Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

He saw Peter up at the entrance to the cathedral and fitted a warm smile to his face.

It was a never-ending source of amazement to him that this place, supposedly full of the most religious men in the land, could in fact be filled with men whose sole interest was to make money for themselves. It was dressed up differently, of course. They protested that it was money to be used to protect others, that it would go to saving souls, and all that nonsense, but they were fooling nobody. At least there were a few honest enough to privately admit that they wanted the money for themselves.

‘My son.’ Peter smiled and held out his hand.

Jordan took it. ‘Father. It is most pleasant to see you again.’

Peter de la Fosse, a tall young canon with a tonsure that was in desperate need of renewal, hurriedly drew Jordan into the cathedral and behind one of the massive pillars supporting the roof. ‘Jordan, there’s another load just arrived.’ He slipped a small parchment into Jordan’s hand.

‘Good. I’ll have my fellows go and meet it.’

Peter nodded, but his face even here in the gloom of the aisle seemed more pale than usual.

‘What is it?’ Jordan asked. He knew the signs. The man was scared again, and that meant his price would soon go up.

‘I am fearful that our actions may be discovered soon. What if someone should tell the Dean that I’ve been talking to you and that we’re collecting so much money? Someone may see, and-’

‘Canon, don’t worry. I won’t let anyone know about you. All you have to worry about is making sure that I remain happy with your work. Don’t forget that. Now, there is something I wanted to suggest to you today.’

Baldwin was feeling the effects of his recent wound. His breath was short as they marched up from the sergeant’s house and along the high street. He was on his way to the inn where he was staying with his wife, Sir Peregrine striding along at some speed as usual by his side, and Edgar padding along quietly behind them both like a great cat.

It was how Baldwin had thought of him when he had first seen Edgar whole and well. He had a certain feline grace and economy of movement that was much like the prized cats in bestiaries: lions and tigers. Much like them, Edgar could move with an apparent laziness that belied his strength and power, but when he was roused he was as fierce as any of the big cats. A man who irked him or caused him to stir would soon realize his mistake.

Edgar had been with him in the hell-hole of Acre, the last Crusader foothold in the Holy Land. Baldwin had gone there a young, callow fellow, determined to prove himself. He was the son of a knight, but being the second son would have no inheritance. Rather than see himself cast into the Church as a second-rate priest, or perhaps a clerk spending his days copying parchments until his eyes were useless, he chose to travel on pilgrimage to the lands over the seas and fight to protect God’s soil. He knew, as did his companions on the journey, that they couldn’t fail. After all, they were English men, the same who had conquered the Scots and the Welsh, beaten the Irish to submission, and kept the French King from their territories. And this was God’s own land. He would not see the land of Christ’s birth wrested from His own people.

Acre had destroyed the faith of many. The kingdom of Jerusalem was lost when Acre fell, and the consequences were far-reaching. Men throughout Christendom, appalled, felt sure that the end of the world was at hand, and men foretold famine, war and plagues.

Baldwin had lost many friends at Acre, but when he and Edgar were both wounded, the Templars saved them both and gave their lives new purpose. Suddenly Baldwin had recognized that he had a new duty. If the kingdom was gone, he must work with all his might to support the warriors of God, the Templars, and help to force the decision to enter a new crusade against the Moorish hordes who had stolen Christ’s country.

To repay their debt, Baldwin and Edgar had willingly joined the Order, and they served it until its destruction. All through the dreadful years of despair and misery, the only man on whom Baldwin could count was Edgar, and even now his servant was the first to protect him and avenge any harm or dishonour which was brought upon his head.

Over the years Baldwin had suffered many injuries. He had the scars of lance-thrusts, of sword-slashes, a glancing axe-cut that could have removed his arm at the shoulder if it had struck straight, and three crossbow and arrow wounds, each of which could have killed him had he been a little less fortunate.

But fortunate he had been. He was a man whose life appeared to have been blessed so far. Especially since he had met his darling Jeanne.

‘Your wound, Sir Baldwin?’

There was a note of solicitousness in the knight’s voice as he asked the question that made Baldwin glance at him in surprise. ‘I shall be all right.’

He had never, to his knowledge, given Sir Peregrine any reason to think that he cared for the other knight’s companionship, let alone his friendship, but he knew that Sir Peregrine was a resolute man who would seek any potential allies in his determination to curb the powers wrested from the crown by the Despenser family. He had already lost his place at the side of his master, Lord Hugh de Courtenay, and would perhaps be prepared to lose his life in the fight, but Baldwin was not. He had seen the remains of those who had tried to best the King, and although he had no fear of death himself, he did fear the results of his death: the ruination of his wife and daughter, the despoiling of his manor, the destruction of his lands and the harm done to his peasants. There were too many people who depended upon him for him to willingly throw away his life. He felt the weight of his responsibilities.

‘I hope so, my friend.’

Baldwin grunted non-committally. ‘What have you heard of this man who wanders about at night?’ he asked, keen to keep the subject away from national politics.

‘Nothing. It is a new tale to me. A man who opens doors and shutters to peer in at sleeping children? It is hardly likely.’

‘There are some who desire the young and firm,’ Baldwin said tentatively. He had heard of many perversions in his time in the East. There were many there who felt that the sins of the flesh, which in England would be punished by castration or death, were not so important. They weighed less in the minds of people there. Men would lie with men, and sometimes with boys. It was a habit which had at first appalled him, but after a while he grew less intolerant. Such behaviour, although it repelled him personally, should not lead to a man’s execution. Even Pope Leo III had argued that occasional offenders should not be severely punished.

His own feelings were tempered by his experiences as a Templar. He had witnessed the humiliation of many hundreds of honourable, decent monks, their torture and ruin. Many had been accused of sodomy, and their bodies were broken to force their confessions. No, Baldwin could not believe that catamites were as evil as those who inflicted suffering upon the innocent.

Sir Peregrine had spoken and Baldwin had to force his mind to stop wandering. ‘I am sorry, sir?’

‘I said, if a man is guilty of such behaviour, surely he will soon be caught and killed. No one can really think to break into men’s houses and lasciviously eye their sons and daughters with impunity.’

‘No,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘I rather hope that foolish sergeant finds the man again.’

His hope was soon to be fulfilled.

Henry was present at the inquest when it was held, but for all the good it did anyone he might just as well have stayed away. That poor old bastard, Ham, had no one to talk for him. Just the same as any old sod in this city. They could go and hang themselves as far as the courts were concerned. What was the point of going to the courts to demand justice, when the Coroner would stand up there and listen to a bunch of arses telling the story the sergeant had paid them to tell? There was no fairness in a place like this.