But it wasn’t only that. Reg knew he was including everything, the chamber in which he slept, the bed where Michael lay sleeping … Michael himself, even. Reg felt a cold, clammy sensation about his breast, as though his own destiny was pressing a firm hand over his heart. His blood was racing already; this additional feeling was enough to make him feel slightly sick.
‘Jordie, I don’t see why we have to kill him now. It’s just a—’
‘Because I have warned him. I told him, Reg. I said that if he didn’t leave me alone, I would destroy him. I said I would kill his children and his wife and him.’
‘All of them?’
‘He even told his wife. Can you imagine that?’ Jordan frowned. ‘I wouldn’t tell my bitch about business like that. Why would he have told her?’
‘Jordan, there’s no need to kill them. We’re all right still. There’s no need to hurt any of them. Maybe we can leave things as they are.’
‘If we do nothing, Reg, all this would be at risk. Consider that.’ Jordan stood and eyed him, but this time it was not the friendly look of an old comrade and partner, it was the cold, intimidating stare which Reg had seen him use on others when he was about to strike. ‘All our profits from the cathedral, all the money from the whores, it could all be at risk. Think of that; consider it well. We must act.’
John returned to the friary as night drew in, and quietly made his way to his cell, where he sat on the little stool at the table under his window. The window was too high in the wall and too small to see anything, even a glimpse of the sky. No distractions, that was the founding principle of his Order, and he was more than pleased with it. The lack of property of any sort, the lack of interruptions, these were essential. It meant that he could spend his time praying and trying to help others to see how they themselves might add to the glory of God.
Not a young man any more, at some fifty years or so, John had become a friar as soon as he had felt the power of God’s word, and he flattered himself that it was in no small measure a reflection of his own efforts that the Order was so widely accepted here in Exeter. He had persuaded people to give their money to the house; he’d managed to convince others that if they wanted to win eternal life, especially if they had been wealthy in this one, they would have to aid the Order in its work. For if a man did nothing to assist the poor and the needy, how could he hope to win rewards in Heaven?
The only means of saving themselves was to give … to the fullest extent of their power. They must give up all, and make it over to the Dominicans. Not that the Dominicans owned property or treasure, but they required money to continue their work. And John had always been one of the men most competent at acquiring new gifts.
He had known from the beginning that his duty was to help as many men as possible to see that their route to personal salvation lay through the offices of the Dominicans. And to that end, he had sought out the rich and elderly without issue. Men with families would naturally wish to ensure that their children were not impoverished, but those with none … well, it made sense for them to look to the benefit of the Dominicans.
That was why John was the most efficient fundraiser in the priory. It was for that reason that Sir William de Hatherleigh was even now lying on a palliasse in a cell not far away. It was a measure of John’s skills at persuasion that Sir William was determined to remain here, not only now while he prepared for death, but later, when he was dead.
And this to John seemed an ideal situation. Sir William was one of the wealthiest men in the city. Holding his funeral and burying him here in the friary would produce welcome funds.
Of course there were obstacles: the ridiculous monopoly on burials which the cathedral insisted upon upholding, for example, but John was sure that there would be ways round that. After all, the Bishop would hardly want another fight with the Order. On the last occasion, it had taken Bishop Walter four or five years to calm the situation down again. John knew that. And he knew that this particular battle was one he could – he must – win.
He was looking forward to it with relish.
Daniel was exhausted that evening. The efforts of his day had included a sharp ride over to Bishop’s Clyst with two sergeants to try to help a posse catch two felons, the remainder of the morning in his chamber with two clerks trying to make sense of old records and attempting to twist them to the advantage of the city, and then another ride to the north, beyond the Duryard, to see whether he could use his good offices to mediate between two bickering landlords. He was back in time for a fight outside a tavern, and here his patience finally ran out.
It was old Ham atte Moor again. He’d drunk far too much as usual, and then started picking fights with everyone. Knocked down the innkeeper, then tried to do the same to the sergeants when they arrived. By the time Daniel got there, he’d managed to nick one of the officers with his knife, and there was a small but respectful crowd of men all about him, while women stood outside the ring, egging them on.
‘What’s going on here?’ Daniel demanded as he arrived on the scene.
It was the last thing he needed, truth be told. The events of the day had taken their toll, and now he was tired, desiring only a good pot of wine and some meats before going off to his bed. He had no wish to be stuck here soothing an old drunk who’d taken more than he should again.
‘This old fool wanted more to drink, but you know what he’s like,’ the innkeeper said, holding a damp cloth to his temple. ‘I told him to bugger off, and he clobbered me, the git. He’s never getting served in here again, that I’ll swear! I won’t have him in my hall again. If he tries it, I’ll have the sod served as he deserves!’
‘Shut up!’ Daniel snapped. ‘Ham, you finished? Because in God’s name, if you want more trouble, I’ll be happy to give it to you.’
Ham was wild-eyed at the best of times. He’d always liked his drink, but recently he’d taken to starting on strong ale in the morning and continuing with it all day. It was too easy for a man with little occupation. Ham was a freeman who had worked as ostler in an inn but he had been fortunate enough to be granted a sum of money on the death of his master a year ago. With no wife, for she’d died some while before, he had no one to spend his money on but himself, and for an old man with few friends or interests, that meant wine and ale. There was nothing else for him.
This was not the first fight Daniel had witnessed. Ham had been before the city’s courts often enough charged with breaking the King’s Peace, and Daniel himself had been responsible for bringing him in on several occasions. Usually, it was a case of the poor old fool getting too drunk to be able to conduct himself sensibly, for after all, most people quite liked him. He was an amiable old devil when sober. The trouble was, when he had too much to drink, he could become a monster.
‘Put it down, Ham,’ Daniel said now.
Ham swore something – his speech was too indistinct to be comprehensible now he was drunk; it was bad enough when he was sober since the day Peter of Ide had knocked out his front teeth a month and a half ago – and lunged. In his hand he had a long-bladed, single-edged knife, and it swept past Daniel’s belly alarmingly quickly.
All Daniel’s frustration erupted. He lifted his iron-shod staff and swung it heavily. It cracked across Ham’s forearm with a dry sound, like an ancient twig being snapped. Then, almost before he knew what he was doing, he had reversed the stave, and brought it back smartly. While Ham’s face fractured from evil aggression into alarm and agony the iron tip was hurtling back, and Daniel watched dispassionately, as though this was another man’s doing, as it crunched into Ham’s temple. He saw the eruption of blood, the eyeball leaping out of its socket, the snap of the head upon its neck, and the sudden tottering step to one side, as though Ham was considering jumping to safety a moment too late. His broken forearm flailed in the air, the wrist and lower part wild and disjointed, and then the man fell, his eyeball plopping onto his cheek a moment after his head hit the cobbled roadway.
That was when he started
to scream, a shrill noise that spoke of excruciating pain and terror, like a horse with a broken leg.
And while Daniel stood panting, appalled at what he had done, he gradually grew aware of the people in the crowd drawing away from him, as men would from a felon caught in the act.
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.’
Chapter Five
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 Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) Page 7