Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

Another scream from the upper room and she had more or less controlled her breathing. She could scarcely miss the shrieked words. As always it was Agnes.

‘You can’t mean I would have taken him?’

Juliana’s voice was a low, saddened mumble, unintelligible.

‘Me? I didn’t regret losing Daniel. I didn’t want him. I was only glad you took my cast-off.’

Gwen stiffened to hear that, and then she began to grin. Surely that was the jealous child denying she wanted the other girl’s toy. She began sweeping again, and as she worked she could hear the bitter cries from Agnes, the inaudible replies of her sister. Juliana was too quiet for any words to be heard. She showed the correct restraint and didn’t seem to rise to any of Agnes’s taunts.

‘Perhaps I did love him once, but not for many years!’

‘Of course I know what love is; do you think me such a frigid sow? I can love just as any other can!’

‘You say I can’t love so strongly — of course I can, and with more determination, probably. You just don’t understand.’

‘I am not jealous!’

‘It’s up to you, but you’ve lied. You lied to the Coroner after you swore to tell the truth; you’ll burn for that.’

‘What are you talking about? You couldn’t mean-’

‘ No! ’

Gwen heard the door slam at the back of the house, but she wasn’t listening by then. There were too many other thoughts running through her mind, and then, before she could collect them, Cecily ran in from the front room, Arthur behind her, his eyes wide with fear.

‘Mummy! Mummy!’

Gwen caught the girl as she tried to dart round her. ‘Hissht, child, hissht! Leave her a little. She’s had a row with her sister, that’s all. No need to be upset. She’ll soon be all right, but leave her alone for a moment.’

‘I’m fine, Gwen,’ Juliana said. She was in the doorway now, pale and fretful from her appearance, and she stood there staring at Gwen with a hunted expression on her face. It was an unspoken question.

Gwen chose to answer the question that would have occurred to her. ‘Your little girl heard your sister shouting, I think. Nothing more than that. Isn’t that right, Cecily?’

The little girl nodded, but her eyes remained on her mother.

By the next morning, Baldwin was feeling a great deal better. He had taken to his bed early the previous evening, still feeling exhausted after his exertions, and now, lying in his bed, he realized that he was not bound to strain himself into an early grave for the Coroner. Perhaps just this once he could leave the Coroner to earn his own money. There was nothing about the matter that needed the independent eye of a Keeper of the King’s Peace. True, it was his duty to seek out and apprehend those who might have been guilty of a felony, especially a murderous attack, but he saw no reason why the city’s men shouldn’t find Estmund themselves, as well as Mick’s killer. He was not Keeper for Exeter, and it was time he went home to his own territory. They were more directly responsible than he, and he had a more important duty to perform: getting better.

He rose soon after dawn and stood idly swinging his arm to see how it moved. Ralph was a better physician than some, clearly. The pain was significantly improved, and Baldwin could already lift his arm higher than he had been able to the previous morning. There was a little weeping when he looked underneath the bandages, but for the most part his wound appeared to be healing nicely.

Edgar had risen as soon as he heard his master wake, and had dressed himself. Seeing his master was well-rested and fully awake, he left to fetch water and towels. Soon he was back, and Baldwin splashed water liberally over his face, trying to work up a lather with the cheap soap which was all he could find at the inn. Giving it up as a poor job, he splashed more water on his face and beard and wiped them dry before taking a sip of water. Although others, notably his old friend Simon, were prone to taking the strongest of wines and ales at the first opportunity in the morning, Baldwin had learned in the heat of the Holy Land to try to avoid too much by way of fermented drink. He had learned that it was likely to give him headaches and could make him feel sick. Since returning to England, he had found that it was easier to keep to his old regime, and now he preferred to have very weak or non-alcoholic drinks in the morning, although he was quite content to drink wine or ale later in the day.

Seeing Edgar watching him, Baldwin grinned briefly. ‘Prepare our bags. I think it is time we returned home to Furnshill. If we travel gently, it should not hurt my shoulder.’

‘Husband.’

‘Jeanne, my love. Did you sleep well?’

She wiped her eyes, which felt gritty, and moved forward into the security of his arms, sighing. Her heart was racing and she felt quite light-headed, almost sick with relief to know that they would soon be home again. She was desperate to see their daughter Richalda.

‘Now, my love, be easy in your mind,’ he said, pulling away from her. ‘Put some clothes on, and I shall go and tell the good Coroner that I intend leaving here at noon. After that, we can break our fast.’

He felt very contented as he walked along the road to Sir Peregrine’s house. He had heard that the Coroner lived in a house near the castle, on Correstrete, and he walked out there quickly, swinging his sore arm deliberately.

In the past, when he was knocked from a horse or beaten in a battle, he used to find that there were very definite periods for recuperation: a battered head might need some days in bed before the dizziness would leave him; a slashing knife wound would heal generally in a few days, followed by another few weeks before the soreness went; a stab would take a little longer, and the weeping could last some days. That was when he was younger. Last year he had travelled to Okehampton and taken part in some tournaments, and the battering he had taken had needed weeks to heal. This time, with the hole in his breast, he felt as though it was going to take a great deal longer. He set out feeling fine, but only a matter of yards from the inn’s door he felt short of breath and tired. It just showed, as he told himself ruefully, that he wasn’t so young as he once had been, and much though he liked to think himself indestructible, this was proof that he was not. No, he must learn to respect his age a little more. He was still strong enough to beat most youngsters with sword or mace, but there were times when he really should not be in the fight. He was growing too old.

He forced himself onwards. Up ahead rose the red keep of Rougement Castle, and he peered up at it critically. It was strong enough as a fortress, although he was unsure how secure it would be, were decent artillery pieces to be brought up against it. The red sandstone walls were likely to be brittle. From Baldwin’s experience, the sandy rocks were little defence against heavy missiles.

The Coroner’s house was easy to find. Among the merchants’ and traders’ homes, it stood out for the lack of signs outside. All the others had their advertisements showing that they were selling skins or wine or something else. Looking along them, Baldwin was amused to see the servant of Ralph of Malmesbury appearing from one doorway, and thought that the physician must be visiting a patient, until he saw a second man whom he recognized entering the same house, and realized that the place must be Ralph’s home.

That gave him pause for thought. It was one thing to learn that Sir Peregrine lived here, because he was a knight bannaret, the highest level of chivalry below baron. To be able to afford a property in the same street implied to Baldwin that the physician was more successful than he had thought. On an impulse, he crossed the road and went up to Ralph of Malmesbury’s door.