The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I hope so, my friend.’

  Baldwin grunted non-committally. ‘What have you heard of this man who wanders about at night?’ he asked, keen to keep the subject away from national politics.

  ‘Nothing. It is a new tale to me. A man who opens doors and shutters to peer in at sleeping children? It is hardly likely.’

  ‘There are some who desire the young and firm,’ Baldwin said tentatively. He had heard of many perversions in his time in the East. There were many there who felt that the sins of the flesh, which in England would be punished by castration or death, were not so important. They weighed less in the minds of people there. Men would lie with men, and sometimes with boys. It was a habit which had at first appalled him, but after a while he grew less intolerant. Such behaviour, although it repelled him personally, should not lead to a man’s execution. Even Pope Leo III had argued that occasional offenders should not be severely punished.

  His own feelings were tempered by his experiences as a Templar. He had witnessed the humiliation of many hundreds of honourable, decent monks, their torture and ruin. Many had been accused of sodomy, and their bodies were broken to force their confessions. No, Baldwin could not believe that catamites were as evil as those who inflicted suffering upon the innocent.

  Sir Peregrine had spoken and Baldwin had to force his mind to stop wandering. ‘I am sorry, sir?’

  ‘I said, if a man is guilty of such behaviour, surely he will soon be caught and killed. No one can really think to break into men’s houses and lasciviously eye their sons and daughters with impunity.’

  ‘No,’ Baldwin agreed.

  ‘I rather hope that foolish sergeant finds the man again.’

  His hope was soon to be fulfilled.

  Henry was present at the inquest when it was held, but for all the good it did anyone he might just as well have stayed away. That poor old bastard, Ham, had no one to talk for him. Just the same as any old sod in this city. They could go and hang themselves as far as the courts were concerned. What was the point of going to the courts to demand justice, when the Coroner would stand up there and listen to a bunch of arses telling the story the sergeant had paid them to tell? There was no fairness in a place like this.

  He had no faith. Not now. His shoulder was as well healed as it ever would be, but the pain was something he had to cope with every day of his life. There was no escape for him. Just as there was none for Estmund. Est had lost his family, and trying to help him had cost Henry his livelihood and future, thanks to the shit Daniel, the man who’d nearly killed him and ruined his body.

  Henry looked over at the sergeant.

  Daniel stood leaning heavily on his staff like a man weary almost to death. To Henry’s mind he looked like someone who had slept only fitfully for many days. His eyes flitted from one face to another almost fearfully, and Henry suddenly had a sense of what the man’s life must be like: scared at all times in case a felon saw him as his natural prey and chose to attack him for no apparent reason. Constantly anxious, sleeping lightly so as to spring awake at the slightest disturbance. And now he had slaughtered poor Ham, and many here would not forget or forgive that. One lapse of temper had cost Daniel the trust of the people he was supposed to depend on for his authority.

  Yes, he was scared. He started at every sound … soon he must go mad if he was going to continue like this.

  So much the better. The bastard deserved death.

  Hiding under her blanket, Cecily told herself she had never been scared by the man. Not really. And of course now, with that new board covering the old hole and splinter in the shutter, there was nothing to fear anyway. She was safe enough, and no need to be scared, not of the man, nor of dreams. They wouldn’t hurt her. No, Mother had said she wouldn’t have those dreams again.

  The weather was changing again, and she felt the chill at her fingertips and toes. Seeking some comfort, she rolled over and cuddled Arthur. There was a muffled squeak from him when he felt her frozen hands, her cold knees, but he was too deeply asleep to complain loudly. He pushed at her half-heartedly, muttered a little in his sleep, but then simply moved away from her, leaving a warm cocoon where he had lain. Gratefully she snuggled into the conquered territory and closed her eyes again. Sleep soon took her.

  When the sound came, she snapped awake in an instant, but was too anxious to turn and see what had made the noise, a strange scraping that seemed to come from the window. Now it was silent, and she was about to persuade herself that she had imagined it when she heard something again. This time it was a quiet slithering, a faint, ever so quiet squeak, like polished metal slipping against a smooth piece of burnished timber, and then there was a rough scraping like a blade rubbing on wood.

  She felt the hair start to rise on her neck. Dread filled her heart and she wanted to scream until her father came to rescue her, but she remembered clearly how he had thrashed her the last time she woke him by playing in the chamber when he was trying to sleep. Even a ghost wouldn’t make her disturb him unnecessarily.

  A rattle and a thud, and she slowly turned her head, feeling the flesh of her scalp start to move. The peg that stopped the bar had been pushed out again, and now she could see the wooden bar lift from its brackets.

  Her breath was uncontrollable. Her ribs spasmed painfully and she found she was panting with terror, moving away from the window in the bed. She wanted to cover her head and face with the blankets and skins, but dared not. Petrified, she was too frightened to avert her gaze, torn between the horror of seeing what might enter and the equal dread of hiding and not seeing it.

  The hinges squeaked as the shutter was pulled open, and she saw, or thought she saw, a dark figure in the opening. A man’s body clad in a black robe with a cowl over the head, the face hidden. He seemed to stare in, and then a leg appeared and was thrust inside.

  She was close to being sick. Her stomach was rebelling against the tension, and she felt sure that she must dirty herself like a baby when she saw him take hold of the sill and enter fully. He stood there a moment as though listening, and then he started to walk towards her and Arthur.

  It was too much. She gave a short cry of panic and hurled herself from the bed, ripping the coverings from it. Arthur was startled awake and gave a shrill scream even as Cecily tripped on a blanket and fell headlong. There was a clatter as her head knocked an iron candle-holder against a table, the candle rolling over the table top, the metal stand striking a pewter plate, which rang with a shivering rattle as it rolled across the floor.

  There was a roar, a harsh, unintelligible bellow, and the clumping of heavy feet. Cecily looked up to see her father and the hooded man grappling. There was a blow, a shriek, and she saw her father’s face twisted and distorted with horror and agony just before he collapsed, and then her mother grabbed her and mercifully covered her eyes as the tide of blood crept over his shirt, his eyes still staring accusingly towards his killer as the stranger fled through the window.

  Chapter Seven

  There was that snuffling again, and if Jeanne had heard that every night for the last few years she would be out of her mind by now. As things were, she listened to it sympathetically and even with some thankfulness.

  Edgar had been guarding his master from a murderous attack when he was knocked down. This snuffling was the result. Jeanne only hoped that whatever was causing it would eventually right itself, because if she knew Edgar’s wife Petronilla, he would not be forgiven for keeping her awake at night.

  The main thing was that both these men, one whom she regarded with the single-minded adoration of a girl for a first lover, the other with the respect of a mistress for an entirely faithful servant who would die in order to protect his master and herself, were alive and safe, although Baldwin was not quite out of the woods yet. His physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, an insufferably arrogant man with the manners of a prince who knew his own importance, had drawn Jeanne aside only four days ago to tell her to watch her man carefully.

  ‘If he begins
to find himself breathless, or his colour changes, let me know, madam. And if his humours appear disordered, send for me.’

  She knew what that meant, of course. The well-being of a man’s body depended upon maintaining the correct balance of the natural humours. Baldwin had always been somewhat sanguine, and she had more than once been a little anxious at the sight of his reddened complexion after he had taken exercise. Even more concerning was his occasional lapse into a phlegmatic disposition, such as when he had to spend too much time at one of the many courts at which he sat in justice; at such times his manner became desperately indolent. He would drink more than usual and eat more, and his belly would begin to grow until he had a paunch.

  If anything, he was looking quite phlegmatic just now, she felt. While Edgar snored quietly on his palliasse on the floor by their door, Jeanne eyed her husband.

  He lay on his back with his face to the ceiling, his expression, even in sleep, fixed into that intense glower which she recognized so well. The first time she had seen that look she had thought that it denoted either doubt or disapproval, but more recently she’d realized that it was a sign of his confusion about the world. He had many secrets … she knew a few of them, but she knew also that there were large parts of his life about which she might never learn. It didn’t concern her. Provided he continued to love her, that was all that mattered. She could still recall her desperation only a short while ago when she had thought that she had lost his love. That had hurt her more than she had thought possible. It was appalling to think that her man could have grown like her first husband, the unlamented Ralph de Liddinstone.

  No. Baldwin was not like him. He was kind, generous-hearted and thoughtful. He had a natural empathy with others that went deeper than mere understanding of another man’s position. Baldwin had endured a depth of suffering that meant he could comprehend how others reacted to their own pain.

  She loved him. A hand went to his face to stroke his cheek, but although she allowed it to hover a little way above him, she couldn’t disturb him. He looked so restful. Even the intensity of the frown on his face only served to make him look more childlike, somehow, like a boy trying to understand what made a river continue to flow and never empty. There was a depth of innocence in his expression that was entirely endearing to her.

  There was a rattling at the inn’s front door, and she saw his face stiffen slightly. A disturbance in Edgar’s breathing told her that he too was awake. At the sound of steps and a shout, Edgar sprang up. Still naked, he snatched his sword from the stool beside his makeshift bed. At the same time Baldwin tried to rise, grunting as the pain in his shoulder returned. He stood flexing the muscles for a moment, then picked up his sword and drew the blade free of the scabbard, the blue steel flashing as he tested its weight on his wrist, spinning it round and round.

  ‘Sir Baldwin! There’s a message for you. The Coroner asks you to go with him.’

  Baldwin threw a look over his shoulder at his wife, who drew the bedclothes up to her chin with a smile. ‘Leave me a moment and I shall be with you,’ he called, and reached for his clothes.

  The body lay at the foot of the stairs. Not far from him there was a discarded rag doll, and Baldwin was struck by the similarity between the two figures. Both looked derelict, unnecessary and unloved. The doll should have been in the child’s arms; the man should still have been in his wife’s bed. Instead they had been cast aside lifeless. Neither possessed even the semblance of vigour.

  ‘What happened?’ Baldwin asked.

  The man at the body’s side was a youngster with a perpetually running nose. Watery grey eyes peered at Baldwin from under reddened lids, and he gripped his staff with the resolution of a man clinging to a rope dangling over a chasm. ‘The maid said that there was someone down here. They heard the children cry out, and he came down. His woman followed to help, and was just in time to see the murderer getting out through the window.’

  ‘Did anybody else see the man?’

  ‘Only the wife and the little girl.’

  ‘Where is the woman?’

  The man nodded towards the front of the building. ‘She’s taken the two children to the neighbour’s house over the road: widow Gwen’s place. Took them in as soon as their screams were heard.’

  ‘Some people can show true Christian charity,’ the Coroner observed.

  He had entered in Baldwin’s wake, and Baldwin felt his hackles rise just to hear that smooth, silky voice behind him. It was unjustified, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about this knight that always rubbed him up the wrong way. He nodded curtly, and instantly felt guilty as Sir Peregrine led the way back out into the road. There was no need to be gratuitously rude to the man. He was only performing his duties in the way he knew best. It was no crime to make a comment on the kind behaviour of a neighbour.

  On the road Sir Peregrine paused. ‘I would ask, Sir Baldwin, that you be kind to the woman. She has seen much to disturb her this night.’

  It was tempting to snap at him, but Baldwin took a breath and agreed. He walked along behind the Coroner, meeting a glance from his servant. Edgar smiled broadly.

  ‘I know,’ Baldwin muttered. Both of them could remember how Daniel had walked alone from St Peter’s on the previous Sunday. Juliana had walked some distance in front of her man as though not with him. Perhaps she disliked him – even hated him? ‘Yes, I know: Estmund was not viewed as a threat by people, or they would have attacked him, or at least threatened him with the law. Instead they tolerated him because of his loss. And of course many times a man’s murder will be caused by a jealous wife.’

  Peter de la Fosse shivered as he pulled on his robe, and licked his lips nervously. Out in the close, he knew his men would be waiting, and he stared fixedly at the cross before he could think of joining them.

  ‘God, forgive me if this is wrong, but I am only a weak man,’ he pleaded. He bent his head in an obeisance, and walked quickly from his hall into the bright November day.

  It was all Jordan’s fault, he told himself. One series of mistakes, and he would spend his life in regrets – but there was nothing else he could do. How else could a man survive when caught up in such sinful times?

  He had never felt that he had a vocation for the Church. The third son of an esquire, he had shown a certain skill for writing and reading at an early age, and the local priest had been so impressed that he had written himself to the Bishop’s man. Soon a message had come back asking Peter to go to the cathedral, and the path of his life was set out for him. He would become a chorister, then a secondary, and finally a vicar. If he was very fortunate, he might be elevated into the cathedral’s chapter.

  And so, in due course, he became a canon – but by that time he was in debt, heavily in debt, to Jordan le Bolle.

  The man was a snake. He had no feelings for others, only the desire to benefit himself. He owned the brothels where Peter had first been tempted by female flesh, and the gambling dens below where the cleric had gradually frittered away all his money, and inevitably, in time, he owned Peter.

  Perhaps, if he had been more courageous years ago, Peter could have gone to the Dean or the Bishop and admitted what he’d done. The penance might have been severe, but it would have been better than this extended horror. He might not love the cathedral as he should, but there was a foulness in continually acting to the detriment of a holy place like this.

  At least his actions today were justified. He was convinced of that.

  Perhaps he should speak to the Dean and explain why he had become so deeply involved with Jordan le Bolle. The Dean was an intelligent, understanding man of the world. He must see that there was nothing else that Peter could have done.

  The canon was the victim of a felon’s malevolent will.

  Juliana Austyn was a beautiful woman. Baldwin had never considered himself immune from the attractions of ladies who possessed physical splendour, but he was still shocked by the impact her glance had upon him. She was slim a
nd dark, with a face that was almost triangular, her chin was so fine. A small mouth didn’t marr her looks, it merely seemed in proportion – or perhaps it was that the mouth and nose emphasized her large grey-green eyes. They were serious today, but he could all too readily imagine them fired with passion, and the thought was curiously unsettling. Looking at the other men here, he could see that they were struck by the same impression.

  Sir Peregrine was deliberately avoiding her gaze as though he feared that a single gleam from her eye could make him fall into an adolescent fit of giggling and nervousness. Edgar was more confident. He gave the woman his full attention, turning to face her directly, as though there was no one else in the room, and Baldwin had to conceal a smile. His servant had always been a confident and successful seducer, ever since the destruction of their Order. It was almost as though he had felt himself constrained all the time that he had been a Templar, and once he was freed from the shackles of his vows he went on to make up for all the years of abstinence. Clearly Edgar felt this woman was deserving of attention. Her beauty certainly made her worth the hunt, although Baldwin felt sure Edgar would regret any adultery were he to attempt it; his wife Petronilla would be bound to learn of it. Nothing could be concealed from her, and if she were to feel herself let down, Edgar would not be long in knowing about it. In any case, Baldwin did not wish to see Edgar propositioning a recently bereaved widow. He must make that plain to his man.

  Strangely, seeing his servant’s reaction made Baldwin more confident, and the look of sheep-like humility on Sir Peregrine’s face only served to strengthen his resolve.

  ‘Your husband was murdered last night?’

  ‘In the middle of the night,’ she agreed. Her eyes were turned to him, and they held a confidence and self-assurance that was rather out of place. ‘I heard a noise, and woke my husband, but before he could get down the stairs our daughter screamed. Cecily has always been a good sleeper and is not prey to mares at night, so when we heard that, Daniel grasped his sword and ran down the stairs.’