Hick studied the two coins, then his gaze rose and met Baldwin’s, giving a short grunt of wary agreement. Taking the pennies, he dropped them carefully into his small purse.
Baldwin smiled. ‘This knight. You had seen him alive?’
‘Aye. He was here. I saw him.’
‘This would be when?’
‘Four nights ago. I was down at the alehouse near the castle and saw him with Master Nicholas Lovecok. They were coming out of the tavern further up the hill.’
That would be the night before his murder, Baldwin noted. ‘What time?’
Hick scowled with concentration. ‘It was just before Father Abraham was called to Father Benedict, so it was a little after Compline.’
‘Father Benedict?’
‘He was the priest at the chapel in Templeton. He was dying. Father Abraham spent most of the day with him, then came home for Vespers, but not long after a boy came to say that the Father was sinking fast and Father Abraham went back to ease his passing.’
Baldwin said, ‘And you saw Sir Gilbert leaving the tavern with Lovecok?’
‘Yes. And a moment later one of Sir Peregrine’s men came out and followed them.’
‘Why should that be, I wonder. Do you know who that man was?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
Hick screwed up his face. ‘It was dark, sir. I saw the badges on his tunic, but not his face.’
Jeanne smiled engagingly at Hick. ‘I suppose Nicholas Lovecok and the knight were very friendly?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘Were they very drunk, do you think?’
‘They could walk,’ Hick said surprised. ‘They just looked like old friends.’
‘More,’ Baldwin murmured looking down into the grave, ‘than you could say for the priest. He seems to hate the man.’
‘Yes,’ Hick agreed. ‘You should have seen him yesterday, when he was talking about him and the Templars like him. Said the Templars cost us the Kingdom of Jerusalem, that they had taken up devil-worship or somesuch…’
While Baldwin listened appalled, the rat-catcher rattled on happily about the priest’s fearsome denunciation of the Templars.
‘So that’s why he hated Sir Gilbert,’ Baldwin said when Hick was done.
‘I expect so, Sir Baldwin,’ Hick said, hopefully fingering his purse in case more coins might be forthcoming.
‘But how,’ Baldwin wondered, staring back at the castle, ‘would a knight like Sir Gilbert have known a merchant like Lovecok? And how did Father Abraham know Sir Gilbert was a Templar?’
‘Ah, you’ll need to ask him that.’
‘Yes, I shall, shan’t I?’ Baldwin said. He smiled at his wife. ‘Shall we go and call on the good Father, my dear?’
They found the priest in his chamber, a small room with a pleasant fire crackling in the middle of the floor. Father Abraham was putting his book and vestments into a chest at the side of his table. Seeing who his guests were, he looked surprised, but was polite if not effusive in his welcome. ‘Please come in. Can I serve you with anything, Lady Jeanne?’
‘A little wine?’
‘Of course.’ He walked to a small barrel stamped with the mark of Lord Hugh and turned a small wooden tap, filling a bowl. ‘Sir Baldwin?’
Baldwin was staring thoughtfully at the chest, which remained open. Propping the lid up was a long-bladed knife in a sheath.
Seeing the direction of his eyes, the priest smiled. ‘A man must protect himself when the country becomes so dangerous. Even I, a priest, must carry a weapon to defend myself.’
‘You should be careful, Father. Many a man unused to a dagger has come to grief against a man well trained.’
Father Abraham gave a short laugh. ‘I pity the felon who attacks me! I was brought up in a knight’s household and was trained to arms. I would be able to shock any outlaw, I assure you. Now, would you care for some wine?’
‘No, thank you. I would prefer some mental nourishment.’
Father Abraham glanced at Jeanne, wondering whether she should be present, and asked, ‘Would you like to come to the church, then?’
‘No, Father. I wanted to ask how you discovered that Sir Gilbert was a Templar.’
Father Abraham froze. ‘You heard my words?’
‘It would have been difficult to miss them,’ Jeanne said.
He looked at her coldly. ‘Then I can hardly deny it, can I? I learned he was a Templar when I was visiting an ill colleague: Father Benedict of Templeton. He was dying, and I went to give him what comfort I could.’
‘He has died?’
‘I fear so. He died on the same night as the heretic and the felon. I was with him and could listen to his confession.’
‘I see. And he told you that Sir Gilbert was a Templar?’
‘While I was with Benedict the Templar went to the chapel. I believe he used to be one of the devil-worshippers who once lived there until our Holy Father the Pope showed us how evil they were. Then he scurried away like all the other cowards.’
Baldwin restrained himself with an effort. The priest was scathing about his comrades, about his Order. It was hard to swallow his pride and continue, but continue Baldwin must – and without letting the priest realise that he himself had once been a Templar. ‘Did you speak to Sir Gilbert?’
‘My God, no! Speak to a foul heretic?’ His face showed his disbelief and disgust at the suggestion. ‘I should rather cut out my tongue! I was there with the good Father Benedict as a kindness. Although he was once a priest in that foul Order, he recanted and remained to help the poor of his little manor; this proud Templar Knight never recanted. His presence there proved it! Do you know what he did? Eh? He walked into the chapel. He must have gone there to pray! He cannot have adopted the true faith if he still believed in the holiness of his foul Order. I was with Father Benedict for a long while, and Sir Gilbert remained in the chapel all that time.’
‘When did you leave?’
‘I don’t know. It was late afternoon, I suppose. The sun was low in the sky.’
‘Did you leave when the good Father died?’ Jeanne asked.
‘No, Lady. He was still alive. He died much later, at night. I was called to him by a boy from his parish.’
‘You went back after dark?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘Why… yes. Why?’
‘And which road did you take to go there?’
‘There is a track that leads almost straight there.’
‘And which also leads along behind the road to Crediton, does it not?’ Baldwin said. He smiled, but his face had no humour. ‘Along the woods in which Sir Gilbert, the man you hated so much, was murdered. By someone skilled with weapons.’
He was almost at the castle gate when Harlewin saw her, and his ruddy face beamed at the sight.
True enough, Cecily Sherman was not the most beautiful woman in Tiverton, but to Harlewin she was a breath of invigorating air. Cecily was short and dark, with the flashing eyes of a Celt. Her belly was full and round, her breasts large and appealing, her face a pleasing spherical shape: perfect and warm to cuddle up to on a chill evening, he reflected – unlike Felicity who was little better than a sack of bones. Cecily Sherman’s complexion was fine and smooth, unmarked by the pox, and of a beautiful creamy-pink colour. She looked as ripe and wholesome as a peach just plucked from the tree, and tasted as delicious.
There was no shame in her, either. When she saw him, her eyes widened invitingly, her smile broadened. Her maid was with her, but neither Cecily nor Harlewin feared that rumours of their meetings would be spread abroad. Harlewin, when all was said and done, was the Coroner. He could invent almost any offence and have a maid installed in her own private gaol if she were foolish enough to give him reason.
‘My Lord Coroner,’ Cecily curtsied. ‘It seems such a long time since I last saw you.’