The Traitor of St. Giles by Michael Jecks Page B

Baldwin looked about him, recognising some of his peers from other towns: knights, esquires, clerics, advocates. More were arriving and he began to wonder whether they would all fit, especially with the numbers of servants on every side, passing jugs of wine and ale, handing platters of small pastries, tarts and titbits.
    He saw a face he knew: Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple. Baldwin looked away hurriedly and walked off with his wife in the opposite direction.
    There were many others he knew. The Coroner, like Sir Peregrine, Baldwin avoided. Men gained reputations when they won positions of power, and Coroner Harlewin le Poter had earned that of a womaniser, politician and corrupt official. It was a sad comment on the officers of justice that so many were similarly labelled, but Baldwin’s personal loathing of injustice led him to keep away from Harlewin.
    Jeanne and he migrated to a corner with people whom Baldwin did not recognise. It was here that he met Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok for the first time, two men whom he was to get to know well. Andrew, he heard, was one of Tiverton’s leading merchants, while Nicholas hailed from Exeter – which was clearly not his original home: his accent was softened with the years, but there were strong traces of Welsh. Baldwin was struck by their appearance: both were pale as if from lack of sleep, and Andrew in particular was curt almost to the point of rudeness.
    His wife Matilda was a slim woman in her late thirties. She appeared utterly indifferent to the people about her – indeed, Baldwin thought she was intentionally ignoring them, but then he saw the tic fluttering beneath her eye, noted her gaunt appearance and realised she was suffering from some deep inner sadness.
    ‘This is Cecily Sherman,’ Jeanne announced.
    The newcomer was shortish, attractive, plump and dark-haired. Constantly smiling, she had a gushing manner that was in no way irritating, but more entrancing: the residual girlishness of a young woman. Baldwin placed her in her early twenties. While the men talked she rarely interrupted, but her comments were succinct and often very witty. Baldwin gained the impression that she was a skilled flirt.
    When her husband John was pointed out to him, Baldwin saw a heavy-set man, tall, with grizzled hair, cleanshaven and heavy of shoulder. In appearance he looked much like a knight or some other trained martial artist, strong and proud. Baldwin was interested to see that Cecily Sherman rarely glanced at her husband. Her attention, Baldwin noticed, was more often upon the Coroner.
    The party was proving enjoyable, if loud, but the jolly atmosphere was ruined when a guard hurried in with the bedraggled figure of Piers Bakere.
    ‘Did you recognise the corpses?’
    ‘No, Coroner. The beheaded one I didn’t give more than a glance to. I’ve seen dead men before – who hasn’t? – but tripping over a man’s head . . . well, it’s not something I’ve done before. As to the knight, I’ve no idea who
he
was.’
    Harlewin le Poter was a vain man, Baldwin thought. He appeared to be listening intently to the baker – but Baldwin was sure that he was merely putting on an act and that belief rankled. The affair sounded too serious to be treated in a frivolous mood.
    Baldwin could see the baker clearly. He looked nervous, and there was no surprise in that, with the poor fellow having to stand in front of the most important people in the shire. Piers was unkempt, and his hands seemed to be streaked and spotted with rusty stains. Only later did Baldwin realise that this was, in fact, dried blood.
    ‘You say that both men were outside the verge?’ Harlewin asked, studying his pot and sipping. He was dressed in bright reds and blues, with a plain white shirt under his blue cotte and red surcoat, and parti-coloured hose hiding his legs. From the size of his belly Baldwin guessed he was not a particularly dedicated officer of the law. If he were, he could not have grown so