Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

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.