The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Nine

‘What is it now, husband?’

Reginald grunted to himself. ‘Sabina, my dearest, please. For today, don’t you think that-’

‘You sit there staring into the distance as though you were sitting at table alone! Is there nothing to tell me about your day? Perhaps you think that a foolish cow like me has no interest in your business?’

‘I always admired your intelligence, you know that.’

‘You admired my father’s money more! And now … you can’t even admire me in bed, can you?’

He turned away and stared down at his trencher. She was right, of course. And she knew very well why it was. She had never caught him with another woman, but God’s blood, what was he supposed to do? When they married, he had been devoted to her. All right, so he didn’t necessarily love her, but he respected her and had a lot of time for her intelligence, and that meant more, generally, than mere love. Love was an emotion that could come and go, but a couple who liked each other would remain moderately happy for life.

That was the problem, though. He … he esteemed her. And when they had married, she had been besotted with him. That was no basis for a marriage — or so he felt now. At the time he’d thought differently, of course, and all his friends said the same, that it was the best thing in the world for a man to marry a woman who wanted him above all else, because then he could guarantee he’d get his way in everything. What a load of bull’s turds! The fact was, she soon saw through his protestations of adoration. Of course she did. She knew what real love was, and expected to see the same shining adulation reflected in his eyes that she felt in her own.

Christ’s pain, but he wished he’d realized sooner. The first few months of marriage were fine, but after that he had to hide his true feelings for her, growing sadder and sadder with the passing years, for ever bound to a woman he admired, but didn’t love.

Now, since she had realized he didn’t love her, her passion for him had turned from worship to loathing. The only good thing in his life was his son, Michael, the lad whom they had conceived in that first flush of desire after their wedding. Their boy, his boy — and now his betrayer. He had told his mother when he heard Reg with his woman. Sabina had been away at the time, and Reg had thought that his own bedroom would be safer than anywhere else for his late-night assignation. But Sabina had heard something from Michael. He must have heard Reg with Mazeline last time she was here — perhaps when the alarm was raised? — and asked his mother who was there. The fool! Now her shrewish, jealous and unforgiving nature had been exposed. She had lost any remaining love for him, and as a result her only delight was his pain and misery.

At the same time Jordan had been seeking his pleasures wherever he might. He’d always enjoyed dipping his wick in another man’s tallow. It might have been amusing when they were younger, but for boys like Jordan and Reg the pleasures they should have enjoyed as lads had been lost in the grim reality of starvation. They grew up quickly in those days, missing out on much of the fun of youth, and instead took what amusement they could from the same ribald entertainments at an older age. Jordan had never grown out of them.

Perhaps there was more to it than the mere lustful fascination with another man’s wife, though, because when Jordan took his new woman, Reg couldn’t believe his ears. And Jordan’s long-suffering wife was similarly astonished.

The cruelty of laughing about his latest woman in front of his wife was lost on Jordan, of course. Reg once thought to comment on his behaviour, but wouldn’t ever try that again. No, Jordan was incapable of understanding how his actions might affect his poor wife. A man who tried to tell Jordan how to behave could rouse him to extreme anger, and that would invariably mean pain. No man should give Jordan cause to lose his temper.

That was the mistake on Friday. If only Mick hadn’t lied about his theft.

There were few things more certain to goad Jordan to rage than an employee who stole from him, no matter what it might be. Whether it was money, property or a woman — for he looked on the wenches as his own. Mick had been one of Jordan’s small band of paid men who behaved towards him like the servants of a lord, vowing to serve him honestly and honourably no matter what, in return for which they were well rewarded. The only requirement Jordan laid upon them was that they must be loyal and never lie to him.

Reg would remember that night for a long, long time. He had walked in with Jordan to see Mick and Anne, and as he stood by the door he had sensed that this wasn’t going to be a normal meeting. If he had had any idea of what Jordan was planning, he would have stayed away.

There were times when Jordan could show sympathy, and this was one. He motioned to Anne to join him, and spoke kindly to her, as a father might to a daughter. ‘Tell me, Anne, is this true? Your mother is dying?’

She could scarcely speak. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes raw and swollen, while her cheeks were blotched with red. It looked worse because Jordan insisted that his strumpets should be kept from the sun. ‘Men want to see a pretty girl with milky flesh,’ he would say with a laugh. If the girls went in the sun and browned, they were worth less money, and he would beat them. Now, it meant that Anne looked almost feverish, with harsh red cheeks and brow and a yellowish tinge to her throat. She looked terrified, Reg thought.

‘Speak, Anne,’ Jordan said gently. ‘You have heard from your home?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she has a disease of some kind?’

‘Yes.’

‘It must be terrible. You have no sisters at home to look after her, do you?’

‘No. I was the only surviving daughter. My brother left home too, so Mother’s all alone, you see.’

‘Yes. Mick explained that to me,’ Jordan said. His voice was still soothing and soft, as though he was an uncle listening to a child speak of falling and hurting her knees. ‘He told me all about you and how your mother was unwell. Didn’t you, Mick?’ Now a little harshness entered his voice. ‘Didn’t you?’

Mick was a powerful-looking fellow, all brawn, with a large, square face that was too pale from sitting indoors for too many hours in gambling dens and brothels. He glanced at Anne as though to give her a little encouragement. ‘Yes, I told you.’

‘And you thought I’d take your word?’

Mick’s face grew faintly troubled. He was surprised, yes, but also aware that the discussion was not going the way he had expected. ‘I’ve never lied to you.’

‘Haven’t you? Not even when you’ve been taking my girls’ money and putting it in your own purse?’

‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that! You know you can trust me,’ Mick said, and now there was anxiety in his tone.

Reg watched as Jordan moved towards the lad. ‘You came to me when you were hard up, didn’t you? I remember it was a friend of yours brought you to me. He said you’d be a good fellow with your fists, and he said you’d be bold. Well, he was right, wasn’t he? You are bold, certainly. You even dare to rob me, as though I was some gull from the street.’

‘I wouldn’t-’

‘Don’t lie to me! I know you!’

Mick’s face stiffened. He knew what Jordan could do when he lost his temper completely, and although he stood his ground he lowered his head, as though understanding that he must suffer pain for what he had done.

‘You were happy enough to take my money while you thought you could get away with it, weren’t you?’

‘I didn’t-’

Jordan’s hand moved so quickly Reg didn’t see it. All at once there were a pair of loud slaps, and Mick’s face was slammed first left then right as Jordan hit his cheeks, one after the other. ‘Don’t lie to me again.’

Behind them both, Anne’s face was a crumpled mess. She wiped her running nose on her sleeve and her gaze moved from Jordan to Reg, filled with terror. She had a better idea even than Mick what her master was like. All the whores knew about Jordan.

Jordan turned to her now. ‘You know what I did when Mick told me your mother in Barnstaple was unwell, Anne? I sent a boy to ride there and find out whether you had a mother. Because whores don’t have them normally, do they? And even if they do, they’re better off enjoying their trade than worrying themselves about their parents. Anyway, you’re all right. There’s no need for you to go home. Your mother is already dead. But then you knew that, didn’t you?’

He was standing before her now, and he bent his head to peer into her face. ‘You did, didn’t you? Since you were an orphan when you left home five years ago, I suppose you guessed your mother was dead?’

She was blubbing, and she picked up her apron to cover her face. He wrenched it from her hands, then held both her wrists and stared into her eyes. ‘I hate people who lie to me, wench. I hate them more than anything, because once trust is gone between a master and his servants, there’s nothing left. Nothing except an example.’

He moved her two wrists to his left hand and gripped them tightly, so tightly, and then, as Anne’s breath came in rapid pants, he pulled out his knife. ‘You know this knife? It’s seen to many girls. Girls like you, Anne. And now I’m going to leave an example for other girls to remember. Mick, come here. Hold her.’

‘I can’t, Jordan, I-’

‘You were going to take her away from here and use her yourself. You might even have married her, mightn’t you? But you won’t want to, Mick. Not when I’ve finished with her tonight.’

He was matter-of-fact about it. While she thrashed about, he made Mick grip her wrists, and then he lashed her legs together, neatly, like a man hobbling a calf before cutting its throat. He sat abreast her thighs while she gave a high, keening squeal, and then gripped her chin and began to saw slowly at her nose. When he had removed that, he took off her ear lobes too, and then carefully cut a cross into each cheek, before opening her bodice and starting on her breasts.

There was nothing brutal in his manner as he did so, torturing an attractive young girl into a figure of disgust. He did not treat this as a diversion, but saw it as a task he must perform. This girl would never dare to accuse him, she would be too scared. And yet all the other girls who plied their trade on Jordan’s behalf would hear of this retribution and beware.

There was an intensity about him as he worked. Later, he told Reg that he could hear something, a sort of high whistling sound that echoed in his ears. It was exciting and thrilling to hear, and it seemed almost to drive him on as he stabbed and cut.

For Reg, it was a scene from hell. A demon had taken the woman and subjected her to unendurable agony, and the demon’s weeping helper was the woman’s own lover. Perhaps Mick’s true crime had been to fall in love — as Reg should have with his own wife, but couldn’t. And now this crying fellow was aiding his lover’s torturer, purely because, although he looked a large, brawny, strong lad, in reality he was only good for bullying those who were weaker than him. So Jordan could cow him, force him to help destroy the woman he adored, and then still remain there to do Jordan’s bidding.

That was the way of things: a weak man would always obey a stronger, no matter what the hideous fear that the man provoked. In a land that had suffered so much death and horror, famine and war in the past ten years, any stability was to be desired, even if it came at the expense of a man’s soul.

When he was finished, Jordan was sweating lightly. The girl had fainted away some while before, and he stepped away from the bloodied mess that had been Anne and surveyed his work, smiling a moment before he beckoned Mick.

‘Come here and look upon her, boy. That’s right. What has happened to her is your fault. Your fault. You wanted to take her away from me and use her money yourself, didn’t you? You told her you wanted her for herself, that you’d marry her, but all you wanted was the income she’d bring. And when that was all gone, what then? I suppose you’d have discarded her in favour of another, wouldn’t you?’ He had his hand on Mick’s shoulder, gripping the lad firmly so that he could not avert his gaze from the quivering lump of ruined flesh on the ground. He pushed Mick towards a pail of water and Mick reluctantly fetched it. Jordan took it and threw it over Anne. She screamed, once, and then lay squirming in pain, as though unable to decide which wound hurt the most.

‘You see, Anne, I can’t afford to have my girls running away. If you escaped with this one, you’d become an example later, when you came back without a protector and told the other girls that he’d thrown you over, but in the meantime, how many other girls would have left my business? So this way is better. Look on your lover, girl!’

And he moved his grip from Mick’s shoulder up to his forehead, fingers finding the eye-sockets and dragging the man’s head back, making the tendons stretch, exposing the windpipe and veins beneath the leathery flesh. ‘Pretty throat, eh?’ he said, chuckling, and drew the blade across in a fast, vicious action.

Dean Alfred was furious. He had known what would happen as soon as he heard of the assault, and now, as his servant announced the visitors, he was hard put to it not to swear aloud. If he had been in any other room, he might well have done. Damn that fool!

Of course the problem was that they had lost so many staff recently. There had been the disastrous deaths in the cathedral’s works^*, closely followed by the death of men involved in the chapter, and that had required others to be brought in to help with the essential businesses. A cathedral was not, after all, merely a large church with a patch of ground filled with bones. It was a separate community in its own right, with its own farms, brewery, bakery, slaughterhouses, wash-houses … everything. Hundreds of men lived and worked within it to make sure that all the various aspects functioned properly. When one part failed, everything could collapse. And it was essential that the whole edifice should continue, because so many people depended upon it. Their souls were to be saved only if the canons and vicars, secondaries and annuellars were able to conduct their business without hindrance.

And now one over-enthusiastic idiot had jeopardized their efforts again. He’d gone ahead without even thinking about the consequences.

‘Bring them in,’ he said and dropped into his chair. As soon as John and Robert appeared, gliding silently over the floor on their bare feet, he stood again and exchanged greetings. ‘Wine, Brothers? Some other refreshment?’

‘You know why-’

‘I know exactly why — um — you have been forced to come and see us here, and all I can — ah — say is that I am very unhappy that this terrible situation has come to pass. The man involved will be severely reprimanded for presuming to — um — demand the body.’

‘I hardly think that such behaviour merits merely a reprimand. We demand that the chapter apologize formally and return the body forthwith for the funeral to continue.’

A hint of steel entered the Dean’s voice. ‘But I do not quite, um, understand. I had heard that the period of vigil was complete and that the poor man concerned was ready for his funeral?’

‘And we shall conduct it.’

‘I had — um — believed that after the last dispute between the chapter and your priory, it was agreed that the cathedral had the monopoly of funerals for all secular folk in the city? Correct me if — ah — I am wrong, but you have the right to bury only those who are members of your Order. Is that not — ah — so?’

‘You have no monopoly. The Friars Preacher have the right to bury others in our cloister or wherever we wish. Our rights have been upheld by his holiness himself.’

‘As I recall, the decision was that we should try to live in — ah — harmony, and that when a wealthy benefactor requested the honour of a place in your chapel, you were to inform us first, and then grant us one fourth of all moneys and legacies involved. Yet you attempted to conduct a secret funeral and burial.’

‘That was no reason to break down our doors, injure a friar who stood passively and unthreateningly, destroy our lattice and steal our candles and cloths. It was an act of blatant violence — you have caused great harm and broken our peace. We demand that the body be returned to us for burial.’

Dean Alfred stood and stared out a moment through the little window. If he could have had his way, the friars would have gone ahead with their funeral and burial, and later the chapter could have demanded compensation for the money which had been withheld. Then right would have been on the chapter’s side, and the legal arguments would have been clear. But now one hot-head had exacerbated the tensions between the two groups.

‘I apologize again. When the funeral is completed I can return the body and all the goods with it, in exchange for the fourth part of his estate as agreed before. Otherwise, I think that the chapter should retain the body and goods in token of the agreement which you have tried to evade.’ He spun on his heel, eyes blazing. ‘Do not think to argue with me, Brother! I know you well, John. You have been preaching against us these last two months. Who is it who insists upon reminding the populace of this city that our own very reverend Bishop was unreasonably excommunicated by your Prior? That your priory attempted to have him cast out of the university at Oxford, falsely alleging that he was to be excluded because he was excommunicate? I do not forget these actions. And now you have tried to create another dispute between our two institutions.’

‘I have done nothing of the sort! It was the outrageous behaviour of your chapter, breaking down our doors and wounding our friars, merely to satisfy your wanton lust for gold and coin!’

‘Our lust?’ Dean Alfred echoed. ‘The only reason we had to enquire about the body was because you were attempting to withhold our share of Sir William’s estate. You were determined to retain the full amount without honouring your legal responsibilities.’

‘You dare to judge the actions of the Friars Preacher? We are not so tied to the greed and indulgence of lascivious delights as you canons are! While you sit back in comfortable seats, drinking warmed wine and letting your vicars perform your duties for you, or travel about the country visiting your estates and holdings all over the land, we friars are hard at work out there in the real world of poverty and misery, trying to save the souls of the most downtrodden by our example!’

The Dean stared at him long and hard. ‘Some of us have not yet forgotten the matter of Gilbert de Knovil’s money, Brother. I say to you, before you seek to — um — accuse others of possessing a splinter, look to your own plank.’

John’s face went almost purple with rage. ‘I am not here to bandy words about matters of no importance!’

‘So money is of no consequence? That is good. Perhaps, if you, ah, deposited Sir William of Hatherleigh’s money with us, then you could take his body back with you and all would be well.’

With an effort John calmed himself. ‘Oh, no, Dean. We shall be taking this matter further. You wish the affair done with? It shall be when we have debated it fully and the King’s own men have come here to listen to our pleas.’

He stood, gave the Dean a most unhumble and angry nod, and left the room, a very perturbed-looking Robert hurrying at his heels.

‘Dean? My lord? Are you all right?’

Waving a hand at his servant, Alfred smiled benignly and reassured him. But when he had sent his man out to fetch him a goblet of wine, he sat back contemplatively and considered all that had been said.

He should not have lost his temper, but perhaps it was no bad thing after all. He had roused John to rage with his reminder of the theft of Gilbert de Knovil’s money — the foolish fellow had deposited it in the friary, and Brother Nicholas Sandekyn had acquired it for himself. Three separate priors had sought to conceal the theft, which caused much embarrassment when their offences were uncovered. But that was old history now — what was more important was John’s reaction. The man was undoubtedly insanely jealous of the cathedral, and would do much to damage the chapter, if he could. Yet he had threatened to involve the King’s men. That was a curious peril with which to menace the chapter of Exeter Cathedral. After all, their Bishop, Walter de Stapledon, was trusted and honoured by the King. What sort of threat did the friars imagine the King could be to them?

The Dean was suddenly aware of a very unpleasant sinking feeling.