Shivering, she wrapped her arms about herself and let her head fall so as to avoid the gaze of anyone else. In her misery she had no wish to meet the expressions of happiness in other people’s faces. It would be too painful to see how others remained sublimely unaware of her depression.
When she had almost left the Fair, when she was out at the opposite end of the ground, she heard a voice she recognised. Turning quickly, she caught sight of Andrew Carter standing near an ale stall with a large pot in his hand.
Avicia stared at him. He appeared to be trying to put on a brave face, smiling and giving occasional short laughs as jokes were told about him, but all the time she could see that he wasn’t himself. Usually he would be more expansive in his gestures, more emphatic. Today he was jerky, twitching his arms rather than sweeping them about him. His face held a grin, but all the time his eyes darted hither and thither, as if wary that at any moment someone might approach him with unwelcome news, or perhaps an accusation? she wondered.
Acting on impulse, she approached and stood nearby, waiting for him to catch her eye, but he seemed so taken up with the other men about him that he didn’t notice her. At last, nerves wound taut as a ship’s cable, she shuffled forward the last few steps and tugged at his sleeve.
‘What?’ He spun around and gave her a gentle smile. ‘My dear young thing, what is it?’
‘Sir, I would like to speak… about your daughter.’
His face went blank, and she saw for an instant the naked emotion behind his eyes. Fear, sadness, guilt all flashed through them, and then he wiped at his brow with a sleeve. ‘She’s dead,’ he said brokenly.
‘I know, and the wrong man was killed for it. He was innocent.’
Carter pulled back, his lip curling in revulsion. ‘Child, that is all done. I want to hear nothing more about it.’
‘But sir, I am sure that the Coroner was responsible!’
Carter suddenly turned and marched off, moving surprisingly swiftly for a man so heavily built. Avicia made as if to follow him, but a friendly voice at her side said, ‘No!’ and held her elbow. It was a woman.
‘Let me go, I have to talk to him! He has to know my brother didn’t kill his daughter.’
‘Are you Philip’s sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘You poor thing.’
‘Who are you? Did you know Phil?’
Felicity nodded and smiled comfortingly. ‘Look, take a pot of wine with me and tell me what’s so important that you should tell Andrew. I’ll let you know whether he’ll be interested.’
‘You know him?’
Felicity’s smile widened, but somehow there was less humour in it as she glanced after the disappearing merchant. ‘Oh, yes, I know Master Carter.’
When Baldwin and Simon returned to the yard there was no sign of the castle’s gatekeeper, and for safety Simon wanted to walk out to the town. He was unpleasantly convinced that Baldwin was in danger of so enraging Sir Peregrine with his questions that Sir Peregrine could offer him a challenge.
Baldwin was deep in thought but shook his head, instead wandering to a bench and sitting. ‘There is something very peculiar about all this.’ He counted off the points on his finger. ‘The knight, Sir Gilbert, died with his hound – I think the dog died because he chased someone who had watched the camp all day; the same evening or night Philip Dyne was executed by Carter and his brother-in-law Lovecok; the night before, Gilbert was here in town, apparently drinking with Lovecok. We don’t know where he was before that.’
‘And now there’s this third murder with Sir Gilbert’s man thrown from the walls.’
‘Beaten severely first. And his was the fourth murder, not the third. You forget the girl Dyne was accused of killing.’
‘The girl whom Dyne’s sister insisted was murdered by someone else.’
‘Yes, she said that Joan Carter was murdered by the Coroner,’ Baldwin corrected. He glanced across the yard before walking to the room where Sir Gilbert’s belongings were stored. Aylmer was still inside, lying with his head resting on his paws, his eyes flying open as they walked in.
‘It’s all right, Aylmer,’ Baldwin said. At Aylmer’s side was a dish of biscuits and dried meat. The dog hadn’t touched it. Remembering how he had first met the animal, Baldwin commanded, ‘Aylmer, feed.’
The dog stood, stretched, and sank his nose into the pan.
While he ate Simon and Baldwin rummaged through the accumulated belongings of Sir Gilbert and William. There was nothing much of value, for obviously men who went on a long journey wouldn’t carry spare baggage, and with the country in its present state of turmoil there was no point in bringing expensive goods. They found little: three shirts of decent linen, tunics, some mail of fine blued steel, lightly rusted, Sir Gilbert’s sword and dagger-sheath, with the belt and spurs of his knighthood, and shoes and boots, all well worn. There were a few coins in a purse, but nothing significant. Then at the bottom of his pack they found the crucifix and key that had been about Sir Gilbert’s neck.
‘Bugger all money,’ Simon said suddenly.
His tone of voice made Baldwin shoot him a look. ‘So?’
‘Did the Templar have no idea of travel?’
‘Sir Gilbert would have had experience of much longer journeys.’
‘Was he expecting to remain here?’ Simon asked.
‘Not if he was a messenger as everyone appears to believe.’
‘Then how was he going to get back to his master?’ Simon demanded, holding out the handful of coins. ‘With this he’d not have had enough to get to Exeter.’
‘No,’ Baldwin breathed. He picked up the little key again and studied it.
‘What is it?’
‘This looks rather like some of the keys I used to see…’ Even though his friend knew about his past, Baldwin found it hard to talk of his life with the Order. Yet this key was very like those he had seen in some preceptories for opening chests. English-made metalwork tended to be functional, but this looked well-made, with intricate patterns carved upon the shaft and finger plate. Turning it in his hands, he felt sure it was Templar.
There was an old Templar preceptory nearby – one which Sir Gilbert had known, Baldwin recalled, and meditatively tapped his teeth with the key.
‘William was the only man who could confirm the details about what happened to Sir Gilbert,’ Simon said quietly. He had moved to the door and stood leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed. ‘If Carter and Lovecok had lied in any way, William might have tried to get a bribe to keep quiet. Perhaps they didn’t like his demands.’
‘There’s no proof of any of that,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I certainly find it easier to believe in the two men ambushing Sir Gilbert, one holding him while the other stabbed him in the back. And since the gravedigger says that Lovecok knew Sir Gilbert, it may be useful to find out how they knew each other.’
He threw the key back onto the pile of William’s belongings. ‘Let us question Lovecok then. I want to find out what he was doing speaking to Sir Gilbert the day before his murder. I want to know if he had a motive to kill the knight. Although…’ he frowned with confusion ‘…although it sounded more as though the two were old friends and comrades. And why should a man kill his friend?’
Andrew Carter hurried through the crowds until he reached the far edge of the fairground; for a moment he stood breathing heavily, staring back the way he had come.
Thank God the whining bitch was out of sight! He was safe from her. With an effort he controlled his breathing and tried to stop his heart from racing. Her appearance had given him a massive shock when she said who she was, and as for what she was saying… about Philip being innocent, the last thing Andrew Carter wanted was for the townspeople to hear that Philip Dyne had been wrongly killed!