Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

‘My God, my love, what … why did he do that?’

‘The other night — I think he thought I was nagging him. All I did was suggest he wore a coat since the weather was so inclement. That was all, and he swung his fist at me. I only wanted to help him.’

Her eyes were anguished, and he felt as though his heart must burst at any moment. ‘I will save you from him,’ he declared quietly. ‘I will, I swear it.’

She looked up at him, with those great brown eyes of hers, which he had seen so full of lust, and in them he saw only despair. ‘You? What could you do against him, Reg?’

Baldwin returned to the inn as soon as he could, leaving Sir Peregrine bellowing for the hue and cry, such as it was, and demanding that all the frankpledge be called to attend his inquest on Anne.

‘Somehow I can’t feel that he will be entirely successful,’ Baldwin said. ‘The location is all wrong. The dregs of the city congregate there, and most of them would be happier to confuse an official of the law than to aid him, no matter that the reason for the inquest is to help catch a murderer. Even the other whores are unlikely to help.’

‘You think that the man wasn’t killed by her?’

Jeanne’s manner was distracted, as though she had other things on her mind. He glanced at her and guessed that conversation would be good for her.

‘I think that would be extremely unlikely. He was quite a broad, powerful lad, while she was only moderately sized. The murderer cut across the throat with a long-bladed knife. It took some strength to do that.’

‘Why a long-bladed knife?’ she asked, despite herself.

‘The cut went almost to the spine. He could have used a shorter blade, but then he would have had to saw with it, and if his victim was struggling, the blade would have made a series of jagged cuts in his flesh. In fact, there was only the one fairly smooth slash. I think that means one cut, and the knife would have to have a long blade, no matter how sharp. A knife cuts as you draw it over the flesh. It won’t cut by simply pushing it onto a man’s neck. So the blade was drawn forward over his throat for some while, which implies a long one.’

‘You are sure it was a he?’

‘As sure as I can be. The strength needed to hold Mick there, the firmness of purpose, the size of the knife, they all point to a man, I think.’

She nodded dully. Then, ‘Baldwin, why would men go to a brothel like that?’

He was about to laugh when he caught a glimpse of the expression on her face. There was something alarming her, he saw, and he instinctively sought to calm her.

His infidelity was a matter of shame to him. It weighed on his soul, although he felt that it was a natural reaction to the abnormal situation in which he had found himself. Still, there was nothing he would ever knowingly do to hurt his wife’s feelings, and now he took a deep breath and beckoned her to sit on his lap. She was reluctant, looking away, but then went to him, and he pulled her down onto him.

‘My love, I have not been in one of those places since I was a lad, many years ago. Is that what worries you? I’ve not had an opportunity to go to one since we arrived here either. What is it that scares you?’

‘I don’t understand why men who were happily married would want to go to a place like that.’

‘Jeanne …’ He was pensive for a moment. ‘There are some desperate women, and some desperately lonely men in the world. As well as some men who would prefer to take a woman without commitment on either side. For them the stews serve some purpose, I suppose.’

‘Why was she there?’ Jeanne asked after a moment. She sniffed a little and rested her head on Baldwin’s.

‘I suppose she was looking for something. A security. Many women are forced into whoring because they lose a husband or a father and there is nothing else for them. Since the famine, there have been ever more women who’ve been orphaned and forced into that profession. It’s hard, but it’s understandable. Better that life than death.’

‘Maybe.’

‘But you, my love,’ he said, pulling her away from him so he could look into her eyes. ‘There’s no fear of that for you. When I am dead, you will be well provided for. I will make sure of that. It’ll be my last gift to you.’

‘I don’t care about that! I just don’t want to lose you!’ she cried, and he cuddled her close, smiling, thinking that she was only worried about his death.

Gwen swept rhythmically, her besom making small furrows in the packed earth of the floor. This room was unwholesome. A twinge of pain caught her about the breast, and she winced and leaned on the broom. ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ she muttered. The pain was definitely growing.

Life was hard. Widowed before even the famine began, she had found it a struggle to make enough money to maintain her house. Of course, the children were a bind, too, but at least as each of them grew older they could start to bring in a few pennies a week to help with buying food and drink. But life had never been easy, especially when the famine bit.

Two of her boys had died. Lovely little Mark, and then Ben too. They’d been too small to cope with the strains that starvation brought. Even now the memory of them brought tears to her eyes. They had been very precious to her, those two, and their loss had been devastating. It was easy to understand how other mothers could grow so depressed that they would consider even that most appalling sin, suicide, when a babe died. Gwen had thought of it. Aye, above a dozen times. There seemed so little to live for, especially when Mark was gone. Poor mite. He was so small at birth, it seemed unlikely he’d live more than a few days. David, her husband, had sent the midwife to fetch the priest as soon as he saw the lad, convinced that he couldn’t last the night, and wanting to serve the little fellow right as a Christian by getting him baptized as quickly as possible.

He’d confounded all their fears, though. He had a weakly arm, withered in the womb, so he’d never be a strong worker, but she had hopes for him. Perhaps he would prove to be blessed with a good mind, and could master his letters or his numbers, and learn clerking or some such. He’d be the first in her family who’d ever thought of such an occupation, but she was sure he was clever enough. Oh, yes. Bright little button, he was, with flashing dark eyes and a ready smile, that little gurgling chuckle that was always ready to burst forth whenever he saw his brothers and sisters playing.

He died in the first year of the famine. The food prices started to rise just as he was suffering from a fever, and when he needed sustenance most they couldn’t afford decent meat or ale. He faded and finally died during the vigil of the Feast of St Kalixtus *. A little while later, or so it seemed, Ben died. He’d never had the same affection which Mark had enjoyed, really, and that made his death doubly hard to bear, as though she was to be blamed for not taking so much care of him. Nothing to be done about it now, though. Mark had the attention because of his poorly arm, and Ben had seemed all right, so he didn’t. It was sad, but it was the way. And now Gwen did all she could, working to help householders, and earning a little money to go and buy candles for their young souls in the cathedral church. Others went to the parish church, but Gwen reckoned it was better to go to the big one. It was where her boys were buried, and surely God would look down on the largest church first? He’d think that people remembered in that place would be more deserving than those who only merited a memorial in a parish church.

She had two boys left, and the three girls, so she hadn’t really done so badly. Her lot were less ill-treated by the famine than other families. Some had lost everything: their fine clothes, their plate, their houses, and finally, when all else was gone, their lives. Her lot were lucky, really. Only two of them had died so far. Soon be her turn, though.