Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

‘I saw him murder Mick, one of his panders. He scarred Anne, too. I saw him do both. And others.’

‘You could have told us this before,’ Simon said.

‘He would have killed us too,’ Mazeline said. ‘What, would you believe Reg’s word against those of others? Jordan has many men who will speak for him when he pays them enough!’

‘What else?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

Reg hung his head miserably. He was rent in two: a part of him wanted to confess to all he knew of Jordan, but another part was reluctant — Jordan’s vengeance would be dreadful if he found a means to exact it.

Baldwin set his jaw. ‘He’s killed again tonight. You know that? He’s murdered Estmund Webber, and mortally wounded Juliana, Daniel’s widow. How many more must die for your weakness?’

It was enough. Reg told himself that Jordan must be hanged if he was guilty of so many more crimes. ‘I’ll tell all! He told me to kill Daniel, offered me money to do it …’

‘Did you?’

‘No! I can’t murder in cold blood. I was there that night, trying to steel myself, but while I waited outside, Est pelted out and nearly knocked me down. It petrified me, and I had to return home. I was terrified that Jordan would hurt me for being so weak, but then I heard that Daniel was dead, and then Jordan paid me so I thought I should just keep quiet. But then last night Jordan told me he wanted the women dead too, and Daniel’s children, and … well, I told him he’d have to do it himself. I said I wouldn’t hurt women and children. It left him in a dreadful rage. I thought he would kill me! ’

Baldwin looked at him as a man might view a rat’s corpse. ‘You had best lock your doors after us. I will send men to guard you later, mistress.’

‘What about me?’ Reg demanded. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds me.’

‘I don’t see that is any concern of mine,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘You should pray that we find him first.’

‘He’ll be at the brothel, then.’

‘How can he get there?’ Simon scoffed.

‘Knock on the porter’s door, three times hard, twice soft. The porter has been paid for years to let people in or out to visit the brothel. How else would men get to it, or get home after their visits?’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said. ‘We’ll go and see whether you’re right or not.’

‘What about us?’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘I feel sure that you will be safe enough — if you have told us the truth about where he might have gone. Perhaps you should pray that you are right.’

Jordan sniffed and sucked his hand where the bitch had bitten into it. It was the fleshy part of his palm, and there was a ring of tooth-marks in it now. He had to clench it to stop the stinging.

At the same time his belly was aching more and more with every passing minute. It wasn’t bleeding all over him now, but there was more pain than simple dull thudding, as there had been. He was beginning to wonder whether the wound was worse than he had thought.

‘Betsy, get me some ale,’ he said.

The place was quiet now, with just a couple of rooms rattling to the tune of their occupants’ jigs. Mostly the clients were asleep, drunk and considerably poorer, if Jordan’s men had done their jobs properly. The gambling rooms always made a fortune for him, and it cost little to replenish the stocks of fighting cocks every evening. There were some farmers near Bishop’s Clyst who were always training up cocks for the ring.

Jordan sat at the table, still studying his hand. When Betsy put the jug at his side he didn’t look at her. The bitch had screamed when he pushed the door wide; it had taken a punch with all his body’s weight behind it to silence the stupid strumpet. She should have known he didn’t want noise at this time of night. What was the matter with the wenches in this place? None of them seemed to understand anything.

God, but his belly was sore. It felt as though he had inhaled flames when he took a deep breath. Betsy was wandering about the place with a look of dread on her face. He watched her a moment or two, then snapped, ‘Sit down! In God’s name, I can’t think with you wandering about like that! Sit down, bitch!’

She did as she was told, her hands in her lap, head hanging.

He would kill her later. It’d be good to remove her. He’d never liked her, she was just a competent whore and mistress of whores, that was all. But now he was going to have to escape from here with as much money as he could … and what about Jane? He couldn’t leave her behind, could he? It would be appalling to desert her. She’d be raised by her mother, the traitorous bitch. Shit, if he’d only thought, he could have fetched Jane first, before coming down here … he would have to do something. Fetch her here and take her with him when he left in the morning. Had to find a ship, too. There must be one somewhere. Perhaps he could take one himself, just a small boat, take it down to the coast, and there buy a berth on a ship bound for London or Bordeaux? If he did, perhaps he shouldn’t kill Betsy yet. She could go with him. Pretend she was his wife, and set up a new brothel in whatever town he took her to. There must be places all over the King’s lands in France that would want to have a decent brothel.

But he couldn’t leave Exeter without Jane. Christ alone knew what would happen to her if he left her … he must get a message to her, have her brought here …

‘I want a boy to go to the city,’ he said.

Juliana could feel the warmth leaving her body. Beside her, gripping her left hand, the priest was mumbling his foreign words, and her right was held in both of Cecilia’s. Juliana tried to lift her head to kiss her daughter one last time, but the effort was too great. The muscles of her throat wouldn’t obey her commands any more. As her vision clouded, she closed her eyes to blink away the tears, but it helped only a little, and she felt herself start to shake all over, her feet trembling, her teeth rattling.

Agnes bent and kissed her on the mouth. ‘My sister, I am so sorry. It’s all my fault!’

She could feel the drops falling on her cheeks, but Juliana only noted them with mild interest. She wanted to tell Agnes that she loved her, that she always had loved her, that she should find a decent man, a fellow like the Coroner, and that she didn’t blame her for seeking a little joy and happiness in her life. How could she, when she had been blessed with a wonderful husband and her precious children?

She adored her children. The only sadness was having to leave them.

With the very last ounce of energy in her body, she clenched her hand and squeezed Cecily, whispering, ‘I … love … both …’

And then she gasped and felt an odd sinking sensation, as though her body was falling through the floor and into a deep darkness.

Ralph and Sir Peregrine stood and stared at the door.

‘With just your sword, I would be unhappy to attempt to launch an attack on the place,’ Ralph said.

‘With just you behind me, so would I,’ the Coroner grunted. He was chewing at his inner cheeks, his hand clenching and twisting at the hilt of his sword. ‘There could be any number of men in there.’

Ralph was about to respond when a young lad appeared round the corner of the house and set off towards them at a trot. ‘You! Boy! Where are you going at this time of night?’

‘That’s my business!’

Sir Peregrine chuckled unpleasantly. ‘I am the King’s Coroner, boy, and I’ll have you whipped if you like,’ he said, moving forward, his sword’s point ready.

Ralph was worried about the Coroner. He appeared to be losing control of his emotions. His eyes were wild and staring, his complexion strange and pale. He looked like a man who was ready to throw himself to his own doom. All that he valued and appreciated was torn apart already. He had nothing to live for.