Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

But men were not the same as their wives. They expected diversion and fresh excitement, the thrill of a new body in their arms. Women had told her this. Before her first marriage, her aunt tried to explain.

‘They are not like us. We are those who build the nests; we create a home for our man to come back to, so that he wants to return. If he doesn’t, it is our fault, not his. You have to entice him to keep him. He will stray. All men do, but if you are true to him, he will keep you and cleave to you.’

At the time Jeanne had been so in love with Ralph de Liddinstone, she had laughed in her aunt’s face. It was easy to think differently then, because although her aunt was born in Bordeaux and had educated and raised Jeanne in that English town, still there were many aspects of Jeanne’s life which were very typical of Devon, while her aunt was more of a Frenchwoman in outlook. Jeanne could not believe that an Englishman, especially a knight, could behave in so dishonourable a way with his wife.

With time, that innocence had been worn away. Ralph was a good husband at first, but then, when he discovered, so he thought, that the woman he had married was in fact barren, he took to beating her, and taking any of the women on their lands whom he fancied. Not that there was ever a rumour that any of them got with child; and not that the lack of bastards was ever enough to make him apologize or admit that perhaps the failing was on his part, not hers. He couldn’t accept that his cods could be unfruitful. Any problem must be on her side.

Perhaps that was the meaning of chivalry, in the end. Knights were men, when all was said and done, and chivalry was a code to protect men in warfare. All too often women were nothing more than spoils of war in that code. If a man bested or killed another knight, the widow was his to be treated as he wished. Perhaps she had been stupid to think that her husband was any better than all the other vain, belligerent men who wore armour.

But he was different. She knew that only too well. He had shown that in a number of ways. He was kind, gentle, loving, perhaps a little easily confused and swayed by a pretty woman … and so back to the first thought: she must evict that peasant.

There was no rest for her all through the long watches of the night, and she saw the dawn rise feeling unrefreshed and tired.

Baldwin appeared uncomfortable on waking. He took a little weak cider and some bread, but was clearly in some pain with his shoulder. In her snappish mood, Jeanne’s first thought was that he could get help from the raven-haired peasant, but her waspish mood was tempered when she saw him hiss and wince as he pulled on a thick fustian jupon. He struggled with it for some minutes before casting it away and calling for a linen shirt instead, swinging his arm back and forth, his left hand on his shoulder as though it could ease the pain.

In the end, she told Edgar to fetch the physician again.

‘I don’t need the damned leech,’ Baldwin protested. ‘It is just that this arm feels as if someone has shoved a burning brand into it. God’s blood, it hurts.’

She looked at him, then at his shoulder. Placing a hand on it, she frowned. ‘It is warm. I hope you do not have a fever, husband.’

He looked up at her, and she could see the apprehension in his eyes. They both knew that he had been lucky so far: the wound had been clean enough, and with the careful treatment he had received he should have been fortunate and made a full recovery. But no wound was entirely safe. Any nick or scratch could lead to a fever that would kill the strongest. Everyone knew that. And Baldwin had been holed front and back.

Jeanne raised an eyebrow to the unmoving servant, who grinned widely, bowed in mock obedience, and left the room to obey her command.

‘Even my damned man doesn’t listen to me ,’ Baldwin muttered, and sank down into a chair.

‘Remember, Jeanne …’ he began, and she sighed, trying to affect a smile.

‘What?’

‘If I die, just remember, I have never loved anyone except you. You stole my heart.’

She closed her eyes, suddenly dazed, a faint sickness making itself felt in the pit of her belly. When she opened them again, she saw that he was peering at her quizzically. ‘What?’ she asked.

‘I love you more than anything,’ he said. ‘But you do look terrible. If anything, you look worse than me.’

She remembered her broken night, and when she thought about all her doubts and fears, she felt stupid. Smiling widely this time, with true sincerity, she leaned forward and kissed him. She believed him.

Jordan was surprised to hear that they’d found the body. It was irritating. He’d intended to carry Mick to the city wall and throw him over, into the water where the tanners had their pits. The body could have lain there for some little while before anyone noticed it. Still, it didn’t matter too much. He was safe enough. The only two people who knew what had happened were the slut and his mate, Reg. Neither of them would tell anyone. Reg was on his side, and the tart was too scared. If she spoke, she knew Jordan would kill her. Easy.

When Jane came in, he picked her up and swung her up until she was over his head, staring down at him with those great big eyes of hers, at once laughing and so serious. He couldn’t believe that any person could ensnare his heart so effectively, but this little chit had. He adored her.

When Mazeline entered, with her slightly shuffling gait, neither of them bothered to turn to look at her. She was nothing to him compared with this little daughter of his. Why should he worry about her, when he had this bundle of life and joy?

‘Come on, Jane. Let’s go to the market and see if we can find a treat for you,’ he said.

‘Husband, can I …’

‘Shut up, bitch. We’re busy,’ he snapped as he ducked under the lintel, carrying Jane giggling on his shoulders.

Ralph had returned home after a pleasant and rewarding payment from Betsy for helping Anne. Betsy had gone with him to the gate and had a whispered conversation with the porter that resulted in the wicket gate’s being opened so that Ralph could slip through.

The payment was good, but he could not banish the wreckage of Anne’s face from his mind. A man who could do that was surely deserving of the most terrible punishment. Ralph hoped that he would receive it.

When Edgar arrived, Ralph was finishing a leisurely breakfast, feeling a little jaded after his exercise the night before. He listened with the supercilious expression that indicated, so he fondly supposed, a professional concentration. It was perhaps fortunate he did not know that Edgar thought he looked like a constipated toad.

‘Is the shoulder swollen?’

‘I don’t know. I was sent to fetch you. It hurts him, and he rubs it and moves his arm to release the pain.’

‘But you think it is warmer than it should be?’

‘That is what my master’s wife thought, yes.’

Ralph thought quickly. The first rule was, if a case was hopeless, don’t get involved. Better that a man should not lose his reputation: a prudent physician would not tend to the dying. Only those who stood a chance of recovery should be treated.

However, there were two mitigating factors. One was the fact that the wound had looked so good when he saw the man only recently. It was hard to believe that the knight had suddenly relapsed so badly for no reason. Perhaps a potion to ginger him up, or a salve to lower the heat and rebalance the humours in that shoulder … The second, crucial factor was that the Dean had himself promised to pick up the full cost of any bills because the knight had earned his wound in the Dean’s service. Not that he would have realized how much an expert like Ralph could charge.