The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (12 page)

And now one over-enthusiastic idiot had jeopardized their efforts again. He’d gone ahead without even thinking about the consequences.

‘Bring them in,’ he said and dropped into his chair. As soon as John and Robert appeared, gliding silently over the floor
on their bare feet, he stood again and exchanged greetings. ‘Wine, Brothers? Some other refreshment?’

‘You know why—’

‘I know exactly why – um – you have been forced to come and see us here, and all I can – ah – say is that I am very unhappy
that this terrible situation has come to pass. The man
involved will be severely reprimanded for presuming to – um – demand the body.’

‘I hardly think that such behaviour merits merely a reprimand. We demand that the chapter apologize formally and return the
body forthwith for the funeral to continue.’

A hint of steel entered the Dean’s voice. ‘But I do not quite, um, understand. I had heard that the period of vigil was complete
and that the poor man concerned was ready for his funeral?’

‘And we shall conduct it.’

‘I had – um – believed that after the last dispute between the chapter and your priory, it was agreed that the cathedral had
the monopoly of funerals for all secular folk in the city? Correct me if – ah – I am wrong, but you have the right to bury
only those who are members of your Order. Is that not – ah – so?’

‘You have no monopoly. The Friars Preacher have the right to bury others in our cloister or wherever we wish. Our rights have
been upheld by his holiness himself.’

‘As I recall, the decision was that we should try to live in – ah – harmony, and that when a wealthy benefactor requested
the honour of a place in your chapel, you were to inform us first, and then grant us one fourth of all moneys and legacies
involved. Yet you attempted to conduct a secret funeral and burial.’

‘That was no reason to break down our doors, injure a friar who stood passively and unthreateningly, destroy our lattice and
steal our candles and cloths. It was an act of blatant violence – you have caused great harm and broken our peace. We demand
that the body be returned to us for burial.’

Dean Alfred stood and stared out a moment through the little window. If he could have had his way, the friars would have gone
ahead with their funeral and burial, and later the
chapter could have demanded compensation for the money which had been withheld. Then right would have been on the chapter’s
side, and the legal arguments would have been clear. But now one hot-head had exacerbated the tensions between the two groups.

‘I apologize again. When the funeral is completed I can return the body and all the goods with it, in exchange for the fourth
part of his estate as agreed before. Otherwise, I think that the chapter should retain the body and goods in token of the
agreement which you have tried to evade.’ He spun on his heel, eyes blazing. ‘Do not think to argue with me, Brother! I know
you well, John. You have been preaching against us these last two months. Who is it who insists upon reminding the populace
of this city that our own very reverend Bishop was unreasonably excommunicated by your Prior? That your priory attempted to
have him cast out of the university at Oxford, falsely alleging that he was to be excluded because he was excommunicate? I
do not forget these actions. And now you have tried to create another dispute between our two institutions.’

‘I have done nothing of the sort! It was the outrageous behaviour of your chapter, breaking down our doors and wounding our
friars, merely to satisfy your wanton lust for gold and coin!’

‘Our lust?’ Dean Alfred echoed. ‘The only reason we had to enquire about the body was because
you
were attempting to withhold our share of Sir William’s estate. You were determined to retain the full amount without honouring
your legal responsibilities.’

‘You dare to judge the actions of the Friars Preacher? We are not so tied to the greed and indulgence of lascivious delights
as you canons are! While you sit back in comfortable
seats, drinking warmed wine and letting your vicars perform your duties for you, or travel about the country visiting your
estates and holdings all over the land, we friars are hard at work out there in the real world of poverty and misery, trying
to save the souls of the most downtrodden by our example!’

The Dean stared at him long and hard. ‘Some of us have not yet forgotten the matter of Gilbert de Knovil’s money, Brother.
I say to you, before you seek to – um – accuse others of possessing a splinter, look to your own plank.’

John’s face went almost purple with rage. ‘I am not here to bandy words about matters of no importance!’

‘So money is of no consequence? That is good. Perhaps, if you, ah, deposited Sir William of Hatherleigh’s money with us, then
you could take his body back with you and all would be well.’

With an effort John calmed himself. ‘Oh, no, Dean. We shall be taking this matter further. You wish the affair done with?
It shall be when we have debated it fully and the King’s own men have come here to listen to our pleas.’

He stood, gave the Dean a most unhumble and angry nod, and left the room, a very perturbed-looking Robert hurrying at his
heels.

‘Dean? My lord? Are you all right?’

Waving a hand at his servant, Alfred smiled benignly and reassured him. But when he had sent his man out to fetch him a goblet
of wine, he sat back contemplatively and considered all that had been said.

He should not have lost his temper, but perhaps it was no bad thing after all. He had roused John to rage with his reminder
of the theft of Gilbert de Knovil’s money – the foolish fellow had deposited it in the friary, and Brother Nicholas Sandekyn
had acquired it for himself. Three separate priors had sought to
conceal the theft, which caused much embarrassment when their offences were uncovered. But that was old history now – what
was more important was John’s reaction. The man was undoubtedly insanely jealous of the cathedral, and would do much to damage
the chapter, if he could. Yet he had threatened to involve the King’s men. That was a curious peril with which to menace the
chapter of Exeter Cathedral. After all, their Bishop, Walter de Stapledon, was trusted and honoured by the King. What sort
of threat did the friars imagine the King could be to them?

The Dean was suddenly aware of a very unpleasant sinking feeling.

Saul was an older man who had spent much of his life working in the fleshfold not far from the Black Hog. His cheery smile
and benevolent appearance could not entirely mask his sharp mind and the sense to use it.

‘So you want to know about Est in case he had anything to do with the murder of the sergeant? You’d have to be mad to think
that!’

‘Why?’

‘He’s more than half simple. Couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. I don’t think he even carries a dagger now, not for his protection
nor for cutting his food. He’s entirely innocent of violence. The thought of it would be enough to addle his mind.’

‘I have known some remarkably foolish men who took to murder,’ Sir Peregrine murmured.

‘I don’t move in your circles,’ Saul agreed easily.

Baldwin cleared his throat before the astonished Sir Peregrine could give vent to his anger, saying quickly, ‘What sort of
man is he, then? Why do you say he is innocent of violence? Because he was born foolish?’

‘He was born as bright as you or me,’ Saul said. He saw no need to make mention of Sir Peregrine. ‘I knew him from the first,
I suppose. Our fathers were both butchers, and although I
was a little older than him, we were apprentices at more or less the same time and messed together quite often. He was fine.’

‘Why then is he a fool now? Did he have an accident? A blow to his head?’

‘Nothing like that. Poor fellow, he married quite young. Must have been ten years ago now, back in the sixth year of the reign
of the King.’

Baldwin calculated. King Edward II came to the throne in 1307, so Est’s marriage was in 1313 or 1314. ‘Yes?’

‘They were obviously happy, and soon after, they were blessed. Emma, she was his wife, and a lovely girl. There was a lot
of jealousy about when he caught her. Anyway, she fell pregnant a year or so after their marriage and they couldn’t have been
more delighted, the pair of them. He was running his own business by then, and making good money, so when the baby was born
in 1314, about the month of July or August, I remember, all seemed well. Except you never can tell, can you? You never know
what’s round the corner.’

All the men sitting at that table knew well enough what had happened next, though. It was the great famine, the terrible time
when everyone had friends or family who had died.

‘Yes, well, here in Exeter, we got it worse than most, I reckon. There was hardly a soul hadn’t lost someone. Well, you all
remember it. Est, he fared worse than some, but it affected him badly. First his little baby girl died, only a year or so
old, she was. So many of the little ones did. They couldn’t feed properly and their mammies couldn’t give them pap, so that
was it for them. The little mite faded over a few days, and then was gone.

‘Est himself could have coped with that, I dare say, but then they couldn’t bury the little chit on consecrated ground. It
had been a hard birth, and the midwife thought Cissy wouldn’t live, so she baptized the babe herself.’

‘That’s acceptable,’ Baldwin commented.

‘Normally, but this woman was no good. She just mumbled some nonsense about “God and Saint John bless this body and these
bones,” and that was it. No one thought about it until Cissy was dead, and then it was too late. The priest told the midwife
she’d consigned little Cissy to eternal suffering. The soul was lost. That was why Est’s wife lost the will to live, I reckon.
He never got over the horror of burying his child. Then he lost her too, and in the worst way. She hanged herself. I was there
with the jury when the Coroner heard the case. A bad business, a terrible business.’

Saul stopped and picked up his ale. He sat staring into it so long that Baldwin thought he was demanding a fresh quart, and
was debating whether to order one for him when he realized that Saul was staring through the ale into the past.

Much of what he saw there was unpleasant. Saul could remember the carts carrying the dead to the cemetery, the houses with
the shutters wide even at night because the whole family had died and been taken away. Burial pits dug by the fossors to encompass
entire households, for when the food was gone there was nothing to be done. Women might whore for a few pennies, men might
sell all their prized possessions, but when all wanted the same scarce goods – foods – the prices of bread and grain rose
as those of silver, pewter and gold fell. No one could eat metal.

Even in Exeter there were murders, and once there had been a suggestion that a man had broken that ancient taboo: cannibalism.
But stories of that nature abounded when all were so desperate. When a man was prepared to boil his boots for the sustenance
the leather might hold, you knew that the fellow was starving.

‘Everyone suffered,’ Saul said quietly. ‘I lost a brother and a
child, although my second son – God be praised! – lived. And now he’s a bone idle arse with turds for brains … still,
I’d not lose him too. One was bad enough. And Est lost both. His wife and his child. And neither could be buried on consecrated
ground.’

‘It must have been very hard,’ Baldwin said. ‘But most people recovered. Why did not this fellow?’

Saul shrugged. He had no answer for that.

‘The parents, surely, should have realized and had the baby baptized?’ Sir Peregrine commented in a hushed tone. It was still
a source of profound pain to him that he had not been able to ensure his still-born child’s burial in the churchyard as a
baptized Christian. ‘No parent could fail that responsibility.’

‘There were too few priests to go round … they were not educated like some. They trusted the midwife. Later, when their
baby was screaming all night and all day because she was so hungry, and they were desperately trying to feed her, they had
other things on their minds,’ Saul said sharply. ‘Even the best of parents can fail, Sir Knight! These two were good parents.’

He hadn’t taken to this arrogant piece of piss. Tall he might be, with his fair hair and green eyes, but that didn’t impress
Saul. Saul was a butcher, and as such he was used to lifting pig carcasses and half-oxen on his back, hoisting them onto tables
or lifting them onto hooks. And when it came to swordplay, he had an eighteen-inch knife in his sheath now that would be more
than a match for any man’s blade in a fight here in a darkened tavern.

The other one, though, he looked as though he understood suffering. Saul looked at him. ‘You were here in the famine, sir?’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Not here in Exeter, but up in Cadbury. We did not suffer so much as you down here, I think. Still, I have
seen people starve to death. It is not a pleasant sight.’ In his mind’s eye he saw again the streets of Acre as the siege
began to bite. The women and children lying in the streets, the decomposing heads of their husbands and fathers lying where
they had bounced, obscene missiles hurled by the great engines of war outside. One woman had come across her only son’s head
lying in the roadway, and then, a few paces on, her husband’s. The men had fought together, and must have died so near to
each other that their enemies decapitated both at the same time and hurled their heads into the city together. It was an unbelievably
cruel way for that woman to discover that her family was no more. He suddenly wondered what might have happened to her. Perhaps
she too committed suicide. So many did in that terrible battle. Better to die unshriven than to wait for the Moors to come
and take their sport. ‘So Estmund lost all, and then lost his mind?’

‘I think he would have come round. He was a sturdy fellow and capable of great courage and resilience, but then he was prevented
from burying her in the graveyard.’

‘A cruel thing, but normal,’ Baldwin observed.

‘The tragedy was that an officer lost his temper when he saw Est digging a pit for his woman, and went and raged at him to
stop. He’d heard that Est was not allowed to bury her in the cemetery, but Est and Henry Adyn were outside the consecrated
area, and had been given permission to bury her there. When they refused to move, Est and Henry were attacked, and Henry was
crippled for life.’

‘What happened to the corpse?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

There was a sudden burst of noise. Two friars had entered, and now the older, thinner of the two was declaiming, telling
some story about the canons stealing a corpse. Baldwin glanced at them, annoyed at the intrusion into his thoughts. The older
man was declaring that canons were all thieves, or some such nonsense. Baldwin shook his head and listened to Saul again.
The friars had best be careful, or the Dean would hear.

‘They were allowed to bury her there later,’ Saul continued. ‘The city didn’t want her corpse lying in the street for too
long. And Est was digging legally, just outside the sacred space. It was the officer who was in the wrong. Silly arse. He
often was.’

Baldwin noted the use of the past tense and suddenly had an insight. ‘You mean that the officer was Daniel?’

‘Of course he was. But Est wouldn’t hurt him. I doubt whether he could!’

‘Perhaps not,’ Baldwin said, but he was considering the other: the man called Henry Adyn, who had been ferociously attacked
and was still crippled.

Juliana looked terrible, Agnes thought as she walked in with Cecily and Arthur later that evening. Usually so bright and fresh-faced,
she averted her gaze as the three entered the little chamber, and it was only with an apparent effort that she could turn
and face them. Holding out her arms, she beckoned her children to her with a sweet smile that somehow fractured into despair
even as her lips broadened welcomingly.

Yet still she hardly looked at Agnes.

On occasion Agnes had been called many names. Selfish was one of Juliana’s favourites, especially when Agnes had tried to
share her doubts or fears with her younger sister, but it was no surprise. Juliana had no idea what it was like to be left
alone, unwanted, unloved, with no protector to guard her … Agnes had only once thought she had found such a man, and
what had happened? He had been stolen from her. Snatched just when Agnes was beginning to feel that she might be able to love
him. It had been a cruel, vicious thing for a sister to do. And then, more recently, Daniel had evicted her from the home
he had created with Juliana. Once more Agnes had lost everything. All she had was her lover.

Well, if Juliana had not appreciated how hurtful it was to lose Daniel all those years ago, she knew what it was like now,
Agnes thought to herself. Not with satisfaction, of course. No, she wouldn’t want to bring any suffering to her sister. But
there was a divine aspect to this retribution.

And still Juliana avoided her eye. It was too much after spending all the long day looking after her brats!

Jordan entered his house like a storm. The door crashed behind him as he crossed through the passage to the comfortable parlour
at the back where he sat on his favourite stool and gazed outside at the little garden.

This was a good house. Not too large, not pretentious, and certainly not eye-catching enough to attract unwelcome attention.
Especially since that overblown bladder of shit, Daniel, was gone. Ironic that a man like him should be slaughtered in his
own home, in front of his wife and children! If there had been justice, he would have died miserable and alone, a long way
from comfort or compassion.

Ah, well. It had been a good few days. First he had had the fun of cutting that disloyal bitch Anne until there could be no
doubt in any man’s mind that she would never again play the whore, not here in Exeter, nor anywhere else. She was damaged
too badly for any pander to want to take her in; then he had had more fun with that prickle, Mick. Useless piece of bird dropping!
He’d thought he could pull the wool over Jordan’s
eyes? Take away one of his women and set up on his own account somewhere, would he? The devil take his soul! Jordan was no
cretin; he wasn’t born yesterday! He could see when he was being lied to, and when he listened at the window and heard Mick
telling her how they’d live more happily away from the life of whoring and bullying, without fear of Jordan … and they’d
tried to tell him that it was her mother who was ill … fools!

And then the delight of knowing that Daniel, his most consistent and persistent enemy over all these years, was also dead.

Jordan didn’t kill wantonly, and when he did, he rarely targeted officers of the law. No, there was little point. Usually
it was easier to pay them to keep them off his back – although in Daniel’s case that hadn’t worked. For some reason, he’d
always been determined to get something on Jordan. He had known of Jordan’s little plans and games almost as soon as Jordan
thought of them, and soon, Jordan was convinced, the bastard would have caught up with him. Having him out of the way meant
that Jordan had a clear run at things now.

He heard a door-latch, and recognized his daughter Jane’s tread. Now this was what life was truly about. His little girl was
his pride and his delight. It was entirely to his wife’s credit that she had helped create this child of Jordan’s seed. ‘I’m
in here, sweeting!’

There was a slow, thoughtful tread in the passage, and then his little girl stood surveying him in the doorway.

It was something he never understood about women. Men and boys would look at him and see a threat, a physical danger, a man
who would hurt them with as much ease as he might crush a fly; women and girls tended to look at him as though he was a large,
ungainly bear, with few sensible ideas in his head,
but somehow comforting for all that. And in his daughter’s face there was often an expression of calm exasperation, as though
she could scarcely understand how someone so ridiculous and clumsy could have sired her.

‘Father, where have you been?’ she demanded with all the seriousness of her six years.

‘I have to earn a living, little heart,’ he said. ‘You know I have to go out on business.’

‘Do you want to know what I’ve been doing?’ she asked, and began to talk of the games she had been playing with her nurse.