Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

Baldwin chewed at his lip, but there was little time. ‘Very well, but Edgar, you go with her and protect her. If she is so much as scratched, I’ll have you whipped!’

Edgar smiled lazily and nodded. In an instant he and Jeanne were forging a way through the people leaving the room. Baldwin knew his threat was not necessary: Edgar would protect Jeanne with his own life if need be. He had sworn to serve Baldwin to the death in Acre, where Baldwin had saved his life, and the vow was as relevant to him now as it had been all those years ago.

‘Right,’ Baldwin said. ‘Take me to the Coroner, but go slowly. I have a healing wound, and would not see it exacerbated by undue urgency on your part.’

Agnes was impressed by her sister’s performance. Cool, rational and clear, she had the manner of an experienced witness when asked about the night before. Although she was close to tears on occasion, her voice remained steady and her demeanour collected.

And yet …

There was one thing about her that was odd. There was a curious quirk in her manner that wasn’t just the misery of bereavement. Surely it was obvious to all listening to her?

Anyone could see that her behaviour was extraordinary: the way that she didn’t quite break down, her chilly calmness; both showed that she knew more than she was telling. It was the same when they were children, and their parents had accused Juliana of a crime she had committed. Then she’d behave the same way, stolidly telling the story she wanted them to hear, perhaps including some of the truth, but never all, never those parts that would have incriminated her.

Perhaps it took a sister who had grown up with her to spot when she was lying. This mob couldn’t tell. As far as most of them were concerned, she was a poor widow-woman now, someone to pity. Nobody had guessed at the truth.

And then she realized they had. There were some noises from the back of the room, snorts and hisses which echoed well about the place. Even the Coroner heard, because Agnes saw how his jaw clenched when there was a fresh outburst, and his eyes went to the source as though, were he to spot the man or woman responsible, he might have them attached to appear before the magistrates at the next court.

The sound didn’t disturb Juliana. She stuck to her tale even as the noise rose and swelled, and then, as the bailiff and his men shoved their way through the crowd, disappeared entirely.

Some people had guessed she was hiding something, and Agnes wondered what it was. Juliana couldn’t be hiding the identity of the killer, could she? She had loved Daniel. If she was concealing something serious, the shame would be awful. It would serve as the final rock placed upon the grave of her family. The Jon family, whose name she still bore, had already suffered enough.

Their fall had been unforeseen. They had collapsed so very suddenly.

When Daniel married Juliana, she and Agnes belonged to one of the leading families in the city. Their father and grandfather had both been successful merchants, and the family was worth a fortune in treasure. Although the famine affected them, it was not a disaster yet. But within a year the famine had bitten harder, and they were ruined.

She could not comprehend what had happened. Somehow their money had been frittered away. Small amounts here and there for the daily running of their household became awesome sums as food grew more expensive. Fodder was all but unobtainable by the second year, and grain for human consumption was ridiculously expensive. Then the servants began to leave to see whether they were needed back home, and never returned, either because they died on the journey, or because there were no adults at home to be helped any more, and the servants had to remain to look after the inevitable orphans. Before the end of 1317, they had lost all. There was nothing left. And then Father died.

That they were not alone in being close to destitute was no comfort. They had lived in an excellent house in Correstrete which they had been forced to sell for a ludicrously low sum, and Agnes and her mother went to live with Juliana and Daniel. For a little while, that was fine, except that once, shortly after her mother died, Agnes had suffered a lapse.

It was after a Christmas feast, the first when food was readily available again, in 1318; when all had consumed rather too much wine with their food. Juliana had been married over a year by then, but remained weakly after the lean years before. Declaring herself unwell after eating too much, Juliana had lurched from the table. Agnes had helped her out of the parlour and up the stairs to the small chamber she called her solar. To Agnes’s mind it was little more than a servant’s chamber, but no matter. She helped Juliana to the bed and watched her lie down and close her eyes.

She was setting a bowl by Juliana’s head when she heard the footsteps on the stairs. Soon Daniel appeared in the doorway, flushed with wine and food, breathing heavily, the laces of his shirt all undone to exhibit the thick, curling mass of dark hair on his chest. To Agnes, he was perfection.

‘She all right?’ Daniel slurred.

Agnes stood and rubbed her hands slowly down her dress. It was impossible to stop herself. She had to walk to him, put her hands about his shoulders, and pull gently at his head, until his cool, sweet lips touched hers …

And he snapped his head back and stared at her in befuddled shock. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing,’ she said coldly, all lust dying as she took in his expression. It had lasted but a moment, but she recognized it: hatred. The loathing of an honourable man for a wanton.

Well, if he’d married her as he’d promised, perhaps poor Daniel would still be alive now.

Jeanne followed Edgar as he pushed the people apart. Like a battering ram, he separated the crowd, leaving a path for her, and not once did he apologize or beg permission. He had been given an order to protect Jeanne as she sought out and questioned this woman, and that he would do. There was no need to apologize to churls standing in his way.

There were times when Jeanne regretted his arrogant attitude towards almost the whole of the rest of the world, but then she was forced to accept that any attempt to change him would probably fail. He was too complete, too entirely constructed as a devoted servant of her husband’s.

Today there were many complaints about servants who took positions based solely on the cash they were offered. For these avaricious mercenaries there was only one God, and He was Mammon. Lords living in older halls and castles were forced to buy new properties, or have ever more elaborate defences constructed, so that, should they be attacked, they could bar the doors against not only the attackers but also their servants. Gone were the days when a man might depend upon the valour of his guards just because they had given their word that they would protect him to the death.

But Edgar still believed in the old truth that his vow had been made before God, and nothing and no one could shake that determination. If his master gave an order, Edgar would carry it out if it was within his power — and if it was not, he would die in the attempt.

Such bullish tactics would not be likely to persuade a wary peasant woman to trust her, Jeanne considered, as she followed behind him until she saw her quarry dart into a tavern. She weighed her purse, and then tugged at Edgar’s sleeve. ‘Behind me, Edgar. I want to speak to her without you holding a knife at her throat.’

For a short while he considered arguing, but he knew his mistress. Standing aside, smiling, he waved her on, but her satisfaction at his obedience was somewhat dented when she heard him tug his sword a short way from its scabbard to free it.