Before he could go inside, however, he spotted the hurrying figure of the priest. ‘Father, were you coming to see me?’ he smiled.
‘Do you have anything to confess to me, Carter?’ His voice was as cold as a moorland stream.
‘What is it, Father? Have I upset you?’
‘Is it true? Did you sin against your own daughter?’ Abraham hissed.
Carter felt as though his blood was congealing in his veins. ‘M-me? Sin against poor Joan?’
‘If you have, confess your sins to me now! The Coroner is in there with Felicity and another to arrest you. Is it true? Are you an incest?’
His face frozen into a blank, Carter merely inclined his head. ‘May I make my confession now?’
‘Is it true you killed your daughter?’
‘Yes.’ Carter glanced at his door. It was hard to believe, but he now knew that his life was about to change utterly. He wondered how he could escape.
‘You are evil! Evil! You knew that you were yourself guilty, yet you murdered Philip Dyne!’
‘How else could I escape? May I make my confession to you, Father?’
‘No, you pervert! You can go inside and admit your crime to Harlewin le Poter. Then, when you are in your cell I shall come to you to hear your last confession.’
‘But Father…’ Carter reached for him, pleading, but the priest recoiled.
‘Don’t touch me, murderer! I will give you no absolution. You raped your own daughter, then killed her, and blamed another man, murdering him as well. Don’t look to me for sympathy! If you won’t admit your guilt, I shall tell them all myself!’
‘You can’t, Father. I have confessed to you because you are a priest. You must not tell any others about my crimes,’ Andrew smiled thinly.
Father Abraham spat at the ground between them, then darted past Carter and in through his door.
Carter daren’t enter. He was no fooclass="underline" if Felicity was there with Harlewin, she must have convinced the Coroner that Carter was guilty – he must have believed her. Slowly, cautiously, Carter backed away from his door. He couldn’t walk through the screens to the back of the house to grab a horse, for he would be seen. There were private stables in town, and when he weighed his purse in his hands, he thought there might be enough there to rent one, but that would use up all his money, and there wouldn’t be enough to take a room for an evening – not even enough to buy a meal. He couldn’t rent a horse.
He was being stupid! His stables gave out onto the back streets. All he need do was walk around the house and command a groom to saddle his mare. Then he could be off.
With this resolve he hurried around the corner and out to the back of his yard.
Wat glanced upwards. Edgar was frowning as he stared at the man leaning at the gateway.
‘Are you sure, youngster?’
Wat bridled at the note of doubt in Edgar’s voice. ‘What do you think? The master, he listened to me, he said to tell you – he never thought you’d not trust me.’
‘It sounds very peculiar,’ Edgar noted. ‘However, as you say, I’ve been ordered to protect my Lady. How many did you say went out after Sir Baldwin?’
‘Two, sir. They went out as soon as they could, taking some horses from men who had just come back from hunting and their mounts were tired.’
‘That is all to the good, anyway.’ Edgar stood a moment longer. As he watched he saw Toker stiffen, the knife still in his hand as he stared at the gateway. A moment later Edgar heard horses, saw Toker nod and settle back into his lounging attitude as a pair of horses rode in. ‘I see. They are watching for Sir Baldwin’s return – or that of their men,’ he breathed.
He walked from the door. ‘Stay here and let me know if he moves from that spot,’ he said before striding off.
Jeanne was sitting in her guest room in the solar with a cup of wine, imperiously instructing Petronilla as the maid stacked cloths in a priority known only to Lady Jeanne. Edgar smiled and bowed. ‘My Lady?’
‘What is it? Can’t you see we’re busy?’ Jeanne scolded him mockingly. ‘Don’t you know better than to interrupt a lady and her maid when they are ordering their purchases?’
‘Your husband has ridden off, my Lady, but this morning he was attacked and the men he beat are here lying in wait for him. My orders are to remain here with you, but with your permission I shall wait in the yard where I may be able to help Sir Baldwin if he is attacked in the gateway.’
Jeanne had frozen when she heard the word ‘attacked’ and now she passed her wine to Petronilla before stepping up to him. ‘You are sure of this?’
‘Wat told me,’ he said dismissively, ‘but I have confirmed to my own satisfaction that the men in the gateway are planning an ambush.’
‘Then go! Take Wat with you and send him to me if you need anything. I shall wait here,’ she said.
Perkin jogged along uncomfortably. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Oh, shut it!’
Perkin reached over and grabbed Owen’s jack, hauling him half off his saddle. He hissed, ‘You try telling me to shut it again, and I’ll tear out your liver and feed it to the dogs, understand?’
‘Yes.’
Releasing him, Perkin glared irritably at the road ahead. They had already taken two wrong turnings; Owen maintained it was because the earth was too dry to leave tracks, but Perkin suspected it was because the little Welsh sod didn’t fancy a fight. Perkin himself wanted to see Simon disembowelled. He hadn’t been kicked before, and he wouldn’t let the bastard who had done that to him live. Perkin would kill Simon before the day was over.
Unfortunately, to catch Simon he had to depend upon this gibbering fool from Wales.
It would have been much easier if they had set off after the knight and bailiff as soon as the two left the castle, but Toker, that clever, smarmy git Toker, hadn’t thought they’d be buggering off so soon. It was only when they saw the missing horses that they realised.
Perkin sneered. Toker hadn’t managed to get much right at all in the last few weeks, had he? He’d got them to London where that bastard sailor-boy had beaten them while they had their eyes on the chest. Toker hadn’t been hurt, of course, and neither had Perkin, but Perkin wasn’t fool enough to attack a man wielding a sword when he only had a dagger. Especially when it was a man like Sir Gilbert who had held his sword so aggressively, his face a mask of rage. Perkin had seen faces like that before, and he knew well enough that it brooked no argument. He’d backed off, especially when the hound streaked towards him.
Nah, Toker hadn’t got them anywhere. He was the leader; it was his job to get them money and there had been little enough of that recently.
‘Where are they?’ he shot out. That was why they were here – to see whether the little chest had been hidden out here. And whether it was or not, Perkin was determined to kill Baldwin and Simon. He wanted revenge for the kick on his arse. Not that Owen was likely to be much use. The little bastard looked like he hadn’t the guts to kill a rabbit, let alone a man. ‘Well?’
Owen bit back the reply and merely jerked with his chin. ‘We’re following their trail. What more do you want? Hold on!’
Perkin grunted his displeasure as the Welshman kicked his feet from his stirrups and slipped to the ground. He immediately crouched, his face near the dusty soil. They were at a junction, a common on the right, a lane off to the left. ‘I think they went down there,’ he pointed.
‘There?’ Perkin hawked and spat out a gobbet of phlegm. ‘What would a Keeper be doing in a place like that?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The chapel was quiet, but at least it had a roof still. At the door Baldwin glanced at Simon. The bailiff nodded, and Baldwin quietly pulled the door open.
Inside all was bewebbed, but not dirty. There was a fusty smell, the odour of damp and decay, and fungus had crept up the woodwork and plaster of the walls. It was swept and clean, but neither noticed as they walked in, their boots ringing dully on the heavy flags. Their attention was on the dark figure ahead of them, who crouched at the altar.