The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Nineteen

Baldwin had hardly left his hall when Ralph received the call from his neighbour.

It was some months since he had moved here, and in that time he had assiduously tried to foster good relations with the others not only in his own street, but in the castle and in Goldsmith’s Street too. In those three places was much of the secular wealth of the city, and it was crucial that he should be on favourable terms with all the people who lived there. After all, a physician might spend the same time and effort on a beggar as on a lord — the difference was, the lord could pay better.

At first, he wondered who she might be, and then, when she was announced, he immediately thought of the attractive woman who lived down the road. From memory, Mazeline le Bolle was delightful, with flashing eyes and high cheeks framed by very dark hair, but today she was all but unrecognizable. She stank of ale, and some still dripped from her sodden tunic, while her hair was bedraggled and matted, clinging to her face and throat. Blood was seeping thickly from a long cut over her right eye, and the left was coloured with the after-effects of a punch, easily identifiable by a physician who had experience of the stews. In the case of Betsy or one of the other girls he’d have assumed she had been attacked by a client; a charitable man might have thought that the wife of a notable member of the community had been assaulted by some felon in the street — but Ralph was not a charitable man. He had seen enough of violence to know that most married women who arrived at his door with cuts and bruises had not needed to leave their own houses to win them.

From the look of her, she was not yet recovered, and Ralph immediately set about putting her at her ease. He brought up a chair, muttering pompously about good-for-nothing servants who never bothered to help when an honoured guest arrived, and then called loudly for his bottler, hissing at him from the doorway to fetch a little of his burned wine. He bought this strange liquor especially for clients who needed refreshment to calm their nerves. It was rare and expensive, and he had to buy it from the monks at Buckfast, but it was worth its weight in gold.

It worked well this time. The bottler, who like most of Ralph’s servants was well acquainted with the specific requirements of the physician’s trade, waited at the door for Ralph to collect the tray, rather than entering immediately. Ralph put a large measure into a mazer for her, reckoning that a large sycamore bowl was safer in shaky hands than a gold or silver goblet. He passed it to her, and looked away while she sipped the warming drink. From experience he knew that it would take a few moments for the drink to take effect, and when he heard the first sniffle he turned to her and studied her again.

Yes, he knew her. She was wife to that man three doors along the road, the big, bluff fellow who was always the first to buy wine in the tavern. Jordan le Bolle. The man Sir Baldwin de Furnshill suspected of involvement in organized prostitution, and possibly the attacks on Anne and Mick. This was his woman, and usually a marvellous-looking lady at that. She too had plainly been attacked, although not seriously in his estimation. There were no obvious lacerations in her breast or on her hands to indicate defence against a knife attack. Nothing like that. But she had suffered a lot of ill-treatment, clearly. The poor woman looked as though she had been forced to endure a great deal of torture over some weeks.

‘You cannot find decent staff, can you?’ he essayed with a bright smile, which faded quickly as she burst into tears.

‘It was a little hurtful, I confess,’ Baldwin said as Jeanne and Edgar packed up their few belongings. ‘I had hoped that my assistance might be desirable to the good Coroner.’

‘“Good Coroner”?’ Jeanne repeated with a raised brow. ‘Your tone has changed towards him, husband. Is this not the man you thought of as a mere political agent, dangerous to know and still more dangerous to befriend?’

‘Well, that is as may be,’ Baldwin responded a little huffily. ‘But he has not tried to force his opinions down my throat, nor has he attempted to persuade me that treachery to the King is justified. It is strange, though, because I thought he would do so — he tried to bring up the subject almost as soon as he first saw us here, if you remember.’

‘Perhaps it was your subtle refusal to discuss anything of the kind?’ Jeanne said mockingly.

‘I was intentionally blunt.’

‘Rude,’ Edgar corrected from the far end of the room.

‘When I want your opinion, I shall ask for it,’ Baldwin declared loftily.

‘Anyway, it was after he saw that widow that he lost interest in politics,’ Edgar continued imperturbably.

‘You think so?’ Jeanne asked. ‘Could he be chasing a new lover?’

‘He could be,’ Baldwin considered. ‘If he is, it is sad.’

‘Why sad?’

‘Because he has had misfortune with women before.’

She nodded. Both had been in Tiverton when his last woman had died in childbirth.

‘So,’ he continued. ‘What worse for him than a woman who has recently been widowed and is still in mourning? She will be unattainable for some while to come, if she wants to honour her dead husband.’

There was a moment’s silence as they considered this, and then Jeanne sighed. ‘I could feel quite sorry for him. If there is a chance that he could be happy with that woman, I wish him all good fortune in his wooing.’

‘If it keeps him off the subject of politics and leaves me in peace I’ll happily pay for the wedding breakfast myself,’ Baldwin muttered drily. ‘For that I’d be willing to give freely.’

Edgar grinned as Jeanne shook her head and tutted impatiently. She returned to her packing.

There was little enough to worry about. Mostly it was a few clothes, some shirts and a clean tunic with some better quality hosen for Baldwin, in case he had to attend a court while he was here in Exeter. All had been sent on by messenger after his wounding, and most of it had not been used. Still, she was content. Soon they would be home. The peasant woman would be there, of course, but Jeanne felt a little better able to cope with the sight of her than she had a day or two ago. Yes, she was sure that she could manage to see the maid without growing too angry.

And her man did look happier, she thought. Baldwin seemed easier in his own mind now that he had given up this investigation. He needed rest, and as soon as they arrived home that was what he would get whether he liked it or not. Baldwin would be comfortably installed in a chair in the warm hall near their fire, and he would stay there until Jeanne felt he was better. No interruptions, no courts, nothing. Just rest.

She had just reached this conclusion when there came a knock at the door and she felt her heart lurch, as though she knew that this boded ill for her plans.

Estmund drank a little more of the ale and belched, but there was no comfort in it. He had come here to the Duryard, as Henry had urged, to be away from the Coroner during the inquest, in order to escape arrest, but what had he escaped to? He was looked on as a felon now, for not turning up to the Coroner’s court, and how could matters improve? While he was hiding, everyone would assume he was as guilty as Henry did. There was no escape, not while he lived in Exeter.

Henry had told him he ought to go. Yes, but where? He knew nowhere other than Exeter. This was his city. Here was where he had been born, where he’d been taught, where he’d been apprenticed and qualified as a butcher, where he’d loved, married, and conceived his child before burying the baby girl and his wife. To leave this place would be like leaving his own soul. He couldn’t do it!

He hadn’t done anything, anyway. Not on purpose. He’d just been there as usual, and then Daniel ran at him and …

He’d always loved the innocence of children. It was there in their faces as they lay in their beds just as it was when they were at rest or at play. He loved it, the way that they would focus on whatever most attracted them to the exclusion of all else, but better was the look of peace on their faces while they were sleeping. That was what he had always loved most.

Emma had always said that children were the hope of the world. When there were rumours of war with the murderous Scots, or the mad Welsh, or the Irish, Emma always said that it was the children who must be protected because they could make the world safer for everyone. If men could only learn from the sweetness of little children, everyone would be happier, she used to say. And wars might end.

At those times Est had laughed at her, amused to think that she could be so innocent. While men lived, they would fight. Everyone knew that.

He felt … he was almost sure that in those days life had been clearer. There had been less confusion in his mind. He had been able to concentrate more easily; he knew what he wanted. First his own shop in the fleshfold, then his wife, and finally a family, and he had managed to win all three. He hoped later to join the Freedom and enjoy the privileges that would give him. In those days, such a long time ago, he’d thought he would be one of the wealthiest men in the city before long.

But then he lost everything.

Emma was the lintel on which his life had rested, sound and firm. When she died, it took the strength from his soul. Yet he could still discern a little of her magic and purpose when he saw children.

At first he had looked only at babies, like Saul’s kids when they were young. And when Saul lost his little one, he had welcomed Est’s visits to stand vigil over the survivor. Est had never meant to cause harm to any child. He couldn’t. Robbing a child of her innocence was a terrible crime. But that was what he had done to Cecily … it shouldn’t have happened! Daniel shouldn’t have rushed in there trying to hurt him. He shouldn’t have done that. Est had fled, almost colliding with the man outside. His appearance almost made Est scream, it scared him so much, but then he ducked and ran.

He had been watching children like Cecily ever since Emma’s death. When she was taken from him, he used to go and visit the children born at the same time as their own, seeing how they were. At first it was loneliness, then jealousy, and finally it was his Purpose.

That was how he viewed it. He had a God-given duty to protect these little ones from suffering. If there was anything he could do to protect them, he should. He would watch them during the night when he couldn’t sleep, not because he wanted to upset anyone, but because he knew God wanted him to look after the children of about his daughter’s age. All those little ones who could have been his own. Not that they were. He knew that. He wasn’t mad. No, it was just that others didn’t see life so clearly as he did. He knew that children in their innocence were more important than older people. Children were crucial. They were the future of the world.

And he had destroyed Cecily’s innocence. He had ruined her. Christ Jesus! He had broken his pact with God, and she had grown up.

In Jordan’s hall, Agnes felt as though she was in an alien place. It was so familiar — she had been here often enough with her lover when his wife was not about — and yet it seemed strange. Partly, perhaps, that was because she had seen Mazeline leaving as she came in. It was oddly shaming to meet her man’s wife here.

He had once told her that there was no need for her to fear his wife. At the time she had been comforted that he was so confident. Now she wasn’t so certain. It was something to do with the realization that his certainty might have been built upon his ability to scare Mazeline. At the time Agnes had thought he was simply being protective, meaning that he wasn’t scared of Mazeline’s temper, that he would weather any storms at home for an opportunity of making love with her, but now that she had seen the woman who was his wife, looking so cowed and beaten, she was suddenly struck with a sense of anxiety.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded as soon as she entered. ‘I didn’t ask you to come, did I?’

‘Hello, sweet,’ she said with a slight hauteur. ‘I am delighted to see you in so warm a temper.’

‘Did you see my wife just now?’

‘She was leaving as I came — she let me enter.’

He nodded curtly, and she could see that he was furious. ‘So you have probably upset her by coming in here. Why?’

‘I thought I ought to warn you, that’s all. Juliana knows.’

Suddenly his face was blank. Once Agnes had seen a man writing on a sheet of parchment outside a tavern, showing skill in the neat regularity of his letters. Another fellow came to watch, and, delighted, pointed to show it to a friend. His hand knocked the scribe’s jug and ale slewed across the wet writing, making it entirely illegible. Jordan’s face looked like that to her: in an instant all emotion was washed from it.

‘Warn me of what?’

‘Juliana is sure you killed her husband,’ Agnes said with an attempt at a chuckle. He was so cold, he was intimidating.

‘She knows more than I do, then.’

Agnes nodded, and her face eased a little as relief flooded her to hear his denial. ‘I never thought you did. It’s ridiculous. Why should you want to kill him? It’s just Juliana: she’s upset and I dare say in her present state she could accuse anyone of it. It must have been a draw-latch.’

‘Everyone has been talking about Estmund Webber, though. Why’d she accuse me?’

‘Maybe in the dark she thought she recognized you … but she can’t have, can she?’ she said lightly. It was a ludicrous idea — Estmund was a thin, weakly man, whereas Jordan was strong and hale.

‘Not me, no. I wasn’t there. I was gambling in the brothel outside the South Gate.’

There was something about his tone that snagged her hearing. It was a chill that seemed out of keeping. She put the thought to one side. Instead she pouted, hurt. ‘Why go there? Aren’t there gambling dens in the city itself? You don’t have to go out there. I know we haven’t had much time recently, but …’

He was standing now, with his back to her. ‘What else did she say?’

‘Eh? Nothing much. Only that you and Daniel never hit it off.’

‘Nothing else?’

There it was again, a certain edge to his tone that put her in mind of the long, cold stare of a viper before it struck. ‘No. What else could there be?’

‘I’d go back and make sure that she doesn’t try to tell anyone anything silly,’ he said, turning and facing her at last. ‘I wouldn’t want stories circulating about me for no reason.’ He smiled.

‘What sort of story could there be?’

He stared at her. Was it possible that this stupid bitch really didn’t know what he had been up to all these years? He had only picked on her because she was a way into the household of the sergeant, a fact which had made it all the easier to learn the simplest way to kill him. She must know; she must surely have guessed. That was why she was putting on this stupid front. Even as he stared, his head started to throb again. A very faint, keening whistle started to distract him.

It was only a short time ago that he had threatened to kill Juliana and her children, and since then he had not bothered to see Agnes again. There seemed little point. He was convinced that Juliana must have told her sister all about him. Agnes must know all that Daniel did. Except there was a vulnerability about her. Surely she couldn’t think that he was innocent. .

‘Well, you go back and speak to Juliana,’ he said.

‘Yes. Of course,’ she said happily, and she gave him a smile as she left.

She’d known all along that there was no truth in the silly story. How could anyone think that her darling man could murder? It was absurd.

At the door she turned to wave, and caught sight of a cold, dead expression in his eyes. Just for a moment she saw him stare at her almost like a butcher studying a hog to be slaughtered, and then it was gone and her quick apprehension left her as he smiled and waved back.

No, she had imagined that expression. Her man could never wear a look like that. He loved her … and then she was pulled up in the middle of the street as a terrible thought struck her.

Juliana had said Jordan had threatened her, but what if he desired her now? Perhaps Juliana had stolen his heart, just as she had taken Daniel’s when it was really Agnes he loved.

No. This was nonsense. Jordan loved her, and no one else.

If only he wasn’t already married. Agnes could wish Mazeline dead.