The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Est realized something was wrong as soon as he entered the room. His palliasse was spread over the floor, his rugs and blankets thrown aside as though he had been sleeping here only a short while ago. There was a mess of discarded food on the floor, bits and pieces from a meal of a pie and a chicken leg, and there, on the floor with them, tangled and filthy after wiping a pair of bloody hands, was Emma’s apron.

Slowly falling to crouch on his haunches, Estmund felt the breath sobbing in his throat. He put out a hand to touch the defiled material, his eyes brimming, but he couldn’t quite do it. His fingers reached to within an inch, but then stopped, and his fingertips trembled a moment before he drew them away again. He couldn’t. Not now. Her fragrance would have been washed away by the foul invader who’d done this to his home. Their home.

He stood. There was nothing else he could do. He had to leave this place, run away. Find some peace somewhere. He had to get out. Perhaps see Henry? Henry would help. Henry was clever like that, he would protect Est again.

Out, quick, turn right, and then along the roadway until the little alley on the right, the first one, and … Est slowed, and didn’t turn right. Instead he licked his lips, his heart racing. The night’s darkness made him bolder, and he felt the bravery seeping into his bones as though it was available to any man who breathed the night air.

Before he saw Henry, he wanted to see the little girl once more. It couldn’t hurt just once more. Henry said he shouldn’t go there, but now, so late, everyone would be asleep, so no one would know. It would be just like before, and at least he could tell whether the poor girl had been hurt. He’d be able to see whether she was ruined as he had feared after that last visit, when her father had died by Est’s knife.

Jordan had been outside the house for a while, seeking the best means of entry, but although he had waited until late, he was reluctant to walk across the street and simply beat down the door. He’d be captured for certain if he tried that. Someone would wake and call the hue and cry. So how could he gain access? There was perhaps a small window at the back that would merit investigation. He had seen an alleyway running behind the buildings which must give access to the yard behind the house, and from there he would surely be able to climb in somehow.

The yard was small and overgrown. He slipped over the wall and stared about him. The downstairs windows were all boarded and shuttered for security. Idly he walked along the rear of the house, testing one here or there, but there was no looseness, no ancient and weathered boards. He wouldn’t be able to get in from here.

Frustration was building when he felt, rather than saw, the other little shape.

A dark figure, cowled and cloaked, darted across the yard, silently slipping into the niche between two projecting storerooms. There it — he? — stopped and Jordan heard the ‘snick’ of a knife working a lock. There was a low rattle, and a squeak as a shutter was drawn wide. The figure slipped in over the sill.

Jordan was fascinated. He ran lightly to the window and peered in. The man was there in the room, standing over a large bed lying on the floor. By the light of a flickering rushlight, he saw the man bend his head and stare down.

Jordan sprang over the low ledge and pulled his knife free. It rasped against the leather scabbard, and the man heard it. He turned, and Jordan saw that it was the butcher, the one who had fled, the man whose room he had slept in. It made him chuckle, a deep, feral sound, as he walked closer.

‘Hello, butcher,’ he called quietly, and lifted his knife to stab.

‘NO!’ Estmund shrieked. He had his own knife in his hand already, and as he turned, the blade rose.

It met Jordan’s own knife, and the blades clanged as they skittered across each other. Then Jordan had his back, sweeping around to eviscerate Est. It caught on his cloak as Est’s own blade ripped across his belly, and he stepped back in alarm, a hand at the long gash.

He stared at the blood on his hand, turning his palm to meet the flickering light. It was blood, his blood! No one had ever hurt him like that before, not ever! He put his hand to his belly again, and now he could feel the pain starting, a terrible pain that seemed to rise in his groin and reach up to his heart.

With a bellow of incoherent rage, he leaped forward again. He heard a cry from the ground, and, turning, saw the little boy awake, bawling, the girl snapping alert, grabbing the boy and pulling him to her, and the distraction was enough to make him change his blade’s direction and aim it at the children. Bastards, both of them, mongrels from the womb of that whore upstairs, impregnated by that devil’s turd Daniel.

Est had seen the movement, and hurled himself at Jordan. His knife entered under Jordan’s ribcage, snagging on bone, and Jordan roared again, with mingled rage and pain. He brought his fists down on Est’s back, pounding and stabbing at him again and again, until Est fell away, but in that time the children had disappeared, and now there was a light in the passageway, and voices. The staircase was near and he heard a high, keening shriek. Looking up, he saw Agnes and Juliana. In a fit of rage, he snatched up Est’s knife and hurled it at them, shouting his defiance and fury, kicking Est’s body twice, seeing it jerk. Then, screaming abuse, he hurtled through the window and out into the yard.

He ran as fast as he could over the scrubby land, reached the wall, threw himself over, and stood leaning against it, panting. There were calls, then a horn was blown, and he forced himself up and on. He had to escape, get away. Must go to … to Reg’s. Reg would protect him. He had places to hide a man.

Sir Peregrine had been drinking a last cup of wine with Sir Baldwin and Simon when they heard the tumult in the streets. A rowdy mob appeared to rush past the inn, and then there were more shouts and commands.

The Coroner threw down his cup and ran to the door. ‘What is going on?’

A man stopped. ‘Coroner, there’s been an attack — someone’s broken into the sergeant’s house again. They say a man’s dead!’

‘My heaven!’ Sir Peregrine gasped.

Baldwin was at his side. ‘Edgar, you stay with Jeanne. Let no one past the door until I return. Clear?’

Edgar nodded and disappeared towards their room. Meanwhile Simon was buckling his sword belt, gripping the hilt, testing it in the sheath. ‘Where was this killing?’

‘Follow me,’ Sir Peregrine ordered, and pelted off down the hill towards Juliana’s house.

All the way, he couldn’t help but ask himself what he would do were she to be hurt. It was a terrible thought, but already he was looking on her as a possible lover. It was ridiculous, of course. She would want to spend a decent period in mourning no matter what he wanted, and even then she might not look favourably on him. Perhaps she simply didn’t like him. It was possible. He was not the most attractive man in the world, when all was said and done, and there were plenty of better catches for a lovely woman like her. No, she wouldn’t want him. But just in case she might, he wanted to think that she was unhurt.

There were lights everywhere. The place was brimming with people, some shouting, two crying, one sitting numbly on the steps leading to the door. Most were noisy, animated with excitement. It took some effort to forge a path through them all and reach the back room.

‘My … lady,’ he gasped as he saw Juliana. She sat on the side of a palliasse, and in her arms were her two children. Both were wailing with fear, and when she looked up at him, he saw a silent panic in her eyes. Agnes was not far away, weeping, and the old widow Gwen was washing her hands in a bucket. Only then, as his heart was filling with relief at their safety, did he suddenly notice the spreading stain at her breast, and he felt his entire body chill.

Baldwin pushed Sir Peregrine aside. ‘What happened here?’

Juliana could say nothing. It was Agnes who spoke, her voice taut with fear and misery, her hand on her sister’s shoulder as though afraid to let go. ‘I was here sleeping with Juliana to keep her company, and we heard the children screaming, so we hurried down the stairs, and there were two men fighting down here. Him and another,’ she said, pointing to Est’s body.

‘It was Jordan,’ Juliana said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she had to cough several times as she spoke, small droplets of blood spattering the palm of her hand. ‘Jordan le Bolle. He came back to kill my darlings. The death of my husband was not enough; he wanted to take away my precious ones too.’

The girl burrowed her face into her mother’s neck. ‘I thought he was going to kill me,’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t die, Mummy, don’t leave me!’

For a moment no one could speak. Peregrine could feel the tears in his eyes, but couldn’t trust his voice. He glanced at the other men, and Baldwin caught his glance. The Keeper’s eyes were shining too, and Peregrine had a suspicion that he was thinking of his own daughter. At last Baldwin said gruffly, ‘Don’t worry, child, we won’t let him come back again.’

‘I don’t want to have him here again.’

‘He won’t come back,’ Baldwin said quietly, but with conviction. ‘We shall see to that, maid.’

He glanced at Simon. Both had the same thought: that this child would soon be orphaned. ‘Jordan escaped from here?’

‘Yes, Keeper,’ a man called. ‘But us’ll ketch him.’

Simon asked, ‘Did you hear anything? Did this Est say anything?’

Agnes nodded, her hand gripping her sister’s shoulder more tightly. ‘When Jordan fled, he said one thing. He put out his hand to Cecily here and said, “Farewell, Cissy.”’

‘Cissy? Why say that?’ Baldwin asked.

Agnes shrugged. She could feel Juliana shivering, and suddenly heard the chattering of teeth. The thought that this ruin was her fault, caused by her adultery with Jordan, was enough to make her feel physically sick … No, it was more a bone weariness and despair. This was her fault: Jordan had only seduced her in order to snare Daniel, and now he had killed Juliana in revenge for the destruction of his plans.

It was Cecily who stirred from her mother’s shoulder. In the dim light she looked like an old woman as she gazed at Baldwin. ‘It was his daughter. He loved her. He told me.’

She glanced at his body, and then started weeping again for her mother.

Jordan had to run fast. He could hear the shouts and cries as the hunters hared after their quarry: him. There was a street ahead. It was the high street, and he paused, then ran straight over, darting into a noisome alley, rushing down it at full tilt until he reached the turn he was looking for, a second alley, slightly wider than the last. He ran on, his hand on his belly, the pain growing like a burn, and suddenly came out into a broader way near the main gate to the priory. Turn right, quick, then along the tiny way that gave out to the back. No one knew the second door, only him and Reg. That was why it was safe. He knew it so well, he could go along this path blindfold. He felt his way along the wall, found the gate, opened it and entered the garden.

At once all the noises of the city were muted. He took a deep breath, winced, felt again at his belly, and realized that he was losing a lot of blood. The shirt was drenched, so it felt. He thought he should find a leech. Shame he couldn’t go back to that short fat bastard in his street. He’d have been competent, surely.

There was a pattering of booted feet approaching down the alley. Quickly he rushed across the yard to the door. It was a plain timber door, half obscured by an old rose that climbed this wall. Just as he reached it, the voices of his pursuers came from the other side of the garden wall, and he didn’t dare knock in case they heard.

He shrank into the stonework and listened, his mouth agape, trying to sort out what was happening. There were several men shouting farther up the street, and occasional whispers at the other side of the wall.

And then he heard the other sound, the soft, kind, sweet voice of his own dear wife.

‘Where can he go?’ Baldwin muttered. Simon and he were standing in the street again, staring northwards along the way, as though by dint of concentration they could pierce all the buildings with their eyes and see the running figure of Jordan.

Simon had his sword in his hand already. ‘Christ Jesus, if someone did that to my Meg … she’s going to die, isn’t she?’

‘She cannot live,’ Baldwin said with certainty.

Simon nodded, and gripped his hilt more firmly. He’d be happy to cut the murderer’s head from his shoulders to repay him for the suffering of the family in that room.

‘He has been concealed all day,’ Baldwin reasoned. ‘He must have a place to hide somewhere.’

Simon nodded. ‘He must have gone to Reg’s place — or if he didn’t, surely Reg will know where he has been. They were close partners, those two.’

‘He may be hiding there now,’ Baldwin agreed.

They grabbed three men and set off at a fast pace.

Reginald was satisfied. He rolled over in bed and put his hand out to the jug. After that one cry of delight, Mazeline was already almost asleep, and he had to pull his arm from beneath her where he had been cupping her breast, so that he could rise. He wanted to know what the noise was outside. There was so much shouting and rattling of weapons, he wondered at first whether the rebel Mortimer had landed at Topsham and come to attack the city to steal it from the King … but that was crazy. If there’d been anything like that, he’d have heard before now. No, it had to be something else. He climbed up from his bed, and went to the hall. From there he could hear the shouts again, but now they seemed to be growing fainter. There was less noise in the street.

Ach, it was likely just the apprentices again. Every so often the little devils would run riot, enjoying themselves for a few hours before the law caught up with them. It was hard to criticize. After all, everyone was young once, and they’d all participated in similar activities.

He chuckled to think of the things that he and Jordan had got up to, and then, as the noises faded, he stopped. His humour left him as he heard the soft tapping on the door. Only two people knew of that door.

In fear, he stood stock still for a moment, convinced that Jordan would come straight in, and then he realized that he must have locked the door after Mazeline when she had entered. Quickly, he ran to the sideboard, and pulled it from the wall. Pushing with all his strength, he rammed it against the door and jammed it.

‘Wha … Reg, what are you doing?’ Mazeline asked as she slowly woke up.

There was an appalling crash on the door, then another, and the timbers moved. Reg instinctively knew that Jordan had taken a bench from the garden and was using it as a ram to break down the door. Mazeline slowly crept from the bed and went to his side. Silently, Reg took Mazeline’s hand and pulled her to him. Naked, both of them stood and stared at the door as it moved and bounced to the rhythm of Jordan’s rage.

He hurled the bench at the door, his impotence firing his rage and pushing him almost beyond coherent thought. Yet he must think … think!

His bitch of a wife was betraying him. He should have realized the whore would do that as soon as his back was turned, but with Reg? Reg, his oldest comrade, the man who had been with him since the beginning, who had only recently killed his own worst enemy; to learn that he was the traitor to whom his wife had run was appalling.

How could they do this to him? He had done nothing to deserve their treachery, nothing to merit this sort of treatment. They were faithless, dishonest bastards, and deserved to die. They should die. They would die, just as soon as he could return.

He could hear more voices, and this time he knew he must escape. Somehow he must get out of the city, out into the countryside where he’d be safer. There was only one way he could go.

With his hand to his belly, he went to the garden’s gate again, listened, and then slipped out, making his way southwards, to the Southern Gate and the brothel.

Sir Peregrine stood staring a long while as Juliana grew paler, her features twisted in anguish. ‘Has someone gone for the damned leech?’ he called brokenly.

‘Aye, and the priest. They’ll be here before long,’ Gwen murmured. ‘Be calm.’

He could feel the sobs welling in his breast. There was nothing he could do. He was impotent in the face of the woman’s grief and pain. ‘Juliana …’

‘Coroner, don’t grieve for me. I will be with my husband soon,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘But I pray you, look after my children. I beg you, don’t leave them unprotected. Please, I pray …’

Even at this time, the hour of her death, she thought of others. Sir Peregrine, who had never known the pleasure of fatherhood, bent his head and closed his eyes to stem the flood. ‘I will. They will have me as their father.’

‘Pray for me, Coroner.’

Her soft voice was like the wind soughing through distant trees. Her eyes were gradually losing their intensity. An unfocused glaze was appearing in them as Gwen mopped her brow. Cecily was weeping uncontrollably on Juliana’s shoulder still, while her brother snivelled with confusion. He had no understanding that this heralded his utter bereavement, but he could appreciate the despair in the room.

When the priest came running in, the balm of holy water and promise of everlasting life in his hands, Sir Peregrine could stand it no more. He left the room and went out into the road, thinking with a cool, steady clarity: Jordan had wrought this desolation and Jordan would pay with his life.

Jordan had no friends, but he had several employees, who by their nature were more likely to live outwith the city walls in the rougher suburbs; people who inhabited the gambling rooms and whorehouses near the quay. He turned and stared along the road in that direction.

‘There’s only one place he’d go,’ Sir Peregrine murmured to himself. ‘The place where he was king: his gambling and whoring rooms.’

As he spoke, Ralph appeared, sprinting along the way. ‘Master Coroner — what is happening here?’

‘Jordan le Bolle came here and tried to murder the sergeant’s widow. I think he has succeeded. The priest is with her now.’

Ralph spat into the road. ‘Him! He is the one who killed the whore, too, I think. He owned that brothel.’

Sir Peregrine nodded: Jordan wanted the sergeant removed for coming too close to exposing his activities regarding the cathedral; he killed the pander and the whore because they were leaving the city; and now he had tried to kill Daniel’s wife too.

Ralph shot a look in the house, then made a decision. ‘Wait here a moment and I can show you.’ He ran inside, unslinging his pack as he went. It took little time to realize that Juliana’s interests were better served by the ministrations of the priest than by all his best herbs. He poured more of his precious burned wine, giving some to her and the rest to Agnes and the children, then stood staring down at Juliana. She had very little time left, he thought, and he felt his heart seem to contract and move with sympathy at the sight of the lovely woman as her beauty dissolved. And then the sympathy and sadness faded and were replaced by a cold, determined rage.

He ran out into the road, and found the Coroner standing still, a hand over his eyes. ‘Sir Peregrine, come with me!’

Jordan reached the gate and stood there panting, his back to the wall. There was the loud snoring of a drunk in the gaol beside the gate itself, and apart from that he was astonished to find that all was quiet. He tilted his head, but there was nothing. Just perfect, peaceful silence. He smiled to himself and set his shoulders. There was a water trough a short way inside the gate, and he walked to it and began to rinse his hands of Est’s blood. Much had spread from his own wound over his shirt, and he thought to himself that he should get a clean one from somewhere. The dangling flaps of linen soaked in his blood were foul. At least the pain had subsided. It was only a dull throbbing now, and scarcely distracted him.

The gate was closed, but that was normal. He banged on the porter’s door, and waited while there was a shuffling from inside, and then the glow of a lamp, hastily lit. There was a wheeze, then a demand to know who it was at his door in the middle of the poxed night, when all decent citizens should be long abed.

‘It’s me, old man. Let me out. I have to see Betsy, and keep quiet about me being here.’

‘Jordan?’ The bolts were shot back and the door opened to display one suspicious eye. It widened as it took in Jordan’s bloodied clothing. ‘Master, you’re dying!’

‘Don’t be a fool all your life, old man! Do you have spare linen I can take?’ Jordan snapped. He pulled off the tattered remains of his shirt and studied it dispassionately. It was ruined, and he tore it up into strips. His belly was a mess. He could see that. In the light, he saw that the blade had jabbed upwards from beside his belly button, a four-inch gash that had miraculously not penetrated his lungs or touched his heart.

He quickly bound his wound with the strips of linen, and then took the old man’s only spare shirt. It was foul and small, but it would have to do. It was too cool out in the open for him to do without a shirt of some sort. He only regretted that he had not grabbed a cotte when he had been at home, but that stupid bitch, the stupid, treacherous bitch Mazeline had screamed so loudly and suddenly that he’d had no choice. He’d had to go.

Where was Jane? He couldn’t leave the city without his little sweeting. He must find her too. He turned and almost bolted back the way he had come, but then he saw the flaring of lights in the road: men with torches. There was a horn-call from a few short alleys away. His pursuers were all over the place; he could never reach Jane and bring her back here to safety … he must escape for now, and return later to fetch her. At the same time he could cut the throat of his wife and that other traitor, Reginald. They’d both pay for their behaviour tonight.

‘Did you hear about the other whore? A second’s been killed, so they say. Not just Anne now, but another,’ the porter said, eyeing his wound with a speculative expression as though assessing how long Jordan could live.

‘I heard. I’m off there now to see if I can discover her murderer.’

‘How did you get that?’

‘A footpad just now.’ Jordan laughed. ‘It’s nothing, but he’ll never attack another man!’

‘Good, Master Jordan.’

The wicket gate was opened, and he slipped through and started off towards the brothel. Later he’d get Jane somehow.