The Traitor of St. Giles Read Online Free PDF Page A

rewards from the ships he takes. With two guards there’s more chance of your mission succeeding.’
    It was hard to believe he’d come to this. Philip Dyne squatted on the floor by the altar within the sanctuary and gazed ahead of him unseeing. It was dark now, and the place was lit by a few candles this late in the evening. The priest himself, the sepulchral Father Abraham, had gone to his bedchamber hours before, and Philip was alone in the great cold room.
    He shivered. The memory of men pounding after him lingered; never in all his years had he known such terror. It was one thing to be found pilfering the odd spice and being soundly thrashed by his master for trying to supply it on the quiet, but
this
!
    His legs ached, and he shifted uncomfortably while keeping a grip on the altar cloth. He wanted no mistake about his right to claim sanctuary here, not while he had no knife, no staff,
nothing
with which to protect himself.
    Moving his legs, he carefully avoided the small pile of excrement where a dog had relieved itself. He was astonished that the priest hadn’t cleaned the spot, but then Father Abraham was very jealous of his position, proud of his standing. He would refuse to clean the place; that was the job of the sexton, not the priest.
    From here Philip could see the pictures on the walls, large, round, flamboyant depictions of biblical scenes, of the seven deadly sins and the seven cardinal virtues, with angels on one side receiving Christian souls into Heaven while on the other angels sternly pointed the way to Hell for sinners.
    He stared at them despondently. Every now and again he sniffed, too exhausted to sob; his emotions had been used up over the last few nights.
    This church held no mystery – he’d been here so often, watching Father Abraham thundering on about the evils of sin from this very place, pointing out the pictures, ranting wide-eyed as the spittle flew, berating his congregation as he tried to instill his own loathing for pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth. Philip and his friends had enjoyed those sermons with the priest roaring away, scaring maids and upsetting children. It had been fun. He could still grin weakly, recollecting the time when a pigeon had been startled from the rafters and left a deposit on the priest’s tonsured head.
    His face hardened. It was all over now. His only escape was to leave England, to abjure the realm and become an exile. All for the death of Joan. Whenever he thought of her his eyes filled with tears. She was fun, exciting and bright. That was why they became engaged.
    That first night together down by the river, she had thrilled him so much, lying almost naked in his arms. Then they realised how late it was and she breathily giggled into his shoulder that she couldn’t get home now: the house’s doors would be locked. It was already too late; with her warm flesh filling his hands he wouldn’t have let her go anyway. Not that she wanted to. Her hands pulled impatiently at his tunic, untying the thongs that held up his hose, releasing them so that she could lift the cloth from him before he rolled her on her back and covered her body with his own.
    Her father had gone mad when she got home, she told him the next time they met. He knew she’d been up to no good. Joan laughed as she described Andrew Carter’s towering rage. Then she pulled Philip along behind her, back to their meadow, and made love to him again.
    ‘You won’t leave me, will you?’ she asked seriously afterwards.
    ‘No, ‘course not.’
    And he hadn’t. She had left him.
    By dying.

Chapter Three
     
    As the end of July drew near, Sir Gilbert of Carlisle gratefully approached the West Country. Reaching the top of a rise, he gazed ahead and halted. There before him he could see the hills and woods of Devonshire.
    The journey had not been easy. Before long he had been forced to appreciate the stolid sailor who stayed with him when his second guard was lost.