The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Seven

There was that snuffling again, and if Jeanne had heard that every night for the last few years she would be out of her mind by now. As things were, she listened to it sympathetically and even with some thankfulness.

Edgar had been guarding his master from a murderous attack when he was knocked down. This snuffling was the result. Jeanne only hoped that whatever was causing it would eventually right itself, because if she knew Edgar’s wife Petronilla, he would not be forgiven for keeping her awake at night.

The main thing was that both these men, one whom she regarded with the single-minded adoration of a girl for a first lover, the other with the respect of a mistress for an entirely faithful servant who would die in order to protect his master and herself, were alive and safe, although Baldwin was not quite out of the woods yet. His physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, an insufferably arrogant man with the manners of a prince who knew his own importance, had drawn Jeanne aside only four days ago to tell her to watch her man carefully.

‘If he begins to find himself breathless, or his colour changes, let me know, madam. And if his humours appear disordered, send for me.’

She knew what that meant, of course. The well-being of a man’s body depended upon maintaining the correct balance of the natural humours. Baldwin had always been somewhat sanguine, and she had more than once been a little anxious at the sight of his reddened complexion after he had taken exercise. Even more concerning was his occasional lapse into a phlegmatic disposition, such as when he had to spend too much time at one of the many courts at which he sat in justice; at such times his manner became desperately indolent. He would drink more than usual and eat more, and his belly would begin to grow until he had a paunch.

If anything, he was looking quite phlegmatic just now, she felt. While Edgar snored quietly on his palliasse on the floor by their door, Jeanne eyed her husband.

He lay on his back with his face to the ceiling, his expression, even in sleep, fixed into that intense glower which she recognized so well. The first time she had seen that look she had thought that it denoted either doubt or disapproval, but more recently she’d realized that it was a sign of his confusion about the world. He had many secrets … she knew a few of them, but she knew also that there were large parts of his life about which she might never learn. It didn’t concern her. Provided he continued to love her, that was all that mattered. She could still recall her desperation only a short while ago when she had thought that she had lost his love. That had hurt her more than she had thought possible. It was appalling to think that her man could have grown like her first husband, the unlamented Ralph de Liddinstone.

No. Baldwin was not like him. He was kind, generous-hearted and thoughtful. He had a natural empathy with others that went deeper than mere understanding of another man’s position. Baldwin had endured a depth of suffering that meant he could comprehend how others reacted to their own pain.

She loved him. A hand went to his face to stroke his cheek, but although she allowed it to hover a little way above him, she couldn’t disturb him. He looked so restful. Even the intensity of the frown on his face only served to make him look more childlike, somehow, like a boy trying to understand what made a river continue to flow and never empty. There was a depth of innocence in his expression that was entirely endearing to her.

There was a rattling at the inn’s front door, and she saw his face stiffen slightly. A disturbance in Edgar’s breathing told her that he too was awake. At the sound of steps and a shout, Edgar sprang up. Still naked, he snatched his sword from the stool beside his makeshift bed. At the same time Baldwin tried to rise, grunting as the pain in his shoulder returned. He stood flexing the muscles for a moment, then picked up his sword and drew the blade free of the scabbard, the blue steel flashing as he tested its weight on his wrist, spinning it round and round.

‘Sir Baldwin! There’s a message for you. The Coroner asks you to go with him.’

Baldwin threw a look over his shoulder at his wife, who drew the bedclothes up to her chin with a smile. ‘Leave me a moment and I shall be with you,’ he called, and reached for his clothes.

The body lay at the foot of the stairs. Not far from him there was a discarded rag doll, and Baldwin was struck by the similarity between the two figures. Both looked derelict, unnecessary and unloved. The doll should have been in the child’s arms; the man should still have been in his wife’s bed. Instead they had been cast aside lifeless. Neither possessed even the semblance of vigour.

‘What happened?’ Baldwin asked.

The man at the body’s side was a youngster with a perpetually running nose. Watery grey eyes peered at Baldwin from under reddened lids, and he gripped his staff with the resolution of a man clinging to a rope dangling over a chasm. ‘The maid said that there was someone down here. They heard the children cry out, and he came down. His woman followed to help, and was just in time to see the murderer getting out through the window.’

‘Did anybody else see the man?’

‘Only the wife and the little girl.’

‘Where is the woman?’

The man nodded towards the front of the building. ‘She’s taken the two children to the neighbour’s house over the road: widow Gwen’s place. Took them in as soon as their screams were heard.’

‘Some people can show true Christian charity,’ the Coroner observed.

He had entered in Baldwin’s wake, and Baldwin felt his hackles rise just to hear that smooth, silky voice behind him. It was unjustified, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about this knight that always rubbed him up the wrong way. He nodded curtly, and instantly felt guilty as Sir Peregrine led the way back out into the road. There was no need to be gratuitously rude to the man. He was only performing his duties in the way he knew best. It was no crime to make a comment on the kind behaviour of a neighbour.

On the road Sir Peregrine paused. ‘I would ask, Sir Baldwin, that you be kind to the woman. She has seen much to disturb her this night.’

It was tempting to snap at him, but Baldwin took a breath and agreed. He walked along behind the Coroner, meeting a glance from his servant. Edgar smiled broadly.

‘I know,’ Baldwin muttered. Both of them could remember how Daniel had walked alone from St Peter’s on the previous Sunday. Juliana had walked some distance in front of her man as though not with him. Perhaps she disliked him — even hated him? ‘Yes, I know: Estmund was not viewed as a threat by people, or they would have attacked him, or at least threatened him with the law. Instead they tolerated him because of his loss. And of course many times a man’s murder will be caused by a jealous wife.’

Peter de la Fosse shivered as he pulled on his robe, and licked his lips nervously. Out in the close, he knew his men would be waiting, and he stared fixedly at the cross before he could think of joining them.

‘God, forgive me if this is wrong, but I am only a weak man,’ he pleaded. He bent his head in an obeisance, and walked quickly from his hall into the bright November day.

It was all Jordan’s fault, he told himself. One series of mistakes, and he would spend his life in regrets — but there was nothing else he could do. How else could a man survive when caught up in such sinful times?

He had never felt that he had a vocation for the Church. The third son of an esquire, he had shown a certain skill for writing and reading at an early age, and the local priest had been so impressed that he had written himself to the Bishop’s man. Soon a message had come back asking Peter to go to the cathedral, and the path of his life was set out for him. He would become a chorister, then a secondary, and finally a vicar. If he was very fortunate, he might be elevated into the cathedral’s chapter.

And so, in due course, he became a canon — but by that time he was in debt, heavily in debt, to Jordan le Bolle.

The man was a snake. He had no feelings for others, only the desire to benefit himself. He owned the brothels where Peter had first been tempted by female flesh, and the gambling dens below where the cleric had gradually frittered away all his money, and inevitably, in time, he owned Peter.

Perhaps, if he had been more courageous years ago, Peter could have gone to the Dean or the Bishop and admitted what he’d done. The penance might have been severe, but it would have been better than this extended horror. He might not love the cathedral as he should, but there was a foulness in continually acting to the detriment of a holy place like this.

At least his actions today were justified. He was convinced of that.

Perhaps he should speak to the Dean and explain why he had become so deeply involved with Jordan le Bolle. The Dean was an intelligent, understanding man of the world. He must see that there was nothing else that Peter could have done.

The canon was the victim of a felon’s malevolent will.

Juliana Austyn was a beautiful woman. Baldwin had never considered himself immune from the attractions of ladies who possessed physical splendour, but he was still shocked by the impact her glance had upon him. She was slim and dark, with a face that was almost triangular, her chin was so fine. A small mouth didn’t marr her looks, it merely seemed in proportion — or perhaps it was that the mouth and nose emphasized her large grey-green eyes. They were serious today, but he could all too readily imagine them fired with passion, and the thought was curiously unsettling. Looking at the other men here, he could see that they were struck by the same impression.

Sir Peregrine was deliberately avoiding her gaze as though he feared that a single gleam from her eye could make him fall into an adolescent fit of giggling and nervousness. Edgar was more confident. He gave the woman his full attention, turning to face her directly, as though there was no one else in the room, and Baldwin had to conceal a smile. His servant had always been a confident and successful seducer, ever since the destruction of their Order. It was almost as though he had felt himself constrained all the time that he had been a Templar, and once he was freed from the shackles of his vows he went on to make up for all the years of abstinence. Clearly Edgar felt this woman was deserving of attention. Her beauty certainly made her worth the hunt, although Baldwin felt sure Edgar would regret any adultery were he to attempt it; his wife Petronilla would be bound to learn of it. Nothing could be concealed from her, and if she were to feel herself let down, Edgar would not be long in knowing about it. In any case, Baldwin did not wish to see Edgar propositioning a recently bereaved widow. He must make that plain to his man.

Strangely, seeing his servant’s reaction made Baldwin more confident, and the look of sheep-like humility on Sir Peregrine’s face only served to strengthen his resolve.

‘Your husband was murdered last night?’

‘In the middle of the night,’ she agreed. Her eyes were turned to him, and they held a confidence and self-assurance that was rather out of place. ‘I heard a noise, and woke my husband, but before he could get down the stairs our daughter screamed. Cecily has always been a good sleeper and is not prey to mares at night, so when we heard that, Daniel grasped his sword and ran down the stairs.’

‘You went with him?’

‘When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw him struggling with someone. I screamed, I think, and …’ Her face had lost its composure now, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out over her brow. She lowered her face, and Baldwin was instantly reminded of an actor he had once seen, pretending a display of grief. His mistrust of the woman grew.

‘Continue, lady.’

‘I saw them fight. I saw a dagger,’ she said, but her eyes wouldn’t meet his. ‘And then my husband collapsed like a pole-axed calf. Straight down on the floor.’ The body had lain there like a wretched felon’s. At first she had wondered, but then she saw that although his eyes appeared to be staring at her they were unfocused, their ire directed towards someone else she couldn’t see. ‘He was dead.’

‘Who else saw this fight?’

‘My little Cecily. Arthur, my son, had covered his head, I think. He saw or heard nothing, or so he says. He is terribly young. Only four years old.’

‘And your daughter?’

‘She is nine.’

‘Your husband told us of the man Webber who entered your house at night. He has been doing this for long?’

‘Six years or so.’

‘And in all that time you’ve been living in fear of him?’

‘Of course not!’

Baldwin and Sir Peregrine exchanged a glance. Sir Peregrine was frankly surprised. Baldwin said, ‘But your husband told us that he feared this man. So what had changed? Why be afraid of him now?’

She shook her head obstinately. ‘I don’t know why Daniel was more worried recently.’

‘Has there been a suggestion that Estmund Webber is suddenly more dangerous?’

She shook her head again. ‘No.’

‘Daniel must have had some reason for his suspicion of him, surely?’ Sir Peregrine asked more gently.

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Come, woman, he must have had cause to fear something,’ Baldwin said. ‘And he was right, too, wasn’t he? Someone must have warned him of some danger!’

She said nothing, but her eyes filled with tears again and she looked away.

Baldwin studied her for a few moments. ‘Tell me, good lady. Who could have wanted your man dead? Did he have many enemies?’

‘Of course he did! He was an officer. Do you think you have none?’

Baldwin smiled at her sudden outburst. It was true enough that any man who spent his days capturing law-breakers and seeing to their accusation and conviction would inevitably earn himself adversaries who would be glad to see him removed. Daniel was no different from any other in this. ‘So you think that this attacker in the night was a man who bore your husband a grudge?’

His words brought her head round as though their import suddenly struck at her. ‘“Grudge”? Why do you call it that? No, there was nothing like that!’

Baldwin hesitated. He had been in situations like this before, when a careless choice of words had led to an unexpected retort. Her reaction was not that of a woman who was following the same line of thought as his own. He had meant only that an officer of the law would know people who might have had reason to want to revenge themselves upon him. Baldwin knew of three men whose brother or father had been executed as a result of his own enquiries, and he was always alert to the possibility of an attack from them. Surely Daniel had similar contacts who could desire his death — such as friends of the old man who had died when Daniel struck him on the head.

But she was not thinking of that when she responded. No, she had the shock of a new idea in her mind, unless he was much mistaken: an idea that horrified her. He wondered what it might be.

It had always been intended to be a moderately quiet affair. There was little need for a ceremony full of pomp and nonsense. John had already seen that Guibert didn’t want that, and he was sure that Sir William would have preferred a solemn, calm funeral without any fuss. After all, he had been strongly swayed by John’s preaching, and the language John had used about the failings of modern life had influenced Sir William to the end.

Sir William had been a brave man when he was younger, of course. His youth had been spent as a pilgrim in the Holy Land, earning himself a reward in Heaven. Any man who exiled himself on pilgrimage would be renewed, but one who travelled to the land of Christ Himself and fought to protect it from the heathen would win a plenary indulgence. Provided that he had already confessed his sins, all would be forgiven, not only on earth, but in Purgatory as well. It was a promise made long ago by Pope Urban at Clermont. There was no guarantee of an automatic place in Heaven, of course. No, that was up to God’s divine grace, and no man could be entirely certain of it. But if a man had faith and behaved honourably, there was no reason to suspect that he might be refused.

Some, of course, thought that they could escape the trap and live well here on earth and still win a place. That was why preachers like John spent so much time explaining the truth. When a man died, it was not the end. The body which had housed a man’s soul was, when dead, merely the abode of the worms which fed on his decaying flesh. In fact John was rather proud of one line of preaching he had used effectively, which described how the fatter a man’s body was, the more flames would be needed to burn him in Hell. An eternity of pain awaited those who gluttonously fed themselves vastly more than they truly needed, while the starved and scrawny would suffer less.

Sir William had paid attention to that, certainly. From the weight of his coffin, there was little left of him but skin and bone. Poor old fellow. In truth John would miss him. He had grown quite fond of Sir William of Hatherleigh.

And now the body was under the hearse, the candles were lighted, and the wintry sun was lancing in through the windows, making the dust dance like tiny angels. It was the sort of day that any man would be proud to be buried on.

There was a shout from the doorway, and a gasp from the assembled friars. John felt a cold terror suddenly grip his soul, and he was too petrified to turn and face this imminent danger. It was all he could do to glance at Prior Guibert.

The old man stood facing the altar with a distant smile on his face as a ringing clatter of weapons began to batter at the chapel’s door. He was still for a long while, and then his hand rose and stroked his pate.

Baldwin and Sir Peregrine left the woman and stood in the street for a short time, arguing.

‘She is clearly highly distressed, Sir Baldwin. Your questioning was at best impertinent when the woman was so distraught.’

‘She was as collected as a queen. There was no obvious pain there, man,’ Baldwin snapped. ‘If you want to seek justice for her and her husband, you must allow me to question as I see fit.’

‘I will not have you upsetting the recently widowed for no purpose.’

‘“No purpose”? I wish to learn the truth!’

‘But not by upsetting this lady; I won’t see you do that.’

‘Then you are not fit to serve as Coroner! It is your duty to find any evidence that might point to the culprit so that the murderer can be captured, and the fines collected for this infringement of the King’s Peace. Your job, Coroner, is to record all relevant information.’

‘I do not need a Keeper to tell me my job.’

‘Perhaps you do. You are rather new to the position, are you not?’

‘You overstep yourself, Sir Baldwin!’ Sir Peregrine hissed, and there was genuine anger in his voice.

‘No, Sir Coroner, I do not think I do!’ Baldwin said, aware of Edgar at his side. Irritably he shook his head. ‘No, Edgar! I do not intend to fight with Sir Peregrine. Sir Coroner, this is ridiculous. The woman is widowed, yes. But she may hold information which is relevant to finding her husband’s murderer.’

‘You treated her like a suspect instead of a victim.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed firmly. ‘Because I believe that she is. However, my questions were designed to establish her innocence as well as the identity of her husband’s murderer.’

‘She was perfectly clear on that point, I believe. The man, the pederast her husband spoke of, has been creeping into houses all over the city. She and her husband have seen him often enough before.’

‘Yes, which was itself curious, don’t you think? He’s been seen so often, and yet her evidence implies that it’s only recently that she and her husband have grown so concerned that they have bothered to protect their children from him. Does that not strike you as strange?’

‘There is little that surprises me about the behaviour of people,’ Sir Peregrine said.

‘There are times when their actions deserve further study. I must see the widow Gwen and the children.’

‘You cannot mean to question them too? A nine-year-old and a lad half her age?’

Baldwin snapped, ‘No. But I’d be keen to speak to someone who knows the family, and surely the woman who offered a place to the children while their mother recovered would be such a one?’

Sir Peregrine nodded. He was distracted, and knew it. Looking at the rising anger on Sir Baldwin’s face, he had the grace to feel ashamed. Sir Baldwin was not a well man yet, and here he was being roused by Sir Peregrine himself. ‘I am not sure what is the matter with me today, Sir Baldwin. I apologise for any offence given. It was not intended. Do you think that this man Webber has any bearing on the matter? For my part I can conceive of no other who would have had a hand in the murder.’

‘I can conceive of several, Sir Peregrine,’ Baldwin said. ‘First, the pederast; then any relatives of the man — Ham, was it? — whom Daniel killed the other day. And, finally, there is always the wife. No! Do not bother to rush to her defence. If she has one, we shall find it. Be that as it may, it is often the wife who kills her husband, or the husband who kills the wife, when there is a dispute in a household. Often you need look no further. Still, there are some factors which lead me away from that conclusion …’

‘What are they?’

‘Well, all too often when there is a killing within the family, you’ll smell plenty of ale or wine on both parties. There was very little in the room with that body. I smelled little if any on Daniel, and from the look of her, his wife was not drunk either. Her eyes showed little sign of it, only tears, and I didn’t notice the reek of sour wine about her. No, there is nothing that shows definitely that they were drinking and had a fight. Even the timing. I understand that the screams were heard very early this morning?’

‘The watch hurried to the hue and cry during Matins.’

‘So some while before dawn, then,’ Baldwin noted. Matins was celebrated before Prime, which was the dawn service at the cathedral. The murder had taken place not long after the middle of the night. ‘Not the sort of time at which a man should be walking the streets.’

‘No. He should have been noticed for that if nothing else.’

‘First, then, let us see whether there is any sign of an actual break-in at Daniel’s house,’ Baldwin said, and set off across the street to the sergeant’s home once more. ‘And then I would like to meet his little girl again.’

‘That would be cruel, Sir Baldwin!’ Sir Peregrine protested. ‘At least allow her some hours to recover herself and take what comfort she can from her mother.’

Baldwin stopped and stared back the way he had come, but he didn’t see the house where Juliana sat with her children and her neighbour about her. In his mind’s eye he saw his own wife shrieking with horror beside his fallen body, his face twisted in death like Daniel’s, his blood draining as quickly from the slit throat, while his daughter Richalda screamed and wailed inconsolably.

It was only recently that he had been near-mortally wounded. He clenched his fist and rotated his shoulder a little to ease the tension at his collarbone where the arrow had pierced him. Richalda and his wife hadn’t been there when he was hit, but he knew how they would have reacted had he died. And were a man to have arrived shortly after his death, demanding answers to questions such as the ones he had put to Juliana, how would Jeanne have felt? More: what would she have said had she heard that the same inquisitor was intending to question her darling Richalda too?

Hopefully Jeanne would castrate the bastard, Baldwin thought.

‘You are right, Sir Peregrine. I shall not question the child. No, we shall come to comprehend this matter without such blunt tactics.’

If only, he would later think, such snap judgements could be withdrawn and their consequences annulled. As it was, he took the decision with the best of intentions, little knowing that it would lead to many more deaths and much pain and suffering.