed away and at last he could relax his guard a little.
Not, he reflected, that he had been very careful. It was ludicrous that he should have found himself the target of an ambush and that a man like that buffoon Harlewin had been able to save them just in time.
‘Simon, do you think those men could have been ordered to kill us by Lord Hugh?’
‘Nothing’s impossible,’ Simon grunted doubtfully. ‘But why should Lord Hugh want to assassinate you? Wouldn’t Sir Peregrine be a more likely enemy?’
‘Yes. And he would be a likely candidate to try to remove Sir Gilbert, too.’
‘He was in the woods on the night Sir Gilbert died, riding away at speed,’ Simon recalled, ‘and he was in the castle when William was murdered.’
‘True, but Sir Peregrine is no murderer. He would always send one of his henchmen to do the nasty work,’ Baldwin considered. ‘I think you’re right – it was Sir Peregrine’s men who attacked us, although I have no idea why he would want to kill us.’
‘Who else is continuing to investigate Sir Gilbert’s death?’
‘You think that is it? He wants to silence us, just so that the matter is left alone?’ Baldwin asked. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘We know Sir Peregrine wants the Lords of the Marches to be supported by Lord Hugh, while Sir Gilbert was an agent of Despenser. Perhaps that’s all there is to it. A simple political murder.’
‘Possibly,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But I don’t find it convincing. Sir Peregrine knows that the Marcher Lords are in the ascendant and the Despensers are gone. Why should he bother to kill Sir Gilbert? Those who had supported the Despensers have all gone to the side of other magnates. Sir Gilbert would hardly have been likely to persuade Lord Hugh to join him in serving the Despensers just when everyone else was deserting the man.’
‘Who else could it have been? Father Abraham looking to remove an excommunicate from his parish?’ Simon chuckled.
Baldwin set his head on one side. ‘It is possible, Simon. He is a curious man, that priest. Prepared to curse a man being installed in his grave, for example. Anyway, let’s hope he didn’t have more of an idea about Sir Gilbert’s visit to Templeton than he let on.’
‘Is that where you are taking me, then?’
Baldwin smiled. ‘If Sir Gilbert had money, he wouldn’t have left it with a sailor whose trustworthiness was questionable.
‘Why do you suppose William Small’s loyalty was questionable?’
‘Look at it from Sir Gilbert’s perspective: he was a trained Templar. Forget how he has lived recently, for he wouldn’t count it as important. He was taught as a Templar and that is how he would think.’
Simon nodded. He knew that Baldwin had himself been a Templar and trusted his judgement.
‘Very well,’ continued Baldwin, ‘could a man like Sir Gilbert trust a man like William? No! Sir Gilbert would trust a man who was bound by oaths as strong as his own; he wouldn’t trust someone who could choose to leave his craft on a whim. That is what William did, from his own testimony.’
‘All right, we’ll take that as a reasonable hypothesis.’
‘If he could not leave the money in William’s hands, it is perfectly clear that he couldn’t take it with him to Tiverton either. Where could he leave it? He would not wish to carry it with him wherever he went; that would invite trouble. Fairs attract thieves, cut-purses and more vigorous felons. It would be madness to walk about with it.’
‘Couldn’t he have placed it somewhere safe?’
‘With whom? If Sir Gilbert had visited Tiverton, how long ago was that? Could he be sure that any friends he used to know would still be alive? No! He would want to ensure that the treasure was concealed far from a robber’s eyes.’
Simon gave an elaborate yawn. ‘Does this mean you’re getting close to the point?’
‘Patience, friend! We know that Sir Gilbert was a Templar and we also know that he came from Templeton.’
Simon slapped his forehead. ‘So he would be aware of any number of places to hide the stuff!’
‘Precisely.’
Originally their path had taken them along the side of a small stream which meandered down towards Tiverton where it joined the Exe, but now they left it behind and entered a thicker section of woodland. The sun was still high overhead, and the men and their mounts began to feel the heat. With no breeze to cool them, it was immensely warm and the dust beneath their horses’ hooves stirred and rose to choke them. Aylmer sneezed regularly, shaking his head comically. It was a relief to all of them when they found themselves at the bank of another river with a mill.
They dropped from their beasts, Simon dipping his hands into the water and dashing his face before drinking deeply. Aylmer lapped fastidiously at the edge, while Baldwin rinsed a cloth and spread it over his face a moment before tasting the water.
As they rode on past the mill, Baldwin stopped and nodded to the miller in his doorway. ‘Is this the mill of Harlewin le Poter?’ he asked.
The miller – a short, scruffy individual with a bald head and guilty smile, nodded shortly.
‘Was he here the night before last?’
The miller chewed his lip before venturing, ‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
In reply the miller went red from his shirt upwards. His obvious discomfort made Simon laugh aloud. ‘Don’t worry, miller. He has already told us about Lady Cecily Sherman.’
The man’s face relaxed instantly and he seemed to sag with relief.
‘Did they leave together?’
‘No, sir. They always left separate. She went first, he a while later.’
‘Thank you. Now . . .’ Soon they had directions to the village and were on their way once more. Their path took them northwards, up narrow tracks, between thick hedges, and on one side Baldwin could hear the munching of cattle although he could see nothing. Every now and again there came a loud roaring from a bull and he hoped that the beast would not be able to escape from its field. In a narrow lane like this a bull could easily create mayhem and kill or injure both Simon and him.
As they arrived on a broad plain they could see the little ramshackle manor to their left and they turned off on the small untended road which led down a slight hill to the small chapel. From the look of the lack of graves, the ground was not consecrated.
‘My God! What a sad place,’ Simon said in a hushed tone.
‘There was once a large staff here,’ Baldwin said sadly. ‘It was a thriving little manor bringing in enough money to cover the cost of a Templar Knight. And it has been left to rot.’
He knew that many other Templar sites had suffered the same fate. The lands had been taken by the King together with all their moveable property. But the Templars had not owned the lands – they were owned by the Church. The Pope decreed that they should all pass to the Knights of St John of Jerusalem, the Hospitallers, to ensure that the wealth that they represented should continue to be put to the use intended. Unfortunately, the Hospitallers did not have the manpower to administrate so many properties, and King Edward II had an expensive court to maintain. He still, from what Baldwin had heard, had not passed over the deeds to any of the Templar manors; this meant
that local men had plundered the little that the King’s own Keepers had left. Everything of any use whatsoever had long since been carted off.
The lands had fallen into disuse. Some farmers had taken over fields and houses, encroaching ever closer to the main precincts, for although some had heard of the sins of the Templars and feared contamination by excommunicates, many had never been told of the hideous crimes the Templars were supposed to have committed.
Only fifteen years before, Baldwin thought bitterly, this place would have been bustling, filled with hurrying servants. There would have been a brewery, storehouses, a small mill down to the west, orchards filled with pears and apples, cattle being driven to and from the dairies, men and women, the lay-workers, busy at work, ensuring the profit from the manor’s lands that would help pay for a knight to protect pilgrims.
And now it was all waste, as devastated as a farmstead after a marauding army has passed. It struck a blow at Baldwin’s heart. He had seen this kind of place at its prime; to see it like this was hideous.
‘It’s not what I expected,’ Simon said softly. His wife only rarely accused him of empathy, but seeing his friend’s face Simon could share a little of Baldwin’s despair.
‘I had not realised how they had simply left the preceptories to ruin.’
Simon glanced about him. There was little remaining. Roofs had collapsed and the walls wouldn’t stand much longer. Doors hung from torn and broken leather hinges; shutters had fallen away. Peering inside the shell of a house Simon was surprised to see that a bowl still stood on a table as if the owner had rushed out to chase a dog from his sheep.
‘Come!’ Baldwin said gruffly and resolutely swung himself from his horse. ‘There is no point in a mawkish display. I knew my Order was destroyed. There! Let us seek this wealth.’
‘Yes, Baldwin,’ Simon said. He tied his horse to a ring in a wall, testing it doubtfully to see whether it would take the strain. Waiting while his friend tied his own to a post, he didn’t glance behind him until Baldwin was done, and then he saw another horse tethered. ‘Whose is that?’
The Traitor of St. Giles Page 27