The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Twenty

The last time Baldwin had seen Simon Puttock, the bailiff had been leaving for Dartmouth again. Now, as he entered the Dean’s hall and saw the bailiff standing cupping a goblet of wine in his hand at the window, Baldwin felt for the first time very little joy.

When they had parted, only a couple of weeks ago, Baldwin had been sad to see his companion leaving for his new home, but that sadness was caused by the knowledge that he wouldn’t be seeing Simon again for some while. Now, seeing Simon here in the Dean’s house, he knew full well that there must be a good reason for the bailiff’s appearance. Especially since Simon had plainly ridden from Dartmouth and had come straight here without taking time for a rest. His hosen and padded coat were thickly spattered with mud of various hues: dull, peaty marks from around Dartmoor, lighter clay soil from the lands about Totnes, and bright red mud from nearer Exeter.

Tall and muscular, his features burned by the sun during his journeys in the last few months, Simon was a strong, powerful man with intelligence shining in his dark grey eyes. As the Abbot of Tavistock’s man in Dartmoor, he had come a long way since Baldwin had first met him seven or so years ago, and those years had been fairly kind to him. The only sign that he was over six and thirty was the greying hair at his temples.

‘I came as soon as your messenger arrived, Dean,’ he said warily. ‘Simon, God speed.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I should like to, er, consult you and Simon on a matter of some delicacy.’

‘Dean, I think that you should speak to the Coroner, Sir Peregrine, if you have any problems. I am still recovering,’ he added, indicating the sling which his wife had insisted that he must wear to come here.

‘Please, both, be seated. Ah, I appreciate your wounds have caused you some discomfort, and I only hope that my own request will not prove to be — um — onerous.’

‘My wife is packing as we speak, Dean, and I was hoping to be at Crediton before nightfall,’ Baldwin said.

‘Let me explain the problem, and then, if there is nothing you may do to, er, help us, then, um, you may feel free to leave immediately.’

With a bad grace Baldwin sat in a chair and listened. He knew the Dean. The man was damnably persuasive, and if he wanted Baldwin to remain here for a short while, it would upset poor Jeanne terribly. She was counting on returning home so that she could see their daughter Richalda again. It felt like too long since they had last seen her.

‘Sir Baldwin, um, we here in the chapter have had problems with the Dominicans, the Friars Preacher, for many years now. It all started when they — uh — began to encroach on our rights, just as happened in so many other dioceses. They took away some of our, er, flock by offering to listen to confessions, and we never thought that a good idea …’

‘Was it very expensive to lose the penances?’ Simon asked cheekily.

‘No, it, um, wasn’t that,’ the Dean said. He fiddled with the ring on his forefinger. ‘If a member of the congregation has committed a dreadful sin, they should, um, go and confess to their own priest. If they go to some itinerant Black Friar, whom they have, er, never met before and in all likelihood never will again, there is less, um, trepidation on their part. They will go to confession with a lighter heart. It must be less morally efficacious. And the penances may be entirely too light, which, um, means that they undermine the authority of the parish priest.’

‘I can scarcely believe that this is enough to cause you problems,’ Baldwin said.

‘It is not. They next, er, tried to take on our privilege of burying people. Of course, we have never, er, stopped them burying their own in their cloister. It is entirely right that dead friars should be buried on their own lands. But when they, er, try to take over lay burials, the whole matter changes. And that is what they have done. They took Henry Ralegh at about the turn of the century, and tried to bury him. That was so flagrant a, um, trespass, that we felt, some of us, that something must be done. So two members of the chapter hurried there with some servants as soon as we heard of it. Um.’

Baldwin looked at Simon. The bailiff was studying the Dean with an expression of amused tolerance. He glanced at Baldwin and grinned at the Dean’s discomfort.

‘It all came to a head that day, really. It, er, ended sourly. The two and their servants broke into the chapel and took the body, the cloth, the ornaments and candles, everything! All of it was quite legitimately ours, not the Black Friars’, um. But of course they fiercely denied any such suggestion. They alleged that, um, they had the right to bury a confrater who had lived with them as one of them, even if he had not actually taken on their habit. It was, um, as you can imagine, er, quite a difficult time.’

Simon gulped his wine enthusiastically. ‘So what happened? You held the funeral and buried the man, and …’

‘We held his — ah — funeral, but when we, er, took the body back to the friars, they locked their gates against us. Quite, um, childish. Naturally, there was little we could do. So we, um, left him there.’

Simon sprayed wine and guffawed. ‘You left the poor … fellow out there? What, just dumped the body and ran back to the cathedral?’

The Dean scowled distastefully. ‘We, er, had a duty to return the body to them, we felt.’

‘But you kept the candles, the cloth, the estate …’ Simon grinned.

‘They were ours. Yet if they, er, wanted to have the body, we felt …’

‘They could keep it. I think we understand.’

‘Unfortunately that was not the end of the matter. They pursued the canons involved quite, um, relentlessly. Entirely unnecessary and pointless, of course, and we won all the cases they brought against us.’

Simon’s face cleared. ‘My … you mean this is the matter that so affected the Bishop for all those years before he was installed?’

‘Yes. He was, er, one of the two canons involved.’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘This is all old history, though. What does it have to do with us now?’

‘Feelings between our two, er, institutions have not eased over time. In fact, I would, er, say that they have deteriorated recently.’

‘Why is that?’ Simon asked.

From his tone of voice Baldwin could tell that he was enjoying the Dean’s discomfiture. It was not that Simon disliked the Dean, but to hear that such pettiness had erupted between two such powerful organizations was enough to amuse any man. Not Baldwin, though; not today. He had the feeling that this was leading up to his remaining in the city for a while, and he did not like the idea.

The Dean shook his head. ‘It started over the affair of Gilbert de Knovil’s money. Do you, ah, remember him? He was a Justice, and the Sheriff at the time. No? Well, he was a reliable man, when it came to his money. He deposited some with the Friars Preacher, and they, um … well, one of their fellows, Nicholas Sandekyn from Bristol, took it. And another friar knew of the theft, as did three successive priors. So, we here in the chapter, um, rather enjoyed their embarrassment.’

‘As you would,’ Simon said. He was trying to keep a straight face.

‘Yes. Um. Well, all was cool between us for some little while, but recently they have been exercising themselves against us under their new prior, Guibert. He, um, dislikes the chapter because he was one of those who witnessed our canons taking Ralegh’s body. And the fact that some, ah, canons thought it amusing to make fun of the friars when the theft was discovered did not endear us to him.’

‘So what has made matters worse recently?’ Baldwin asked.

The Dean squirmed in his seat, winced, looked up at the ceiling, and then sighed. ‘We have had a theft from a visitor. . and a rash canon removed a second body from their chapel.’

Simon nodded seriously. He took a deep breath, looked at Baldwin, and roared with laughter.

Jordan sat in his chair for a long time after she left.

The whore, she had to know that he had been involved. Agnes couldn’t be so stupid as not to have noticed that he and Daniel detested each other. Anyway, Juliana must have told her. So Agnes was threatening … what? If Juliana accused him, no one hearing her could possibly doubt that Jordan had made sure Daniel was at last dead.

It was ridiculous to be so battened down. He was one of the wealthiest men in Exeter, and certainly one of the most powerful, bearing in mind all the men he had at his beck and call, and yet just now a tiny slip of a wench had him seriously humiliated. The poisonous bitch deserved to be swung by the ankles and dropped over the city walls. Except if Agnes were to suddenly die as well, Juliana would be bound to wonder whether her dear older sister’s death could be anything to do with Jordan. No one could be so stupid as to miss that. Ach! His head was hurting! The whistling in his ears was incessant, and so loud he wondered no one else could hear it.

The little bitch was dangerous, that much was certain. Juliana was a problem too. He could show exactly where he was on the night Daniel was murdered, but after the way the receiver and the clerk responded to him that morning, he realized that there were many who’d be willing to listen with an open mind to accusations that he had himself planned Daniel’s murder. Especially since Agnes had made that snide little comment. He must make sure that Reg kept quiet about things.

It was a while since Daniel had first declared that Jordan must never be allowed inside his house again. Agnes had spoken very carefully, as though testing him.

‘Daniel is keen to find felons in the city, isn’t he?’ she had said.

‘He is a sergeant. I suppose he must look for crime everywhere he goes,’ Jordan had replied smoothly.

‘In some cases he knows exactly where to look. He says you are lucky because you haven’t been caught yet. Did you know he’s been chasing you ever since the famine? He kept that to himself after a while, poor Daniel. But just think what others would think if they were told. You should keep your efforts hidden, lover!’ She had giggled then, and reached for him, as though she thought that making love with a felon was a delightful distraction and amusement for her.

He didn’t need to think at the time; he had known perfectly well what people would have thought. They would have thought that Jordan was a bit of a daring soul, but a good fellow on the whole. If he was involved in a little naughty behaviour, keeping whores and gambling dens, so much the better. Most of the men in the city would visit his establishments at one time or another. Yes, they would have looked up to him, most of them. And some of the more senior merchants might have sought his friendship in order to gain preferential rates.

But now Daniel had died because he was close to showing that Jordan was busy making money illegally. That might just lead a few people to investigate him more closely. That Keeper, or the Coroner … either could cause him some difficulty. He should have thought of this; should have planned this aspect better. He hadn’t thought that Juliana would tell her sister all, though. The bitches hadn’t seemed to trust each other before. Why should they start now? He couldn’t understand it.

Juliana was a threat. He had to remove her. Agnes thought she was safe with him, but she’d proved that she was as dangerous as her sister. In the past she’d been his ally; now it seemed she was her sister’s, first and foremost.

He could do the same as before, maybe: pay someone else to kill them both while Jordan was visible somewhere else, prominently drinking or playing with his companions …

Jordan frowned. Perhaps he was being too sensitive. If he went to Juliana and spoke to her, he’d soon see whether Agnes had been telling the truth. Just the first moment of entering the room would tell him whether Juliana had really said what Agnes said she had. And if she hadn’t?

If Juliana knew nothing, God help her sister: if Juliana knew nothing, Agnes must have realized herself what had happened, and she was the threat.

Although it was plain that Baldwin and the Dean were not amused at the tale or his own outburst, their seriousness only added to Simon’s mirth. He couldn’t help it — the sight of the Dean wriggling like a fish on a hook at having to confess to his chapter’s foolishness was too delightful.

‘Dean, I am deeply sorry. Please excuse my foolishness. I don’t know what caused it,’ he managed after a pause.

‘It is no, ah, laughing matter, bailiff. This goes to the heart of our chapter. It would be seriously embarrassing to the Bishop were this all to come into the open.’

Baldwin cleared his throat. ‘You want our advice?’

‘Please.’

‘Prepare for the worst. They have you, Dean. You have one hothead who has created this problem. You could try to punish him and make an exhibition of him.’

‘Why, for preventing the friars from going ahead with a funeral when they were not entitled to the estate? The fellow could have been innocent. Others have done the same, after all.’

‘So you say,’ Baldwin said.

Simon was confused by one aspect. ‘The Bishop will support you and the canon involved, won’t he? Well, then. Tell the friars to go and …’

‘Just my thought, which was why I considered a little more deeply, bailiff. I believe that they know that this could embarrass our Bishop. If, um, it was to the advantage of someone to harm the Bishop, they might, ah, choose to make the chapter the means of his destruction, might they not? They could, er, think that there was some form of amusing justice in such a plan.’

‘But how could they think to embarrass the Bishop? They’d have to have powerful allies to do that,’ Simon scoffed, but then his humour disappeared. ‘You mean the Despensers?’

‘I prefer not to think of any one person in particular,’ the Dean said precisely, but he lowered his head and peered at the two men from under his brows. ‘But think what a gift it would be to cementing their power if the only man who stood against them in the King’s favour was himself damaged. If he could be dragged back here to help sort out a dispute, that would give unfettered rein to their ambitions.’

Baldwin blew out a long breath. ‘That is a dangerous line of thought, Dean.’

‘You think I don’t realize that?’ the Dean snapped. His brow was furrowed again as he bent his head and twisted his ring about his finger.

Simon shot a look at Baldwin. The knight was clearly upset by this news, and the Dean was gravely concerned. To Simon’s mind the matter was less worrying than they seemed to think. The Bishop was a powerful magnate, twice the Lord High Treasurer to the King. ‘Tell me, wasn’t he an ally of the Despensers, though? I thought that he was made Treasurer in the first place because of his closeness to the Despensers. Wasn’t that right?’

‘I believe so,’ the Dean answered. ‘But, um, he disagreed with the King about allowing them back into the country after they had been exiled. He resigned, you remember? He is back in the King’s favour again now, but it has been a hard struggle for him. Although he’s the Treasurer again, I believe the Despensers haven’t forgotten he wanted them permanently exiled. They have long memories, and are vindictive. If they could, I believe they would crush him.’

‘What do you want us to do about it, Dean?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I want you to discover whether there is a scheme afoot to blacken the Bishop’s name and ours. I want to know whether this nonsense about the body was deliberately concocted. And there is one other thing: a robbery in the chapter. The friars are bruiting abroad the fact that a miserable merchant came to our cathedral, made use of our hospitality, and then accused us of robbing him. A Master Gervase de Brent.’

‘Was he actually robbed here?’

‘I do not know. I shall introduce you to a vicar — Thomas of Chard. He is an old companion of mine, a sound fellow. He has heard that the man Gervase was seen wandering down near the stews with another man the day he reckoned to have lost his money.’

‘And?’ Simon prompted.

The Dean gave a twisted smile. ‘I have heard that a man might easily be robbed in a place like that, Master Bailiff. What do you think? Is it possible?’

Jordan was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. If action was needed, he would take it. His decisiveness grew as his headache retreated.

The interview with his lover had been unsettling. It wasn’t terribly important. Damn it, if she was a threat, he would destroy her. He’d had some pleasure with her, but that was all in the past now. Soon she must grow to appreciate that Juliana’s fear of him was well founded. And he hadn’t necessarily finished with her, either. Her children were Daniel’s too, and he wasn’t content to leave any survivors who could later come and threaten him. There was no point leaving enemies alive; he had learned long ago that the only safety lay in utter ruthlessness. And he was ruthless.

He was unsettled, yes, but perhaps it was good that he was. It meant he could view the situation rationally. First, he had to assess the threat from Juliana. If he could, he would let her live. There was no point in building up too many corpses. If she appeared willing to forget the accusation that she had made against him and would agree not to denounce him, she could live. And so could her children. And Agnes, come to that — unless she were to persuade Reg to confess to Jordan’s part in the matter: the money paid and fact that it was all Jordan’s idea to murder the sergeant. That would put paid to his defence that he was out gambling and whoring on the night Daniel died. Conspiracy to murder was as bad as actually dealing the lethal blow.

All this trouble was making the noises start again. Not too intrusive yet, but just annoying enough to distract him. It was all this trouble Agnes was putting him to. There was no need for it. Not really. It made his head ache.

He would go to Juliana now and speak with her. It was only right that a man should pay his respects to the widow of Sergeant Daniel. Accordingly, he collected a cotte and hat against the chilly November air, and only when he was at his door did he realize that his bitch of a wife was not back yet. She had gone to speak to that prickle of a physician, he guessed, and should have been back by now. No matter. If she was going to remain out there for an age, that was fine, so long as she made sure that there was food ready on the table when he wanted it, later.

The way over to Juliana’s was easiest down to the high street, then west, and he set off with a swagger, a blackthorn stick in his hand, whistling cheerfully enough.

‘Ho! Master Jordan le Bolle!’

Jordan heard the call and spun immediately. It was ever best to be on one’s guard against thieves — and officers — but it was only the physician. ‘Yes?’

‘I am Ralph of Malmesbury, sir. I am a physician.’

‘Yes. I have seen you,’ Jordan said with a patronizing air. ‘What of it? Do you have to call for business in the street?’

‘No. Enough comes to my door, master. And you seem competent to send it to me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your wife. You beat her extensively, Master Jordan, and I would have you treat her more honourably.’

Jordan’s jaw clenched. He had suffered enough from foolish accusations today. ‘You mean to tell me how to treat my wife?’ he asked coldly. ‘Have you never heard that a man’s relationship with his wife is his own affair?’

‘Within a tithing, even a dispute between husband and wife may become the legitimate interest of the tithing man, master, and when the husband threatens to beat her to death, that makes it a matter of concern to all. I have written a record of your wife’s injuries, and I would have you treat her more reasonably in future, because if you do not, in Christ’s name, I’ll-’

‘What, little man? Steal her from me? Is that it? You want her for yourself?’ Jordan could feel his temper fray. Normally he would dash out the brains of a fool who accosted him in the street like this and he’d be damned if he’d suffer more of it. There was no one in the street looking their way. He hissed, ‘Send her back to me, and I’ll show you what happens to a treacherous bitch who can’t keep her mouth shut when talking to other men about her marriage and her husband.’

‘If you beat her again, you may kill her, you fool, and then you’ll be before the court.’

Jordan leaned forward, head jutting belligerently. ‘You think so? Maybe, little leech, you’ll find yourself up there in front of the justice, with an accusation of adultery on your head. Eh?’

‘I piss on you, you-’

This time his speech was cut off as Jordan’s blackthorn stick rose and met his windpipe. In an instant, Ralph was pushed back into a doorway, the stick at his throat, and already his breath was restricted. Jordan was heavier than him, much broader and more powerful. Physicians tended not to need much muscle, and Ralph was starting to choke when Jordan released the stick and patted him disdainfully on the head.

‘Stick to leechcraft, little man. Stay looking after my whores if you like them so much. Leave big, bad fighting to real men. And don’t ever think to threaten me again,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘Because I swear on my mother’s soul that next time, I’ll put my fist down your throat and choke you on your entrails.’