Yes, as she went out to the buttery to fetch him his ale, he had thought of pulling out his knife again, and perhaps taking it to her clothes first, stripping her naked, just as she had been when Jane was conceived in her womb … Jane, where was Jane?
The whistling and whirring was deafening now and he looked about him wildly. He could do nothing without his little girl. He loved her, he adored her, and she was all his. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. Where was she?
The noise grew until he was deafened. In his vision he thought he saw the bodies of the two whores, the bodies of Mick and his bottler, all laughing, mocking him. He had killed them as though he was all-powerful and could kill with impunity, but now they knew that they could conceal his daughter from him. They couldn’t. No, not them. Mazeline must have taken her away. Where? Where?
In an instant the sounds were gone and his face cleared. He knew exactly where Jane would be – surely at Mazeline’s cousins’ house. He could go there and rescue her. And then he would have to lie low somewhere until he could escape the city with her. Looking up at the bright sun, he changed his mind. He was exhausted after the excitement and thrills of the previous night. Better, surely, to go and hide somewhere now in the quiet, while it was daylight, and then come out again at night.
He knew the perfect place to hide, and then, later, he could maybe visit Agnes and Juliana. Reg had seemed so unwilling last night … perhaps this could be Jordan’s last job, then, before he fled the city. The thought of the two women before him, under him, his knife ready for them, was so entrancing that he almost stopped in the roadway. Then he noticed a man looking at him oddly, and he forced himself to smile and nod before hurrying on his way.
First hide. Pleasure later.
Ralph was relieved to see how the Coroner reacted. The man appeared to take the murder of the prostitute seriously, and immediately began barking orders, commanding messengers to fetch a clerk to help him, and blowing his own horn in the street and bellowing hoarsely, ‘Out, out, out,’ to raise the hue and cry. He sent the two watchmen, who had been muttering rebelliously about working all hours, off to the brothel to guard the dead woman’s body. When they complained, he fixed them with a basilisk stare.
‘During your watch here, a bottler was murdered and a woman could have died. Be glad you’re being given another job rather than thrown in the gaol yourselves for being no better than fools!’
In the meantime, Baldwin and Simon had helped Mazeline to a bench in the hall, and here Ralph tended to her. He bathed her face with fresh boiled water in which sweet herbs had been steeped, and washed her hands and arms to remove the clots of blood and yellow lumps of bone.
‘Ralph, you make a marvellous nurse,’ she whispered at one point.
‘Concentrate on being well again.’
‘I shall never be well again. I cannot be whole or well. Not after the last days. He has gone?’
Baldwin was at her side now. He looked down on her with compassion in his eyes. ‘He is gone, lady, and you are safe.’
‘This house is hateful to me, though. It is what he has made it: a charnel!’
Baldwin looked at Ralph, who nodded. ‘Is there somewhere else we could take you where you would feel more comfortable?’
She was quiet a long time, then turned her head away and began to weep. ‘No.’
Ralph was not a physician for nothing. He scowled blackly at Baldwin and jerked his head. It took three goes, but then the knight appreciated his meaning and left them, walking slowly away for some steps until he was far enough distant not to disturb the woman. Then he marched away to speak to Sir Peregrine.
‘Come, now, maid. There is a place where you would feel more comfortable, isn’t there? Is it a place you could go and rest with propriety?’
She said nothing, but after a moment or two shook her head.
‘In that case, do you care about the propriety? Would you like me to find out whether there might be somewhere for you to stay there anyway?’
This time she slowly turned to face him, and told him.
‘I could ask,’ he mused, ‘but I do not wish to leave you here alone …’
Sir Peregrine was happiest ordering men as though in preparation for battle, and it was not until Sir Baldwin appeared at his side that he realized that this was actually the Keeper’s duty. Still, Sir Baldwin smiled at him and indicated that his shoulder was still painful.
He would have this bastard caught by nightfall, the Coroner swore to himself. Jordan was wholly evil, and had to be stopped.
Baldwin was frowning. ‘Sir Peregrine, would you mind if I left you here? I feel a little too tired to continue walking the streets searching for this man.’
‘Of course, Sir Baldwin. Please rest. I hope you’ll soon feel much recovered.’
‘I am sure that I shall,’ Baldwin said.
He walked from the house and set off along the street towards the high street. Here he paused, considering, but his feet soon took him off westwards towards St Nicholas’s Priory. Within a hundred yards, he heard the footsteps behind him. ‘So I can’t sidle away that easily?’
Simon laughed. ‘No. As you know full well, I wish always to be with you at the end of an investigation. And just now we need to know what has been happening with this partnership.’
They walked on past the fleshfold, where the butchers were carving up the carcasses, and on down to the alley in which Daniel had lived.
‘They won’t welcome us,’ Simon observed.
‘Very possibly true,’ Baldwin agreed. He sighed. ‘Simon, this matter is simply a case of hunting down that man. He is a lunatic, surely. What in God’s name could have made him grow to want to inflict so much pain?’
‘You know more about men like that than I do,’ Simon said. ‘You must have seen men behave barbarously.’
‘It is one thing for a knight to charge a man and cut off his head in battle, another to torture a woman. This man must be quite insane.’
‘What do you want here?’ Simon asked as they stood outside the house waiting for the door to open.
‘I feel sure that there is more to learn here. I don’t know what, though,’ Baldwin admitted as the door opened. He led the way inside and soon the two were standing before Juliana.
‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff – how may I serve you?’ she asked.
There was no coldness in her voice, Baldwin noted, just a sadness that seemed unappeasable. And a little fear. ‘Lady, the man Jordan is suspected as the murderer of several people recently – perhaps including your husband. Would that surprise you?’
She closed her eyes a moment. ‘He threatened us.’
‘Pardon?’
‘He told my husband that he would kill us all if Daniel didn’t stop looking into his affairs.’
‘He said that?’ Simon asked. ‘Just because your man was growing too close to him?’
‘I think so. He hated to be thwarted; Jordan has always been a greedy man. He can never possess enough riches, but always has to seek more.’
‘He did threaten you and your children directly?’ Baldwin pressed.
‘Yes. He warned Daniel, and Daniel told me. How did you guess?’
‘It was the matter of Estmund. Everyone was used to him entering, and no one seemed worried about his visits.’
‘Why should we be? We all knew poor Est.’
‘Quite, but you told us your husband would go downstairs with a sword in his hand. That doesn’t sound like a man who was at ease with Est’s visits. Unless there was another man, of course.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘How logical.’
‘But your husband’s murderer has so far escaped justice.’
‘Yes. I hope you can catch Jordan soon,’ she said, and began to weep once more.
Reginald had not enjoyed a restful evening. The thought that Jordan wanted him to murder the sisters – ‘and the children, don’t forget them, Reg’ – had left him feeling sick. This was infinitely worse than anything he had kn
own before. The idea that he should murder those two women for no purpose was ridiculous, but he saw no means of escape. He could twist and turn, but he was hooked. The man had paid him for murdering Daniel, and Daniel was dead. Now he would have these women murdered, and because he was convinced that Reg had murdered Daniel, he saw no reason to suppose that Reg would fail him in this either.
And if Reg were to refuse, Jordan could announce to the world that Reg was Daniel’s murderer. He would stop at nothing to get his way, after all.
At the knock on his door, he felt his spirit quail. There were only two people who knew of that doorway, and he was tempted to ignore the summons at first, but then he stood resignedly and unlocked it, half expecting the blow as he pulled the door wide.
‘Mazeline!’
Estmund finished butchering the pig’s carcass and left the fleshfold as the light was fading.
It was better. His anxiety was all but passed. He had needed to stand there with his knife in his hand, just as he had for these last years past, every day he could, making use of the skills he possessed. He had few enough skills, after all. And at least here in the fleshfold he could help others. There was a pride in making the right incision, finding the bones hidden under the flesh, and twisting the blade so to move a ball from its socket without damaging the outer appearance of the meat. He was talented with a knife, he knew, but today the excitement was not there for him.
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.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
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 bl
ades 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 Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) Page 32