The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Fourteen

Jeanne followed Edgar as he pushed the people apart. Like a battering ram, he separated the crowd, leaving a path for her, and not once did he apologize or beg permission. He had been given an order to protect Jeanne as she sought out and questioned this woman, and that he would do. There was no need to apologize to churls standing in his way.

There were times when Jeanne regretted his arrogant attitude towards almost the whole of the rest of the world, but then she was forced to accept that any attempt to change him would probably fail. He was too complete, too entirely constructed as a devoted servant of her husband’s.

Today there were many complaints about servants who took positions based solely on the cash they were offered. For these avaricious mercenaries there was only one God, and He was Mammon. Lords living in older halls and castles were forced to buy new properties, or have ever more elaborate defences constructed, so that, should they be attacked, they could bar the doors against not only the attackers but also their servants. Gone were the days when a man might depend upon the valour of his guards just because they had given their word that they would protect him to the death.

But Edgar still believed in the old truth that his vow had been made before God, and nothing and no one could shake that determination. If his master gave an order, Edgar would carry it out if it was within his power — and if it was not, he would die in the attempt.

Such bullish tactics would not be likely to persuade a wary peasant woman to trust her, Jeanne considered, as she followed behind him until she saw her quarry dart into a tavern. She weighed her purse, and then tugged at Edgar’s sleeve. ‘Behind me, Edgar. I want to speak to her without you holding a knife at her throat.’

For a short while he considered arguing, but he knew his mistress. Standing aside, smiling, he waved her on, but her satisfaction at his obedience was somewhat dented when she heard him tug his sword a short way from its scabbard to free it.

Jeanne entered the tavern. It was a low-ceilinged chamber with a few crudely built wooden tables and some simple three-legged stools dotted about the place. Men of all ages stood or sat drinking from old chipped mazers or horns. She recognized many of them from the Coroner’s inquest.

A hush as she entered made her realize that this was a rough drinking den, and she wondered for an instant whether she had made a mistake in coming here. She was about to turn round and leave when she saw that the men had stopped watching her, and were instead staring over her shoulder. There was no need to worry for her safety in here, clearly. Edgar was too plainly a man-at-arms for anyone to try to best him.

Jeanne could not see the woman; it was only when Edgar touched her shoulder and pointed with his chin to a far corner of the room that Jeanne spotted her again.

She was older, maybe two or three and forty, and had not enjoyed a life of comfort, from the look of her coarse features and horny hands. When Jeanne sat opposite her, she studied Jeanne without respect.

‘What do you want?’

‘To buy you some ale,’ Jeanne said, proffering a coin.

‘Why?’

‘I want to know all you can tell me about the lady in the Coroner’s court just now. Why you dislike her, why others feel she was not truthful in there … anything you can tell me about her.’

On the way to the alleyway with the body, Sir Peregrine told Baldwin about the search for Estmund. ‘No luck at all, so far,’ he concluded glumly. ‘I had hoped to have him by now, some little success for the widow …’

‘I hope he’s not dead too,’ Baldwin said.

‘Why should he be?’

‘He might have seen the real murderer if he was there,’ Baldwin said.

‘Perhaps — or he was himself the murderer.’

Baldwin could see that Sir Peregrine was not going to let him forget his first suspicion about Juliana. His suggestion still rankled with the bannaret, and Baldwin was relieved when they finally reached the alley. Sir Peregrine lost his cold, distant manner as they looked over this new corpse.

‘I wondered if you might have known him?’ Sir Peregrine asked as they squatted by the body, swatting at the flies that buzzed about. ‘You know more people in this city than I do … the bailiff reckoned he was a man called Mick. He could have been a pander for the stews near the South Gate. What do you think?’

Baldwin was studying the corpse. ‘I don’t know him,’ he said at last, ‘but I can tell you that this was no accident.’

‘Obviously. His throat has been cut from side to side.’

‘And only the one cut, I think. It’s hard to tell with all these maggots, but there is no sign of a second cut on the flesh, and it looks as though the eggs were laid deep in his neck. No, he had his throat cut very deliberately. The head was almost severed.’

‘Was he tortured?’

‘You mean his nose and eye? No, I expect that was the work of a rat or something. There are many animals who’d find it difficult to refuse a free meal like this. Just be glad no hogs or desperate dogs found him first, or it would have been much more difficult to identify him.’

‘And he was dumped here.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said pensively, staring about him. He studied the old blanket that had covered the body when it was found. ‘He could have died here, but I’d have expected more proof of it if he had … more blood. There’s a lot on this cloth, but you can see for yourself that there’s not enough to account for all that must have been spilled.’

There was no need to discuss that. Both men had fought in battle. They had seen how much blood a man’s body held, and they had seen how much would jet when a man was decapitated.

Sir Peregrine grunted his assent. ‘I had an archer beside me once in a mêlée in Wales when a mercenary took his head off with a knife at full pelt on a charger. His head was off in an instant, and a fountain of blood simply erupted from the stub of his neck! All of us about him were drenched.’

‘So this man was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here. Either for safekeeping until they could find somewhere else to throw him, or because they thought that this was as good a place as any.’

‘If it was a footpad, that would make sense,’ Sir Peregrine said.

‘Yes, except I’d have expected a footpad to leave him where he was killed, not to drag him all the way to an alley and cover his face. That does not seem to be in keeping. And if he was involved in the stews as a pander, fetching clients for the women, it’s more likely that this was a territorial dispute. Perhaps someone thought that he was growing greedy with another’s territory. Either because he was encroaching on agreed boundaries, or because he was taking over another man’s wenches … or because another pander wanted access to this Mick’s women. I’ve known all these cause fights and murder in my time.’

‘Before I forget — the man who found this body was Henry Adyn, the man who was injured by the sergeant many years ago. You may want to talk to him yourself, but I can say I doubt he could have killed Daniel. His wounds are extensive, and one hand and arm is more or less useless.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Anyone who wanted to kill Daniel would have to be strong enough to fight and thrust with a blade.’

‘Then Adyn couldn’t have done it,’ Sir Peregrine said with certainty. He glanced back at Mick’s body. ‘At least this one had no powerful friends. If he had been a priest or a monk, the matter would have grown into a serious problem. Those arses always demand too much, and would have expected me to drop all other matters until I’d found their man. Well, so far as I am concerned, the death of even a simple pander merits a search for a killer. The murderer might kill again, and even if he doesn’t, he deserves death for ending a life and destroying a soul — you can bet your life this poor devil didn’t receive the last rites before his throat was slit.’

Baldwin looked at him appreciatively. ‘You will investigate this man’s death?’

‘To the utmost of my ability, such as it is,’ Sir Peregrine confirmed with a look of surprise. ‘What, you thought I’d not bother just because he was a minor felon himself? What do I care for that? I’ve fought alongside men, like the archer I told you of, who were almost certainly felons and outlaws, but were brave and loyal in battle. I’d never denigrate the English peasant. He may be foul and filthy, but he has a bold heart. This man might have redeemed himself. Perhaps he was trying to when he was killed? So whoever did this deserves to suffer. And if I can, I shall see him do just that.’

Ralph of Malmesbury was tired that evening. He sat back in his favourite chair with a mazer filled to the brim with spicy red wine warmed by his fire in his best pewter jug, contemplating his position in the world with a feeling of satisfaction. His wealth was everywhere visible from here: the golden threads in the tapestry on the wall, the cupboard with the three shelves filled with pewter plates, the large silver salt-cellar shaped like a crouching dog (the gracious gift from Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s steward some little while ago for relieving the pain of stones in his bladder), the fine carving on his table, the three benches and the chairs set about the chamber. Yes, he had been successful.

Even the location of his house here in Correstrete was proof of the good fortune which God had lavished on him. It was a fine building, on a large plot, with a goodly yard at the back which gave a magnificent view of the castle. Life had been good to him here in Exeter.

It was some years since he had first come to the city, and he was still noted as the most competent physician for miles, a position which he was determined not to lose.

Other men might come and go, but Ralph knew a good thing when he saw one. A bright boy, he’d been determined from an early age to work in a well-paid profession. There was little point in learning how to do something if that craft would not pay the bills. Far better that he should enter a trade which would pay him well. He might as well earn as much as possible so that he could enjoy as easy a life as he could wish. After all, most skills would take much the same time to master — best to spend the years working on the best-paid one.

He’d learned his trade in Oxford, where the rigorous study had nearly unmanned him. Seven years of astronomy, philosophy and all the arcane arts of his trade had been bearable only because he knew that this was the essential means of qualifying, and once he was qualified, the world would be his own. In fact, his education had suffered a little from the very profitability of his chosen profession: his own master had assumed the job of lecturing at the university, and then taken a post worth twenty pounds a year with a rich lord in Yorkshire. They’d had to have some lecturers from the faculty of arts step in to fill the gaps. There weren’t enough qualified teachers.

Some of his friends were lucky, and as soon as they finished their studies they were also snapped up by rich benefactors, never having to work hard again. They would spend their time in warm rooms with the arcane charts detailing the movements of the stars, investigating their master’s humours and peering at his urine, never having to worry about money again, living in comfortable surroundings … for a long time such a life had appealed to Ralph too, and when he failed to find a patron he was miserable for weeks, wondering what on earth he could do.

It was a friend at the university, a man studying theology, who had suggested that there would be rich pickings for a man in a smaller city like Exeter. In fact Roger had suggested his own home city, Bristol, explaining that the place was growing quickly and that a decent man of business would find himself with a good livelihood.

Ralph would probably have enjoyed the life up there, but being a curious man he chose to travel before finding his way to the city, and ended up in Exeter after nine months of idle wandering about the countryside.

And Exeter suited him. There were few other physicians, and he was soon able to win some good clients on the basis that he was a newcomer, and therefore novel. When he was able to alleviate Lord Hugh’s steward’s pain for a little while (he died shortly afterwards) the potential for a good living here became plain to him. There was a good-sized population, plenty of less than perfectly healthy men and women, and since the end of the famine more people were starting to find their feet financially again, which meant that they had money to spend on ensuring that their health was as good as it could be.

There were men in his position who were little better than charlatans, but although he had occasionally taken money when he didn’t deserve it, when he had known that the patient was not truly unwell, or that the medication he provided could give nothing but a spurious feeling of improvement, he would only do that when he could see that the money wasn’t needed by the client. He rationalized that he was in more need of it than the client in many cases. Taking cash from rich merchants was not something that caused him embarrassment, especially since he was often taking from the very rich, which allowed him to subsidize occasional charitable works for the very poor. The latter was not professional behaviour, because professionals demanded the money they needed for their work, so it was something for which he could be censured by his professional colleagues, but he wasn’t ashamed. He made enough money generally.

One group for whom he would willingly work for payment in kind was the sisters in the stews. He wasn’t married, having little interest in the idea of such an expensive adornment as a wife, but he did have natural lusts like any other man. The women down there would often need specialized help, and he could accommodate them … in return for the favours of one of the ladies for a night.

Tonight he was not in the mood, though. He had spent much of the day running about the city trying to find certain roots and leaves, and just now he was ready for another full mazer of wine and then bed. So when he heard the fist pounding on his door, he groaned unhappily. ‘Whoever it is, tell them I’ll see them in the morning.’

His servant grinned and went to the door. Soon Ralph heard voices, and to his surprise they were soon raised. One was that of a woman, and she began to screech in what sounded like desperation. Soon Ralph had to decide whether to allow the woman in, or to suffer the complaints of his neighbours in the street. It was not a difficult decision: it was easier to accept one mad woman into his house than to suffer the pained, angry condemnation of his neighbours for what could be a lengthy period. ‘Bring her in!’ he called.

‘Master Ralph, I am truly sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here like this,’ the woman cried as she came in, wringing a cloth between her hands. ‘I wouldn’t if I had any choice, but I don’t know who else I can go to …’

‘Betsy, please come here and warm yourself by my fire,’ Ralph said courteously, bringing forward a seat for her and setting it near the flames. ‘Geoff, fetch a mazer and more wine.’

His servant caught the tone of his voice and scurried away. Meanwhile Ralph stood and studied the woman.

She was a little over the average height, with a pleasing oval face. For his part, Ralph had always liked women with slimmer builds, and this one was very attractive to him. Her features were regular, with soft eyes of a pale brown, and hair that was chestnut under her coif. He had slept with her a few times recently, when he had helped to treat a girl who’d been beaten by her pander, and another who’d fallen down a staircase and broken a wrist, fortunately not a serious break, and an easy one to splint.

‘Now,’ he said, when his man had passed her a mazer filled with rich red wine. ‘Tell me all. What is the matter this time? Has someone fallen over, or is it the pox?’

‘I wish it was only a broken arm or something, Ralph. No, it’s Anne. She’s … she’s been terribly attacked. Please, could you come and see her?’

‘Anne?’ He vaguely remembered the girl. A pretty enough wench, perhaps a little young and inexperienced, but pleasant enough on a cold night. ‘She always seemed a generous maid, not the sort to upset her punters.’

Betsy drained her cup. ‘Please, Ralph, we’re all so scared she’ll die. She looks so unwell. Could you come and see her?’

Of course he could. The streets were dark already, but the curfew bell hadn’t been rung, so the gates were still open. ‘You realize if I can’t get back I’ll need a room for the night?’ Ralph asked her matter-of-factly.

‘I’ll be happy to see to you,’ she said. ‘but please hurry.’

He drained his cup and collected some phials and tools, packing them into his little leather sack and drawing the thongs at the neck tight before indicating to her that she should lead the way.

She walked out and through the city to the South Gate. Here she nodded to the porter, who appeared to be on friendly terms with her and winked at Ralph as he passed, and then turned right to follow the wall south and west, out towards the island and quayside.

‘The porter seems to know you well.’

‘Every so often we give him a little favour, and in return our clients can pass in and out of the city unmolested if they need to. It’s not often, but sometimes it makes life easier to be able to get clients home before their wives notice,’ Betsy explained.

‘What, even at night?’ he asked, frankly scandalized. It was a key element of the city’s defences that the gates should remain locked at night.

‘Three hard, two soft. If he hears that, he knows it’s us or one of our clients,’ she agreed lightly, but her expression didn’t relax. Usually to see his face register such alarm would make her laugh, but not tonight. Even while discussing the curfew, her eyes were fixed on the group of older buildings ahead.

The brothel was a scruffy old house, and although it was not the sort of place Ralph would want to live in, it was good enough for its job. Once it had been simply a large barn-like hall, open to the roof, with a large area where the women entertained their guests. Now it had been built up inside, so that there were a number of small chambers, with more on a second floor. Each had a palliasse or a cheap bed, except for a few rooms which possessed a decent wooden one with a rope mattress.

Betsy did not take him upstairs to one of those better rooms. Instead she took him through the screens passage and out to the yard at the back, where there were some storage rooms leaning against the main block. These were the rooms which had given the building its nickname of ‘the stews’.

Built along the rear of the main hall, these rooms were bathhouses, equipped with immense barrels. Men and women could sit in them and have warmed water tipped over them. To help them clean themselves, Betsy had collected quantities of fat and lye here, and she manufactured soap when she had spare time. Ralph considered he might want to have a bath with her later, but then scotched the idea. It was already late enough, and he didn’t have time to wait for the water to be heated.

‘She’s in here,’ Betsy said with an anxious softness.

It was one of the storage rooms, and as soon as Ralph’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness and he saw Anne’s face, he wanted to recoil and leave the room. ‘Sweet Jesus! This is a task for a seamstress, not a physician!’

‘What can you do for her?’

‘Sweet Christ,’ he said to himself. ‘Can I do anything?’

He was professional. Untying the draw-strings at the neck of his bag, he sat on the bed to study her wounds. They had been inflicted with a knife, that much was certain. The scars at her brow and cheeks showed that much. Her nose was a blackened scab in which the air whistled like a demon’s breath. ‘Maid, you poor love,’ he said quietly. He had some ointments with him, arnica and lavender for bruises and scrapes, but this was more extreme than anything he had anticipated.

Still, she was his patient. He set to work, calling for warmed water and cloths, then stripping her and studying each of her wounds while she lay back, sobbing quietly, the sound muffled by the scabs at her nostrils and mouth. When he saw the punctures on her breasts, he felt sickened. This was no chastisement or revenge for favours poorly provided, such as he was used to seeing on the whores down here, this was a deliberate assault designed to ruin the girl. There could be no justification for this sacrilegious destruction of one of God’s creatures.

When he was finished, he brewed a mess of leaves in a pot. ‘This is a draught to help her sleep, Betsy,’ he said. ‘It’s a stupefactive, a dangerous drink, called dwale. It contains hemlock and poppy seed, and it is treacherous in any quantity, so only let her have a small cupful at a time. No more, you hear me? It will let her sleep, and just now uninterrupted sleep with no dreams will do her much more good than anything else.’

He glanced back into the room and saw Anne’s eyes on him. Smiling, he tried to give her a feeling of comfort. ‘Let the poor child sleep, dear God,’ he begged. For his part, he could not imagine that the girl could wish to live with such dreadful scars. ‘And for God’s sake, do not let anyone near her with a mirror,’ he added as he closed the door.