Sir Gilbert avoided meeting their eyes, but hefted his wooden chest beneath an arm and carried on.
‘Oi! Stop a moment, my Lord.’ It was the large, broad-shouldered man at the bench who spoke, his face remarkably smooth and youthful, with light-coloured brown hair, and only one blemish: a thick, pink scar which followed the line of his eyebrows like an obscene crease. Bright blue eyes gleamed with humour but, when he motioned, the men with daggers moved to stand in Sir Gilbert’s path.
Instantly the dogs were at Sir Gilbert’s side, Aylmer standing still, head low as he scowled forward, Merry crouching slightly before taking two stiff-legged steps towards the men blocking the path.
Sir Gilbert paused, his hand falling to his sword.
‘Master, there’s no need for violence,’ the seated man said mildly, and his men chuckled. ‘But I think I should like to peep inside your little box there, just to make sure you haven’t got something you shouldn’t.’
‘The box stays shut,’ Sir Gilbert said flatly, staring at the dagger men.
‘That’s a pity, isn’t it, Toker?’ said one of them, addressing the seated man.
‘I think it is, Perkin. Owen thinks so too, don’t you, Owen?’
The other dagger-fighter said nothing. If anything he looked unhappy about the way things were developing.
Sir Gilbert heard a slight noise: the man called Toker had spanned a crossbow. It was a powerful modern one with a metal bow and it rested, cocked, on the table. As Sir Gilbert watched, the man placed a quarrel in the groove and shifted it until it pointed at him. Sir Gilbert weighed the distance. If he could throw the chest, it would make the man duck. He’d almost certainly miss his aim, and that would give Sir Gilbert time to take on the leader. Sir Gilbert was a Templar: he had no fear of the odds, not with his dogs at his side.
Before he could move, his plans were wrecked. His remaining guard sprang forward, sweeping out a short sword. The crossbow moved and the string hummed as it spat out the bolt which passed clean through the guard, who nonetheless ran on at full tilt. Lifting the crossbow, Toker lazily blocked the clumsy sword-thrust before punching the guard to the ground.
Simultaneously Sir Gilbert heard a sharp rap, then a cry. Turning, he saw that William, smiling mildly, was grasping a six-foot pole. At his feet were the two men from the doorway, one lying on his back and snoring, the other retching drily into the gutter, gripping his belly. William held his quarter-staff aimed at Toker’s face. Shrugging good-humouredly, Toker let his crossbow fall to the table.
Aylmer had forced the man called Perkin up against a wall, while Merry had knocked the other to the ground and now stood guard over him, snarling each time he moved, his bared teeth at the man’s throat. Sir Gilbert almost pitied the fellow when he saw the grimace of terror on the silent man’s face.
Sir Gilbert called and the dogs returned to his side – Merry with a certain reluctance. William Small the sailor took out his knife and slashed at the crossbow’s string, which snapped with a loud twanging report. A small crowd had appeared, and for a coin or two one man agreed to fetch a physician for the wounded guard. Meanwhile the man called Toker remained calm and smiling, even calling for more ale.
Sir Gilbert and William left the scene as soon as they could. The moment they had put some distance between them and the inn, the knight asked: ‘Where did you find the staff?’
‘It was one of theirs. I noticed it leaning by the door there,’ William told him.
‘I thank you.’
‘There’s no need,’ the other said. ‘I have a duty to see that the money gets to Devon, just like you. But rather than trying to set ourselves up as targets for every footpad and outlaw between here and Devon, let’s lose the chest.’
‘Lose it?’
‘Throw it in the river,’ William said shortly. ‘You can put all the stuff into a sack. At least it wouldn’t be so conspicuous.’
Sir Gilbert considered. ‘You’re right.’ He found a merchant and bought a pair of small sacks. While William mounted guard, Sir Gilbert crouched in an alley and transferred the contents of the chest to them.
That was many leagues ago and now, as Sir Gilbert approached the country where he had spent so much of his youth and young adulthood, he felt his mood lifting. The weather was poor (just as it always used to be, he sighed happily), with heavy, storm-filled clouds hanging threateningly in the sky and puddles on the ground. At each step of his horse the mud spattered, and the two dogs kept their distance.
William was a curious man. Sir Gilbert had discovered a little about him: he had been a man-at-arms serving in the King’s army in Flanders in 1297 and later in Scotland in 1303; not long afterwards he had turned to the sea.
‘Why?’ Sir Gilbert had asked.
William had a badly pock-marked face, but his hair was thick and curling, his shoulders broad, and he had a steadiness in his green eyes that spoke of a stable nature. He glanced now at Sir Gilbert. ‘The sea is clean compared with the land, sir. On land, everyone is owned by someone and tied like a dog. At sea, when the wind blows we’re all equals. The man is a king who can save the cog, and if there’s discipline, there’s freedom too; on land a man has to behave as he’s told.’
Sir Gilbert nodded and left the matter there, but he was aware of something else. William was a fighter; it was obvious in the way he had handled his staff. There was good money to be earned by a fighter on a ship – especially one like Hugh Despenser’s which was about to turn pirate and steal whatever it could. A sailor would be unwilling to jump back to land just to help protect his master’s cash from felons. He would want to be at sea with his boat where he could help win prizes and make his fortune.
Perhaps William was with him less to guard Sir Gilbert, more to protect his mission and Hugh Despenser’s money.
Unless William was a thief and simply sought an opportunity to take the lot for himself, of course.
While they continued on their way, Matilda Carter was sitting in Tiverton with her eyes closed, the tears running down her cheeks. This part of her garden had always been a delight to her. It was peaceful here at the back of their burgage plot with the stream running along the lawn’s edge; the noise and bustle of the townspeople seemed a thousand miles away. Here the turfed seats stayed cool in the hottest weather and the scent of the little dog roses wafted to her on each small breeze. It was her sanctuary; she came here when she had need of silence and reflection, but now she would never know peace again because that man was safe in the sanctuary of her church.
It was obscene! Andrew, Matilda’s husband, had railed against Joan for being no better than a whore when she eventually returned from her first meeting with the lad, but Joan had appeared unimpressed with his rage. She was handfast, she said; she would marry Philip Dyne. But before she could, her lover had throttled her.
How a man could murder a sweet, innocent child like Joan, Matilda didn’t know. Her daughter was never spiteful or unkind. If anything, she was a little too quiet. And for her murderer to be granted safety in church was mad. There were rumours that he would be allowed to escape justice completely. While Joan lay in her grave, he might be allowed to run away.
Hearing steps on the gravelled pathway, she hurriedly wiped at her eyes, composing herself.
It was her maid, Clarice. ‘Mistress? Can I fetch you a cup of wine?’
‘No. I am all right, Clarice. Quite all right.’ Matilda sniffed, then she burst out: ‘I just miss her! I feel so alone without her. You know my husband only values me for my money and the ties I have with my brother.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘It’s true. What’s the point of denying it? He only comes to me in our bed when he is desperate and there are no whores to tempt him. And to keep him happy, I allowed him to shut poor Joan away.’
‘I’m sure Joan was happy, Mistress.’