The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (7 page)

As he watched the sergeant walking to the crumpled figure, Reginald swallowed. He was not a strong man, and the sight made
him compare himself again with the like of the sergeant. It was not a favourable comparison. Yet Jordan wanted him to kill
the man, a man who could hit out like that, carelessly, mindlessly, as though a mere drunkard didn’t matter.

It made him wonder again about his companion. There was something uniquely terrifying about Jordan le Bolle. He was like that
sergeant in many ways, not that Reg would ever dare say so. The two men detested each other with a loathing that was poisonous
to both. Although both enjoyed the thrill of violence, the rush that wounding another man gave them, still there was a difference
between them: Daniel had always seemed in control of his anger. The sight of the sergeant knocking down a defenceless old
piss-head – he may have had a knife, but he was pretty incapable of using it against a man with a staff – was oddly shocking,
as though the foundations of Exeter had actually shivered with the sudden eruption of blood from Ham’s head.

That sort of behaviour would have been far less surprising in Jordan. Jordan had learned his skills in the hard years of the
famine. Back then, it was take what you could or die. If men stood up against Jordan, they died. He had a knack of leaping
straight from joking banter into pure violence, wielding his long knife like a berserker of old. No one was safe when the
red mist came down over him. There was something foul, repellent, in the way that he seemed to enjoy inflicting pain on those
he caught. Towards others, he was a mixture of extreme contradictions. As a father, he was besotted, doting on his little
‘sweeting’, his Jane; as a husband he was moderately patient, but a brute when he felt his wife had upbraided or insulted
him. Either was an offence punishable by a whipping or worse. Yet hearing of his latest lover was enough to send her into
another man’s bed: Reg’s. Christ, what a sodding mess! How had he ever got into this?

When they had first met, life had been very different. Jordan had reminded him about that only yesterday, on their way to
… the job.

‘You remember how things were when we met, Reg? Times have changed, haven’t they? We were two wild lads in those days, and
now look at us! Rich men, thought of as careful investors, successful merchants, and here we are, fleecing any who come in
our way! When we met we had nothing, did we?’

‘Those days were evil, right enough,’ Reg said moodily. ‘No food, no money, not even a bed. I’d been sleeping in the hedge
for weeks.’

‘I remember. I found you in a hedge, didn’t I? And I showed you how we could win a little food. We started off small, didn’t
we? And then we got lucky.’

They were nearly there, and lapsed into silence as they approached the buildings, and Jordan slipped off and away. He had
a knack of silent movement. With his russet and grey
clothing, he could disappear even in a street of limewashed houses. Somehow he could blend into the background, no matter
where he was. Now he was moving up the alley ahead of Reg. Although it was like watching a shadow, Reg had been with his companion
for long enough to know the way he worked. Now there was a flash, and Reg knew Jordan was at the window. The gleam was from
his knife as he peered in. A moment or two later, Jordan was hurrying back along the alley, teeth showing brightly in a grin.
‘Yeah, we got him!’

Reg’s heart sank.

At first their winnings had been paltry: a few coins here, a little meat there. Not much. They’d robbed a few solitary travellers,
the poor fools, and then occasional small parties, but never anything too dramatic. They didn’t want the attention that a
serious attack might cause. Better by far that they should strike quickly, steal what they could carry, and be off again.
It wasn’t only them, in God’s name! Everyone had to do something, and when the price of grain rose to unprecedented heights
it was clear that all would starve unless they did something to save themselves. Sadly, the only assets youths like Reg and
Jordan had were their native cunning and strength.

Then came the day when they hit on a new target, and suddenly they had a good income – all because of one break in the ninth
year of the King’s reign, some seven years ago now.

A pair of them, there were. One was a slim, oily little fellow of five-and-twenty, bent at the neck and with a way of holding
his head low as though to peer around and snatch any opportunity before his body could catch up with him; he was the sandy-haired
one with the greasy locks dangling almost to his shoulders under his wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat. Beside him was the heavy:
a broad-shouldered man in his early thirties with a somewhat long face that showed little intelligence, only
brooding malevolence as he surveyed the way ahead for them both.

Unprepossessing, the pair of them. They strolled along leading a donkey on a short rein, both holding iron-shod staffs for
their protection. They had no other obvious weapons, though, and Jordan had eyed them contemplatively. Neither he nor Reg
had eaten enough to fill their bellies properly in a week, and there was an attractive package on the donkey that seemed to
call to them.

It was a strange bundle, bulky and ungainly, and that it was heavy was clear from the way the donkey moved, slowly and painfully.
The beast must have carried it a long way.

‘What’s in that?’

‘Christ and His angels may know, but I don’t,’ Reg returned.

‘I want to know!’

‘Jordie, wait!’ Reg hissed, but Jordan was already crawling off through the undergrowth like a snake. Reg was unwilling to
follow – the men looked competent at defence. The larger of the two had the look of a fighter, like a strong man standing
at the door to a lord’s chamber. What Jordan could do against two like them, he had no idea. They had always tried to avoid
excessive violence, if for no other reason than that they were too enfeebled by hunger to be able to effectively attack anyone
other than the weakest wench.

The rain was falling fitfully today, not so heavily as it had in the past, and Reg could clearly see the trail as Jordan slithered
away down the slight incline towards the men. Then there was nothing until, a few moments later, Reg saw Jordan staggering
towards the roadway, his face a reddened mess, one arm cradled firmly in the armpit of the other. As he came up with the travellers,
he raised his free hand to the heavens and sank to his knees in the mud.

‘It was perfect, Reg,’ Jordan gurgled later as they sat back drinking. ‘They thought I’d been attacked, and all they wanted
was to know where the miscreants were so that they could run the other way! The fat one prodded me with his staff until I
told them a story about the gang who’d robbed me, and then they went into a huddle. As soon as the fat bastard turned his
back, I was on him and beat out his brains with a rock! The other one tried to get away, but he was torn between staying with
the donkey or bolting, so I knocked him down too. It was easy, Reg. You saw it!’

Yes, Reg had seen it. He had watched as his companion killed the burlier of the two, and then bound the lighter man, waving
to Reg to join him all the while. And Reg had hopped from foot to foot, wondering what he should do, for he had no idea. He
wanted to run – but if he did, he would die. Jordan would reward his betrayal in the only way he knew. God’s bones, how had
he ever got into this?

The men down there had been rich. That much was obvious, and wealth meant food. In the end that was all it came down to. Reg
was starving. The men had money, and he could eat. So he followed Jordan’s path down the hill, past the patch of bright red
soil where he had smeared his face, and on to the road.

‘Jordan, what have you done?’ he burst out when he saw the long knife.

His companion looked at him hard for a moment, then wiped the thin smear of red from the blade. ‘You wouldn’t want them to
come after us, would you? Anyway, don’t worry, Reg. They were only pardoners. No one’ll miss them.’

It was Sunday, and Baldwin was up early. He and his wife dressed and made their way to the cathedral, Edgar strolling behind
them. Ever since Baldwin’s injury, it had been hard to persuade him to leave his master alone for a moment.

Jeanne was delighted to be at the cathedral again. The last time she and her husband had stayed in the city was at Christmas
some two years ago, and then much of his time had been taken up with a series of murders. At least this time she had him to
herself.

After his journey to Santiago de Compostela, she had been convinced that he was unhappy. He had been short-tempered and fractious,
entirely unlike his normal self, and rather more like her first husband, a brutal man who sought to punish her for what he
saw as her failure to give him a son and heir. He had died from a fever, a sad and embittered man, but his death was no loss
to her by then. His beatings and insults had long before corroded any residual affection she had held for him.

Thus when she had later met Baldwin for the first time, he had felt like a saint and a saviour. She was reluctant to offer
her heart to any man, but within a short while she found herself forgetting her misery and rediscovering the delight that
giving and receiving love could bring.

That was why, when he returned from his journeying with such a different appearance and a new temper, she had been distraught.
Perhaps she had overreacted at the time, but she had felt that it was her fault, that it was impossible for any good man to
remain in love with her because she didn’t deserve it. And when Baldwin returned to his normal good humour, she was overjoyed.
The feeling of relief was overwhelming, and it had not passed. She was sure that she was more in love with him with every
passing day. It was impossible to conceive of the hideous eventuality that he might die or leave her. To lose Baldwin would
surely mean her own death.

The cathedral was chill in the morning air, and she stood near the aisle, watching the other folk there.

It was an interesting cross-section of the men and women of Exeter. Of course many would go to their local church rather than
making the journey to the cathedral. There were twenty-odd parish churches in the city, after all. But among the more wealthy
and those who wanted to demonstrate their piety to the world, or perhaps those who wanted to exhibit a new tunic, there were
many who wished to be seen at the cathedral church.

Jeanne, from past visits to the city, could recognize several people, and she nodded and smiled to a few familiar faces, while
reflecting to herself that some of them appeared to have their minds on matters other than the mass.

First among these was the man who entered with his wife as the bell stopped tolling. Jeanne was sure that she had met them
before although she could not call their names to mind, so she smiled welcomingly, but as soon as she did so, and saw how
Juliana’s eyes passed to her and through her, she realized that this was not a good morning for talking to them. They had
clearly had an argument before leaving their home that morning, or perhaps on their way to the cathedral.

Daniel walked over to the men’s side, and Juliana went to stand alone near one of the great columns, looking to neither one
side nor the other, but staring straight before her at the altar. Jeanne was struck by her paleness and apparent nervousness.

Before long, Jeanne saw another woman join her, and recognized Agnes, Juliana’s elder sister. The two said nothing, but Jeanne
saw that they held hands, and then Juliana turned slightly towards Agnes and momentarily rested her head on her shoulder.
In that moment Jeanne felt sure that Juliana was one of those sad creatures who was married to a man who beat her. Jeanne
was suddenly convinced that Juliana’s husband was much like her own first man. It made her feel sad to see the woman standing
there so courageously, her hand in her sister’s. At least Juliana had a sister; when Jeanne was herself suffering so dreadfully,
she had no one to turn to. All her family had died many years before when a gang of thieves and robbers broke into her parents’
house and murdered them.

When the mass was over, she joined Edgar and her husband out in the close. Baldwin smiled to see her, but then she saw his
expression harden as he noticed someone behind her, and she sighed to see that it was Sir Peregrine. She wished that her husband
could learn to tolerate the fellow. It was understandable that he should be wary of politicians, it was true, but Sir Peregrine
was only attempting to do his job in the best way he might.

At least today Sir Peregrine was not of a mind to discuss matters of high politics.

‘There are times when I wonder what sort of men we promote to keep the peace in a city like this,’ he growled as he approached.
‘Have you heard about our most senior sergeant?’

Baldwin shook his head, but his manner was easier as soon
as he heard that Sir Peregrine wished to discuss business. ‘What of him?’

‘The God-damned moron has killed a man. Just some drunk who had too much ale and waved a knife at him. There was no need to
slaughter him for that, but no! Our sergeant went in with his staff flailing and killed him.’

‘Have you held an inquest?’

‘No. I was only made aware of the matter just now. I do not intend to hold an inquest on the Sabbath, so would you join me
in the morning to hear the case? Not that it matters: we’ll have to find him innocent. We can’t have people thinking that
a sergeant could be guilty of murder. The cretinous son of a diseased goat!’

Baldwin nodded slowly. ‘If I find that he acted unreasonably, I’ll find him guilty.’

‘I would expect no less,’ Sir Peregrine said sharply. He sighed. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we went to speak to him now.
If we hear his side of the tale, it may explain some aspects.’

‘True. If, as you say, the victim had drawn steel against him, that would be adequate justification for defence. Provided
there were witnesses, of course.’

‘Witnesses can always be found. Damn his soul, he should have shown more caution,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘You can’t go upsetting
the mob by killing someone when everyone thinks there was no need.’

‘Is there cause to fear the mob here?’ Jeanne asked.

Sir Peregrine looked at her. ‘There is always need to fear the mob, lady.’

Daniel felt as though every eye was upon him as he walked from the cathedral. Juliana wouldn’t look at him, not after their
argument that morning, but he would have preferred that she
took his hand. Instead she walked out with her sister, and the two of them trailed along behind him as he marched out.

It made him feel guilty – especially when he saw how people stared at him. Many openly contemptuous, having heard how he served
old Ham.

He could not blame her, though. They had argued this morning. She had said again that he should leave Jordan alone. This constant
fear was sapping her spirit, she said, and her panic was all too plain as she sat on their bed, cradling their children in
her arms. After last night that was to be expected.

Last night they had heard it again: a strange noise downstairs in the middle of the night. He had put it down to rats at first;
God knew, there were enough of them in the house. Every time he went and looked in the buttery, there were fresh signs of
shit. They made him feel sick, but there was little to do, other than try to trap them or catch them and stab them, and he
didn’t have time to bother with that sort of rubbish.

Yet there was something about the noise which wasn’t quite right. Juliana had heard it first, and she had waited a while,
so she said, until she heard it again. A scratching noise, like a piece of metal rubbing against something. She lay in the
dark, listening to it, and nudged him.

It was the same. Daniel set his jaw and rose from the bed as quietly as possible. A pair of boards creaked, but he crossed
the floor to the open doorway with a long-bladed knife in his hand and stared down into the darkness. Last time he had heard
this, he had sat in his bed and waited until he was quite sure of the noise, but not this time. He’d heard it before, and
he was certain he knew what it was.

The
fucking
madman! If it was Jordan, he’d cut the bastard’s cods off and make him eat them! If that bastard thought he could get into
Daniel’s house, he was wrong. Last time Daniel
had given him warning by lighting his candle; well, he wouldn’t do that tonight. If the little shite was down there, he’d
feel Daniel’s steel this time.

He stepped slowly, cautiously, down the stairs. Behind him he could hear Juliana quietly leaving the bed, the rugs and heavy
skin rustling as she slid out, and her feet padding almost silently across the boards. He took the first step, listening intently.
There was no more noise, only the very faint hiss of his children’s breath, and Daniel slowly and carefully walked across
the room to inspect the window. Again, the shutters were loose, and the wind soughed through the gap.

Daniel stood with the flesh creeping on his back at the thought that a man might dare to come in here and threaten his children.
It was terrifying. No man should have attempted to break into his home of all the houses in Exeter. That a man might enter
his showed that the churl was entirely without fear. He must have the courage of a madman. Or be a madman.

‘Husband, do you think he might be in the garden? Will you see if he remains out there!’ his wife called.

‘Wife, I am unclothed. Do you think that it would serve any purpose to walk about in the dark with my ballocks dangling?’

‘Husband, if you valued your children and your wife, I should have thought you’d be keen to go and find the man,’ she hissed
in return.

‘I
am
keen!’

‘Then go and find him and cut off
his
ballocks, man! Stop waving that knife at
me
and find him!’

Daniel had glared at her, but there was sense in her instructions. He kicked at the bed where his children lay, turfing them
out and sending them up the stairs to their mother, while he donned a cloak that had lain on a chest and, pulling on some
light shoes, stepped out gingerly, walking about his garden and yard.

There was nothing. If he had been superstitious, he would have thought that a malevolent ghost had taken an irrational dislike
to him and was tormenting him.

But that idea was easily dispelled when he returned to the chamber and his light glinted on a splinter of steel. It looked
like a fragment of a blade, snapped off as it twisted to open his shutter. Ghosts did not carry steel.

Of course the problem with Jordan was, his insouciance was entirely justified. Christ’s pain, Reg knew that well enough. When
he said that no one would care about losing two pardoners, he was speaking no more than the literal truth. Nobody would even
notice. Reg had helped drag the bodies away, wiping at the rain that fell about his shoulders and ran down his face, aware
that this was a matter that would change, that
had
changed, his life. No matter what happened, his life would never be the same, and now, hauling on the body of the oily little
man, he felt sick. He was involved in the death of these men; he would help to conceal the murder. He was complicit.

Reg was no coward, but he had not been a murderer before this evening. Thieving, yes, that was necessary, because it meant
he could live. He needed food to continue. But that was different from taking a man’s life. However, to his shame, even his
last reservations fell away when he saw what was in the pack. These pardoners were successful men. They had learned how to
charm trinkets and valuables from their audiences, and when Jordan had killed them they’d been about to stop and rest, sell
their goods and recuperate for a while after all their travelling.

‘Look at that! Came from a rich woman, that did. Good pearl. Should fetch a fair sum.’

‘Where can we get rid of this stuff? Look at it! If we’re found with all this, everyone will know we’re robbers,’ Reg said,
appalled at the size of their haul. There were bracelets, necklaces, rings and plate, all worth a small fortune.

‘I know a man,’ Jordan said with confidence.

And that was the problem. It sometimes seemed as though the mere exercise of his will lent force to his ambition. They had
taken the jewellery and an acquaintance of Jordan’s had soon disposed of it for them – not for the sum it was worth, but for
enough money to give them sufficient to live on for some months to come.

Soon Jordan had decided that lying in wait to catch merchants and travellers was little use. There were better ways to make
money. He had concealed his wealth carefully, hoarding it, and although that cretin Daniel had tried to catch them both, reckoning
that they were involved in some unsavoury dealings, by the time he took notice of them Jordan was already well set up.

Yes, Daniel was right about their activities – not that it would do him much good.

Daniel was in his hall when the Coroner finally arrived, banging on the door with the hilt of his dagger.

‘Sergeant! Open this door!’

Cecily saw his face darken again, and she withdrew into the corner with her brother. Arthur denied ever being afraid of their
father, but both knew the truth: that when Daniel lost his temper he was capable of thrashing anyone, even his children, and
both sought to avoid him when he was in a rage. Today he seemed in a worse mood than ever, and Cecily felt the terror
grow in her breast as Daniel’s face grew blacker while he waited for his servant to arrive.

‘By St Peter’s bones!’ he bellowed. ‘Will no one answer the door?’

A scurrying and pattering came from the yard, and then the servant girl rushed through to the door. She bowed and spoke bravely
to the men outside, then brought them into the hall.

‘Master, the Coroner and his friend wish to speak to you.’

‘Get out, tart!’ Daniel grated. ‘About your business!’

Sir Peregrine was impressive, tall, elegant, and striking-looking, and Cecily studied him as he languidly reached out with
a questing pair of fingers and dipped them into the little stoup that was nailed beside the door. He made the sign of the
cross, bent his head a moment, and then stared at Daniel, long and hard.