Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

When they had first met, life had been very different. Jordan had reminded him about that only yesterday, on their way to … the job.

‘You remember how things were when we met, Reg? Times have changed, haven’t they? We were two wild lads in those days, and now look at us! Rich men, thought of as careful investors, successful merchants, and here we are, fleecing any who come in our way! When we met we had nothing, did we?’

‘Those days were evil, right enough,’ Reg said moodily. ‘No food, no money, not even a bed. I’d been sleeping in the hedge for weeks.’

‘I remember. I found you in a hedge, didn’t I? And I showed you how we could win a little food. We started off small, didn’t we? And then we got lucky.’

They were nearly there, and lapsed into silence as they approached the buildings, and Jordan slipped off and away. He had a knack of silent movement. With his russet and grey clothing, he could disappear even in a street of limewashed houses. Somehow he could blend into the background, no matter where he was. Now he was moving up the alley ahead of Reg. Although it was like watching a shadow, Reg had been with his companion for long enough to know the way he worked. Now there was a flash, and Reg knew Jordan was at the window. The gleam was from his knife as he peered in. A moment or two later, Jordan was hurrying back along the alley, teeth showing brightly in a grin. ‘Yeah, we got him!’

Reg’s heart sank.

At first their winnings had been paltry: a few coins here, a little meat there. Not much. They’d robbed a few solitary travellers, the poor fools, and then occasional small parties, but never anything too dramatic. They didn’t want the attention that a serious attack might cause. Better by far that they should strike quickly, steal what they could carry, and be off again. It wasn’t only them, in God’s name! Everyone had to do something, and when the price of grain rose to unprecedented heights it was clear that all would starve unless they did something to save themselves. Sadly, the only assets youths like Reg and Jordan had were their native cunning and strength.

Then came the day when they hit on a new target, and suddenly they had a good income — all because of one break in the ninth year of the King’s reign, some seven years ago now.

A pair of them, there were. One was a slim, oily little fellow of five-and-twenty, bent at the neck and with a way of holding his head low as though to peer around and snatch any opportunity before his body could catch up with him; he was the sandy-haired one with the greasy locks dangling almost to his shoulders under his wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat. Beside him was the heavy: a broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with a somewhat long face that showed little intelligence, only brooding malevolence as he surveyed the way ahead for them both.

Unprepossessing, the pair of them. They strolled along leading a donkey on a short rein, both holding iron-shod staffs for their protection. They had no other obvious weapons, though, and Jordan had eyed them contemplatively. Neither he nor Reg had eaten enough to fill their bellies properly in a week, and there was an attractive package on the donkey that seemed to call to them.

It was a strange bundle, bulky and ungainly, and that it was heavy was clear from the way the donkey moved, slowly and painfully. The beast must have carried it a long way.

‘What’s in that?’

‘Christ and His angels may know, but I don’t,’ Reg returned.

‘I want to know!’

‘Jordie, wait!’ Reg hissed, but Jordan was already crawling off through the undergrowth like a snake. Reg was unwilling to follow — the men looked competent at defence. The larger of the two had the look of a fighter, like a strong man standing at the door to a lord’s chamber. What Jordan could do against two like them, he had no idea. They had always tried to avoid excessive violence, if for no other reason than that they were too enfeebled by hunger to be able to effectively attack anyone other than the weakest wench.

The rain was falling fitfully today, not so heavily as it had in the past, and Reg could clearly see the trail as Jordan slithered away down the slight incline towards the men. Then there was nothing until, a few moments later, Reg saw Jordan staggering towards the roadway, his face a reddened mess, one arm cradled firmly in the armpit of the other. As he came up with the travellers, he raised his free hand to the heavens and sank to his knees in the mud.

‘It was perfect, Reg,’ Jordan gurgled later as they sat back drinking. ‘They thought I’d been attacked, and all they wanted was to know where the miscreants were so that they could run the other way! The fat one prodded me with his staff until I told them a story about the gang who’d robbed me, and then they went into a huddle. As soon as the fat bastard turned his back, I was on him and beat out his brains with a rock! The other one tried to get away, but he was torn between staying with the donkey or bolting, so I knocked him down too. It was easy, Reg. You saw it!’

Yes, Reg had seen it. He had watched as his companion killed the burlier of the two, and then bound the lighter man, waving to Reg to join him all the while. And Reg had hopped from foot to foot, wondering what he should do, for he had no idea. He wanted to run — but if he did, he would die. Jordan would reward his betrayal in the only way he knew. God’s bones, how had he ever got into this?

The men down there had been rich. That much was obvious, and wealth meant food. In the end that was all it came down to. Reg was starving. The men had money, and he could eat. So he followed Jordan’s path down the hill, past the patch of bright red soil where he had smeared his face, and on to the road.

‘Jordan, what have you done?’ he burst out when he saw the long knife.

His companion looked at him hard for a moment, then wiped the thin smear of red from the blade. ‘You wouldn’t want them to come after us, would you? Anyway, don’t worry, Reg. They were only pardoners. No one’ll miss them.’

It was Sunday, and Baldwin was up early. He and his wife dressed and made their way to the cathedral, Edgar strolling behind them. Ever since Baldwin’s injury, it had been hard to persuade him to leave his master alone for a moment.

Jeanne was delighted to be at the cathedral again. The last time she and her husband had stayed in the city was at Christmas some two years ago, and then much of his time had been taken up with a series of murders. At least this time she had him to herself.

After his journey to Santiago de Compostela, she had been convinced that he was unhappy. He had been short-tempered and fractious, entirely unlike his normal self, and rather more like her first husband, a brutal man who sought to punish her for what he saw as her failure to give him a son and heir. He had died from a fever, a sad and embittered man, but his death was no loss to her by then. His beatings and insults had long before corroded any residual affection she had held for him.

Thus when she had later met Baldwin for the first time, he had felt like a saint and a saviour. She was reluctant to offer her heart to any man, but within a short while she found herself forgetting her misery and rediscovering the delight that giving and receiving love could bring.

That was why, when he returned from his journeying with such a different appearance and a new temper, she had been distraught. Perhaps she had overreacted at the time, but she had felt that it was her fault, that it was impossible for any good man to remain in love with her because she didn’t deserve it. And when Baldwin returned to his normal good humour, she was overjoyed. The feeling of relief was overwhelming, and it had not passed. She was sure that she was more in love with him with every passing day. It was impossible to conceive of the hideous eventuality that he might die or leave her. To lose Baldwin would surely mean her own death.