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

by Michael Jecks

  Juliana was a threat. He had to remove her. Agnes thought she was safe with him, but she’d proved that she was as dangerous as her sister. In the past she’d been his ally; now it seemed she was her sister’s, first and foremost.

  He could do the same as before, maybe: pay someone else to kill them both while Jordan was visible somewhere else, prominently drinking or playing with his companions …

  Jordan frowned. Perhaps he was being too sensitive. If he went to Juliana and spoke to her, he’d soon see whether Agnes had been telling the truth. Just the first moment of entering the room would tell him whether Juliana had really said what Agnes said she had. And if she hadn’t?

  If Juliana knew nothing, God help her sister: if Juliana knew nothing, Agnes must have realized herself what had happened, and she was the threat.

  Although it was plain that Baldwin and the Dean were not amused at the tale or his own outburst, their seriousness only added to Simon’s mirth. He couldn’t help it – the sight of the Dean wriggling like a fish on a hook at having to confess to his chapter’s foolishness was too delightful.

  ‘Dean, I am deeply sorry. Please excuse my foolishness. I don’t know what caused it,’ he managed after a pause.

  ‘It is no, ah, laughing matter, bailiff. This goes to the heart of our chapter. It would be seriously embarrassing to the Bishop were this all to come into the open.’

  Baldwin cleared his throat. ‘You want our advice?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Prepare for the worst. They have you, Dean. You have one hothead who has created this problem. You could try to punish him and make an exhibition of him.’

  ‘Why, for preventing the friars from going ahead with a funeral when they were not entitled to the estate? The fellow could have been innocent. Others have done the same, after all.’

  ‘So you say,’ Baldwin said.

  Simon was confused by one aspect. ‘The Bishop will support you and the canon involved, won’t he? Well, then. Tell the friars to go and …’

  ‘Just my thought, which was why I considered a little more deeply, bailiff. I believe that they know that this could embarrass our Bishop. If, um, it was to the advantage of someone to harm the Bishop, they might, ah, choose to make the chapter the means of his destruction, might they not? They could, er, think that there was some form of amusing justice in such a plan.’

  ‘But how could they think to embarrass the Bishop? They’d have to have powerful allies to do that,’ Simon scoffed, but then his humour disappeared. ‘You mean the Despensers?’

  ‘I prefer not to think of any one person in particular,’ the Dean said precisely, but he lowered his head and peered at the two men from under his brows. ‘But think what a gift it would be to cementing their power if the only man who stood against them in the King’s favour was himself damaged. If he could be dragged back here to help sort out a dispute, that would give unfettered rein to their ambitions.’

  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.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  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.
r />   ‘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?’