Michael Jecks: The Butcher of St Peter's

‘What in God’s sweet name do you think you’re doing here?’ he demanded.

Henry was in the pit, and he glanced over at the sergeant. ‘Only burying Emma, Daniel. You’ve just buried one man; let us see to Est’s wife in peace, eh?’

‘Get her away from here and fill in that hole, you sacrilegious son of a Plymouth whore! This is the cathedral’s land.’

‘It’s all right here,’ Estmund said dully. ‘A vicar told us.’

‘Daniel, please,’ Henry pleaded. ‘Just leave us. It’s for Emma, and she deserves better than this anyway.’

‘You heard me: get that pack away from here and go yourselves!’ Daniel demanded. He could feel his frustration and anger rising.

Henry climbed out of the hole and reached for a spade. ‘Daniel, sometimes you’re a damned cretin. If you are so stupid as to want to make Est suffer, I’m not. And Emma was a good woman. I’ll not take her anywhere else.’ He started to tidy the edge of the pit.

It was enough. Daniel had been delayed by le Bolle at his mother-in-law’s funeral, he felt nervy after that odd reflection about the red water, and now this pair of morons were disputing his authority. The rage and frustration enfolded him in its warm embrace, and he grabbed the sack of tools that lay at the graveside. Heaving it back, he hurled it through the air to the opposite side of the roadway, where it burst and scattered its contents about the cobbles.

‘You poxed son of a goat!’ Henry spat. ‘Look at all that lot!’ He started towards the sergeant, his face darkening with anger.

Daniel’s blood was up already, and seeing the brawny figure moving towards him he was sure that the spade would soon be swung at his head. He had no hesitation. There was one weapon handy, a pickaxe. As Henry approached, Daniel grabbed it and swung it. The pick missed Henry’s face, but ripped into his right shoulder, tearing through skin and muscle, crunching through bone and exploding out again. A spray of blood rose from the wound, jetting up and over, drenching Estmund and his dead wife, and as Henry was wrenched from his feet by the power of that appalling blow Estmund squealed like a child and fell to his knees at her side, his arms outstretched, as though disbelieving that such a sacrilege could have struck her.

Exeter, September 1323

Even as she moaned and rubbed her glorious body over his, a part of him was sure that something was wrong.

Not with her: she had her arms about him as she returned his kisses, enthusiastic as any whore from the stews in Exeter, and although that nagging doubt remained, Reginald Gylla was only a man; made of flesh and blood like any other. Was there a fellow in the country who could have left that delicious wench lying there on the bed just because of a sudden notion? When she parted her lips and her tongue slipped out to touch his mouth, he was too excited to worry about some little niggling concern. There was nothing there, he told himself. Nothing to worry about.

Her hand reached under his shirt and stroked his belly and thighs, and he lifted himself over her, but even as his weight was balanced on his forearms he had a sudden vision of a sword whirling, shearing through his neck. It made him start, and distracted him enough to make him begin to withdraw.

She didn’t appear to notice. Her hand continued its ministrations while she whimpered softly, and he found himself forced to continue, as though halting at this moment must question his manhood. Soon he was moving forward, ready to plant his falchion in her sheath.

Falchion? What a thought! Planting a blade in her was the last thing he would think of; he adored her! His manhood began to droop.

He wanted to swear aloud at the way his mind was diverted, but that was the trouble: no matter what he did with her now, the thought of men attacking him here, in his own hall, was never far from him. The idea that someone could enter the place was alarming. Jordan le Bolle was a fearsome enemy, and he had the money and the power to murder Reg, even here in the middle of Exeter. Christ’s pains, it was mad to be in this place with this woman — especially when his only thoughts were of Jordan’s sword aiming at his heart or his head, or … no, it didn’t bear thinking of other places he might attack.

Reg had some authority and money too, but his star was waning. He was sure of it. The urge for more power was fading. He didn’t like his life, his business; he had made his money from other men and women’s suffering. That was wrong.

In the last few days he’d made enquiries of a man in the market, who was supposed to be good at seeing the future, and although he had said the right things — a parcel of money coming his way, the blessing of more sons, ever fruitful business and the rest — there had been a reticence about him that had convinced Reg that he saw something else too. When he paid and left, he was sure that there was a sort of hard look in the old man’s eyes. He knew, all right … he knew.

She was at him again, and he realized that the mere thought of that shit of the devil, Jordan le Bolle, had shrivelled his tarse as effectively as a cold bath. He was flaccid … he must concentrate to satisfy her. Looking down at her, he studied her soft lips, the half-lidded blue eyes, now so wanton, and drank in the picture of her naked breasts and fine white flesh. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and she was all his. He settled down, kissing her face and forehead, cheeks, chin, eyelids and nose, while she returned to her skilled manipulation, and soon he was ready again.

He refused to permit any interruptions this time. The bastard wasn’t going to take this away from him. Not again. Le Bolle could make a summer’s day feel cold. He had the ability to ruin any experience — even this. Reg carried on kissing, moving down her neck to her breasts, and she squirmed with pleasure, emitting small moans of delight as he suckled and licked.

The furs gave off a warm odour of bodies and musk, and he drank it in as he-

Shit, shit, shit! There — there was something. His head snapped up and he glowered at the door.

‘What is it, lover?’ she asked, her voice low with lust.

In the room there was a constant swishing and rattling from the heavy drapery that covered the walls. The windows were unglazed, and even with the shutters pulled over the spaces, the wind passed through. Now he could see the thick material of the tapestries rippling softly. One was hung in front of a beam with a projecting splinter which he had meant to remove ages ago when his wife first pointed it out to him, but it was high up and he hadn’t bothered. Now he wished he had. There was a ticking sound, then a harsh rasping, as the material moved over it. It was annoying.

Christ’s pain, but this was ridiculous! There was nothing. Surely there was nothing. Here in his solar, he was safe from anything — any one ! A man trying to get in here would have to wade through the blood of the servants and men-at-arms in his hall, then climb the stairs. He’d hear them from yards off; it wasn’t even as though they could expect to find everyone asleep, not at this time of night. No, if there was to be an attack, he would know of it. Even a single assassin would-

His heart seemed to freeze in his chest. In an instant he realized what the noise must have been. He leaped to his feet, leaving her naked on the furs, scarcely heeding her complaints, and bounded to the chest on which lay his old sword. This he snatched up, and made for the door. The peg latched it and he yanked it free, sword in hand, and hurried down the heavy timber staircase. At the bottom was the little chamber he had made for his son, and here he stopped, panting slightly. The bed was still there, and on it he saw the shape of his boy. Against the chill, the lad had pulled a thick fustian blanket over his linen sheets, and as Reg approached more quietly, his breathing already easing, he saw that his son’s face showed as a pale disc in the moon’s light.