Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

In fear, he stood stock still for a moment, convinced that Jordan would come straight in, and then he realized that he must have locked the door after Mazeline when she had entered. Quickly, he ran to the sideboard, and pulled it from the wall. Pushing with all his strength, he rammed it against the door and jammed it.

‘Wha … Reg, what are you doing?’ Mazeline asked as she slowly woke up.

There was an appalling crash on the door, then another, and the timbers moved. Reg instinctively knew that Jordan had taken a bench from the garden and was using it as a ram to break down the door. Mazeline slowly crept from the bed and went to his side. Silently, Reg took Mazeline’s hand and pulled her to him. Naked, both of them stood and stared at the door as it moved and bounced to the rhythm of Jordan’s rage.

He hurled the bench at the door, his impotence firing his rage and pushing him almost beyond coherent thought. Yet he must think … think !

His bitch of a wife was betraying him. He should have realized the whore would do that as soon as his back was turned, but with Reg? Reg, his oldest comrade, the man who had been with him since the beginning, who had only recently killed his own worst enemy; to learn that he was the traitor to whom his wife had run was appalling.

How could they do this to him? He had done nothing to deserve their treachery, nothing to merit this sort of treatment. They were faithless, dishonest bastards, and deserved to die. They should die. They would die, just as soon as he could return.

He could hear more voices, and this time he knew he must escape. Somehow he must get out of the city, out into the countryside where he’d be safer. There was only one way he could go.

With his hand to his belly, he went to the garden’s gate again, listened, and then slipped out, making his way southwards, to the Southern Gate and the brothel.

Sir Peregrine stood staring a long while as Juliana grew paler, her features twisted in anguish. ‘Has someone gone for the damned leech?’ he called brokenly.

‘Aye, and the priest. They’ll be here before long,’ Gwen murmured. ‘Be calm.’

He could feel the sobs welling in his breast. There was nothing he could do. He was impotent in the face of the woman’s grief and pain. ‘Juliana …’

‘Coroner, don’t grieve for me. I will be with my husband soon,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘But I pray you, look after my children. I beg you, don’t leave them unprotected. Please, I pray …’

Even at this time, the hour of her death, she thought of others. Sir Peregrine, who had never known the pleasure of fatherhood, bent his head and closed his eyes to stem the flood. ‘I will. They will have me as their father.’

‘Pray for me, Coroner.’

Her soft voice was like the wind soughing through distant trees. Her eyes were gradually losing their intensity. An unfocused glaze was appearing in them as Gwen mopped her brow. Cecily was weeping uncontrollably on Juliana’s shoulder still, while her brother snivelled with confusion. He had no understanding that this heralded his utter bereavement, but he could appreciate the despair in the room.

When the priest came running in, the balm of holy water and promise of everlasting life in his hands, Sir Peregrine could stand it no more. He left the room and went out into the road, thinking with a cool, steady clarity: Jordan had wrought this desolation and Jordan would pay with his life.

Jordan had no friends, but he had several employees, who by their nature were more likely to live outwith the city walls in the rougher suburbs; people who inhabited the gambling rooms and whorehouses near the quay. He turned and stared along the road in that direction.

‘There’s only one place he’d go,’ Sir Peregrine murmured to himself. ‘The place where he was king: his gambling and whoring rooms.’

As he spoke, Ralph appeared, sprinting along the way. ‘Master Coroner — what is happening here?’

‘Jordan le Bolle came here and tried to murder the sergeant’s widow. I think he has succeeded. The priest is with her now.’

Ralph spat into the road. ‘Him! He is the one who killed the whore, too, I think. He owned that brothel.’

Sir Peregrine nodded: Jordan wanted the sergeant removed for coming too close to exposing his activities regarding the cathedral; he killed the pander and the whore because they were leaving the city; and now he had tried to kill Daniel’s wife too.

Ralph shot a look in the house, then made a decision. ‘Wait here a moment and I can show you.’ He ran inside, unslinging his pack as he went. It took little time to realize that Juliana’s interests were better served by the ministrations of the priest than by all his best herbs. He poured more of his precious burned wine, giving some to her and the rest to Agnes and the children, then stood staring down at Juliana. She had very little time left, he thought, and he felt his heart seem to contract and move with sympathy at the sight of the lovely woman as her beauty dissolved. And then the sympathy and sadness faded and were replaced by a cold, determined rage.

He ran out into the road, and found the Coroner standing still, a hand over his eyes. ‘Sir Peregrine, come with me!’

Jordan reached the gate and stood there panting, his back to the wall. There was the loud snoring of a drunk in the gaol beside the gate itself, and apart from that he was astonished to find that all was quiet. He tilted his head, but there was nothing. Just perfect, peaceful silence. He smiled to himself and set his shoulders. There was a water trough a short way inside the gate, and he walked to it and began to rinse his hands of Est’s blood. Much had spread from his own wound over his shirt, and he thought to himself that he should get a clean one from somewhere. The dangling flaps of linen soaked in his blood were foul. At least the pain had subsided. It was only a dull throbbing now, and scarcely distracted him.

The gate was closed, but that was normal. He banged on the porter’s door, and waited while there was a shuffling from inside, and then the glow of a lamp, hastily lit. There was a wheeze, then a demand to know who it was at his door in the middle of the poxed night, when all decent citizens should be long abed.

‘It’s me, old man. Let me out. I have to see Betsy, and keep quiet about me being here.’

‘Jordan?’ The bolts were shot back and the door opened to display one suspicious eye. It widened as it took in Jordan’s bloodied clothing. ‘Master, you’re dying!’

‘Don’t be a fool all your life, old man! Do you have spare linen I can take?’ Jordan snapped. He pulled off the tattered remains of his shirt and studied it dispassionately. It was ruined, and he tore it up into strips. His belly was a mess. He could see that. In the light, he saw that the blade had jabbed upwards from beside his belly button, a four-inch gash that had miraculously not penetrated his lungs or touched his heart.

He quickly bound his wound with the strips of linen, and then took the old man’s only spare shirt. It was foul and small, but it would have to do. It was too cool out in the open for him to do without a shirt of some sort. He only regretted that he had not grabbed a cotte when he had been at home, but that stupid bitch, the stupid, treacherous bitch Mazeline had screamed so loudly and suddenly that he’d had no choice. He’d had to go.

Where was Jane? He couldn’t leave the city without his little sweeting. He must find her too. He turned and almost bolted back the way he had come, but then he saw the flaring of lights in the road: men with torches. There was a horn-call from a few short alleys away. His pursuers were all over the place; he could never reach Jane and bring her back here to safety … he must escape for now, and return later to fetch her. At the same time he could cut the throat of his wife and that other traitor, Reginald. They’d both pay for their behaviour tonight.