The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (29 page)

He washed his hands in a trough. Many butchers saw him, and many nodded. They all knew that he was wanted for supposedly murdering
Daniel, but none of them had ever believed he could have done something like that. No, much more likely that it was Jordan
le Bolle. Everybody said so, and so they had left Est alone. He had lived out at the Duryard for long enough. He couldn’t
stay there another night. So he had come back, here, to the only life he had ever known.

But there was still that sad, unwholesome feeling that he had so dreadfully betrayed her. The little girl.

She had been born only a short time after his own little girl. Looked much the same when they were born, the pair of them.
If his little Cissy had grown instead of dying all those years ago, perhaps she would look like this one? So pretty, so vivacious,
so sweet and innocent when asleep in her bed. So beautiful, so perfect.

He ate a hunk of bread with a jug of ale in the yard behind the Black Hog. The publican there had never thought he could have
had anything to do with the murder either. People here were so kind to him. They always had been.

After his meal, the sun was sinking low as he walked back to his little house. He was taken by the sight of a man walking
towards him, and he wondered for a moment who it might be. He certainly looked familiar.

Jordan had been right. Since everyone had been told that Estmund was the murderer, and Estmund had fled the city, his
house was the safest place in the city for a man who needed a little space to hide himself.

Rested and refreshed, he left the place as darkness fell, and stood in the street a moment or two savouring the air. There
was the sweet tang of burning applewood on the air from someone’s fire, and the odours of cooking. Pottages and frying meats
wafted on the breeze, and he was suddenly aware how hungry he was. Reg would have some food for him.

Reg. Poor Reg. He’d looked as though he’d have a fit when Jordan had asked him to kill the two women and the children yesterday.
Christ’s cods, was it really only last night? And Jordan had thought that he’d be fine, that he’d go home today and hide himself
and act quietly, just the moderate, sensible man with the doting wife, a calm and intelligent businessman, making a reasonable
income from his dealings.

Only a few knew of his gambling dens and brothels, and those who did also knew his temper, and knew that they were best advised
to be cautious about him. No one would dare to accuse him publicly – no one apart from those two bitches. He had to see them
dead.

Unbidden, the thought of their bodies came back to him. Agnes’s figure he had already enjoyed, but there would be a delightful
novelty with Juliana’s. It had always appealed to him. Under her clothes she always moved with such delicacy and gentle grace
that he had felt his eyes pulled to her no matter who else was in the room.

Poor Reg didn’t want to have to do anything like that, killing women. So be it! He would save Reg the bother.

Est realized something was wrong as soon as he entered the room. His palliasse was spread over the floor, his rugs and blankets
thrown aside as though he had been sleeping here only a short while ago. There was a mess of discarded food on the floor,
bits and pieces from a meal of a pie and a chicken leg, and there, on the floor with them, tangled and filthy after wiping
a pair of bloody hands, was Emma’s apron.

Slowly falling to crouch on his haunches, Estmund felt the breath sobbing in his throat. He put out a hand to touch the defiled
material, his eyes brimming, but he couldn’t quite do it. His fingers reached to within an inch, but then stopped, and his
fingertips trembled a moment before he drew them away again. He couldn’t. Not now. Her fragrance would have been washed away
by the foul invader who’d done this to his home.
Their
home.

He stood. There was nothing else he could do. He had to leave this place, run away. Find some peace somewhere. He had to get
out. Perhaps see Henry? Henry would help. Henry was clever like that, he would protect Est again.

Out, quick, turn right, and then along the roadway until the little alley on the right, the first one, and … Est slowed,
and didn’t turn right. Instead he licked his lips, his heart racing.
The night’s darkness made him bolder, and he felt the bravery seeping into his bones as though it was available to any man
who breathed the night air.

Before he saw Henry, he wanted to see the little girl once more. It couldn’t hurt just once more. Henry said he shouldn’t
go there, but now, so late, everyone would be asleep, so no one would know. It would be just like before, and at least he
could tell whether the poor girl had been hurt. He’d be able to see whether she was ruined as he had feared after that last
visit, when her father had died by Est’s knife.

Jordan had been outside the house for a while, seeking the best means of entry, but although he had waited until late, he
was reluctant to walk across the street and simply beat down the door. He’d be captured for certain if he tried that. Someone
would wake and call the hue and cry. So how could he gain access? There was perhaps a small window at the back that would
merit investigation. He had seen an alleyway running behind the buildings which must give access to the yard behind the house,
and from there he would surely be able to climb in somehow.

The yard was small and overgrown. He slipped over the wall and stared about him. The downstairs windows were all boarded and
shuttered for security. Idly he walked along the rear of the house, testing one here or there, but there was no looseness,
no ancient and weathered boards. He wouldn’t be able to get in from here.

Frustration was building when he felt, rather than saw, the other little shape.

A dark figure, cowled and cloaked, darted across the yard, silently slipping into the niche between two projecting storerooms.
There it – he? – stopped and Jordan heard the ‘snick’ of
a knife working a lock. There was a low rattle, and a squeak as a shutter was drawn wide. The figure slipped in over the sill.

Jordan was fascinated. He ran lightly to the window and peered in. The man was there in the room, standing over a large bed
lying on the floor. By the light of a flickering rushlight, he saw the man bend his head and stare down.

Jordan sprang over the low ledge and pulled his knife free. It rasped against the leather scabbard, and the man heard it.
He turned, and Jordan saw that it was the butcher, the one who had fled, the man whose room he had slept in. It made him chuckle,
a deep, feral sound, as he walked closer.

‘Hello, butcher,’ he called quietly, and lifted his knife to stab.

‘
NO!
’ Estmund shrieked. He had his own knife in his hand already, and as he turned, the blade rose.

It met Jordan’s own knife, and the blades clanged as they skittered across each other. Then Jordan had his back, sweeping
around to eviscerate Est. It caught on his cloak as Est’s own blade ripped across his belly, and he stepped back in alarm,
a hand at the long gash.

He stared at the blood on his hand, turning his palm to meet the flickering light. It was blood,
his
blood! No one had ever hurt him like that before, not ever! He put his hand to his belly again, and now he could feel the
pain starting, a terrible pain that seemed to rise in his groin and reach up to his heart.

With a bellow of incoherent rage, he leaped forward again. He heard a cry from the ground, and, turning, saw the little boy
awake, bawling, the girl snapping alert, grabbing the boy and pulling him to her, and the distraction was enough to make him
change his blade’s direction and aim it at the children. Bastards, both of them, mongrels from the womb of that whore upstairs,
impregnated by that devil’s turd Daniel.

Est had seen the movement, and hurled himself at Jordan. His knife entered under Jordan’s ribcage, snagging on bone, and Jordan
roared again, with mingled rage and pain. He brought his fists down on Est’s back, pounding and stabbing at him again and
again, until Est fell away, but in that time the children had disappeared, and now there was a light in the passageway, and
voices. The staircase was near and he heard a high, keening shriek. Looking up, he saw Agnes and Juliana. In a fit of rage,
he snatched up Est’s knife and hurled it at them, shouting his defiance and fury, kicking Est’s body twice, seeing it jerk.
Then, screaming abuse, he hurtled through the window and out into the yard.

He ran as fast as he could over the scrubby land, reached the wall, threw himself over, and stood leaning against it, panting.
There were calls, then a horn was blown, and he forced himself up and on. He had to escape, get away. Must go to … to
Reg’s. Reg would protect him.
He
had places to hide a man.

Sir Peregrine had been drinking a last cup of wine with Sir Baldwin and Simon when they heard the tumult in the streets. A
rowdy mob appeared to rush past the inn, and then there were more shouts and commands.

The Coroner threw down his cup and ran to the door. ‘What is going on?’

A man stopped. ‘Coroner, there’s been an attack – someone’s broken into the sergeant’s house again. They say a man’s dead!’

‘My heaven!’ Sir Peregrine gasped.

Baldwin was at his side. ‘Edgar, you stay with Jeanne. Let no one past the door until I return. Clear?’

Edgar nodded and disappeared towards their room. Meanwhile Simon was buckling his sword belt, gripping the hilt, testing it
in the sheath. ‘Where was this killing?’

‘Follow me,’ Sir Peregrine ordered, and pelted off down the hill towards Juliana’s house.

All the way, he couldn’t help but ask himself what he would do were she to be hurt. It was a terrible thought, but already
he was looking on her as a possible lover. It was ridiculous, of course. She would want to spend a decent period in mourning
no matter what he wanted, and even then she might not look favourably on him. Perhaps she simply didn’t like him. It was possible.
He was not the most attractive man in the world, when all was said and done, and there were plenty of better catches for a
lovely woman like her. No, she wouldn’t want him. But just in case she might, he wanted to think that she was unhurt.

There were lights everywhere. The place was brimming with people, some shouting, two crying, one sitting numbly on the steps
leading to the door. Most were noisy, animated with excitement. It took some effort to forge a path through them all and reach
the back room.

‘My … lady,’ he gasped as he saw Juliana. She sat on the side of a palliasse, and in her arms were her two children. Both
were wailing with fear, and when she looked up at him, he saw a silent panic in her eyes. Agnes was not far away, weeping,
and the old widow Gwen was washing her hands in a bucket. Only then, as his heart was filling with relief at their safety,
did he suddenly notice the spreading stain at her breast, and he felt his entire body chill.

Baldwin pushed Sir Peregrine aside. ‘What happened here?’

Juliana could say nothing. It was Agnes who spoke, her voice taut with fear and misery, her hand on her sister’s shoulder
as though afraid to let go. ‘I was here sleeping with Juliana to keep her company, and we heard the children screaming, so
we hurried down the stairs, and there were two men fighting down here. Him and another,’ she said, pointing to Est’s body.

‘It was Jordan,’ Juliana said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she had to cough several times as she spoke,
small droplets of blood spattering the palm of her hand. ‘Jordan le Bolle. He came back to kill my darlings. The death of
my husband was not enough; he wanted to take away my precious ones too.’

The girl burrowed her face into her mother’s neck. ‘I thought he was going to kill me,’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t die, Mummy, don’t
leave me!’

For a moment no one could speak. Peregrine could feel the tears in his eyes, but couldn’t trust his voice. He glanced at the
other men, and Baldwin caught his glance. The Keeper’s eyes were shining too, and Peregrine had a suspicion that he was thinking
of his own daughter. At last Baldwin said gruffly, ‘Don’t worry, child, we won’t let him come back again.’

‘I don’t want to have him here again.’

‘He won’t come back,’ Baldwin said quietly, but with conviction. ‘We shall see to that, maid.’

He glanced at Simon. Both had the same thought: that this child would soon be orphaned. ‘Jordan escaped from here?’

‘Yes, Keeper,’ a man called. ‘But us’ll ketch him.’

Simon asked, ‘Did you hear anything? Did this Est say anything?’

Agnes nodded, her hand gripping her sister’s shoulder more tightly. ‘When Jordan fled, he said one thing. He put out his hand
to Cecily here and said, “Farewell, Cissy.”’

‘Cissy? Why say that?’ Baldwin asked.

Agnes shrugged. She could feel Juliana shivering, and suddenly heard the chattering of teeth. The thought that this ruin was
her fault, caused by her adultery with Jordan, was enough to make her feel physically sick … No, it was more a
bone weariness and despair. This was her fault: Jordan had only seduced her in order to snare Daniel, and now he had killed
Juliana in revenge for the destruction of his plans.

It was Cecily who stirred from her mother’s shoulder. In the dim light she looked like an old woman as she gazed at Baldwin.
‘It was his daughter. He loved her. He told me.’

She glanced at his body, and then started weeping again for her mother.

Jordan had to run fast. He could hear the shouts and cries as the hunters hared after their quarry: him. There was a street
ahead. It was the high street, and he paused, then ran straight over, darting into a noisome alley, rushing down it at full
tilt until he reached the turn he was looking for, a second alley, slightly wider than the last. He ran on, his hand on his
belly, the pain growing like a burn, and suddenly came out into a broader way near the main gate to the priory. Turn right,
quick, then along the tiny way that gave out to the back. No one knew the second door, only him and Reg. That was why it was
safe. He knew it so well, he could go along this path blindfold. He felt his way along the wall, found the gate, opened it
and entered the garden.

At once all the noises of the city were muted. He took a deep breath, winced, felt again at his belly, and realized that he
was losing a lot of blood. The shirt was drenched, so it felt. He thought he should find a leech. Shame he couldn’t go back
to that short fat bastard in his street. He’d have been competent, surely.

There was a pattering of booted feet approaching down the alley. Quickly he rushed across the yard to the door. It was a plain
timber door, half obscured by an old rose that climbed this wall. Just as he reached it, the voices of his pursuers came
from the other side of the garden wall, and he didn’t dare knock in case they heard.

He shrank into the stonework and listened, his mouth agape, trying to sort out what was happening. There were several men
shouting farther up the street, and occasional whispers at the other side of the wall.

And then he heard the other sound, the soft, kind, sweet voice of his own dear wife.

‘Where can he go?’ Baldwin muttered. Simon and he were standing in the street again, staring northwards along the way, as
though by dint of concentration they could pierce all the buildings with their eyes and see the running figure of Jordan.

Simon had his sword in his hand already. ‘Christ Jesus, if someone did that to my Meg … she’s going to die, isn’t she?’

‘She cannot live,’ Baldwin said with certainty.

Simon nodded, and gripped his hilt more firmly. He’d be happy to cut the murderer’s head from his shoulders to repay him for
the suffering of the family in that room.

‘He has been concealed all day,’ Baldwin reasoned. ‘He must have a place to hide somewhere.’

Simon nodded. ‘He must have gone to Reg’s place – or if he didn’t, surely Reg will know where he has been. They were close
partners, those two.’

‘He may be hiding there now,’ Baldwin agreed.

They grabbed three men and set off at a fast pace.

Reginald was satisfied. He rolled over in bed and put his hand out to the jug. After that one cry of delight, Mazeline was
already almost asleep, and he had to pull his arm from beneath her where he had been cupping her breast, so that he could
rise. He wanted to know what the noise was outside. There was so
much shouting and rattling of weapons, he wondered at first whether the rebel Mortimer had landed at Topsham and come to attack
the city to steal it from the King … but that was crazy. If there’d been anything like that, he’d have heard before now.
No, it had to be something else. He climbed up from his bed, and went to the hall. From there he could hear the shouts again,
but now they seemed to be growing fainter. There was less noise in the street.

Ach, it was likely just the apprentices again. Every so often the little devils would run riot, enjoying themselves for a
few hours before the law caught up with them. It was hard to criticize. After all, everyone was young once, and they’d all
participated in similar activities.