‘Ale?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’ the guard grunted.
With a cheery determination William strode across the yard to the door. Aylmer sat and scratched an ear, then wandered off to a corner near the stairs where he cocked a leg and decorated the wall, before strolling about the yard inquisitively.
William didn’t notice Toker at the kitchen door, nor the way the blue eyes narrowed, watching as he climbed up the stairs to the hall’s doorway. Toker was sure he recognised William’s face, but couldn’t place him right away. But it would come back to him eventually. It always did.
Jeanne could see her husband’s mood even before he muttered a curse and snapped his fingers at Edgar, a rude method of beckoning his servant that he would normally have shunned. ‘My love, what is it?’
‘That primping, vain, conceited cockscomb…’
‘Sir Peregrine?’ she asked with genuine confusion. ‘But he was perfectly correct and chivalrous, husband. He offered no insult to me or to you.’
‘He wouldn’t. He is not that kind of man. No, his danger is more indirect. More insidious.’
Simon gazed at his friend with utter bafflement. ‘Baldwin, what are you talking about? As far as I could tell he was a pleasant man, better versed in courtesy than many others of his rank.’
‘You realise what his rank is?’
‘A knight, of course.’
‘Well, of course he is a knight, but not a knight bachelor; he’s a bannaret,’ Baldwin shot back. ‘Do you realise what that means? He can command other knights. In theory he could command me to fight with him.’
‘He’d be a good man to stand beside, wouldn’t he?’ Simon protested, still confused. ‘I don’t understand what your problem is.’
‘The man is not a loyal Courtenay knight. He is on the side of the Marchers.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t commit treason against my Lord de Courtenay,’ Jeanne burst out.
‘There is no telling what he might do,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘He’s a politician.’
Simon frowned uncomprehendingly. ‘If you’re sure of this, you should warn Lord de Courtenay.’
‘That one of his trusted advisers has taken a line tending towards one party? That in itself is no crime and Sir Peregrine is too shrewd to leave himself compromised.’
‘How can you be sure he’s loyal to the Marchers?’ Simon asked.
‘It is a matter of discussion in the shire,’ Baldwin said. ‘I have heard his allegiance talked about in Crediton and Exeter – I am surprised news of it has not spread to Lydford. There are many men who wonder what will happen now that the Despensers are banished from the kingdom. But it doesn’t do to speculate too much. Not when there is so much possible danger here.’
‘What danger?’ Simon asked.
‘Simon, have you not understood? We are confirmed as loyal subjects of King Edward because with all his faults, he was rightly anointed King; we are known to be friends of Bishop Stapledon, one of many Lords who deprecates the illegal expulsion of the Despensers. Sir Peregrine supports the Marcher Lords who forced the King to expel the Despensers. If you were a political creature trying to persuade Lord Hugh to throw his weight behind the Marcher Lords like Sir Peregrine, would you want two men like us advising Lord Hugh?’
‘Christ’s balls!’ Simon breathed. ‘Oh, sorry, Jeanne.’
‘I’ve heard worse,’ she said, but her voice was far away, and she stared with perplexity at Sir Baldwin.
‘What is it, my love?’
‘It occurs to me, if you are correct and Sir Peregrine is loyal to the Marchers, he is prepared to support those whom the King has declared his enemies. Would he be prepared to use violence against you?’
Simon watched his friend and saw the smile and brief shake of his head, but Simon also saw Baldwin’s expression harden as he glanced towards the screens where Sir Peregrine had left, and Simon was convinced that Baldwin thought Sir Peregrine would stop at nothing in support of his friends.
Striding through the castle gates late the next morning, Harlewin le Poter nodded to the porter before he crossed the yard and climbed the low staircase to the hall. It was the eve of the feast of St Giles, not a good day for an inquest. He walked into the buttery, where he found a small group of men sitting on benches, drinking and chatting. Their noise stopped as the Coroner entered and eyed them coldly.
Harlewin was not given to threatening people unnecessarily, but now and again he felt it was useful to demonstrate his position. This was one such occasion. He said nothing but stared coldly until the men moved aside, and only then, when he had a clear passage to the barrel, did he march forward and fill himself a quart pot.
His position was an important one. The Coroner enforced the King’s laws on the region. Gone were the days when a lord could impose a death penalty on any man he disliked: the Coroner had to agree and confirm the sentence. Coroners were among the most important of all the King’s officials, especially now that corruption and bribery had reduced bailiffs, sergeants and sheriffs to the standing of liars and thieves in the eyes of many.
Of course there was dishonesty among Coroners, just as there was in many professions. Harlewin had heard the stories: his counterpart in western Devon who had refused to visit the body of a dead woman for nine weeks at the height of summer because his extortionate fee had been rejected. He only agreed to go and inspect the stinking remains once his money had been paid. Then there was the story of the Coroner eastwards who had refused to hold an inquest into a baby’s death, stillborn as the result of a quarrel and fight, because the man accused of striking the mother had been the Coroner’s own servant; or the rumours that this same Coroner released men from gaol in return for gifts.
Harlewin grunted to himself, standing in the screens passage sipping at his drink. Many of these stories were perfectly true, and sometimes he had himself followed the example given. Once, as John Sherman had said, he had helped Earl Thomas, but what else could a man do when he came up against someone as powerful as the Earl? And he had not released a murderer. He wouldn’t stoop so low, not even for a lord.
For all the accusations of corruption levelled against Coroners which were correct, Harlewin had a shrewd suspicion that often the wrong man was accused. He knew that Father Abraham was, like many clerks, an enthusiastic collector of coins. Often enough he’d seen the priest pocketing a shilling or even two for recording the details of a peculiarly repulsive corpse. Andrew Carter had paid five shillings when the priest wrote up the inquest of young Joan’s body. A man like Andrew wouldn’t want salacious facts being scribbled down for any sick bastard to read. Yet no doubt many would assume Harlewin was corrupt because he was a despised Coroner, whereas Father Abraham was a holy servant.
‘Ah, Coroner. I hope I find you well?’ Sir Peregrine asked.
Harlewin grunted noncommittally. ‘I’ve sorted out the death of the felon, though why the knight should have died is anyone’s guess.’
‘Surely the felon murdered the knight? That is what felons do.’
Harlewin sourly studied his drink. ‘Perhaps.’
‘It would make the life of your lord a great deal easier, Coroner.’ Seeing he had Harlewin’s attention, Sir Peregrine spoke softly. ‘Our Lord Hugh is a little perturbed that a murder has been committed here just as he’s preparing to hold a feast. He’d be much happier if I could inform him that the matter is closed, that you’ve found that the murdered man was killed by a felon, a man abjuring the realm, who was then himself shortly afterwards executed by two upright citizens of Tiverton. You understand me?’
Harlewin watched the knight stride away down the stairs and out to the yard. ‘So why do you want this knight forgotten, Sir Peregrine?’ he muttered cynically. ‘Or is it your Marcher Lords whom you seek to please?’