Michael Jecks: The Butcher of St Peter's

Perhaps that was it, Sir Peregrine reflected, gazing at Baldwin again. Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was scared by the possibility of defeat. He was scared by the prospect of his own death.

In the Black Hog, there was no question of defeat when the friars entered late that same afternoon.

John was the older man, and as he gazed in upon the drinkers he smiled faintly. ‘These are the very fellows, Robert. Do you listen to me, and I will show you how to work them up to such a fair froth of emotion they do not even notice giving me their money!’

He strolled among the men drinking there, his bowl held unostentatiously in his hand, as though it was of no great significance. It was there so that folks could put money in it if they so wished, but he was not here to make demands — not yet. He would seek his payment later, when they had all heard his talk.

‘Friends! Friends one and all!’ he cried as he reached the middle of the chamber. This being a small tavern, there was little enough space, and Robert could see that already he had managed to take a firm grip on their attention. He stood with a hand raised as though in declamation, his eyes covering the whole room, a sad smile on his narrow face, which wore an expression of mingled acceptance and affection. ‘Friends, do you know me? I am a shod friar, an ordinary man, much like you. Except I have taken vows, extraordinary vows. You know why? Because I was once like you. Yes? I grew up in a city much like this one, with the same people in charge, the same fellows who — ah — weren’t! I was apprenticed to a cutler. Can’t you just see me as a rich cutler?’

There was a low rumble of laughter at that. The scrawny figure looked nothing like a rich burgess, especially when he puffed out his chest and tried to look solemn.

‘Yes, you can see me as a rich businessman, can’t you? But how much easier life would be if we always got what we wanted. Haven’t you thought that? Instead, there I was at mass one morning, listening to the priest up there in front, mumbling away, and it suddenly struck me, “This man hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s saying!” Haven’t you thought that sometimes? Yes! A parish priest will do the best he can, but really he’s no better than anyone else, is he? And you know as well as I do that he sometimes doesn’t understand the words he says. Often you reckon you understand them better than he does himself. Well, I thought that, and I thought, If the old fool’s supposed to be talking to God on my behalf, I think I’d prefer to talk to Him direct! So I waited and thought, and then went to the friary. And I’m here now, preaching the words of God to those who’ll listen.’

He spoke for a lot longer in the same vein, and Robert caught a sense of how a preacher could stir men’s blood with a few words and ideas. That skinny, scruffy friar was reaching through the warm fug of ale, sweat and bad breath to convince them all that they should start to speak to God again. And if they didn’t want to go to their parish church, he could help them do it. He was a friar, and friars were allowed to hear a man’s confession, just the same as the parish priest. All they needed to do was pay a little money to him, put a few coins into his bowl, and he could help them. He was a shod friar, after all, a man with no worldly wealth. The friars had given away all their property so that they wouldn’t be distracted from their task of protecting souls.

‘It’s not like we’re canons, friends. We aren’t like those rich men in their great halls, with their nice new church they’re a-building. No, we’re honest, hardworking men like you. So long as we have enough for a crust of bread … and a sup of ale, too! That’s enough for honest men, isn’t it? Why should a priest crave more?’

Robert suddenly realized what he was saying: that the canons and vicars in the cathedral were no better than parasites living off the backs of the local men here.

A voice in the crowd called out, ‘He’s right. The vicar at my church is honest enough, but he’s less sense than my chickens. He preaches as well as he can, but he’s no good. Not as good as a friar, anyway. Vicar before him used to ask friars in to preach, but this one doesn’t care for friars. He’d prefer them to stay away, and he won’t offer them hospitality or food. Why is that?’

‘He is discourteous, friend,’ John said, holding up his hand to silence the rumble that passed about the room, ‘because he knows well that we would perhaps be more able to sway you than he. I do not say that he has a crime to conceal, but such things have been known.’

‘What crime?’ was the obvious response to that, and it came from four different voices. There was a cynical lack of trust in the clergy, who lived so well, who ate so lavishly, who wore the finest clothes … while at least friars tended to live among the people to whom they preached.

‘There are so many. Stealing money they do not deserve; why, did you know that even now, the canons of the cathedral are concealing the fact that one of their own vicars has stolen the money from the purse of a guest? A poor traveller whose only crime was to beg hospitality at the door of the Dean and chapter has had his savings taken.’

‘The culprit will be found and punished.’

‘Found, yes, and punished, true,’ John said, but there was an edge of harshness to his voice, and he nodded sagely as he peered around at the men grouped about him. ‘Punished to the full extent of the Dean’s rage, I have no doubt.’

There was a sudden thoughtful silence. Men who had been grinning to hear him talk now lowered their gaze. Everyone knew that the courts were kind to vicars. They had the benefit of clergy, which meant that they couldn’t be subjected to the same punishments as men who lived in the secular world. There were no whips or brands or hangman’s nooses for the clerics in the cathedral close.

‘He stole six marks, so I’ve heard,’ John continued, peering at his audience from under beetling brows. ‘That would be death to any of you here, wouldn’t it? Aye, but this felon, he’s safe. Yes? He has friends in high places, I dare say. Do you know, the canons have tried violence and had to be chastised before? Last time it was when they attacked my own friary. You know our little house, the place behind the canons’ great palaces, in the angle of the wall towards the East Gate? The canons came in with their servants, and ransacked our church, striking down my friends in there, and broke the cross at our altar. And do you know why?’

Robert shook his head slowly in admiration as John’s voice dropped and he lowered his gaze to stare at them all. A man shifted his feet on the rushes of the floor, and in the silence all could hear it. They were hanging on John’s words.

‘Because they wanted to steal a body; that’s why!’

Arthur was mumbling and snuffling in his sleep, and Cecily was irritated enough to want to smother him with a pillow. God! Wouldn’t he ever stop that silly noise? Why should a fellow do that so much in the middle of the night, when all about him people were trying to get some sleep? Perhaps he didn’t realize, but it was the middle of the night.

She should be more patient. Well, yes. That was easily said, but when Arthur was snorting and moaning like that, there was little a girl could do about it. And for goodness’ sake, surely she deserved a bit of peace herself? There was no reason why she should be expected to suffer this sort of torment every night.

She kicked him, gently, to make him stir a little. Usually that worked well enough, but for some reason tonight it didn’t. So she pinched his arse, good and hard. That did the trick all right!

‘ Ow! Ow …’ He sniffled to himself and blearily opened his eyes. ‘I was having a horrible dream,’ he said, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He always had a runny nose.