The Traitor of St. Giles by Michael Jecks Page A

until it was too late, and he went flying, falling on his cudgels and dropping both. ‘What in God’s name?’ he muttered angrily. Rising, he kicked out at the thing.
    Before his terrified gaze he saw a man’s head fly up into the air, only to fall a short distance away, the eyes wide in horror, the mouth slackly open, the neck a red and bloody mess.

Chapter Seven
     
    ‘God! . . . Christ alive!’ Piers declared in shock, and the head stared back.
    The baker clutched at his belly, trying not to vomit. Remembering himself, he made a hasty sign of the cross, then tugged his rosary free and muttered a prayer. There was something wrong with his beads; they felt slick and oily in his hands, and he looked down to see that they were smothered and beslobbered with semi-congealed blood. Then, a couple of paces away, he saw the headless body. He winced with revulsion. The ground all about him was red with blood. It was repellent to be covered in this filth. Flies buzzed about him already: he would stink by the time he got home if the sun stayed as warm all the way.
    Hearing an anguished shout, he wiped his hands on clean grass, snatched up his cudgels, and ran towards the call without once glancing backwards. Jumping a low barrier of fern and bramble, he found himself in a darker area where the sun was blotted out by thick growth overhead. Dried leaves and twigs snapped and rustled under his feet as he hurried on, and then before him he saw another clearing.
    When he broke in, he slowed in his onwards rush and gradually came to a halt. In the trees above him, three large black carrion birds noisily launched themselves into the air and flew away.
    On the ground before him knelt William, but as Piers took in the scene he gasped and clapped a blood stained hand over his mouth.
    Before William was the dead body of a dog, who lay in a thick pool of his own gore. A second large dog lay a few yards from William, and hearing Piers’s approach, this one raised his head and stared at him, head tilted a little as if in vague enquiry. The expression on the animal’s face was one of unutterable sadness, and after a moment he looked away, resting his chin on his paws and gazing at another corpse.
    It was that of a man in his prime of life; a tall man, his head resting on a tree root, his hands clasped together at the hilt of the sword lying on his breast like one already laid in his grave.
    A knight.
    Tiverton Castle was not the largest Baldwin had ever visited, but it was in a strong position to guard the bridge over the river. South and west it was protected by the River Exe; north were marshes, and the castle had good, massive walls to enclose its lord. The court was oddly shaped, designed to fit the space, and stables and outhouses were filled. Men and women hurried on their duties, guards lounged and guests wandered around getting in everyone else’s way.
    The great hall had been cleaned and decorated in honour of the feast –
and
to show off the best silver and pewter plate of the de Courtenay family, Baldwin added to himself. It was set out on a heavy sideboard, taking up four shelves – a proud display of the power and money the family commanded. On the walls hung tapestries with rich embroidery showing scenes of chivalric magnificence: unicorns and lions fought, knights tilted at each other or knelt praying while their serfs tilled the fields, sheared sheep, and drove carts filled with produce. The floor had been laid with fresh rushes, and their scent reminded Baldwin of long days idling in fields, although they did pose something of a risk to some of the ladies in their long gowns and skirts. Baldwin noticed several stumble as, unwittingly, they managed to sweep the rushes before them, building up a small rampart which they then tripped over.
    The hall was crowded. Music from the minstrels in their small gallery over the screens meant people were forced to speak more loudly, although the freely-flowing drink encouraged them.