Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

He fell quiet again as he caught sight of Peter de la Fosse, the canon who had stolen Sir William’s body. The canon appeared braver now, but there was still something about him, some nervousness that sat oddly with his elevated position. As soon as he caught sight of John and Robert, he looked away as though pretending he hadn’t seen them, but then John saw him casting little glances their way. Probably just guilt, he decided.

At his side, Robert looked about him. John’s fervour was known within the friary, and Robert had honoured him for his godliness many times in the past, but today he was unsure of his companion’s meaning.

Where John saw greed and personal aggrandizement, Robert saw a mess. Before he had joined the Order, he had grown up the son of a rich knight, and been used to the trappings of wealth. To him, wealth meant hunting, resting and playing, with women who could sing and cheer a lonely soul. Here there was none of that. It was all work.

A thick, foul smoke rose from one area near the church’s walls, and stone chips crunched underfoot. The canons’ houses were magnificent, but the canons themselves walked about in austere black, several of them keeping an eye on the building works, while clerks moved among the workers ensuring that they did not slacken. Horses and donkeys wandered in their midst, seeking any forage they might, while the soil from a newly dug grave was being carefully sifted by the fossor, who sought to retrieve all the bones for reinterment in the Chapel of Bones out in front of the west door. It was no paradise, Robert thought, but he let no sign of his own impression fix itself upon his face. Better to humour old John. There was much for Robert to learn from him, after all.

‘And after the Bishop,’ John growled, ‘the most rapacious of the canons is the evil man who is behind this attack on our privileges. The Dean ,’ he spat contemptuously. ‘A man so covetous he would steal a corpse from our chapel for his personal benefit!’

‘What is it now, husband?’

Reginald grunted to himself. ‘Sabina, my dearest, please. For today, don’t you think that-’

‘You sit there staring into the distance as though you were sitting at table alone! Is there nothing to tell me about your day? Perhaps you think that a foolish cow like me has no interest in your business?’

‘I always admired your intelligence, you know that.’

‘You admired my father’s money more! And now … you can’t even admire me in bed, can you?’

He turned away and stared down at his trencher. She was right, of course. And she knew very well why it was. She had never caught him with another woman, but God’s blood, what was he supposed to do? When they married, he had been devoted to her. All right, so he didn’t necessarily love her, but he respected her and had a lot of time for her intelligence, and that meant more, generally, than mere love . Love was an emotion that could come and go, but a couple who liked each other would remain moderately happy for life.

That was the problem, though. He … he esteemed her. And when they had married, she had been besotted with him. That was no basis for a marriage — or so he felt now. At the time he’d thought differently, of course, and all his friends said the same, that it was the best thing in the world for a man to marry a woman who wanted him above all else, because then he could guarantee he’d get his way in everything. What a load of bull’s turds! The fact was, she soon saw through his protestations of adoration. Of course she did. She knew what real love was, and expected to see the same shining adulation reflected in his eyes that she felt in her own.

Christ’s pain, but he wished he’d realized sooner. The first few months of marriage were fine, but after that he had to hide his true feelings for her, growing sadder and sadder with the passing years, for ever bound to a woman he admired, but didn’t love.

Now, since she had realized he didn’t love her, her passion for him had turned from worship to loathing. The only good thing in his life was his son, Michael, the lad whom they had conceived in that first flush of desire after their wedding. Their boy, his boy — and now his betrayer. He had told his mother when he heard Reg with his woman. Sabina had been away at the time, and Reg had thought that his own bedroom would be safer than anywhere else for his late-night assignation. But Sabina had heard something from Michael. He must have heard Reg with Mazeline last time she was here — perhaps when the alarm was raised? — and asked his mother who was there. The fool! Now her shrewish, jealous and unforgiving nature had been exposed. She had lost any remaining love for him, and as a result her only delight was his pain and misery.

At the same time Jordan had been seeking his pleasures wherever he might. He’d always enjoyed dipping his wick in another man’s tallow. It might have been amusing when they were younger, but for boys like Jordan and Reg the pleasures they should have enjoyed as lads had been lost in the grim reality of starvation. They grew up quickly in those days, missing out on much of the fun of youth, and instead took what amusement they could from the same ribald entertainments at an older age. Jordan had never grown out of them.

Perhaps there was more to it than the mere lustful fascination with another man’s wife, though, because when Jordan took his new woman, Reg couldn’t believe his ears. And Jordan’s long-suffering wife was similarly astonished.

The cruelty of laughing about his latest woman in front of his wife was lost on Jordan, of course. Reg once thought to comment on his behaviour, but wouldn’t ever try that again. No, Jordan was incapable of understanding how his actions might affect his poor wife. A man who tried to tell Jordan how to behave could rouse him to extreme anger, and that would invariably mean pain. No man should give Jordan cause to lose his temper.

That was the mistake on Friday. If only Mick hadn’t lied about his theft.

There were few things more certain to goad Jordan to rage than an employee who stole from him, no matter what it might be. Whether it was money, property or a woman — for he looked on the wenches as his own. Mick had been one of Jordan’s small band of paid men who behaved towards him like the servants of a lord, vowing to serve him honestly and honourably no matter what, in return for which they were well rewarded. The only requirement Jordan laid upon them was that they must be loyal and never lie to him.

Reg would remember that night for a long, long time. He had walked in with Jordan to see Mick and Anne, and as he stood by the door he had sensed that this wasn’t going to be a normal meeting. If he had had any idea of what Jordan was planning, he would have stayed away.

There were times when Jordan could show sympathy, and this was one. He motioned to Anne to join him, and spoke kindly to her, as a father might to a daughter. ‘Tell me, Anne, is this true? Your mother is dying?’

She could scarcely speak. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes raw and swollen, while her cheeks were blotched with red. It looked worse because Jordan insisted that his strumpets should be kept from the sun. ‘Men want to see a pretty girl with milky flesh,’ he would say with a laugh. If the girls went in the sun and browned, they were worth less money, and he would beat them. Now, it meant that Anne looked almost feverish, with harsh red cheeks and brow and a yellowish tinge to her throat. She looked terrified, Reg thought.

‘Speak, Anne,’ Jordan said gently. ‘You have heard from your home?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she has a disease of some kind?’

‘Yes.’