The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (11 page)

The sun was shining again now after a short period of gloominess when clouds had blanketed the sun and blocked its gracious
warmth, and John had felt the desolation of loss at that time.

There were some in his position, he knew, who were happy to take the wealth of men and think nothing more of the poor dead
soul, but he was not one of those. He enjoyed his task, knew he was good at it, and tried on all occasions after a success
to compose himself and remember that he had a duty to exhibit meekness and humility. Still, sometimes delight would overwhelm
him and he would think of punching the air for simple excitement of a job well done. By taking the money he was helping his
Order, and saving a soul.

That canon was strange. There was something about his appearance, as though he knew he should be safe, but somehow doubted
it. Guibert should have let John stand against him. There were enough men there to prevent the theft of Sir William’s body.
In God’s name, the man’s own wishes were being ignored! It was scandalous!

The money would serve to feed the brethren, keep the chapel filled with candles, and help finance the alms which the friars
sought to give to the needy. It was not for personal use, of course. None of them had need of money, because no Dominican
held property. They had given up all their possessions so that they might concentrate on their responsibilities. They had
the duty to preach and save souls. They weren’t like those leeches the pardoners, who were little better than official thieves
who took money in return for pieces of paper that promised spurious security. Like most friars, John had no sympathy with
secular fund-raisers of that sort. They spent their time wandering the country, fooling the gullible into giving them their
wealth, when all people needed to do was speak to a friar, a man learned in helping the flock. He could listen to their confessions
and grant absolution, and that without huge expense. Most people would prefer that, surely, to having to go to an illiterate
fool of a parson, who might listen to certain sins
with an ear more attuned to his own sexual gratification than to the effect they might be having upon the poor offender.

That was the trouble so often. People would enter the priesthood when they had no vocation. There were so many men in the
Church now, and a large number were not there because they wanted to help the poor and needy, but because they were younger
sons who had no inheritance, or because they were sick in spirit and sought an easy life in the Church. There were also the
corrupt, who saw entry into the Church as a means of inveigling their way into the skirts of the female members of the parish.

And there was more … worse!

‘Look at this place, Robert! Filled with gluttony and greed. The house of God sits amidst this wealth like a solitary beacon,
while about her are all these places dedicated to Mammon and self-gratification.’

‘I don’t under—’

‘This place,’ he said, standing still and waving a hand. ‘Here on our left are the great houses of the canons, each of them
big enough for several families, all needing magnificent incomes to pay for them, but here they house only the canon and a
few servants. Over there is the great house built for the choristers, and beyond it the deanery. All these buildings, all
these servants, and yet we know that all a man needs is his bowl and a space to pray. There’s no necessity for these enormous
estates and such stolen wealth. The Church is a wonderful institution, but how much more marvellous would she be if she were
here in the open for all to share? The Dean and chapter should tear down these houses, remove these proofs of their greed
and worldliness; they should give up their incomes for alms to support the poor, and leave this place to go and preach to
those who need to hear the Word of God! Instead they rob us!’

He fell quiet again as he caught sight of Peter de la Fosse, the canon who had stolen Sir William’s body. The canon appeared
braver now, but there was still something about him, some nervousness that sat oddly with his elevated position. As soon as
he caught sight of John and Robert, he looked away as though pretending he hadn’t seen them, but then John saw him casting
little glances their way. Probably just guilt, he decided.

At his side, Robert looked about him. John’s fervour was known within the friary, and Robert had honoured him for his godliness
many times in the past, but today he was unsure of his companion’s meaning.

Where John saw greed and personal aggrandizement, Robert saw a mess. Before he had joined the Order, he had grown up the son
of a rich knight, and been used to the trappings of wealth. To him, wealth meant hunting, resting and playing, with women
who could sing and cheer a lonely soul. Here there was none of that. It was all work.

A thick, foul smoke rose from one area near the church’s walls, and stone chips crunched underfoot. The canons’ houses were
magnificent, but the canons themselves walked about in austere black, several of them keeping an eye on the building works,
while clerks moved among the workers ensuring that they did not slacken. Horses and donkeys wandered in their midst, seeking
any forage they might, while the soil from a newly dug grave was being carefully sifted by the fossor, who sought to retrieve
all the bones for reinterment in the Chapel of Bones out in front of the west door. It was no paradise, Robert thought, but
he let no sign of his own impression fix itself upon his face. Better to humour old John. There was much for Robert to learn
from him, after all.

‘And after the Bishop,’ John growled, ‘the most rapacious of the canons is the evil man who is behind this attack on our
privileges. The
Dean
,’ he spat contemptuously. ‘A man so covetous he would steal a corpse from our chapel for his personal benefit!’

‘What is it now, husband?’

Reginald grunted to himself. ‘Sabina, my dearest, please. For today, don’t you think that—’

‘You sit there staring into the distance as though you were sitting at table alone! Is there nothing to tell me about your
day? Perhaps you think that a foolish cow like me has no interest in your business?’

‘I always admired your intelligence, you know that.’

‘You admired my father’s money more! And now … you can’t even admire me in bed, can you?’

He turned away and stared down at his trencher. She was right, of course. And she knew very well why it was. She had never
caught him with another woman, but God’s blood, what was he supposed to do? When they married, he had been devoted to her.
All right, so he didn’t necessarily
love
her, but he respected her and had a lot of time for her intelligence, and that meant more, generally, than mere
love
. Love was an emotion that could come and go, but a couple who liked each other would remain moderately happy for life.

That was the problem, though. He … he
esteemed
her. And when they had married, she had been besotted with him. That was no basis for a marriage – or so he felt now. At
the time he’d
thought differently, of course, and all his friends said the same, that it was the best thing in the world for a man to marry
a woman who wanted him above all else, because then he could guarantee he’d get his way in everything. What a load of bull’s
turds! The fact was, she soon saw through his protestations of adoration. Of course she did. She knew what real love was,
and expected to see the same shining adulation reflected in his eyes that she felt in her own.

Christ’s pain, but he wished he’d realized sooner. The first few months of marriage were fine, but after that he had to hide
his true feelings for her, growing sadder and sadder with the passing years, for ever bound to a woman he admired, but didn’t
love.

Now, since she had realized he didn’t love her, her passion for him had turned from worship to loathing. The only good thing
in his life was his son, Michael, the lad whom they had conceived in that first flush of desire after their wedding. Their
boy,
his
boy – and now his betrayer. He had told his mother when he heard Reg with his woman. Sabina had been away at the time, and
Reg had thought that his own bedroom would be safer than anywhere else for his late-night assignation. But Sabina had heard
something from Michael. He must have heard Reg with Mazeline last time she was here – perhaps when the alarm was raised? –
and asked his mother who was there. The fool! Now her shrewish, jealous and unforgiving nature had been exposed. She had lost
any remaining love for him, and as a result her only delight was his pain and misery.

At the same time Jordan had been seeking his pleasures wherever he might. He’d always enjoyed dipping his wick in another
man’s tallow. It might have been amusing when they were younger, but for boys like Jordan and Reg the pleasures they should
have enjoyed as lads had been lost in the grim
reality of starvation. They grew up quickly in those days, missing out on much of the fun of youth, and instead took what
amusement they could from the same ribald entertainments at an older age. Jordan had never grown out of them.

Perhaps there was more to it than the mere lustful fascination with another man’s wife, though, because when Jordan took his
new woman, Reg couldn’t believe his ears. And Jordan’s long-suffering wife was similarly astonished.

The cruelty of laughing about his latest woman in front of his wife was lost on Jordan, of course. Reg once thought to comment
on his behaviour, but wouldn’t ever try that again. No, Jordan was incapable of understanding how his actions might affect
his poor wife. A man who tried to tell Jordan how to behave could rouse him to extreme anger, and that would invariably mean
pain. No man should give Jordan cause to lose his temper.

That was the mistake on Friday. If only Mick hadn’t lied about his theft.

There were few things more certain to goad Jordan to rage than an employee who stole from him, no matter what it might be.
Whether it was money, property or a woman – for he looked on the wenches as his own. Mick had been one of Jordan’s small band
of paid men who behaved towards him like the servants of a lord, vowing to serve him honestly and honourably no matter what,
in return for which they were well rewarded. The only requirement Jordan laid upon them was that they must be loyal and never
lie to him.

Reg would remember that night for a long, long time. He had walked in with Jordan to see Mick and Anne, and as he stood by
the door he had sensed that this wasn’t going to be a normal meeting. If he had had any idea of what Jordan was planning,
he would have stayed away.

There were times when Jordan could show sympathy, and this was one. He motioned to Anne to join him, and spoke kindly to her,
as a father might to a daughter. ‘Tell me, Anne, is this true? Your mother is dying?’

She could scarcely speak. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes raw and swollen, while her cheeks were blotched with
red. It looked worse because Jordan insisted that his strumpets should be kept from the sun. ‘Men want to see a pretty girl
with milky flesh,’ he would say with a laugh. If the girls went in the sun and browned, they were worth less money, and he
would beat them. Now, it meant that Anne looked almost feverish, with harsh red cheeks and brow and a yellowish tinge to her
throat. She looked terrified, Reg thought.

‘Speak, Anne,’ Jordan said gently. ‘You have heard from your home?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she has a disease of some kind?’

‘Yes.’

‘It must be terrible. You have no sisters at home to look after her, do you?’

‘No. I was the only surviving daughter. My brother left home too, so Mother’s all alone, you see.’

‘Yes. Mick explained that to me,’ Jordan said. His voice was still soothing and soft, as though he was an uncle listening
to a child speak of falling and hurting her knees. ‘He told me all about you and how your mother was unwell. Didn’t you, Mick?’
Now a little harshness entered his voice. ‘Didn’t you?’

Mick was a powerful-looking fellow, all brawn, with a large, square face that was too pale from sitting indoors for too many
hours in gambling dens and brothels. He glanced at Anne as though to give her a little encouragement. ‘Yes, I told you.’

‘And you thought I’d take your word?’

Mick’s face grew faintly troubled. He was surprised, yes, but also aware that the discussion was not going the way he had
expected. ‘I’ve never lied to you.’

‘Haven’t you? Not even when you’ve been taking my girls’ money and putting it in your own purse?’

‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that! You know you can trust me,’ Mick said, and now there was anxiety in his tone.

Reg watched as Jordan moved towards the lad. ‘You came to me when you were hard up, didn’t you? I remember it was a friend
of yours brought you to me. He said you’d be a good fellow with your fists, and he said you’d be bold. Well, he was right,
wasn’t he? You are bold, certainly. You even dare to rob me, as though I was some gull from the street.’

‘I wouldn’t—’

‘
Don’t lie to me! I know you!
’

Mick’s face stiffened. He knew what Jordan could do when he lost his temper completely, and although he stood his ground he
lowered his head, as though understanding that he must suffer pain for what he had done.

‘You were happy enough to take my money while you thought you could get away with it, weren’t you?’

‘I didn’t—’

Jordan’s hand moved so quickly Reg didn’t see it. All at once there were a pair of loud slaps, and Mick’s face was slammed
first left then right as Jordan hit his cheeks, one after the other. ‘Don’t lie to me again.’

Behind them both, Anne’s face was a crumpled mess. She wiped her running nose on her sleeve and her gaze moved from Jordan
to Reg, filled with terror. She had a better idea even than Mick what her master was like. All the whores knew about Jordan.

Jordan turned to her now. ‘You know what I did when Mick
told me your mother in Barnstaple was unwell, Anne? I sent a boy to ride there and find out whether you had a mother. Because
whores don’t have them normally, do they? And even if they do, they’re better off enjoying their trade than worrying themselves
about their parents. Anyway, you’re all right. There’s no need for you to go home. Your mother is already dead. But then you
knew that, didn’t you?’

He was standing before her now, and he bent his head to peer into her face. ‘You did, didn’t you? Since you were an orphan
when you left home five years ago, I suppose you guessed your mother was dead?’

She was blubbing, and she picked up her apron to cover her face. He wrenched it from her hands, then held both her wrists
and stared into her eyes. ‘I hate people who lie to me, wench. I hate them more than anything, because once trust is gone
between a master and his servants, there’s nothing left. Nothing except an example.’

He moved her two wrists to his left hand and gripped them tightly, so tightly, and then, as Anne’s breath came in rapid pants,
he pulled out his knife. ‘You know this knife? It’s seen to many girls. Girls like you, Anne. And now I’m going to leave an
example for other girls to remember. Mick, come here. Hold her.’

‘I can’t, Jordan, I—’

‘You were going to take her away from here and use her yourself. You might even have married her, mightn’t you? But you won’t
want to, Mick. Not when I’ve finished with her tonight.’

He was matter-of-fact about it. While she thrashed about, he made Mick grip her wrists, and then he lashed her legs together,
neatly, like a man hobbling a calf before cutting its throat. He sat abreast her thighs while she gave a high, keening squeal,
and then gripped her chin and began to saw slowly at her nose. When he had removed that, he took off her ear lobes too, and
then carefully cut a cross into each cheek, before opening her bodice and starting on her breasts.

There was nothing brutal in his manner as he did so, torturing an attractive young girl into a figure of disgust. He did not
treat this as a diversion, but saw it as a task he must perform. This girl would never dare to accuse him, she would be too
scared. And yet all the other girls who plied their trade on Jordan’s behalf would hear of this retribution and beware.

There was an intensity about him as he worked. Later, he told Reg that he could hear something, a sort of high whistling sound
that echoed in his ears. It was exciting and thrilling to hear, and it seemed almost to drive him on as he stabbed and cut.

For Reg, it was a scene from hell. A demon had taken the woman and subjected her to unendurable agony, and the demon’s weeping
helper was the woman’s own lover. Perhaps Mick’s true crime had been to fall in love – as Reg should have with his own wife,
but couldn’t. And now this crying fellow was aiding his lover’s torturer, purely because, although he looked a large, brawny,
strong lad, in reality he was only good for bullying those who were weaker than him. So Jordan could cow him, force him to
help destroy the woman he adored, and then still remain there to do Jordan’s bidding.

That was the way of things: a weak man would always obey a stronger, no matter what the hideous fear that the man provoked.
In a land that had suffered so much death and horror, famine and war in the past ten years, any stability was to be desired,
even if it came at the expense of a man’s soul.

When he was finished, Jordan was sweating lightly. The girl had fainted away some while before, and he stepped away from the
bloodied mess that had been Anne and surveyed his work, smiling a moment before he beckoned Mick.

‘Come here and look upon her, boy. That’s right. What has happened to her is your fault.
Your
fault. You wanted to take her away from me and use her money yourself, didn’t you? You told her you wanted her for herself,
that you’d marry her, but all you wanted was the income she’d bring. And when that was all gone, what then? I suppose you’d
have discarded her in favour of another, wouldn’t you?’ He had his hand on Mick’s shoulder, gripping the lad firmly so that
he could not avert his gaze from the quivering lump of ruined flesh on the ground. He pushed Mick towards a pail of water
and Mick reluctantly fetched it. Jordan took it and threw it over Anne. She screamed, once, and then lay squirming in pain,
as though unable to decide which wound hurt the most.

‘You see, Anne, I can’t afford to have my girls running away. If you escaped with this one, you’d become an example later,
when you came back without a protector and told the other girls that he’d thrown you over, but in the meantime, how many other
girls would have left my business? So this way is better. Look on your lover, girl!’

And he moved his grip from Mick’s shoulder up to his forehead, fingers finding the eye-sockets and dragging the man’s head
back, making the tendons stretch, exposing the windpipe and veins beneath the leathery flesh. ‘Pretty throat, eh?’ he said,
chuckling, and drew the blade across in a fast, vicious action.

Dean Alfred was furious. He had known what would happen as soon as he heard of the assault, and now, as his servant
announced the visitors, he was hard put to it not to swear aloud. If he had been in any other room, he might well have done.
Damn that fool!

Of course the problem was that they had lost so many staff recently. There had been the disastrous deaths in the cathedral’s
works
^*
, closely followed by the death of men involved in the chapter, and that had required others to be brought in to help with
the essential businesses. A cathedral was not, after all, merely a large church with a patch of ground filled with bones.
It was a separate community in its own right, with its own farms, brewery, bakery, slaughterhouses, wash-houses … everything.
Hundreds of men lived and worked within it to make sure that all the various aspects functioned properly. When one part failed,
everything could collapse. And it was essential that the whole edifice should continue, because so many people depended upon
it. Their souls were to be saved only if the canons and vicars, secondaries and annuellars were able to conduct their business
without hindrance.