Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

‘You,’ Cecily declared, ‘are revolting.’

‘ ’M not,’ her brother said with all the dignity his four and a half years could muster. ‘Mummy says I’m not.’

‘Oh, shut up and go back to sleep. And this time, don’t snore,’ Cecily hissed and threw herself over to face the wall.

Arthur groaned to himself, just like Daddy, and rolled over too, tugging at their shared blankets.

That groaning of his, it was nearly as bad as the snoring and sniffling. He always had a cold, Arthur did, and when he didn’t he was still grunting and groaning to himself. In Daddy it was endearing, because he was grown up, but a little boy like him, she thought contemptuously, a little boy like him shouldn’t make a noise like that. It was silly .

That he was silly was less a subjective judgement than a conviction borne out by the facts. He was clumsy, noisy, rough and altogether too boisterous. And he was dim. He would believe anything she told him, which made for some amusement for her and her friends, but it also meant that he was amazingly annoying much of the time. And he had no idea that it was rude to stare. He would turn his big blue eyes on people and just stare and stare, and it made them uneasy. She’d told him once that if he kept doing it, someone would come along in the middle of the night and cut out his eyes so he couldn’t be so rude any more, but it didn’t work. He was more fascinated by the sight of other people than he was terrified by the thought of ghouls and monsters coming into his chamber at night.

She wasn’t scared, of course. With the perspective that her additional five years gave her, she knew that although ghosts were all over the place, as her daddy said, they were probably too scared to come into a house like this with Arthur’s dry nurse about the place. And right, too. Iseult was enough to petrify even the most scary of ghosts into finding another house.

There was a creak, and Cecily heard a board moving in the chamber overhead. She glanced up, and through the cracks in the floorboards she caught a flash of blue-white, then another. There was a third, and then a glimmering of yellowish light. Her father had lit a candle. She kept her eyes open, listening to the soft padding of feet. There was no door to her parents’ room, only an archway which gave onto the staircase. The steps were terribly steep and dangerous, and anyone on them must clamber cautiously down to the ground. She was aware of whispering and a glow of light, and then her father’s bare legs appeared as he slowly descended. Once on the ground, she saw him holding a little candle high over his head while he peered about. He had a sword in his right hand, and his face was black with suspicion. It was an expression that would stay with her for the rest of her life in her mares: his square, rugged, honest face with an anxious scowl graven upon it.

She made no sound. When Father came down the stairs because of the children’s arguing or playing, he was invariably very cross and beat them. Tonight he walked near the bed but, to her surprise, although he glanced towards them it was a cursory look, and then he was crossing the room to the shutters. One was open, and as Cecily watched he pulled it wide and stared out into the night.

‘Well?’ It was her mother, Juliana, on the stairs.

‘It’s nothing,’ Daniel said. ‘The shutter wasn’t fastened properly. I’ll make it firm now. You go back to bed.’

‘All right, darling. Be quick.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Cecily kept still and waited while he carefully slammed the shutters and slipped a peg over the bar to lock them. Then he stood surveying the room awhile, before turning and walking out into the hall.

Quietly rolling over, Cecily listened. As usual the clearest sound in the room was her brother’s snuffling and snoring, but over it she was sure that she could hear her father’s steps in the hall, crossing over the rushes and stopping at the windows and doors, checking all were shuttered and barred, before returning to the solar. There he locked the door to the hall and appeared to hesitate.

In the darkness, Cecily heard him muttering, and it was some little while before she made out what he was saying. Then she realized that he was praying for her and her brother; a quiet, contemplative prayer, as though he was really scared of something … or someone. ‘Please God, don’t let him hurt them. Not my little darlings.’

It was tempting to call out to him and ask him what he was doing, but Cecily had been thrashed often enough for interrupting him at night. She knew he disapproved of her waking, even when it was he who had woken her. So instead she remained silent in the bed, watching and listening as he grunted to himself and made his way back up the stairs to his chamber.

‘Nothing. I told you it was nothing. Go to sleep,’ she heard him say in response to a mumbled, sleepy enquiry from her mother, and then Cecily heard him tumble into their bed again. There was a squeaking of ropes as the mattress took his weight, and then the boards moved again, and in the thin light of the candle upstairs she saw a fine dust falling gently.

‘Why were you so long, then?’

‘I feared there might be a man there, that’s all.’

‘Est?’ Cecily could hear that her mother was wide awake now. ‘He’s no threat, is he?’

‘No.’

‘So why the sword?’

He made no answer for a while. Then, ‘Go to sleep. We can discuss this tomorrow.’

Cecily waited for the candle to be blown out, but for once her father did not heed his own stern injunction that all candles should be extinguished when the family was in bed. She was asleep before long, and her last memory was of the thin beam of light projecting between the floorboards.

‘Why do you hate him so?’ Jeanne asked again. ‘You loathed him at Tiverton, because he was so keen on politicking and took no account of the impact of his actions on other people, but he seems a better man now he is no longer at the castle.’

‘You think so?’ Baldwin asked. He was sitting in front of a polished copper plate while Edgar ran a razor over his cheeks. It was not the best time to be discussing the finer points of his feelings for Sir Peregrine.

‘I know it seems irrational, my love, and that isn’t natural for you.’

Baldwin was silent awhile as he considered this. Jeanne’s question had annoyed him, although not for the petty reason that many believed a woman should accept her man’s decisions without question. Baldwin respected his wife as well as loving her, and he had married her for her independence and intelligence. He had no use for a slave. But her question had reminded him that he had chosen to detest Sir Peregrine a long time ago when they first met and Sir Peregrine tried to enlist his support for rebellion against the Despensers and the King; this was no mere irrational dislike. He waited until Edgar was finished, and then, with his face freshly rinsed and towelled, he stood, wincing slightly at the pain in his breast where the bolt had struck, and took her hand.

‘My sweet, I don’t think it is in him to change, any more than a dappled pony can become a chestnut. No, he is a dangerous person to know, and dangerous to talk to. At any time there could be another war, and I will not tie myself to a band which seeks to overthrow the King.’

‘You can’t believe he’d dare to seek that!’ she exclaimed with a smile, but there was no reciprocal amusement on his face. ‘Do you?’

He nodded. ‘It may seem far-fetched, but that is exactly what I fear.’

‘Could any man dare such action when the King has just proved his mastery?’ she wondered. ‘It would be rash indeed to attempt anything against the King or the Despensers.’