The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (23 page)

Baldwin blew out a long breath. ‘That is a dangerous line of thought, Dean.’

‘You think I don’t realize that?’ the Dean snapped. His brow was furrowed again as he bent his head and twisted his ring about
his finger.

Simon shot a look at Baldwin. The knight was clearly upset by this news, and the Dean was gravely concerned. To Simon’s mind
the matter was less worrying than they seemed to think. The Bishop was a powerful magnate, twice the Lord High Treasurer to
the King. ‘Tell me, wasn’t he an ally of the Despensers, though? I thought that he was made Treasurer in the first place because
of his closeness to the Despensers. Wasn’t that right?’

‘I believe so,’ the Dean answered. ‘But, um, he disagreed with the King about allowing them back into the country after they
had been exiled. He resigned, you remember? He is back in the King’s favour again now, but it has been a hard struggle for
him. Although he’s the Treasurer again, I believe the Despensers haven’t forgotten he wanted them permanently exiled. They
have long memories, and are vindictive. If they could, I believe they would crush him.’

‘What do you want us to do about it, Dean?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I want you to discover whether there is a scheme afoot to blacken the Bishop’s name and ours. I want to know whether this
nonsense about the body was deliberately concocted. And there is one other thing: a robbery in the chapter. The friars are
bruiting abroad the fact that a miserable merchant came to our cathedral, made use of our hospitality, and then accused us
of robbing him. A Master Gervase de Brent.’

‘Was he actually robbed here?’

‘I do not know. I shall introduce you to a vicar – Thomas of Chard. He is an old companion of mine, a sound fellow. He has
heard that the man Gervase was seen wandering down near the stews with another man the day he reckoned to have lost his money.’

‘And?’ Simon prompted.

The Dean gave a twisted smile. ‘I have heard that a man might easily be robbed in a place like that, Master Bailiff. What
do you think? Is it possible?’

Jordan was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet. If action was needed, he would take it. His decisiveness grew as
his headache retreated.

The interview with his lover had been unsettling. It wasn’t terribly important. Damn it, if she was a threat, he would destroy
her. He’d had some pleasure with her, but that was all in the past now. Soon she must grow to appreciate that Juliana’s fear
of him was well founded. And he hadn’t necessarily finished with
her
, either. Her children were Daniel’s too, and he wasn’t content to leave any survivors who could later come and threaten him.
There was no point leaving enemies alive; he had learned long ago that the only safety lay in utter ruthlessness. And he was
ruthless.

He was unsettled, yes, but perhaps it was good that he was. It meant he could view the situation rationally. First, he had
to assess the threat from Juliana. If he could, he would let her live. There was no point in building up too many corpses.
If she appeared willing to forget the accusation that she had made against him and would agree not to denounce him, she could
live. And so could her children. And Agnes, come to that – unless she were to persuade Reg to confess to Jordan’s part in
the matter: the money paid and fact that it was all Jordan’s idea to murder the sergeant. That would put paid to his defence
that he was out gambling and whoring on the night Daniel died. Conspiracy to murder was as bad as actually dealing the lethal
blow.

All this trouble was making the noises start again. Not too intrusive yet, but just annoying enough to distract him. It was
all this trouble Agnes was putting him to. There was no need for it. Not really. It made his head ache.

He would go to Juliana now and speak with her. It was only right that a man should pay his respects to the widow of Sergeant
Daniel. Accordingly, he collected a cotte and hat against the chilly November air, and only when he was at his door did he
realize that his bitch of a wife was not back yet. She had gone to speak to that prickle of a physician, he guessed, and should
have been back by now. No matter. If she was going
to remain out there for an age, that was fine, so long as she made sure that there was food ready on the table when he wanted
it, later.

The way over to Juliana’s was easiest down to the high street, then west, and he set off with a swagger, a blackthorn stick
in his hand, whistling cheerfully enough.

‘Ho! Master Jordan le Bolle!’

Jordan heard the call and spun immediately. It was ever best to be on one’s guard against thieves – and officers – but it
was only the physician. ‘Yes?’

‘I am Ralph of Malmesbury, sir. I am a physician.’

‘Yes. I have seen you,’ Jordan said with a patronizing air. ‘What of it? Do you have to call for business in the street?’

‘No. Enough comes to my door, master. And you seem competent to send it to me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your wife. You beat her extensively, Master Jordan, and I would have you treat her more honourably.’

Jordan’s jaw clenched. He had suffered enough from foolish accusations today. ‘You mean to tell me how to treat my wife?’
he asked coldly. ‘Have you never heard that a man’s relationship with his wife is his own affair?’

‘Within a tithing, even a dispute between husband and wife may become the legitimate interest of the tithing man, master,
and when the husband threatens to beat her to death, that makes it a matter of concern to all. I have written a record of
your wife’s injuries, and I would have you treat her more reasonably in future, because if you do not, in Christ’s name, I’ll—’

‘What, little man? Steal her from me? Is that it? You want her for yourself?’ Jordan could feel his temper fray. Normally
he would dash out the brains of a fool who accosted him in the street like this and he’d be damned if he’d suffer more of
it.
There was no one in the street looking their way. He hissed, ‘Send her back to me, and I’ll show you what happens to a treacherous
bitch who can’t keep her mouth shut when talking to other men about her marriage and her husband.’

‘If you beat her again, you may kill her, you fool, and then you’ll be before the court.’

Jordan leaned forward, head jutting belligerently. ‘You think so? Maybe, little leech, you’ll find yourself up there in front
of the justice, with an accusation of adultery on your head. Eh?’

‘I piss on you, you—’

This time his speech was cut off as Jordan’s blackthorn stick rose and met his windpipe. In an instant, Ralph was pushed back
into a doorway, the stick at his throat, and already his breath was restricted. Jordan was heavier than him, much broader
and more powerful. Physicians tended not to need much muscle, and Ralph was starting to choke when Jordan released the stick
and patted him disdainfully on the head.

‘Stick to leechcraft, little man. Stay looking after my whores if you like them so much. Leave big, bad fighting to real men.
And don’t ever think to threaten me again,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘Because I swear on my mother’s soul that next time,
I’ll put my fist down your throat and choke you on your entrails.’

Juliana was exhausted. Returning from the cathedral after maintaining vigil over her husband’s body, she was sore and tense.
The endless night had taken more from her than she had expected. People about her didn’t seem to realize, either. They went
about their business as though there was nothing the matter, while all the time she felt as though she had been through an
ordeal.

It was curious walking back from the cathedral. For some reason it put her in mind of her father’s funeral. But then of course
Daniel had been there to support her. Now she felt so lonely …

She expected to be acknowledged on every side; surely everybody knew that her husband was dead? Yet no one spoke to her. The
hawkers went on shouting their wares, the cooks continued to bawl out about their pies, the alewives screeched on about the
quality of their drinks, and over all there was the din of horses, metalled hooves ringing on the cobbled ways, and dogs barking.
It was a discordant cacophony that most days would sound comforting, being merely the regular background noise of her life,
but today it was overawing, battering her ears. She had a headache before she had passed more than a few feet from the close.

It seemed as though the world was mocking her. They all knew of her desolation, but everyone was pretending that there was
nothing wrong. The world was unchanged. Life could continue as before.

At the house, Gwen was already waiting with a strong jug of wine. ‘Come here, maid. Sit, sit, sit. Come, close your eyes,’
she cooed, shoving a pillow under Juliana’s head as she sat on a bench near a wall, lifting her feet and placing them on a
small stool.

Gwen stood back and surveyed her work. ‘It’ll be a long while before you get over the aching, maid. You get used to it over
time.’

‘You have buried so many, Gwen.’

‘Aye, that I have. Husband and children both. You learn how to over time, maid. I hope you don’t get to learn so well as me.’

‘Thank you, Gwen,’ Juliana said as she slipped into a merciful sleep …

… and woke to the sound of a door opening quietly.

She was startled. Springing up, she slipped and hit her head painfully against the wall, almost falling from the bench. Her
heart pounded wildly and her eyes widened with fright when she saw Jordan le Bolle in the room with her.

‘
My God!
’

In her dream she had been asleep, and Daniel had come to her, bending to give her a last kiss before leaving for a long journey,
and the feel of his lips was still upon hers, a chilly tingling. She put a finger to them, to see if there was any sensation
of the corpse on her still, but all the time her eyes were fixed upon Jordan. ‘You …’

‘I gave you a fright,’ he concluded for her. He stood before her, then bent to take her hand.

‘
No!
’ she exclaimed, snatching her hand away and averting her face.

His face seemed to freeze. ‘I only wanted to greet you, lady.’

‘I’ve just returned from the vigil over my husband’s body,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘The man who was so cruelly taken
from me.’

‘I was very sad to hear of your loss.’

She could say nothing. Her eyes remained on his, but he could see something in them. Not just fear: there was defiance there
too. Good! It would make it all the easier to have her killed. She was not submissive by nature. Well, neither was Agnes,
come to that.

He began, ‘Juliana, I am sorry that he is gone. Perhaps I can help you? I love your sister, after all, and some little . .
.’

‘You love
no one
! You are composed of hatred and bile, Jordan le Bolle! Have you forgotten the last time you spoke to my husband? You threatened
to kill Daniel, and me, and my children, if he didn’t stop looking into your affairs. Have you forgotten that? Because
I
haven’t!’

He smiled again, but this time distantly, she was glad to see. Taking his leave, he was a little distracted, and Juliana realized
that he could hear Gwen thrashing about with her broom again in the front room. Then he gave a final nod and walked from the
house.

She was sure that if Gwen hadn’t been in the next room, he would have killed her there and then.

Juliana sank back on the bench. She felt bone weary, but she daren’t close her eyes again. Partly it was fear that Jordan
might return, but more than that, she was convinced that if she did, Daniel’s face would appear again, his cold, blue lips
approaching hers.

Jordan stood outside the house with his stick in his hand, swinging it idly.

There could be no mistaking her feelings. When he entered the room, she had recoiled with revulsion as soon as she recognized
him. No, there was no doubt at all that she was convinced he had killed her man.

Right. There were two problems to consider, then: Agnes and Juliana. Both could embarrass him, and he had no wish to be caught
by their wiles. It would be a shame to have someone else kill them. Both were lovely, and he longed for an opportunity to
enjoy himself again as he had with Anne. A shame, but there was no point worrying about pleasures that were gone for ever.

He would speak to one of his men and have both bitches removed.

Simon stood in the close in front of the Dean’s house and waited, leaning his shoulders against the wall. ‘How’s the wound,
Baldwin?’

‘Not too bad. It gives me gip at night, but generally I can cope,’ Baldwin responded.

‘I’m sorry if this means you’ll be delayed in getting home.’

‘It’s just that I promised Jeanne,’ he said quietly. He remembered how she had been and felt himself torn. He didn’t want
to do anything to upset her again.

The Dean had promised to send a messenger warning Jeanne that they were to be held up for a short time, and also telling Edgar
to have the ostler remove the saddles from the horses for now and rub them down. A critical guiding light in Baldwin’s life,
a result of his earlier life in the Templars, was the rule that horses were seen to first, before any humans, and it was a
habit
which died hard. It was fortunate that he had remembered to ask that the messenger should tell Jeanne first.

‘She’ll not be happy, you think?’ Simon ventured.

Baldwin gave a quick frown. ‘I don’t know. She seems rather … unsettled just now. I don’t pretend to understand why.’

Simon nodded, but then said, ‘Ah, I’ll willingly gamble that these are the two.’

Approaching them were a vicar and a clerk, and as they drew nearer, the vicar introduced himself. ‘Hello, Sir Baldwin, Bailiff.
I am Thomas of Chard, and this well-favoured soul here is Paul, one of the Dean’s clerks.’

The vicar looked the sort of cheery man who would be keen to be first to tell a saucy story sitting about the winter fire
in a tavern. He had a round face with rosy cheeks and a bright button of a nose. Blue eyes that crinkled with laughter at
the edges made him look as though he was perpetually preparing to chuckle at the joke that was the world.

Paul was rather more serious-looking, with the thin frame and frowning gaze of a man who considered himself more important
than others, or so Baldwin thought at first sight, but then he realized that the clerk’s stern exterior concealed a heart
as merry in every respect as Thomas’s own.

‘I understand you wanted to speak to us about this foolish man Gervase,’ Paul said.

‘You saw him going to the stews?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes. He was there with a man I’ve known a while,’ Paul said. ‘A pander for some of the women down there.’ He suddenly caught
sight of Baldwin’s expression. ‘Not for my own purposes, Sir Knight.’

‘This man, what was his name?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The pander? An ill-starred fellow called Mick. I’ve heard he’s been found dead.’

‘He has,’ Baldwin said. ‘I’ll tell you later, Simon,’ he added. ‘Where exactly did you see this Gervase?’

‘He was at the South Gate, and turned right towards the quay,’ Paul said. ‘I think he was going to the cock-fighting. That
was two days before the theft.’

‘So his money was not stolen on his first night staying here at the chapter?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Oh, no, it was taken before he arrived here,’ Paul said.

Thomas sniffed. ‘But he came to us saying he had need of our hospitality. At first we thought it was the usual plea of the
traveller who cannot find a place to rest his head.’

‘Not I, nor some few others. We thought he’d lost his money in a gaming hall or a tavern,’ Paul chuckled. ‘It’s not for nothing
that he was named Gambling Gervase in the two days he stayed with us.’

‘When he reported losing money, did no one realize?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Surely any man would assume he had gamed it and lost,
and that his story was a fabrication.’

Thomas explained, ‘The Dean kept news of the theft secret, so that there would be less embarrassment. And Paul saw no need
to evict a man just because of his enjoyment of playing knuckles, so no one knew enough to put the two tales together, not
until I learned from the Dean that he had accused us of stealing from him, and then, while seeking to find any news of the
money, I told Paul, who himself told me about seeing the man down at the stews.’

‘He was very keen on gambling?’ Simon asked.

‘Oh, yes. And Mick was very good at it too,’ Paul said with a straight face. ‘He always managed to take guests to the right
place to test their luck.’

Simon grinned. ‘Let me guess – this Mick never lost huge sums?’

‘Alas, you imply that he might have been dishonest. It would surely be wrong to speak ill of the poor man now he is waiting
for the fossor to dig his pit.’

Thomas nodded solemnly. ‘Unless his gambling was no vice but a benefit to others?’

Paul’s lugubrious expression lightened. ‘It was a great benefit to some, I understand. And especially himself and his master.
So perhaps it is no more than praising him to say how efficient he was at fleecing poor fellows like Gervase the Gambler?’

‘I think it is definitely setting praise where praise is due,’ Thomas agreed.

‘Vicar, you have put my mind at ease on this point,’ Paul nodded.

‘I am glad.’

‘You mentioned that this Mick had a master?’ Simon pressed him.

‘Ah, yes. A powerful man, a fellow called Jordan. Jordan le Bolle. He is responsible for many of the small ventures about
this city which are intended to divert men’s money from their purses and into his own. A most imaginative businessman.’

‘You know so much of him? Surely he cannot be a very successful fellow, then?’ Baldwin asked.

‘There are some who are not so firmly rooted in the contemplative world as we.’ Thomas smiled. ‘We have been warned.’

‘What of?’ Simon said.

‘Well, if a load of lead arrives fresh from ship, occasionally it is as well to open the boxes and ensure that it is lead
inside, and not a mess of rubble because one of Master Jordan’s men accidentally removed one and replaced it. And then arrived
to sell the same lead to us at an inflated price.’

‘Or,’ Paul added, ‘perhaps a cart of iron fixings arrives, and when the top layer is removed, those beneath are found to be
ancient, rusted, and useless without being reworked. It is the difficulty with works like this,’ he continued, waving a hand
in the general direction of the rebuilding going on about the cathedral. ‘There are so many facets to this diamond that keeping
your eye fixed to any one of them is liable to make you go cross-eyed in a short time. All we can do is hope to prevent the
worst abuses. And that means stopping men like this Jordan le Bolle.’

‘We think, Paul; we should not give the impression that we have proof of any of this,’ Thomas said with a twinkle in his eye.

‘A disgraceful idea. No, gentles, please do not think that Jordan is in any way guilty. That would be a terrible slur on his
character, I am sure … except …’

‘What?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I have listened to the confessions of many people,’ Thomas said lightly, but with reservation. It was clear that he would
say no more, but it was enough.

Paul continued, ‘He would certainly prefer not to be rooted here in business at the cathedral, I’m sure. No, he has enough
interests already with his women down at the stews.’

‘You have heard he is involved down there with the prostitutes?’ Baldwin asked.

‘There is a large brothel there which is said to be his own. And at least one other down at Topsham.’ Paul nodded.

‘How did you get to know so much about him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘All from Daniel. He saw it as his life’s work to remove Jordan from the city, I think,’ Paul said, and then his manner grew
more genuinely morose. ‘But I fear that if anything, Jordan succeeded in removing Daniel instead.’

Gervase de Brent was proud of his name. In Brent he was thought of as a merry fellow, with the happy-go-lucky attitude that
meant others would always enjoy his company in a tavern or alehouse. He was the sort of man who sought friendship, but had
lost his ability to discern the difference between those who liked him for his nature and those who liked him for his money
– although often, to be fair, they were the selfsame people.

Once Gervase had been moderately wealthy. He had owned two sheepfolds, a share in an inn, and several horses, but he had been
unfortunate too often when playing at games of hazard. If he heard the rattle of knuckles, he was always too easily persuaded
that a few pennies might be invested which could recoup the losses of the last few games.

What people like his wife didn’t realize was, there was always the chance of making good again. True, he’d had a bad run,
but that just meant the good times must be closer. And as he told himself, there was always another game round the corner.
As far as he was concerned, this run of bad luck had to stop soon. Things must improve, and then his wife would be happy again.

Actually, as soon as Mick came back they would probably get lucky again. Mick had said after that last evening that it was
hard to imagine their fortunes going so badly for much longer. Of course, he laughed as he said it, because he was another
like Gervase, a bold fellow with the temper of a knight. There was no loss that could possibly scare him; a man was never
worried by details such as a little burst of misfortune. So Gervase had just bartered some plate and a ring or two, and waited
until his run changed direction.