Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

It was a source of amusement and not a little delight to Peregrine that King Edward II, who had caused so much damage to the country, who had depended on loyal subjects to support him, who had trampled on the rights and liberties of so many, finally slaughtering hundreds of knights up and down the country, even his own relatives, in his determination to keep his advisers the Despensers close by his side, should now shake at the knowledge that his own best warrior-leader, the man whom the King had himself disloyally imprisoned, was now his greatest enemy. There was a delicious irony in that, one which Sir Peregrine appreciated.

Sir Peregrine was not a natural regicide, but he would have been delighted to see this appalling king removed and destroyed. King Edward had proved himself to be incapable of ruling the kingdom. He chose to take his own advisers and stole lands, treasure, and even lives to enrich those he most loved: the Despensers. Their rapacity had led to the destruction of many, and it was in order to fight against these men that Sir Peregrine had counselled his lord to prepare for war. At the time, he had been certain that the Lords Marcher must win their battle against the King. As soon as they gave the word, men would flock to their side, Sir Peregrine thought.

But it had not happened. To his private astonishment, he had discovered that the Lords Marcher were not in fact prepared to raise their banners against King Edward. None could deny that he was their lawfully anointed king, and so they surrendered rather than take the field against him. Only Earl Thomas of Lancaster, the King’s own cousin, would fight, and he only because the King hurried to attack him. At Boroughbridge Thomas’s host was destroyed … and then the persecution began.

Sir Peregrine had reached the cathedral, and now he gazed about him before entering. This would, one day, be the most magnificent tribute to God. The two towers of St Paul and St John, with their squat spires thrusting upwards amidst the chaos of the building works, stood out as isolated beacons of sanity. Apart from them, it was a mess of builders, plasterers, carpenters and masons, all hacking and chiselling together in a cacophony of appalling proportions.

For his part, Sir Peregrine would take the word of the Dean and chapter that this would one day be a magnificent edifice, honouring God and His works; the best efforts of man would have gone into it in praise of Him. It would soar mysteriously over the heads of all the congregation, a fabulous, unbelievable construction that could only stand, so it would appear, by God’s grace. All would gaze down the length of the vast nave and marvel.

But at present it was nothing more than a building site, and Sir Peregrine could only cast about him with distaste at the sights and sounds of masons, smiths and carpenters as he made his way inside.

Even with the old walls still standing, it was long and broad enough to make a man wonder how the ceiling could be supported. Massive columns of stone rose up into the gloomy shadows high overhead. The ceiling was arched between them which, so Sir Peregrine had once heard, was the cause of its stability, but he made no claim to understanding such matters. As far as he was concerned, it was a matter of common knowledge that God existed, and in the same way he knew that ceilings were supposed to remain suspended without collapsing on the congregation below. Fortunately, such disasters were quite rare, although Sir Peregrine had heard that Ely’s cathedral tower had recently fallen. An appalling thought, he considered, glancing up into the darkness overhead.

Censers swung, filling the place with their incense, and the light was filtered by their smoke, while the bells calling the faithful to their prayers could be heard tolling mournfully outside, and Sir Peregrine bowed his head as the familiar sights and sounds took him back to that time only a few years before when he had been so happy. Keeper of his lord’s most important castle, a bannaret with the military skill and knowledge to lead his own men into battle, and at last content in the love of a woman who adored him. A poor woman, perhaps, whom he could not marry, but still a good woman who wanted to have his children.

And it had been the child that killed her, he reminded himself as the grief swelled in his breast, threatening to burst his lonely heart. His child had killed her during that difficult birth, and died in the process.

‘Who is he?’ Agnes asked quietly.

It was normal, of course, for people to be segregated by their sex as they entered the church; women to one side, men to the other. That way there was less chance of members of the congregation being ‘distracted’.

Juliana gave her sister a sharp look. There was no point in separating people in this way if her sister would insist on peering round all the time to see who was there and who wasn’t. It was one aspect of her sister’s nature that never ceased to astonish her, this inquisitiveness. When there was someone new in the city, she must try to learn as much as she could. Especially when it was a man. With a sigh, Juliana told herself she should be more patient.

‘I suppose you want to know whether he is married or not?’ she whispered in return.

‘It’s not that. I just wondered where he comes from. I’ve not seen him in here before,’ Agnes said, ignoring the reproof in her sister’s voice.

‘I dare say he is some wandering knight travelling past our city and you won’t see him again,’ Juliana said dismissively.

‘Perhaps so. Yet look at his behaviour! Is he really weeping?’

‘I neither know nor care, sister. Please concentrate.’

‘I shall … but I should like to know who he is.’

‘We can ask later,’ Juliana said. ‘I will ask my husband if you wish.’

She saw Agnes incline her head a little, and turned back to face the altar with a little sigh of annoyance. It was typical of her older sister that she should be so fascinated by a mere stranger. There was probably nothing of interest about him. Juliana glanced towards him and saw a man of some authority, but bent in silent prayer. He scarcely looked prepossessing enough to attract her sister.

That was unfair, of course. No man looked at his best when riven with grief, and this stranger knight appeared to be consumed with sadness, from the way he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, keeping his head down and his eyes closed. Perhaps Agnes had developed a maternal instinct at last, and would like to have taken him and cuddled him to ease his sorrow? The thought that Agnes could be so empathetic made her smile. Agnes was the least thoughtful or considerate woman Juliana had ever known.

Poor Agnes. Juliana stole a look at her, considering her features. In profile, they had grown more sharp and intolerant, much as many an older maid’s would. She had not been fortunate, of course. It was sad to have to say so, but the last years had not been kind to her, whereas of course Juliana herself had been enormously lucky. After all, she had a man who doted upon her. Where Agnes was lonely and dependent on others wealthier than herself, Juliana had money and security. And love, of course.

When the service was concluded, she walked outside with her sister, and she was surprised to see that the stranger was talking to the receiver, the most important man in the city’s hierarchy. Perhaps he was worth getting to know after all, she thought. And then she noticed the depth of his green eyes and found herself modifying her initial view.

Yes — she could understand Agnes’s interest. Handsome and powerful, this man could make her sister a good match. Juliana would speak to her husband at the first opportunity, and learn who he might be.

Exeter, November 1323