Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

‘I am keen!’

‘Then go and find him and cut off his ballocks, man! Stop waving that knife at me and find him!’

Daniel had glared at her, but there was sense in her instructions. He kicked at the bed where his children lay, turfing them out and sending them up the stairs to their mother, while he donned a cloak that had lain on a chest and, pulling on some light shoes, stepped out gingerly, walking about his garden and yard.

There was nothing. If he had been superstitious, he would have thought that a malevolent ghost had taken an irrational dislike to him and was tormenting him.

But that idea was easily dispelled when he returned to the chamber and his light glinted on a splinter of steel. It looked like a fragment of a blade, snapped off as it twisted to open his shutter. Ghosts did not carry steel.

Of course the problem with Jordan was, his insouciance was entirely justified. Christ’s pain, Reg knew that well enough. When he said that no one would care about losing two pardoners, he was speaking no more than the literal truth. Nobody would even notice. Reg had helped drag the bodies away, wiping at the rain that fell about his shoulders and ran down his face, aware that this was a matter that would change, that had changed, his life. No matter what happened, his life would never be the same, and now, hauling on the body of the oily little man, he felt sick. He was involved in the death of these men; he would help to conceal the murder. He was complicit.

Reg was no coward, but he had not been a murderer before this evening. Thieving, yes, that was necessary, because it meant he could live. He needed food to continue. But that was different from taking a man’s life. However, to his shame, even his last reservations fell away when he saw what was in the pack. These pardoners were successful men. They had learned how to charm trinkets and valuables from their audiences, and when Jordan had killed them they’d been about to stop and rest, sell their goods and recuperate for a while after all their travelling.

‘Look at that! Came from a rich woman, that did. Good pearl. Should fetch a fair sum.’

‘Where can we get rid of this stuff? Look at it! If we’re found with all this, everyone will know we’re robbers,’ Reg said, appalled at the size of their haul. There were bracelets, necklaces, rings and plate, all worth a small fortune.

‘I know a man,’ Jordan said with confidence.

And that was the problem. It sometimes seemed as though the mere exercise of his will lent force to his ambition. They had taken the jewellery and an acquaintance of Jordan’s had soon disposed of it for them — not for the sum it was worth, but for enough money to give them sufficient to live on for some months to come.

Soon Jordan had decided that lying in wait to catch merchants and travellers was little use. There were better ways to make money. He had concealed his wealth carefully, hoarding it, and although that cretin Daniel had tried to catch them both, reckoning that they were involved in some unsavoury dealings, by the time he took notice of them Jordan was already well set up.

Yes, Daniel was right about their activities — not that it would do him much good.

Daniel was in his hall when the Coroner finally arrived, banging on the door with the hilt of his dagger.

‘Sergeant! Open this door!’

Cecily saw his face darken again, and she withdrew into the corner with her brother. Arthur denied ever being afraid of their father, but both knew the truth: that when Daniel lost his temper he was capable of thrashing anyone, even his children, and both sought to avoid him when he was in a rage. Today he seemed in a worse mood than ever, and Cecily felt the terror grow in her breast as Daniel’s face grew blacker while he waited for his servant to arrive.

‘By St Peter’s bones!’ he bellowed. ‘Will no one answer the door?’

A scurrying and pattering came from the yard, and then the servant girl rushed through to the door. She bowed and spoke bravely to the men outside, then brought them into the hall.

‘Master, the Coroner and his friend wish to speak to you.’

‘Get out, tart!’ Daniel grated. ‘About your business!’

Sir Peregrine was impressive, tall, elegant, and striking-looking, and Cecily studied him as he languidly reached out with a questing pair of fingers and dipped them into the little stoup that was nailed beside the door. He made the sign of the cross, bent his head a moment, and then stared at Daniel, long and hard.

He had the look of a man who was used to violence, although perhaps not in the way that some men would resort to weapons at the first opportunity. No, she thought that this was a man who took it for granted that his words carried weight and authority.

‘Well, sergeant? Have you any explanation as to why we should protect you from inevitable ruin?’

‘You mean old Ham? He shouldn’t have pulled a dagger,’ Daniel said flatly.

‘Does every man deserve death for possessing a dagger?’

Cecily was unprepared for the second man’s appearance. He stepped inside with an armed servant, glancing about him quickly as though expecting an assassin to strike. She had heard her father say that this was the Keeper from Crediton, that he was a dangerous man to cross. Perhaps so, but he was attractive, too, even if he was terribly old. She rather liked the way that the beard which followed his jaw had grown so peppered with grey, and his eyes, when they found her, were kindly, crinkled at the corners. They looked like eyes which would smile all too easily. The only disquieting aspect of his appearance was the way in which he moved, looking about him sharply before stepping in, and then standing alert while his servant leaned back against the wall in a negligent manner, and appeared to study his fingernails.

‘He deserves the consequences if he pulls it against an officer of the King,’ Daniel said.

‘Quite true, unless the officer concerned is himself breaking the law,’ Baldwin observed.

‘I was there to stop a fight, that’s all. I acted as I should. I suppose I could have stopped him … but what can a man do when some fool tries to stab him? What would you have done?’

‘Cut off his arm,’ Sir Peregrine said coolly. ‘But not his head.’

‘He tried to stab me. There were witnesses.’

Baldwin glanced at Cecily again, and she saw the coldness in his eyes. There was a piercing quality to them that she wasn’t sure she liked. Then she saw them narrow in a gentle smile again. ‘Any man who can give life to such a pretty child cannot be all bad.’ He turned from her again, and Cecily saw how the smile fled his face. ‘But a man who slaughters a drunkard unnecessarily has evil within him. I trust you will not seek to hurt any more men, sergeant, for next time we shall see you arrested.’

‘Aye. I am a sergeant. I can be condemned when I am attacked,’ Daniel said coldly. ‘Yet who will protect me?’

‘You seem admirably competent at defence,’ Sir Peregrine murmured.

‘What could cause you fear?’ Baldwin asked.

Cecily said, ‘The man who comes at night.’

Sir Peregrine glanced down at her as though surprised that a child should speak in his presence. Baldwin, though, grinned at her kindly, with an inviting nod. ‘Who do you mean? A friend of your father’s?’

Cecily suddenly realized that she might have spoken too soon, and she looked to her father. To her surprise, he appeared less angry, almost relieved. He too nodded to her. ‘You tell them.’

‘There is a man who comes at night when everyone is asleep. He comes into our houses and looks at us all.’

Sir Peregrine smiled broadly. ‘A ghost, then? You’ve been having mares, child.’