Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

‘The Despensers are rich beyond the dreams of any men in the country — any men other than the Despensers,’ Baldwin said quietly. He disliked speaking of such matters in such a public place, but he needs must persuade Jeanne to be cautious. ‘But their avarice seems to know no bounds. They take much, but demand still more. Where their greed will end, I cannot tell. However, I do know that now Mortimer has escaped the Tower, he will become a focus for the disaffected. I would think that a host could soon be launching itself towards our shores.’

‘War again?’ Jeanne asked.

‘Without a doubt,’ Baldwin said. ‘But this war could be more vicious and damaging even than the last. This time, if Mortimer gathers an army to him, it will be infinitely worse. The men will have little to lose on either side. All those in Mortimer’s band will be aware that the King’s revenge will know no limits. If they attack him, he will try to crush them with the utmost force available to him. And that means that Mortimer will collect the most battle-experienced mercenaries he can find. If he succeeds and brings men here, and the forces clash … I do not wish to see it.’

In his mind’s eye he could once again see that most appalling battlefield, the fight which had so directed the course of his life, the culmination of the Siege of Acre in the Holy Land. He had been only seventeen or so, and the sight of the bodies rotting and desiccating in the streets, while the heads of their comrades were flung over the walls by the ruthless Moors outside, and the population starved, would never leave him. Even now, the harsh thundering of drums could be enough to make him break into a sweat if the noise caught him unawares.

‘That man would bring war back to the country. And if the King hears of it, he will take Sir Peregrine and flay him alive to learn to whom he has spoken. If I appear to support him at all in public or in private, our lives would be at risk,’ Baldwin said, and thought of their daughter, at home in Furnshill. ‘I will not risk those whom I love for another’s vainglory.’

Reginald was hoping to see her again today. He had been to the market that morning, and while there he’d seen the basket of oysters. Well, she’d always loved them, hadn’t she? And he was partial to a mess of oysters on a plate himself. It was a lovely evening, too, and since he would be alone, because his wife had gone off to see her mother in Exmouth, it was the perfect opportunity to see his lover.

God, but it seemed a long time since he’d last been with her. Over a week, certainly, nearer two. And he was so desperate to have her. A God-damned miracle she had agreed to meet him again after the last time, the last fiasco. That was awful: realizing, just as he was getting to the short strokes, that there was someone in his boy’s chamber.

Christ Jesus, seeing that tall figure in the room had near-emasculated him. He’d stood there, staring at the man at the window, and if he’d had a moment longer to think about it, he’d have shitted himself. The idea that a stranger could be in there with his son was so terrifying, it near stopped his heart. He’d heard once of a man who was so petrified with terror on finding felons attempting to rob his house that although he had hidden safely, he had discovered the next morning that his hair had all turned white! White! As though he had aged forty years in an instant. Well, if that could happen to anyone, it was a miracle it hadn’t happened to Reg that night, because he would have sworn on his mother’s grave that the presence of the man in there meant his son was already dead.

Sweet Jesus, the sight of Michael breathing so easily had overwhelmed him. It felt as though God had forgiven him all his sins in one burst, seeing his lad there safe and sound. He would rather have cut off his own arm than see his son harmed in any way.

He assumed she would keep their assignation, but perhaps … He’d not been thinking, shouting — well, screaming, really — for his servants to come and help, then roaring at them to go to the garden. It wasn’t the way to win her over, not when he’d left her in a steam to go and check on his lad — bellowing for all his men to run through, when any one of them could have seen her there, tits swinging, trying to pull a blanket over her gorgeous body. It didn’t please her, not at all.

She had her own children. She should have understood what it would feel like to find a man in the room with her son, if she was in the same boat.

It was her husband he was most scared of, after all.

The weather was about to change. Est could smell it in the air. The unseasonable sunshine which had dried the earth and made the city smell more of dust than of faeces and blood was going to give way soon to the sort of wind and rain that was more to be expected. A chill was coming. He could feel it.

He was sitting in the parlour of his little house near the fleshfold, which he had kept more or less as a memorial to his family. By the door was a hook on which Emma’s favourite apron still hung, as though she had set it there before putting on her second best for sweeping the floor, and near the fire was the little rough stool he had bought for her from the market. It had been old widow Marta’s, and he’d snapped it up from Marta’s son when she died. Emma had been pleased with it. Much more comfortable than her old one.

Her face on the evening when he brought home his little gift was a pleasure to recall. She had always been so happy with so little. That was fortunate, too, because the year after they were wedded there was not enough money to buy anything much. It was the hard year when the King’s host was destroyed by the barbarians up north. All killed off in some place called Ballock-something, or Bannock-whatever. It was no matter to the folk down here, many leagues away. It only meant that there were more taxes for a while, and some vills were unlucky and had their grain confiscated by the damned Procurers of the King. They’d come round with their lists of what they wanted, and grab wholesale all the stores which had been intended to keep the folk through the winter.

Before the fight, he’d even considered leaving Exeter and joining the King’s host, because no one really believed that the savages up there could do anything against their lawful sovereign. They didn’t call his father the Hammer of the Scots for nothing, and everyone knew that the new King, Edward II, would bring them to their knees in no time. Except it hadn’t happened, had it? The Scots had slaughtered the King’s men and sent the few survivors scurrying back. If he’d gone, Est would have died up there. No one who’d only had a limited experience of fighting with bare fists would have lived to tell the tale.

But he’d stayed, because their lives had already changed. The joy in her face … Emma had sat there, so happy, so content, as she missed her monthly time in 1313, around the feast of St Andrew, and then started to feel the new life growing in her womb. So happy. There was so much for them to be pleased about in those days. Except even as she realized that she was carrying their child, the weather closed in. Rain. Rain for days. Everyone went about complaining, of course, but people always complained about the weather. Englishmen liked to moan about it all year round. But no one appreciated what this weather meant. Sweet Mother of God, how could they? It was rain. In Devonshire they were used to that!

It was not only Devonshire which bore the rain. It was the whole country. Men and women and children watched their crops through the downpours, and soon after Cissy’s birth in mid-August it was obvious to all that the harvest had failed. And then, when the grain was gathered, it was useless. No goodness in the little they could collect, and what there was didn’t last long because it was soon foul. It went black and disgusting. Inedible.