Her voice was stopped by his slap. It took three strides to reach her, and then his hand caught her cheek and her head was snapped round by the force of it. She stood as though petrified; unmoving, her head turned over her right shoulder, staring fixedly at the wall. ‘You hate me?’ she whispered.
‘I feel nothing for you,’ he said coldly. ‘I never did. You were enjoyable for a while, that’s all. Now get out of my house.’
Mazeline stepped from the doorway as Agnes turned away from him. Her head drooped as she made her way to the corridor that gave out to the door.
She was destroyed, Mazeline thought. Utterly destroyed. Where Mazeline had seen her life gradually eroded by her husband as he had whittled away at her self-assurance, this woman had seen her hopes and dreams destroyed in one fell swoop. He had taken her for a ‘diversion’ as she had said, and in return given nothing.
Mazeline’s destruction had been less sudden, more progressive over the years, but it was as inevitable as Agnes’s. She was to be ruined just as completely. As Agnes shuffled past her, Mazeline found herself studying this woman, once so attractive, who was now no more than a ravaged crust, like a discarded snail shell when the thrush has plucked all the meat from it.
She had never stopped to think before, but it was just how she must look. When she had married, she was pretty enough, perhaps no beauty, but still attractive enough to take the fancy of a man in the street. Yet now, as she turned her head and caught sight of herself in a mirror, all she could see was a woman old before her time. Her eyes were red, one still bruised, while her brow still had the line of scabbed blood where his goblet had struck her. If she was not so completely destroyed as Agnes at that moment, it was only because her slide into despair had been more gradual, with more halts on the way when he persuaded her that the punishment was due to her own failings, and that he really still loved her and wanted her to improve so that he need not chastise her any longer.
For the first time, she realized now that his words were lies. He loved her as much as he loved Agnes. They were not women, they were simply things, possessions he had acquired through his life, toyed with, and now tossed aside like trash. While he had a use for them, he would keep them, but now he was done with Agnes.
Which left Mazeline with what, exactly? she wondered. Agnes had gone, and Mazeline remained standing at the side of the doorway, silently surveying her husband.
‘What is it now, wench? You’re looking at me like a trapped rabbit. Ach, what the hell! Get me ale. From a good barrel this time!’
She walked out and fetched a jug, filling it from the barrel, but all the time her mind was fixed on the sight of that poor woman in her hall. Then, beginning with one sharp, painful sob that took her completely by surprise, she began to weep.
Baldwin and Simon stood in the street outside Carfoix and looked up at the fading light. The sun had already sunk behind the far hills, and the twilight was giving way to the night. Baldwin could see stars like diamonds lying in a sheet of black velvet.
‘Shall we find the Coroner and go to this man Jordan?’ Simon asked. ‘Where does Sir Peregrine live, do you know?’
‘He has a house in Correstrete, the same as Jordan. Let’s go and see whether he’s at home. If he is, we can walk round to le Bolle’s house with him.’
Simon agreed and soon they were outside the Coroner’s house.
It was a new building, with clean, square lines. They entered to find themselves in a broad hall with a fire smoking fitfully in a fireplace at the wall on their right. There was a newfangled chimney over it, and Simon was intrigued to see how the smoke would disappear up the flue, occasionally billowing back into the room.
Sir Peregrine saw the direction of his gaze as yet another blue-grey blanket roiled into the hall. ‘I know. I bought the house before I realized it had a chimney. If I’d known, I’d have been keener to pay less. I’ve never known one work properly. Give me an old-fashioned fire in the middle of the floor any time. You know where you are with them.’
Baldwin walked to the fire and stood with his back to it. ‘We think that we are coming closer to solving all these matters,’ he said, and explained what they had learned from Gervase and Peter de la Fosse, then what they had been told by Reginald.
‘You think that this Reginald is in league with Jordan le Bolle, then?’ Sir Peregrine asked. He took his seat on a bench. Drinks had been ordered from his bottler already, but the man appeared to have the speed of a hobbled donkey. Still, Sir Peregrine tried to concentrate on Sir Baldwin’s words. The man was a very good investigator, as he had told Juliana.
The mention of her name in the confines of his mind was enough to make him lose the train of thought. She was so lovely, so sweet and kind. The way that she had taken her daughter and cuddled her after that poisonous maid her sister had sulkily stormed from the room, that was the action of a truly loving mother. A lovely sight. And such a contrast with her older sister.
At first he could think of no topics which they could discuss, but then, slowly, they had begun to speak. He had chosen to tell her of the investigation first, their lack of success in finding Estmund, his hopes that he might soon learn where the man was, if he hadn’t fled the city with his guilt so obvious. Then he told her a little about the death of the pander Mick.
She had apparently wanted to hear nothing of death, though. Perhaps it was because the children were there, or maybe because the death of her man in this very house was still too close. It made him wonder whether the two children would be sleeping in her bedroom tonight, and the thought quickly led to another. The idea of her undressing for bed was painfully erotic, and he had to force his mind away from the delightful scene … There was one thing of which he was absolutely convinced: he would not shame this woman by attempting to persuade her into his bed. She was so wonderful, so sweet and kind and lovely, that he could no more think of propositioning her than flying. She was so far above him in every way.
And then, haltingly, she had started to talk. Almost as though he wasn’t in the room, she spoke of her marriage, how her man had won her when many others competed for her affection, how she had reciprocated his interest and finally accepted his offer. They had lived through the misery of the famine, and even when men like Estmund were burying their dead, she and Daniel had prospered. Their wealth had grown as the wills had proliferated, and at the end of that dreadful time they had been moderately well-off, although more recently they had been less fortunate.
She told him of Daniel’s fixed hatred for felons who preyed on the weak and foolish, crimes which were so repellent to him that he sought to destroy those who had committed them, and how he had gradually become morose and uncommunicative. ‘It felt as if I’d lost him. Another man had taken his place.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘It didn’t happen in a flash, and we didn’t lose our love for each other,’ she said. ‘That is the truth, Coroner. I still loved him, you know, and that never changed. It was just that he became so obsessed with these crimes.’
‘Which crimes?’ Sir Peregrine asked, noting the line of her throat as she kissed Cecily.
‘Those caused by a man’s venality or greed. He hated them most of all. When a weaker man was injured by a stronger. That was why he …’
Sir Peregrine scarcely noticed the break in her speech.
‘Henry Adyn was badly hurt by Daniel. I know he hated my husband for that terrible wound, but Daniel thought he was in danger, you see. That was why he bought the cart and a pony for Henry, so that he’d have a means of supporting himself.’
‘He did? That was good of him.’
‘He was a kind man,’ she agreed. Cecily was on her lap, and Juliana put her arms about her shoulders. ‘He had made his mistakes. He knew everyone could.’
‘We all make errors; sometimes they have unexpected consequences,’ he agreed. Then, ‘Is it possible that there is any offence he was investigating that could point to his murderer?’
‘What do you
mean?’
‘If he was looking into any specific crime, where the man concerned could have taken fright at learning that Daniel was investigating him?’
Juliana looked away. Sir Peregrine saw her close her eyes a moment. When she opened them again, she looked from Cecily to Arthur.
‘There was one man,’ she said.
Baldwin was almost certain that Sir Peregrine had fallen asleep, but when he mentioned the name the Coroner’s head jerked up. ‘Who?’
‘Jordan le Bolle.’
‘That is the man whom Juliana accused tonight,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘She said Daniel had been trying to gather enough evidence to arrest him for an age.’
Juliana had looked away. ‘He is evil, evil!’ she said, and she drew Cecily to her and hid her face in her neck.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mazeline was nervous when the harsh banging came on her door. She remained in her seat in the hall when the noise started, echoing about the place, and it was only when she heard a voice demand that the door be opened at once that she stirred herself.
The bottler was already there, and he cast an anxious eye at her as he hovered near the door. ‘Open it,’ she commanded quietly.
‘We want to speak to Jordan le Bolle,’ the first man said.
‘You are the Keeper? I recognize you. These others are?’
‘Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple, the Coroner, and Bailiff Puttock from Dartmouth,’ Baldwin answered. ‘Lady, your husband, where is he?’
‘I do not know,’ she said.
And nor did she care. After Agnes had left, while she tried to hold back her tears, he had stumped about the place, and then stormed out, angrily telling her to cool her temper.
‘A woman should be a delight for her husband, not a muling, whining bitch forever weeping.’
‘Did you love her?’ she had said. In God’s name, she had no idea where that question had come from. It seemed to leap into her mouth without bidding, and she felt her eyes widen in shock even as he spun towards her, his fist clenched under her nose. Mercifully, he didn’t strike.
‘Love her? No! But she was useful. I wanted to know about Daniel, and she was the source of my information.’
‘You did kill him, didn’t you?’ she whispered.
‘Everyone thinks that,’ he spat, and he put his hands to his head with a grimace. ‘Why does everyone think I did it? I have plenty of men will swear that I was nowhere near the place that night. I wasn’t there! It wasn’t me!’
‘Did you ever love me?’ she asked, in a voice so small she could hardly hear it herself.
‘You?’ His face cleared and lifted and he frowned at her as though surprised to hear her question him on such a matter. ‘We have been happy, haven’t we? We have a lovely daughter, and we’re content with our lives. I find money and food for you, don’t I? What more do you want of me?’
He left soon after that, and if there was satisfaction that for once he had not beaten her, there was a strange, fresh desolation in her heart.
In all those early years she had lived with the man believing that she had been wrong on occasion, and that he had been justified in correcting her when she was. For her, the fact that he loved her was the overriding point. It had made all the suffering, the humiliation and the pain, somehow bearable; to know that in fact she meant nothing to him was appalling. It made a mockery of her whole life as his wife.
Recently, needing companionship and compassion, she had fallen into the affair. It was by no means intentional, her oaths before the altar meant that her soul was endangered already, but when she began to fall in love with poor Reg, it had seemed both natural and inevitable. Both sought escape from the same man … the same terrors. Even then, she had thought that Jordan still loved her, that his beatings and cruelties were proof of his love.
If he had never loved her, her entire existence lost all meaning. His indifference trivialized her.
‘You must have some idea, mistress!’ Sir Peregrine ground out.
His harsh voice drew her back to the present, but without fear. There could be no nervousness with this man. He could bluster and threaten her, but that was as nothing compared with the torment her husband had inflicted on her over years. She met his gaze levelly. ‘I told you I don’t know.’
The Keeper cleared his throat. ‘Lady, we have to speak to him. What time is he usually about in the morning?’
She gave him a faint smile. ‘My husband? That depends upon where he is now. If he has gone to his gambling rooms, he might be home again early in the morning, but if he’s gone to the brothel, he might be enjoying himself with one of his queans. He has any number of strumpets in that place.’
‘You knew of it?’ Baldwin asked gently.
She rather liked him of the three. He had kindly, gentle eyes that seemed to show that he had suffered in his life too, and knew what it was to be in pain because of another person’s actions. He had known hardship. ‘I guessed, although I only really found out … recently.’
‘What of his thefts from the cathedral?’ Simon asked.
She looked at him and shrugged. ‘I know nothing of that. You’d have to ask him.’
Sir Peregrine set his jaw. ‘I think I should wait here to speak to him when he returns.’
Baldwin shook his head. ‘We can easily have some men guard the door, Sir Peregrine. There is no need for us to take up any more of this lady’s time for now.’
She met his gaze and smiled at him, sadly, but with gratitude. ‘I have not had an enjoyable day. I would be grateful for the peace, were you to leave me alone. Do you wish me to tell my husband that you want to talk to him?’
‘I think,’ Baldwin said, ‘that it may be better if you do not. Either there will be men outside your door to speak to him when he comes home, in which case there will be no need for you to tell him anything, or we might decide to surprise him tomorrow. However, you are his wife, and we cannot force you to keep a secret like that.’
‘I am his wife,’ she agreed, ‘but that means that he owes me respect, as well as expecting his due from me in terms of obedience.’
Baldwin smiled again, and nodded, before leading the other two from the room.
Reg felt almost sick as he walked into the brothel that night. The smell from the lean-to at the back was foul. A mixture of fat and wood ash, the stench was cloying and repellent. It caught in his throat and nostrils, making him gag, and he stood in the corridor, leaning against the wall and choking.
He’d begun his association with Jordan because he’d needed food. There was no other motive: it was steal, rob, even kill, or die. There was no choice. Live or die.
Then, when he was riding back from Topsham after checking a small cargo they’d bought between them, he’d seen her: Sabina. It wasn’t that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, nor that she was the richest, but there was something about her that had attracted him. Perhaps her liveliness, her spark of life, the thrill that there was about her, whatever she did. She served him some of her father’s scrumpy, and he felt before he’d finished the jug that this was the woman he wanted to marry. She’d be comfortable, kind, a good mother. Not a flighty strumpet from the stews, who’d flatter a man; this was a real woman. A real mother. Maybe that was it? His own mother had been dead a while by then. Maybe he just wanted a replacement.
And he wanted a son, of course. Michael. Sweet Jesus, Michael! His boy had gone.
In the time it had taken him to register what she was planning, they had gone. It hadn’t been an instantaneous thing. They’d all sat down to their supper, and he’d thought that she would come round, as she usually did when they had a dispute, but then after his meal he went up to the Boar, and when he returned, she’d gone. With Michael.
The loss of his boy was so overwhelming, he was distraught. If it was just Sabina, he could cope. She’d go, and maybe someday she’d return, but Michael … He knew that with Michael gone, his life was ending. There was nothing more to live for. Every
thing he’d done recently had been in order to make a good life for his boy. Michael was all that mattered to him.
It mattered not a whit what he wanted, though. His life was already too bound up in Jordan’s concerns. His existence depended on the regular acquisition of women to replace the stales who had to be thrown from the brothel because they were too old, too worn, too tired, or just because they had fled the place. Many did, and each time Jordan exerted himself to find them again. They should be made an example of, he said. They should be shown to have failed, so that others wouldn’t try the same trick.
That was the whole idea with Anne, of course. It still made him feel sick to think of it. Killing a man quickly and without fuss, that was one thing; torturing a girl like that was different. That night he’d seen more clearly than before just how different Jordan was from him. Some men had consciences, but Jordan certainly didn’t.
‘Glad you’re here, Reg,’ came a voice, and he stiffened as he recognized Jordan’s tone. There was an undercurrent of excitement in it, as though he was suppressing his exhilaration.
‘Jordan,’ he responded listlessly.
‘Christ’s nuts, Reg, you look as if the world’s shat on your head!’ Jordan said and laughed.
‘Sabina has run away. She took my boy with her.’
‘She took Michael?’ Jordan whistled through his front teeth. ‘That’s bad. Do you want me to find them and bring him back?’
‘I can do that myself,’ Reginald said. He knew full well what Jordan was offering.
‘Well, after what you did for me with Daniel, all you have to do is let me know,’ Jordan said with a smile, but then he closed his eyes.
‘What is it?’
‘My head. It hurts so much sometimes … just now it’s worse than ever … You remember that little maid who I was seeing to try to get at Daniel?’
Jordan put his arm about Reg’s shoulder and began to lead him out to the yard at the back. There was the sound of raucous singing from the hall, the rattling of knuckles in a back room, screeching from the cocks in the pits out at the back, and the ever-present chinking of money. Men and women rutted in corners, on the floor or in beds, according to their fancy, and the noise assailed Reg’s ears. He grew quite dizzy, as though he had been drinking strong wine all day.
The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) Page 29
