Michael Jecks: The Butcher of St Peter's

‘And if a man like Est was to see her strike, and realized what she’d done, he would blame himself, more than likely, and run away, too,’ Simon finished.

‘But I tell you this, Simon,’ Baldwin said, turning and marching back the way they had come. ‘I will do and say nothing. The child needs sympathy and love, not accusations. Let us leave her in peace. Such peace as she can know, anyway.’

Simon rode with Baldwin and Jeanne back to their house, where he would stop with them for a short while before he continued homewards. Baldwin had sent Edgar on ahead, against the servant’s wishes, to prepare the way for them, and they hoped that Furnshill would be ready for them by the time they reached it.

Jeanne had forgiven her husband for the delay. As they continued on their way homewards and the road became more familiar, their ride grew more and more easy. Whereas earlier Jeanne had been in an irritable mood, tired and fretting at any delays, soon she was giggling at Simon and Baldwin’s chattering. By the time they turned right up the long, swooping path that led to the front door of the hall, Jeanne was almost back to her normal self.

The real thaw happened almost as soon as Richalda saw her parents. Baldwin dropped from his horse to help Jeanne dismount as they reached the door of Furnshill, and before Jeanne’s feet had touched the ground Richalda was toddling unsteadily over the damp grass with her arms outstretched.

Jeanne reached for her with tears in her eyes, and as soon as the little girl had received a hug, she left Jeanne and tottered toward her father. The little girl gripped his knees and held him. Simon dropped from his horse and glanced at them. He saw Baldwin with suspiciously moist eyes, Richalda still holding to his legs like a limpet, and then he saw Jeanne. She reached forward to take Baldwin’s hand with a smile, and then Baldwin pulled her to him and they embraced, right there, before the front door of his hall.

Simon looked at the doorway and saw Edgar standing and kissing his own wife, Crissie. Edgar slowly pushed the door closed, and Simon grinned to himself as he led the horses round to the side where the stables lay.

It seemed a good idea to leave Baldwin and Jeanne alone with their daughter, if only for a short while.

Betsy shivered and pulled on a thick woollen cloak before stepping outside to fetch some water. The yard out here was dangerous now, with thick ice where the last day’s rain had pooled.

The well was beyond the line of lean-tos, and she stepped carefully to it, carrying her jug cautiously. Her breath formed feathers on the freezing air, and she could feel the frost on her cheeks and nose. It felt as though ice was forming in her nostrils as she reached the well and started to pull on the rope to heave up the bucket.

‘Morning, wench!’

‘Sweet Mother of God!’ she yelped, and dropped the bucket. It rattled down the narrow shaft, striking sparks from the stone walls, before slapping back into the water far below. ‘Physician, do you have no feeling for a woman’s fear? Why do you insist on making my heart leap from my throat?’

‘Woman, don’t be so mean-minded!’ he chuckled. ‘Look, I have a present for you.’

Her face lost all emotion. In his hand there was a parcel of linen bound with leather thongs, and she felt herself stiffen as though it could be a weapon. There was silence for a long moment, and then she reached out and took it. Pulling aside one corner, she saw that inside was a bolt of thick velvet, a glorious, vibrant emerald green that matched her eyes.

‘It is lovely,’ she said.

‘Do you want to ask me inside for some warmed wine, then?’ he asked hopefully, and when he saw her tears, he smiled and took her hand, leading her inside to the warmth.

*See The Chapel of Bones

* 13 October