Michael Jecks: The Butcher of St Peter's

Blithely unaware of the impact of his presence on Agnes, Sir Peregrine was soon conversant with the new responsibilities he had taken on — or, as he put it, which he must endure. It was an advantage to have the advice of the Keeper of the King’s Peace, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, who was in the city recuperating after being struck in the chest by a bolt.

Sir Baldwin was already greatly recovered, and when the weather was clement could often be found outside the inn where he was staying, his wife ministering to his needs. Always at his side was his servant Edgar, closely observing all those who approached his master. Edgar took his duties seriously, and his key role here was the guardian and protector of Sir Baldwin.

It was on the vigil of St Martin’s Day that Sir Peregrine would later feel that the case started. Although it had no resonance of especial significance for him when he first approached Sir Baldwin, in due course he would come to realize that this was the day on which God decided to play His cruellest trick on him. At the time, however, he had no inkling of the fate God held in store for him.

The convalescent knight was sitting on a bench indoors while his physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, studied his urine in a tall glass flask, holding it up in the sunlight shafting through a high window. ‘I don’t want my patient upset or excited today,’ Ralph said, sucking his teeth as he sniffed the urine thoughtfully. ‘The stars aren’t good for that. Not this week.’

Sir Peregrine had a healthy respect for battle-trained surgeons, because he had seen their skills demonstrated on the field of war, but for others, such as this piss-tinkering prick, he had none. He ignored the man. ‘Godspeed, Sir Baldwin. My Lady Jeanne, my sincerest compliments. You grow ever more beautiful!’

Sir Baldwin’s wife smiled in a rather embarrassed manner at being so praised, but she was also pleased. She knew Sir Peregrine was not prone to idle flattery.

He could not help but admire her. Lady Jeanne de Furnshill was a tall woman in her early thirties, entirely unspoiled by motherhood. Sir Peregrine had seen many women lose their attractiveness and charm when they had become mothers, but not Jeanne. She still had bright blue eyes that brought to mind cornflowers in a meadow on a summer’s day, and red-gold hair that reminded him of warmth at the fireside. Neither had faded with the years. She was slender, but not weakly; her face was a little too round, perhaps, her nose maybe a bit short and slightly tip-tilted, and her upper lip was very wide and rather too full, giving her the appearance of stubbornness. Yet all gathered together, her features made her an intensely beautiful woman, and one of whom Sir Peregrine would be eternally covetous.

‘When you’ve finished staring at my wife, would you like some wine?’ Sir Baldwin asked sharply.

Sir Peregrine laughed and sat at his side. Sir Baldwin was a tall man, running slightly to a paunch now, especially after some weeks recuperating, but he was striking in his manner and his looks. Used to power, he displayed a firmness and confidence in all he did, and his dark brown eyes had an intensity about them that many found intimidating. His face was framed by the flat, straight, military haircut over his furrowed brow, and below by the line of hair that clung to the angle of his jaw. Once, when Sir Peregrine had first known him, that hair had been black, but now it was liberally sprinkled with white, as was the hair on his head. A scar reached from one temple almost to his jaw, the legacy of a battle of long ago.

Now Sir Peregrine received the full force of those eyes.

‘Have you come to enquire after my health,’ growled Baldwin, ‘or to dally with my wife while I sit here as an invalid?’

‘Neither, friend.’ Sir Peregrine chuckled. He leaned forward as Lady Jeanne poured wine from a heavy jug into a pottery drinking horn. It was cheap, fashioned in the likeness of a bull’s horn with a man’s face embossed on the front, all glazed green, and he studied it a moment. ‘No, this is a little business which may be more to your taste than mine.’

‘You are the Coroner,’ Baldwin remarked.

‘This is not a matter of a body … not yet, at least. It is a matter of the King’s Peace. I have been told that there are some friars causing trouble again.’

Baldwin winced. ‘Rather you than me if it comes to a fight over rights and liberties between a friary and the city. Which friary is it?’

‘Worse than that.’ Sir Peregrine smiled. ‘It’s a straight fight between the friars and the canons. The friars are preaching in the streets against the canons. Apparently one of their older confraters is on his deathbed and wants to be buried in the friary, but the canons are determined to enforce their claim to the funeral.’

Baldwin did not smile. ‘I see.’

It was odd. Sir Peregrine had always respected Sir Baldwin, who was clearly a fighter of prowess and some courage, and yet Sir Baldwin could not bring himself to like Sir Peregrine. It was all because of his personal loathing for politics, as Sir Peregrine knew full well.

They had a different view of the world, so he thought. While he sought to improve the lot of the people by his own active involvement, Sir Baldwin tried to avoid any participation in the disputes and political struggles that so often absorbed the entire kingdom. In the last few years, since the accession to the throne of the weakly King Edward II, the realm had suffered from the greed of the King’s friends and advisers, first the grasping Piers Gaveston, and now the still more appalling Despenser family. The King appeared incapable of reining in their ambition, and it would soon be necessary, Sir Peregrine felt sure, to remove them by force. That was his firm conviction, and the attitude of rural knights like Sir Baldwin, who wanted to enjoy their quiet existence without running risks, seemed to him to be both selfish and short-sighted. Avoiding conflict only guaranteed that the strong would become bolder.

‘Has the Dean raised the matter yet?’ Sir Baldwin asked.

‘No. I have heard all this only from the city. The receiver wants no more disputes. The city can remember too clearly all the nonsense twenty years ago.’

Jeanne looked interested. ‘What happened then?’

‘I don’t know, nor do I care.’ Baldwin held up a hand. ‘It’s a matter for the Church, not for a king’s officer. If they wish to bicker amongst themselves, that is for them to decide. I know this: I have no jurisdiction over any of the men involved.’

‘Quite so,’ said Sir Peregrine.

He could have grown angry with this fellow. It was pathetic. There were many men rather like Baldwin, he supposed, men who were not driven to treat the protection of everyone in the realm very seriously, but for his part he had seen the dangers. The Despensers had caused too much disturbance and bloodshed already. They had to be stopped.

Perhaps Sir Baldwin’s attitude was an indication of the lethargy which affected the rest of the country. Or was it something else?

Out at the southern gate of the city, there were spikes from which hung some blackened, wizened shapes. Not many, but enough. If a man took a close look at them, he could see the rough, sharp edges of the yellowed bones where they protruded through the leathery old flesh. That was what had happened to the last of the rebels after the recent civil wars. The King and his henchmen had captured all those whom the Despensers saw as a threat to their power, and had them slaughtered, from Earl Thomas of Lancaster down to the lowliest knight, simply because they had dared to stand up and declare that the King must control his advisers. Many a man might have been scared by the prospect of ending his life in front of a jeering crowd, only to have his remains dangle from a spike for the populace to contemplate as they went about their daily lives.