The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Six

He was dead. Fitting that the man should have been granted the privilege of dying not only in the friary, but actually on the Sabbath! That was a rare honour, and reflected the pride which John had felt in winning this man for the Order.

Not that the Bishop would want to see it that way, of course. And there could be some fighting about the way that the friary had taken the man’s money already. Still, the money had been bequeathed before his death, and then passed over to the friary. If the canons on the cathedral close wanted to impose new rules affecting everyone, it was only their own fault if people sought means to evade the new costs. Why should the friary obey the cathedral? The latter demanded ancient rights and privileges to be honoured by all, but then trampled on the rights of the newer Orders like John’s. The canons were only fools who segregated themselves a little, when all was said and done. They had no real part to play in the new world.

John saw to the cleaning of the body, setting the limbs neatly before wrapping it in a spotless linen winding sheet. At last he straightened up, wiping his hands dry after dipping them in a bowl of water, and then stood surveying his work. A little while later he left Robert and two other friars to carry the man to the altar, and made his way to the private cell of the Prior.

‘He is dead?’

Prior Guibert was a tall, thin, almost emaciated man whose cadaverous features and great height gave the impression of feebleness of spirit, yet no one who had heard him preach could believe that he was about to expire from exhaustion or age. Although he appeared ancient, Guibert still possessed the same mental focus which had led to his election as one of the diffinitores, the senior officers of the Friars Preacher who could decide all matters of discipline within the Order.

‘He is dead.’

Guibert smiled thinly, and wiped a hand over his bald pate, a gesture that invariably indicated that he was concentrating hard. He brought his hand down over his forehead and held it a moment in front of his eyes as though the darkness could aid his focus, and then slowly withdrew it.

John felt his heart swell to see his master’s face clear. The fine, bright blue-grey eyes gazed into the distance for a while as though unaware of John or the walls of the cell itself. In his face John could see only certainty. This was a man who knew his position in the world and the importance of his role in it.

No, it was more than that. Guibert was entirely honest and decent. He had only ever sought to improve the priory to better help the poor of the city. His integrity was beyond compare, his vision and intellect superior to all others.

Now he took a little breath and spoke quietly. ‘I feel sure that the honourable and worthy knight will be a fitting addition to our little cemetery. He has devoted his life to the Church and his death and burial in our cloister mean that his soul will be saved.’

John smiled and nodded. He was awed by the strength and purpose of this man. He always had been, ever since he first heard of the way Guibert defended this same little convent against the attack of the black-hearted devils of the cathedral.

‘Let us pray for the safe arrival of his soul in Heaven,’ said Guibert, and when he knelt, John could already feel the tears forming in his eyes. Not for the dead man — he was already fading from his memory — but at the renewal of his admiration for this wonderful man, the man who had caused the Bishop of Exeter to be excommunicated.

Guibert left John there in his cell, and John waited a while, praying happily. Later, leaving it, he saw Guibert again. He was outside, and it was a slight surprise to John to see that he was talking to a merchant, that rather unpleasantly worldly fellow, Master Jordan le Bolle. But he didn’t think much of it. He had too much to sort out with the funeral arrangements.

Agnes and Juliana were in the market for some little while, hunting down a bolt of cloth for a new dress for Juliana, and when they returned Cecily was so thrilled by the sight of the striped ray material that she quite forgot to mention the visitors at first.

‘What is this?’ Agnes asked when she saw the goblets on the table. ‘Have you been playing with your father’s best wine, child?’

Her tone was mocking, but Cecily knew that her aunt believed in strict discipline for children. ‘Oh, I forgot. The Coroner and the Keeper of the Peace were here to speak to Father,’ she said quickly.

‘And what did they want?’ Juliana asked with a smile, loosening her wimple and shaking her hair free. It had been irritating her all day. Her maid simply could not make her hair lie comfortably. She should throw the wench out and find a new one.

‘They wanted to speak about the man Father beat,’ Cecily said, her head bowed over her little rag doll. ‘And then they wanted to hear about the man who breaks into the house. They were very cross at first, but they said that they understood how angry Father must be to find a stranger in our solar, so they said he could kill the man if he came again.’

Juliana’s face darkened. ‘You are making this up, child, aren’t you? What would they want to hear about our troubles for?’

‘I’m not!’ Cecily retorted with spirit. ‘They said that if there was a man in the house, Father could kill him. It’s the law, they said.’

‘Cecily, go and play outside for a while,’ Agnes said soothingly. ‘I want to speak to your mother.’

When Cecily was gone, she sat on a bench. ‘Are you very troubled about this affair? The drunk outside the tavern?’

Juliana avoided her eye. ‘It was a shameful thing to do. Ham was no threat to anyone.’

‘He had already stabbed one man.’

‘That was an accident. I am sure he would have given Daniel the knife if Daniel had asked for it. But he didn’t. He rushed in and killed the fellow. The poor man had his head crushed.’

‘Your husband was always too prone to violence.’

‘He was not! He was ever a kindly man to me and the children!’ Juliana declared tartly. ‘But he has changed in the last few months. You must have noticed, sister!’

‘Not I! But then in the last months I have seen less of him.’

‘He did not want you to go, but you wouldn’t give up that other, would you?’

‘And why should I?’

‘That, and the pressure of his work …’ Juliana said unkindly. She felt no need to support her sister if Agnes was going to insult her husband.

Agnes looked away uncomfortably.

Juliana said no more. There was no need. They both knew Daniel had grown much more edgy when he first heard that Agnes had been visited by Jordan le Bolle. Daniel had said that Jordan was never to be allowed into his house again; Agnes was sure that Daniel simply hated the idea of adultery, and wouldn’t have Jordan in the place in case he took Agnes to her bed.

What of it if he did? She was not Daniel’s woman, even if she lived under his roof! The idea that her younger sister’s husband should dictate to her whom she could or could not see drove her to seek to seduce Jordan sooner than she otherwise might have. She told Daniel that his command was outrageous, and moved out into a smaller house within a few days. It was expensive, but she had some money saved, and Jordan offered to help, so she soon learned that a house was cheap enough for a woman who was in love, and loved by a strong man.

Daniel had no right to prevent her seeing whomsoever she wanted. She was about to state this when she noticed how exhausted her sister appeared.

Juliana had closed her eyes. She needed to rest them; they felt sore and rough from lack of sleep. If she sat still for a moment with her eyes closed like this, she knew that she must fall asleep and topple over, but it was so pleasing, so good to sit with them shut, if only for a few moments. She was so tired, she almost mentioned the threat made to them by Agnes’s lover, but luckily she managed to control herself and didn’t say anything. If she told Agnes that her man had said he would kill Juliana and all her family, Agnes would only think she was making it up and call her a liar. It would throw her more completely into Jordan’s arms, and that was one thing Juliana was determined to avoid.

In the end she said, ‘It must be this man who enters our house at night. That is why he is so unsettled.’

‘Does he not worry you as well, Juliana?’

Juliana looked at her. ‘If it is still only Est, we have no need to worry about the poor fellow. Not really.’

‘Who else could it be, though?’ Agnes asked. When she glanced at her sister, she was surprised to see a look of fear in her eyes, as though Juliana was determined not to speak. Almost as though she didn’t trust Agnes.

Jordan le Bolle left the cathedral close with a sense that all was going well.

He had seen Daniel earlier, and the man had looked distraught. Quite devastated, as though his world was collapsing about him. He hadn’t seen Jordan, which was probably no bad thing. If he’d flown off the handle and made rash accusations, it could have been difficult. As it was, Jordan could enjoy his suffering. Especially now, since he’d learned of a fresh shipment of lead. He already had a large store of it, and now he would be able to sell more to the cathedral for their rebuilding.

It was an easy way to make money. Stocks of lead, tin, iron and glass were being brought here from all over the country. Many ships arrived at the quay, and when the sailors went to the brothels intelligent women could sometimes learn what cargo was aboard. Occasionally those sailors could be bribed, too, but that was risky. Jordan had his own men at the docks, and usually it was a simple task to find the parcels or boxes which contained the most important goods, and substitute something else. Then he could sell the stolen items for a profit. Simple, effective and lucrative.

There was a better way to ensure a good profit, though, and that was to have a spy who could warn Jordan which ships were worth looking over. And that was why he was here today, to meet with his most profitable spy. It meant he could tell which were the best cargoes to be taken, which packages and bales deserved investigation without the need to bribe some unknown sailor, constantly running the risk that he might be a fool who would run to the ship’s master to warn him.

Daniel had taken to hanging about the quayside recently. Jordan was unpleasantly certain that the man had learned something. Well, he had done all he could some days ago: he’d put the fear of God into Daniel’s wife, hopefully, which would mean that there was another voice to persuade the sergeant to leave Jordan alone. If Daniel chose to ignore all the good advice he was receiving, that was his problem, not Jordan’s.

He saw Peter up at the entrance to the cathedral and fitted a warm smile to his face.

It was a never-ending source of amazement to him that this place, supposedly full of the most religious men in the land, could in fact be filled with men whose sole interest was to make money for themselves. It was dressed up differently, of course. They protested that it was money to be used to protect others, that it would go to saving souls, and all that nonsense, but they were fooling nobody. At least there were a few honest enough to privately admit that they wanted the money for themselves.

‘My son.’ Peter smiled and held out his hand.

Jordan took it. ‘Father. It is most pleasant to see you again.’

Peter de la Fosse, a tall young canon with a tonsure that was in desperate need of renewal, hurriedly drew Jordan into the cathedral and behind one of the massive pillars supporting the roof. ‘Jordan, there’s another load just arrived.’ He slipped a small parchment into Jordan’s hand.

‘Good. I’ll have my fellows go and meet it.’

Peter nodded, but his face even here in the gloom of the aisle seemed more pale than usual.

‘What is it?’ Jordan asked. He knew the signs. The man was scared again, and that meant his price would soon go up.

‘I am fearful that our actions may be discovered soon. What if someone should tell the Dean that I’ve been talking to you and that we’re collecting so much money? Someone may see, and-’

‘Canon, don’t worry. I won’t let anyone know about you. All you have to worry about is making sure that I remain happy with your work. Don’t forget that. Now, there is something I wanted to suggest to you today.’

Baldwin was feeling the effects of his recent wound. His breath was short as they marched up from the sergeant’s house and along the high street. He was on his way to the inn where he was staying with his wife, Sir Peregrine striding along at some speed as usual by his side, and Edgar padding along quietly behind them both like a great cat.

It was how Baldwin had thought of him when he had first seen Edgar whole and well. He had a certain feline grace and economy of movement that was much like the prized cats in bestiaries: lions and tigers. Much like them, Edgar could move with an apparent laziness that belied his strength and power, but when he was roused he was as fierce as any of the big cats. A man who irked him or caused him to stir would soon realize his mistake.

Edgar had been with him in the hell-hole of Acre, the last Crusader foothold in the Holy Land. Baldwin had gone there a young, callow fellow, determined to prove himself. He was the son of a knight, but being the second son would have no inheritance. Rather than see himself cast into the Church as a second-rate priest, or perhaps a clerk spending his days copying parchments until his eyes were useless, he chose to travel on pilgrimage to the lands over the seas and fight to protect God’s soil. He knew, as did his companions on the journey, that they couldn’t fail. After all, they were English men, the same who had conquered the Scots and the Welsh, beaten the Irish to submission, and kept the French King from their territories. And this was God’s own land. He would not see the land of Christ’s birth wrested from His own people.

Acre had destroyed the faith of many. The kingdom of Jerusalem was lost when Acre fell, and the consequences were far-reaching. Men throughout Christendom, appalled, felt sure that the end of the world was at hand, and men foretold famine, war and plagues.

Baldwin had lost many friends at Acre, but when he and Edgar were both wounded, the Templars saved them both and gave their lives new purpose. Suddenly Baldwin had recognized that he had a new duty. If the kingdom was gone, he must work with all his might to support the warriors of God, the Templars, and help to force the decision to enter a new crusade against the Moorish hordes who had stolen Christ’s country.

To repay their debt, Baldwin and Edgar had willingly joined the Order, and they served it until its destruction. All through the dreadful years of despair and misery, the only man on whom Baldwin could count was Edgar, and even now his servant was the first to protect him and avenge any harm or dishonour which was brought upon his head.

Over the years Baldwin had suffered many injuries. He had the scars of lance-thrusts, of sword-slashes, a glancing axe-cut that could have removed his arm at the shoulder if it had struck straight, and three crossbow and arrow wounds, each of which could have killed him had he been a little less fortunate.

But fortunate he had been. He was a man whose life appeared to have been blessed so far. Especially since he had met his darling Jeanne.

‘Your wound, Sir Baldwin?’

There was a note of solicitousness in the knight’s voice as he asked the question that made Baldwin glance at him in surprise. ‘I shall be all right.’

He had never, to his knowledge, given Sir Peregrine any reason to think that he cared for the other knight’s companionship, let alone his friendship, but he knew that Sir Peregrine was a resolute man who would seek any potential allies in his determination to curb the powers wrested from the crown by the Despenser family. He had already lost his place at the side of his master, Lord Hugh de Courtenay, and would perhaps be prepared to lose his life in the fight, but Baldwin was not. He had seen the remains of those who had tried to best the King, and although he had no fear of death himself, he did fear the results of his death: the ruination of his wife and daughter, the despoiling of his manor, the destruction of his lands and the harm done to his peasants. There were too many people who depended upon him for him to willingly throw away his life. He felt the weight of his responsibilities.

‘I hope so, my friend.’

Baldwin grunted non-committally. ‘What have you heard of this man who wanders about at night?’ he asked, keen to keep the subject away from national politics.

‘Nothing. It is a new tale to me. A man who opens doors and shutters to peer in at sleeping children? It is hardly likely.’

‘There are some who desire the young and firm,’ Baldwin said tentatively. He had heard of many perversions in his time in the East. There were many there who felt that the sins of the flesh, which in England would be punished by castration or death, were not so important. They weighed less in the minds of people there. Men would lie with men, and sometimes with boys. It was a habit which had at first appalled him, but after a while he grew less intolerant. Such behaviour, although it repelled him personally, should not lead to a man’s execution. Even Pope Leo III had argued that occasional offenders should not be severely punished.

His own feelings were tempered by his experiences as a Templar. He had witnessed the humiliation of many hundreds of honourable, decent monks, their torture and ruin. Many had been accused of sodomy, and their bodies were broken to force their confessions. No, Baldwin could not believe that catamites were as evil as those who inflicted suffering upon the innocent.

Sir Peregrine had spoken and Baldwin had to force his mind to stop wandering. ‘I am sorry, sir?’

‘I said, if a man is guilty of such behaviour, surely he will soon be caught and killed. No one can really think to break into men’s houses and lasciviously eye their sons and daughters with impunity.’

‘No,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘I rather hope that foolish sergeant finds the man again.’

His hope was soon to be fulfilled.

Henry was present at the inquest when it was held, but for all the good it did anyone he might just as well have stayed away. That poor old bastard, Ham, had no one to talk for him. Just the same as any old sod in this city. They could go and hang themselves as far as the courts were concerned. What was the point of going to the courts to demand justice, when the Coroner would stand up there and listen to a bunch of arses telling the story the sergeant had paid them to tell? There was no fairness in a place like this.

He had no faith. Not now. His shoulder was as well healed as it ever would be, but the pain was something he had to cope with every day of his life. There was no escape for him. Just as there was none for Estmund. Est had lost his family, and trying to help him had cost Henry his livelihood and future, thanks to the shit Daniel, the man who’d nearly killed him and ruined his body.

Henry looked over at the sergeant.

Daniel stood leaning heavily on his staff like a man weary almost to death. To Henry’s mind he looked like someone who had slept only fitfully for many days. His eyes flitted from one face to another almost fearfully, and Henry suddenly had a sense of what the man’s life must be like: scared at all times in case a felon saw him as his natural prey and chose to attack him for no apparent reason. Constantly anxious, sleeping lightly so as to spring awake at the slightest disturbance. And now he had slaughtered poor Ham, and many here would not forget or forgive that. One lapse of temper had cost Daniel the trust of the people he was supposed to depend on for his authority.

Yes, he was scared. He started at every sound … soon he must go mad if he was going to continue like this.

So much the better. The bastard deserved death.

Hiding under her blanket, Cecily told herself she had never been scared by the man. Not really. And of course now, with that new board covering the old hole and splinter in the shutter, there was nothing to fear anyway. She was safe enough, and no need to be scared, not of the man, nor of dreams. They wouldn’t hurt her. No, Mother had said she wouldn’t have those dreams again.

The weather was changing again, and she felt the chill at her fingertips and toes. Seeking some comfort, she rolled over and cuddled Arthur. There was a muffled squeak from him when he felt her frozen hands, her cold knees, but he was too deeply asleep to complain loudly. He pushed at her half-heartedly, muttered a little in his sleep, but then simply moved away from her, leaving a warm cocoon where he had lain. Gratefully she snuggled into the conquered territory and closed her eyes again. Sleep soon took her.

When the sound came, she snapped awake in an instant, but was too anxious to turn and see what had made the noise, a strange scraping that seemed to come from the window. Now it was silent, and she was about to persuade herself that she had imagined it when she heard something again. This time it was a quiet slithering, a faint, ever so quiet squeak, like polished metal slipping against a smooth piece of burnished timber, and then there was a rough scraping like a blade rubbing on wood.

She felt the hair start to rise on her neck. Dread filled her heart and she wanted to scream until her father came to rescue her, but she remembered clearly how he had thrashed her the last time she woke him by playing in the chamber when he was trying to sleep. Even a ghost wouldn’t make her disturb him unnecessarily.

A rattle and a thud, and she slowly turned her head, feeling the flesh of her scalp start to move. The peg that stopped the bar had been pushed out again, and now she could see the wooden bar lift from its brackets.

Her breath was uncontrollable. Her ribs spasmed painfully and she found she was panting with terror, moving away from the window in the bed. She wanted to cover her head and face with the blankets and skins, but dared not. Petrified, she was too frightened to avert her gaze, torn between the horror of seeing what might enter and the equal dread of hiding and not seeing it.

The hinges squeaked as the shutter was pulled open, and she saw, or thought she saw, a dark figure in the opening. A man’s body clad in a black robe with a cowl over the head, the face hidden. He seemed to stare in, and then a leg appeared and was thrust inside.

She was close to being sick. Her stomach was rebelling against the tension, and she felt sure that she must dirty herself like a baby when she saw him take hold of the sill and enter fully. He stood there a moment as though listening, and then he started to walk towards her and Arthur.

It was too much. She gave a short cry of panic and hurled herself from the bed, ripping the coverings from it. Arthur was startled awake and gave a shrill scream even as Cecily tripped on a blanket and fell headlong. There was a clatter as her head knocked an iron candle-holder against a table, the candle rolling over the table top, the metal stand striking a pewter plate, which rang with a shivering rattle as it rolled across the floor.

There was a roar, a harsh, unintelligible bellow, and the clumping of heavy feet. Cecily looked up to see her father and the hooded man grappling. There was a blow, a shriek, and she saw her father’s face twisted and distorted with horror and agony just before he collapsed, and then her mother grabbed her and mercifully covered her eyes as the tide of blood crept over his shirt, his eyes still staring accusingly towards his killer as the stranger fled through the window.