The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (16 page)

Baldwin chewed at his lip, but there was little time. ‘Very well, but Edgar, you go with her and protect her. If she is so
much as scratched, I’ll have you whipped!’

Edgar smiled lazily and nodded. In an instant he and Jeanne were forging a way through the people leaving the room. Baldwin
knew his threat was not necessary: Edgar would protect Jeanne with his own life if need be. He had sworn to serve Baldwin
to the death in Acre, where Baldwin had saved his life, and the vow was as relevant to him now as it had been all those years
ago.

‘Right,’ Baldwin said. ‘Take me to the Coroner, but go slowly. I have a healing wound, and would not see it exacerbated by
undue urgency on your part.’

Agnes was impressed by her sister’s performance. Cool, rational and clear, she had the manner of an experienced witness when
asked about the night before. Although she was close to tears
on occasion, her voice remained steady and her demeanour collected.

And yet …

There was one thing about her that was odd. There was a curious quirk in her manner that wasn’t just the misery of bereavement.
Surely it was obvious to all listening to her?

Anyone could see that her behaviour was extraordinary: the way that she didn’t quite break down, her chilly calmness; both
showed that she knew more than she was telling. It was the same when they were children, and their parents had accused Juliana
of a crime she had committed. Then she’d behave the same way, stolidly telling the story she wanted them to hear, perhaps
including some of the truth, but never all, never those parts that would have incriminated her.

Perhaps it took a sister who had grown up with her to spot when she was lying. This mob couldn’t tell. As far as most of them
were concerned, she was a poor widow-woman now, someone to pity. Nobody had guessed at the truth.

And then she realized they had. There were some noises from the back of the room, snorts and hisses which echoed well about
the place. Even the Coroner heard, because Agnes saw how his jaw clenched when there was a fresh outburst, and his eyes went
to the source as though, were he to spot the man or woman responsible, he might have them attached to appear before the magistrates
at the next court.

The sound didn’t disturb Juliana. She stuck to her tale even as the noise rose and swelled, and then, as the bailiff and his
men shoved their way through the crowd, disappeared entirely.

Some people had guessed she was hiding something, and Agnes wondered what it was. Juliana couldn’t be hiding the identity
of the killer, could she? She had loved Daniel. If she was concealing something serious, the shame would be awful.
It would serve as the final rock placed upon the grave of her family. The Jon family, whose name she still bore, had already
suffered enough.

Their fall had been unforeseen. They had collapsed so very suddenly.

When Daniel married Juliana, she and Agnes belonged to one of the leading families in the city. Their father and grandfather
had both been successful merchants, and the family was worth a fortune in treasure. Although the famine affected them, it
was not a disaster yet. But within a year the famine had bitten harder, and they were ruined.

She could not comprehend what had happened. Somehow their money had been frittered away. Small amounts here and there for
the daily running of their household became awesome sums as food grew more expensive. Fodder was all but unobtainable by the
second year, and grain for human consumption was ridiculously expensive. Then the servants began to leave to see whether they
were needed back home, and never returned, either because they died on the journey, or because there were no adults at home
to be helped any more, and the servants had to remain to look after the inevitable orphans. Before the end of 1317, they had
lost all. There was nothing left. And then Father died.

That they were not alone in being close to destitute was no comfort. They had lived in an excellent house in Correstrete which
they had been forced to sell for a ludicrously low sum, and Agnes and her mother went to live with Juliana and Daniel. For
a little while, that was fine, except that once, shortly after her mother died, Agnes had suffered a lapse.

It was after a Christmas feast, the first when food was readily available again, in 1318; when all had consumed rather too
much wine with their food. Juliana had been married over a
year by then, but remained weakly after the lean years before. Declaring herself unwell after eating too much, Juliana had
lurched from the table. Agnes had helped her out of the parlour and up the stairs to the small chamber she called her solar.
To Agnes’s mind it was little more than a servant’s chamber, but no matter. She helped Juliana to the bed and watched her
lie down and close her eyes.

She was setting a bowl by Juliana’s head when she heard the footsteps on the stairs. Soon Daniel appeared in the doorway,
flushed with wine and food, breathing heavily, the laces of his shirt all undone to exhibit the thick, curling mass of dark
hair on his chest. To Agnes, he was perfection.

‘She all right?’ Daniel slurred.

Agnes stood and rubbed her hands slowly down her dress. It was impossible to stop herself. She had to walk to him, put her
hands about his shoulders, and pull gently at his head, until his cool, sweet lips touched hers …

And he snapped his head back and stared at her in befuddled shock. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing,’ she said coldly, all lust dying as she took in his expression. It had lasted but a moment, but she recognized it:
hatred. The loathing of an honourable man for a wanton.

Well, if he’d married her as he’d promised, perhaps poor Daniel would still be alive now.

Jeanne followed Edgar as he pushed the people apart. Like a battering ram, he separated the crowd, leaving a path for her,
and not once did he apologize or beg permission. He had been given an order to protect Jeanne as she sought out and questioned
this woman, and that he would do. There was no need to apologize to churls standing in his way.

There were times when Jeanne regretted his arrogant attitude towards almost the whole of the rest of the world, but then she
was forced to accept that any attempt to change him would probably fail. He was too complete, too entirely constructed as
a devoted servant of her husband’s.

Today there were many complaints about servants who took positions based solely on the cash they were offered. For these avaricious
mercenaries there was only one God, and He was Mammon. Lords living in older halls and castles were forced to buy new properties,
or have ever more elaborate defences constructed, so that, should they be attacked, they could bar the doors against not only
the attackers but also their servants. Gone were the days when a man might depend upon the valour of his guards just because
they had given their word that they would protect him to the death.

But Edgar still believed in the old truth that his vow had
been made before God, and nothing and no one could shake that determination. If his master gave an order, Edgar would carry
it out if it was within his power – and if it was not, he would die in the attempt.

Such bullish tactics would not be likely to persuade a wary peasant woman to trust her, Jeanne considered, as she followed
behind him until she saw her quarry dart into a tavern. She weighed her purse, and then tugged at Edgar’s sleeve. ‘Behind
me, Edgar. I want to speak to her without you holding a knife at her throat.’

For a short while he considered arguing, but he knew his mistress. Standing aside, smiling, he waved her on, but her satisfaction
at his obedience was somewhat dented when she heard him tug his sword a short way from its scabbard to free it.

Jeanne entered the tavern. It was a low-ceilinged chamber with a few crudely built wooden tables and some simple three-legged
stools dotted about the place. Men of all ages stood or sat drinking from old chipped mazers or horns. She recognized many
of them from the Coroner’s inquest.

A hush as she entered made her realize that this was a rough drinking den, and she wondered for an instant whether she had
made a mistake in coming here. She was about to turn round and leave when she saw that the men had stopped watching her, and
were instead staring over her shoulder. There was no need to worry for her safety in here, clearly. Edgar was too plainly
a man-at-arms for anyone to try to best him.

Jeanne could not see the woman; it was only when Edgar touched her shoulder and pointed with his chin to a far corner of the
room that Jeanne spotted her again.

She was older, maybe two or three and forty, and had not enjoyed a life of comfort, from the look of her coarse features
and horny hands. When Jeanne sat opposite her, she studied Jeanne without respect.

‘What do you want?’

‘To buy you some ale,’ Jeanne said, proffering a coin.

‘Why?’

‘I want to know all you can tell me about the lady in the Coroner’s court just now. Why you dislike her, why others feel she
was not truthful in there … anything you can tell me about her.’

On the way to the alleyway with the body, Sir Peregrine told Baldwin about the search for Estmund. ‘No luck at all, so far,’
he concluded glumly. ‘I had hoped to have him by now, some little success for the widow …’

‘I hope he’s not dead too,’ Baldwin said.

‘Why should he be?’

‘He might have seen the real murderer if he was there,’ Baldwin said.

‘Perhaps – or he was himself the murderer.’

Baldwin could see that Sir Peregrine was not going to let him forget his first suspicion about Juliana. His suggestion still
rankled with the bannaret, and Baldwin was relieved when they finally reached the alley. Sir Peregrine lost his cold, distant
manner as they looked over this new corpse.

‘I wondered if you might have known him?’ Sir Peregrine asked as they squatted by the body, swatting at the flies that buzzed
about. ‘You know more people in this city than I do … the bailiff reckoned he was a man called Mick. He could have been
a pander for the stews near the South Gate. What do you think?’

Baldwin was studying the corpse. ‘I don’t know him,’ he said at last, ‘but I can tell you that this was no accident.’

‘Obviously. His throat has been cut from side to side.’

‘And only the one cut, I think. It’s hard to tell with all these maggots, but there is no sign of a second cut on the flesh,
and it looks as though the eggs were laid deep in his neck. No, he had his throat cut very deliberately. The head was almost
severed.’

‘Was he tortured?’

‘You mean his nose and eye? No, I expect that was the work of a rat or something. There are many animals who’d find it difficult
to refuse a free meal like this. Just be glad no hogs or desperate dogs found him first, or it would have been much more difficult
to identify him.’

‘And he was dumped here.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said pensively, staring about him. He studied the old blanket that had covered the body when it was found.
‘He could have died here, but I’d have expected more proof of it if he had … more blood. There’s a lot on this cloth,
but you can see for yourself that there’s not enough to account for all that must have been spilled.’

There was no need to discuss that. Both men had fought in battle. They had seen how much blood a man’s body held, and they
had seen how much would jet when a man was decapitated.

Sir Peregrine grunted his assent. ‘I had an archer beside me once in a mêlée in Wales when a mercenary took his head off with
a knife at full pelt on a charger. His head was off in an instant, and a fountain of blood simply erupted from the stub of
his neck! All of us about him were drenched.’

‘So this man was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here. Either for safekeeping until they could find somewhere else
to throw him, or because they thought that this was as good a place as any.’

‘If it was a footpad, that would make sense,’ Sir Peregrine said.

‘Yes, except I’d have expected a footpad to leave him where he was killed, not to drag him all the way to an alley and cover
his face. That does not seem to be in keeping. And if he was involved in the stews as a pander, fetching clients for the women,
it’s more likely that this was a territorial dispute. Perhaps someone thought that he was growing greedy with another’s territory.
Either because he was encroaching on agreed boundaries, or because he was taking over another man’s wenches … or because
another pander wanted access to this Mick’s women. I’ve known all these cause fights and murder in my time.’

‘Before I forget – the man who found this body was Henry Adyn, the man who was injured by the sergeant many years ago. You
may want to talk to him yourself, but I can say I doubt he could have killed Daniel. His wounds are extensive, and one hand
and arm is more or less useless.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Anyone who wanted to kill Daniel would have to be strong enough to fight and thrust with a blade.’

‘Then Adyn couldn’t have done it,’ Sir Peregrine said with certainty. He glanced back at Mick’s body. ‘At least this one had
no powerful friends. If he had been a priest or a monk, the matter would have grown into a serious problem. Those arses always
demand too much, and would have expected me to drop all other matters until I’d found their man. Well, so far as I am concerned,
the death of even a simple pander merits a search for a killer. The murderer might kill again, and even if he doesn’t, he
deserves death for ending a life and destroying a soul – you can bet your life this poor devil didn’t receive the last rites
before his throat was slit.’

Baldwin looked at him appreciatively. ‘You will investigate this man’s death?’

‘To the utmost of my ability, such as it is,’ Sir Peregrine
confirmed with a look of surprise. ‘What, you thought I’d not bother just because he was a minor felon himself? What do I
care for that? I’ve fought alongside men, like the archer I told you of, who were almost certainly felons and outlaws, but
were brave and loyal in battle. I’d never denigrate the English peasant. He may be foul and filthy, but he has a bold heart.
This man might have redeemed himself. Perhaps he was trying to when he was killed? So whoever did this deserves to suffer.
And if I can, I shall see him do just that.’

Ralph of Malmesbury was tired that evening. He sat back in his favourite chair with a mazer filled to the brim with spicy
red wine warmed by his fire in his best pewter jug, contemplating his position in the world with a feeling of satisfaction.
His wealth was everywhere visible from here: the golden threads in the tapestry on the wall, the cupboard with the three shelves
filled with pewter plates, the large silver salt-cellar shaped like a crouching dog (the gracious gift from Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s
steward some little while ago for relieving the pain of stones in his bladder), the fine carving on his table, the three benches
and the chairs set about the chamber. Yes, he had been successful.

Even the location of his house here in Correstrete was proof of the good fortune which God had lavished on him. It was a fine
building, on a large plot, with a goodly yard at the back which gave a magnificent view of the castle. Life had been good
to him here in Exeter.

It was some years since he had first come to the city, and he was still noted as the most competent physician for miles, a
position which he was determined not to lose.

Other men might come and go, but Ralph knew a good thing when he saw one. A bright boy, he’d been determined
from an early age to work in a well-paid profession. There was little point in learning how to do something if that craft
would not pay the bills. Far better that he should enter a trade which would pay him well. He might as well earn as much as
possible so that he could enjoy as easy a life as he could wish. After all, most skills would take much the same time to master
– best to spend the years working on the best-paid one.

He’d learned his trade in Oxford, where the rigorous study had nearly unmanned him. Seven years of astronomy, philosophy and
all the arcane arts of his trade had been bearable only because he knew that this was the essential means of qualifying, and
once he was qualified, the world would be his own. In fact, his education had suffered a little from the very profitability
of his chosen profession: his own master had assumed the job of lecturing at the university, and then taken a post worth twenty
pounds a year with a rich lord in Yorkshire. They’d had to have some lecturers from the faculty of arts step in to fill the
gaps. There weren’t enough qualified teachers.

Some of his friends were lucky, and as soon as they finished their studies they were also snapped up by rich benefactors,
never having to work hard again. They would spend their time in warm rooms with the arcane charts detailing the movements
of the stars, investigating their master’s humours and peering at his urine, never having to worry about money again, living
in comfortable surroundings … for a long time such a life had appealed to Ralph too, and when he failed to find a patron
he was miserable for weeks, wondering what on earth he could do.

It was a friend at the university, a man studying theology, who had suggested that there would be rich pickings for a man
in a smaller city like Exeter. In fact Roger had suggested his own home city, Bristol, explaining that the place was growing
quickly and that a decent man of business would find himself with a good livelihood.

Ralph would probably have enjoyed the life up there, but being a curious man he chose to travel before finding his way to
the city, and ended up in Exeter after nine months of idle wandering about the countryside.

And Exeter suited him. There were few other physicians, and he was soon able to win some good clients on the basis that he
was a newcomer, and therefore novel. When he was able to alleviate Lord Hugh’s steward’s pain for a little while (he died
shortly afterwards) the potential for a good living here became plain to him. There was a good-sized population, plenty of
less than perfectly healthy men and women, and since the end of the famine more people were starting to find their feet financially
again, which meant that they had money to spend on ensuring that their health was as good as it could be.

There were men in his position who were little better than charlatans, but although he had occasionally taken money when he
didn’t deserve it, when he had known that the patient was not truly unwell, or that the medication he provided could give
nothing but a spurious feeling of improvement, he would only do that when he could see that the money wasn’t needed by the
client. He rationalized that he was in more need of it than the client in many cases. Taking cash from rich merchants was
not something that caused him embarrassment, especially since he was often taking from the very rich, which allowed him to
subsidize occasional charitable works for the very poor. The latter was not professional behaviour, because professionals
demanded the money they needed for their work, so it was something for which he could be censured by his professional colleagues,
but he wasn’t ashamed. He made enough money generally.

One group for whom he would willingly work for payment in kind was the sisters in the stews. He wasn’t married, having little
interest in the idea of such an expensive adornment as a wife, but he did have natural lusts like any other man. The women
down there would often need specialized help, and he could accommodate them … in return for the favours of one of the
ladies for a night.

Tonight he was not in the mood, though. He had spent much of the day running about the city trying to find certain roots and
leaves, and just now he was ready for another full mazer of wine and then bed. So when he heard the fist pounding on his door,
he groaned unhappily. ‘Whoever it is, tell them I’ll see them in the morning.’