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

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