The cloth bindings silenced its fall. A moment or two later Sir Thomas felt the line being pulled. He let it pay out, and then it was stationary. There was another whistle to show that it was securely anchored, and Sir Thomas immediately began to climb.
At the top of the gate he swung a leg over and surveyed the ground. Soon, he promised himself, soon he would have his revenge. And with that thought engraved on his mind, he dropped over to the ground.
Chapter Sixteen
Christmas Day was clear and bright with the sun shining unhindered. Occasionally, solitary clouds drifted past at speed. The wind was strong, rattling the shutters of the inn, and it was their repetitive hammering which woke Baldwin before the dawn itself.
He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. A cresset, a small wick floating in a reservoir of oil, had been left alight all night, and now it threw strange shadows upon the rafters above.
Jeanne grunted and moaned beside him, snuggling closer and throwing a leg over his, but today he felt no erotic surge beyond a mild affectionate stirring. He rested a hand on her thigh and slipped the other under her neck to cuddle her to him, kissing her hair. It still smelled of incense from the Cathedral the night before.
The two deaths, Peter’s and Ralph’s, intrigued him, yet he could see no link between them. Baldwin didn’t believe Peter’s death was suicide, nor yet that it could have been caused by food poisoning but he could not see who could wish to murder the fellow.
Baldwin had enough experience of enquiring into murders to know that men rarely, if ever, killed without a good reason: even if that reason later appeared to be ridiculous. At the time that the murder was committed, the killer had a clear, understandable motive.
There was another aspect to this killing, Baldwin reminded himself. Poison was a peculiarly coldblooded and cowardly method of murder. Someone had decided to kill with poison – and Jolinde had bought orpiment from the apothecary.
Had Peter been the target? It was quite possible that Jolinde had argued with his friend and decided to murder him – but if so, why? There was no hint that the two had suffered a break in their friendship. Someone else could have put the poison onto or inside the food while it was left unguarded in the tavern. Jolinde certainly wasn’t going to notice while he was upstairs with the delightful Claricia; could the deadly food have been intended for him? And if it wasn’t, if it was meant for Peter – who, then, had known that Jolinde was supplying him with food? That would give Baldwin a starting point.
Jeanne mumbled, half asleep, and Baldwin felt her hand stroking his chest, slowly moving down his body. He grinned and caught it, ignoring her murmurs of disappointment. There was little time if they were to get to the Cathedral for the second Mass of the day. He smiled down at her sleepy face, but then stood, wincing at the cold air on his naked body. He quickly pulled on his clothes: it was far too chill to linger. When he was dressed, he woke his wife with kisses and gentle entreaties, and only left her when her eyes opened and she gave him an ungracious snort as welcome. Jeanne was not at her best at this hour.
Downstairs he found Edgar already kneeling by the fire stirring a pot filled with spiced wine while Simon sat on a stool nearby scratching at his head. The pleasant aroma filled the halclass="underline" cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg. All good, warming spices for a man who was about to go out into the cold. Baldwin took the proffered cup and sipped at the drink. The heat travelled straight down to his toes and he gave his servant a smile of gratitude. ‘Thank you, Edgar, but today of all days…’ He took the pot from Edgar and poured out a large cup for his loyal Sergeant.
‘Thank you, Sir Baldwin.’
‘What about me?’ demanded Simon.
Soon they heard footsteps in their host’s small chamber. Outside, the Cathedral bell was ringing loudly and from the noise in the streets, many citizens were moving towards the churches and Cathedral for the next Mass, the Shepherd’s Mass, which was always celebrated at dawn. Baldwin refilled his cup and took it to his wife.
Jeanne was reluctant to rise from her bed. The freezing air made her wish to remain beneath the covers. It was too cold, and too early as well. Her head felt light from lack of sleep. She was used to getting to bed much earlier, and her attendance at the Mass last night had left her quite dozy and unaware. She could feel her eyelids dragging like leaden weights, forcing her to close them. When her husband laughed, it was no consolation.
‘Laugh now, husband, but remember that I shall visit all your humour upon you when you are suffering from too much wine. And my vengeance shall be not swift, but longer-lasting, and entirely painful for you,’ she growled as she squinted at him in the meagre light of the cresset.
Her temper had greatly improved when they came to the great Fissand Gate. There in the gloomy arch, she once more saw the crippled figure sprawled at the edge of the gateway. Today he looked so meagre, so destroyed, that the sight tugged at Jeanne’s heart. She quickly left Baldwin’s side and fumbled with her purse.
‘Lady, thank you,’ John Coppe said, taking the coins and ducking his head in gratitude. He smiled, his mouth twisted up as he watched her give him a gracious little gesture of her hand, then turn and walk back to her waiting husband; she pushed her hand through Baldwin’s elbow, matching her pace to his as they walked in through the great open gates to the Cathedral.
Coppe sighed faintly as another coin was casually tossed towards him. ‘Thank you, Master,’ he called automatically, stashing it away with the other coins he had collected already. That, he knew, was the good aspect of Christmas. The priests would all look after him anyway, but on this one day of the year, people wouldn’t begrudge him a few pennies. With any luck he could get enough to keep him in drinks through the next week.
The man who had thrown him the coin stalked off towards the Cathedral, and Coppe watched him go, his eyes narrowed. Coppe wouldn’t turn down any man’s generosity, but there was something odd in the way the fellow threw his coin and marched off. He was dressed in a thick woollen cloak, with a hood over his head. Even his face was concealed, giving Coppe the impression of glittering eyes, but little else. Not that there weren’t any number of others dressed in a similarly defensive manner against the icy air.
Coppe saw him make for the western door, but then slow down and dawdle as if waiting for someone. Last night, when that idiot boy came and offered to help him into the Cathedral to attend the Mass, there had been a man like this one standing nearby. It hadn’t been easy to see his face, for it was hidden beneath a large hat, but from the build and height it could have been this same fellow.
‘Do you, um, want to go in again?’
Coppe looked up to see that his friend of the night before had returned, suddenly appearing at his side; a malnourished and dim-looking idiot. Coppe gave an inward groan. He hadn’t intended going into the morning’s Mass. He’d been to Mass the night before, and one Mass a day was enough for him. ‘You back, then, eh? I don’t know why you want to drag me about, lad. You go in, I’ll be all right here.’
‘No, you must come! Please, let me help you, yes?’
‘You go on in. It was kind of you to help me in last night, but you don’t have to today.’
To his astonishment, the fellow looked as if he was on the verge of tears. He wrung his hands, his mouth working uselessly, alternately gaping at Coppe, then at the Cathedral doors. The crush in the Fissand Gate was dwindling now, and it was obvious that the service must soon begin. ‘You must come with me.’