The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (30 page)

He chuckled to think of the things that he and Jordan had got up to, and then, as the noises faded, he stopped. His humour
left him as he heard the soft tapping on the door. Only two people knew of that door.

In fear, he stood stock still for a moment, convinced that Jordan would come straight in, and then he realized that he must
have locked the door after Mazeline when she had entered. Quickly, he ran to the sideboard, and pulled it from the wall. Pushing
with all his strength, he rammed it against the door and jammed it.

‘Wha … Reg, what are you doing?’ Mazeline asked as she slowly woke up.

There was an appalling crash on the door, then another, and the timbers moved. Reg instinctively knew that Jordan had taken
a bench from the garden and was using it as a ram to break down the door. Mazeline slowly crept from the bed and went to his
side. Silently, Reg took Mazeline’s hand and pulled her to him. Naked, both of them stood and stared at the door as it moved
and bounced to the rhythm of Jordan’s rage.

He hurled the bench at the door, his impotence firing his rage and pushing him almost beyond coherent thought. Yet he must
think …
think
!

His bitch of a wife was betraying him. He should have realized the whore would do that as soon as his back was turned, but
with Reg? Reg, his oldest comrade, the man who had been with him since the beginning, who had only recently killed his own
worst enemy; to learn that he was the traitor to whom his wife had run was appalling.

How could they do this to him? He had done nothing to deserve their treachery, nothing to merit this sort of treatment. They
were faithless, dishonest bastards, and deserved to die. They should die. They
would
die, just as soon as he could return.

He could hear more voices, and this time he knew he must escape. Somehow he must get out of the city, out into the countryside
where he’d be safer. There was only one way he could go.

With his hand to his belly, he went to the garden’s gate again, listened, and then slipped out, making his way southwards,
to the Southern Gate and the brothel.

Sir Peregrine stood staring a long while as Juliana grew paler, her features twisted in anguish. ‘Has someone gone for the
damned leech?’ he called brokenly.

‘Aye, and the priest. They’ll be here before long,’ Gwen murmured. ‘Be calm.’

He could feel the sobs welling in his breast. There was nothing he could do. He was impotent in the face of the woman’s grief
and pain. ‘Juliana …’

‘Coroner, don’t grieve for me. I will be with my husband
soon,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘But I pray you, look after my children. I beg you, don’t leave them unprotected. Please,
I pray …’

Even at this time, the hour of her death, she thought of others. Sir Peregrine, who had never known the pleasure of fatherhood,
bent his head and closed his eyes to stem the flood. ‘I will. They will have me as their father.’

‘Pray for me, Coroner.’

Her soft voice was like the wind soughing through distant trees. Her eyes were gradually losing their intensity. An unfocused
glaze was appearing in them as Gwen mopped her brow. Cecily was weeping uncontrollably on Juliana’s shoulder still, while
her brother snivelled with confusion. He had no understanding that this heralded his utter bereavement, but he could appreciate
the despair in the room.

When the priest came running in, the balm of holy water and promise of everlasting life in his hands, Sir Peregrine could
stand it no more. He left the room and went out into the road, thinking with a cool, steady clarity: Jordan had wrought this
desolation and Jordan would pay with his life.

Jordan had no friends, but he had several employees, who by their nature were more likely to live outwith the city walls in
the rougher suburbs; people who inhabited the gambling rooms and whorehouses near the quay. He turned and stared along the
road in that direction.

‘There’s only one place he’d go,’ Sir Peregrine murmured to himself. ‘The place where he was king: his gambling and whoring
rooms.’

As he spoke, Ralph appeared, sprinting along the way. ‘Master Coroner – what is happening here?’

‘Jordan le Bolle came here and tried to murder the sergeant’s widow. I think he has succeeded. The priest is with her now.’

Ralph spat into the road. ‘Him! He is the one who killed the whore, too, I think. He owned that brothel.’

Sir Peregrine nodded: Jordan wanted the sergeant removed for coming too close to exposing his activities regarding the cathedral;
he killed the pander and the whore because they were leaving the city; and now he had tried to kill Daniel’s wife too.

Ralph shot a look in the house, then made a decision. ‘Wait here a moment and I can show you.’ He ran inside, unslinging his
pack as he went. It took little time to realize that Juliana’s interests were better served by the ministrations of the priest
than by all his best herbs. He poured more of his precious burned wine, giving some to her and the rest to Agnes and the children,
then stood staring down at Juliana. She had very little time left, he thought, and he felt his heart seem to contract and
move with sympathy at the sight of the lovely woman as her beauty dissolved. And then the sympathy and sadness faded and were
replaced by a cold, determined rage.

He ran out into the road, and found the Coroner standing still, a hand over his eyes. ‘Sir Peregrine, come with me!’

Jordan reached the gate and stood there panting, his back to the wall. There was the loud snoring of a drunk in the gaol beside
the gate itself, and apart from that he was astonished to find that all was quiet. He tilted his head, but there was nothing.
Just perfect, peaceful silence. He smiled to himself and set his shoulders. There was a water trough a short way inside the
gate, and he walked to it and began to rinse his hands of Est’s blood. Much had spread from his own wound over his shirt,
and he thought to himself that he should get a clean one from somewhere. The dangling flaps of linen soaked in his blood
were foul. At least the pain had subsided. It was only a dull throbbing now, and scarcely distracted him.

The gate was closed, but that was normal. He banged on the porter’s door, and waited while there was a shuffling from inside,
and then the glow of a lamp, hastily lit. There was a wheeze, then a demand to know who it was at his door in the middle of
the poxed night, when all decent citizens should be long abed.

‘It’s me, old man. Let me out. I have to see Betsy, and keep quiet about me being here.’

‘Jordan?’ The bolts were shot back and the door opened to display one suspicious eye. It widened as it took in Jordan’s bloodied
clothing. ‘Master, you’re dying!’

‘Don’t be a fool all your life, old man! Do you have spare linen I can take?’ Jordan snapped. He pulled off the tattered remains
of his shirt and studied it dispassionately. It was ruined, and he tore it up into strips. His belly was a mess. He could
see that. In the light, he saw that the blade had jabbed upwards from beside his belly button, a four-inch gash that had miraculously
not penetrated his lungs or touched his heart.

He quickly bound his wound with the strips of linen, and then took the old man’s only spare shirt. It was foul and small,
but it would have to do. It was too cool out in the open for him to do without a shirt of some sort. He only regretted that
he had not grabbed a cotte when he had been at home, but that stupid bitch, the stupid,
treacherous
bitch Mazeline had screamed so loudly and suddenly that he’d had no choice. He’d had to go.

Where was Jane? He couldn’t leave the city without his little sweeting. He must find her too. He turned and almost bolted
back the way he had come, but then he saw the flaring of lights in the road: men with torches. There was a horn-call from
a few short alleys away. His pursuers were all over the
place; he could never reach Jane and bring her back here to safety … he must escape for now, and return later to fetch
her. At the same time he could cut the throat of his wife and that other traitor, Reginald. They’d both pay for their behaviour
tonight.

‘Did you hear about the other whore? A second’s been killed, so they say. Not just Anne now, but another,’ the porter said,
eyeing his wound with a speculative expression as though assessing how long Jordan could live.

‘I heard. I’m off there now to see if I can discover her murderer.’

‘How did you get that?’

‘A footpad just now.’ Jordan laughed. ‘It’s nothing, but he’ll never attack another man!’

‘Good, Master Jordan.’

The wicket gate was opened, and he slipped through and started off towards the brothel. Later he’d get Jane somehow.

The first thing Ralph realized as he reached the South Gate was that he had no sword at his hip.

It was strange, to be sure, that he had set off tonight with the firm intention of saving lives if he could, and yet here
he was equally determined to end one. He was on the trail of a dreadful, notorious felon, and he had no sword or even a simple
dagger with which to catch him. It was quite foolish. If they were to find the man, he could kill them both.

The knight had no such concerns. Sir Peregrine was driven by a chill desire for revenge. He would see Jordan’s death tonight,
as soon as possible. The man was
evil
, as dangerous as a dog with the rage, and he would destroy him in the same way he would slaughter a rabid dog.

In his mind he saw Juliana cuddling her two children, the blood slowly seeping from her wound and pooling on the floor. The
sight was unutterably poignant. At least, thank God, the priest had reached her. ‘
God!
Why take her? Why?’ he burst out desperately.

There was no possibility of her living. Sir Peregrine had seen too many mortal wounds to think that she could survive this.
She would be dead when he returned. Jordan had killed her: that was the thought uppermost in his mind. The vicious,
evil … to kill a perfect woman like Juliana … it made Sir Peregrine feel drained, as though he had lost all his energy.
Helpless, as feeble as an infant. He wanted to rage, to scream at the clouds at the injustice, the unfairness, but all he
could do was sob.

Ralph had been watching him, and now he asked whether Sir Peregrine was feeling up to the chase.

‘I shall kill him,’ Sir Peregrine swore, and with those words he reached up to hammer on the door.

‘Let me. There is a signal.’

Sir Peregrine watched as he tapped three times loudly, then twice more quietly. There was a muttering and complaining from
inside, and then the door was opened a crack.

‘Master Porter?’ Ralph said, speaking quietly. ‘I wish to get to the brothel. Could you open the gate for me?’

‘There’re enough already. It’s late. They probably won’t let you in anyway. Go home to your bed and leave me to go to mine!’
the surly old man grumbled.

Behind him Ralph heard steel ring and then the knight’s sword was thrust past him through the door’s gap.

‘Open now,’ Sir Peregrine rasped unnecessarily. The porter had already fallen back with a cry of shock.

‘What do you want with me?’ the fellow whined when they were in his parlour. He had his hands clasped as though in supplication,
but Sir Peregrine was in no mood to listen and ease his mind.

‘Jordan le Bolle. Has he been here tonight?’

The porter shifted uneasily. ‘Who?’

The sword’s point rose and touched his throat. ‘He has …’ Sir Peregrine coughed to smother the sob that stood poised in
his breast. Angrily he pressed the point forward, forcing the porter back to the wall. ‘He has murdered three at least, and
now a fourth,’ he hissed. ‘If you wish to protect him, say so. He killed Daniel Austyn, and now Daniel’s wife is dying because
of him.’

Ralph could see that this was not a crime that would overly perturb the porter. ‘It was Jordan who cut Anne and made her commit
suicide, and he killed a girl this morning, too,’ he snapped. ‘You remember them? Do you want to protect him now?’

‘It was him did Anne and Mags?’ the porter said, and he paled. Then his expression hardened. ‘That bastard! He said he was
avenging her! He’s gone to the brothel again. You’ll catch him soon enough. He’s not in a hurry. Said a footpad had caught
him, gave him a big wound in his belly.’

Without waiting to hear more, the two men ran through the wicket as he opened it.

Above them the stars were bright spots in the deep purple sky. A pair of silken clouds floated past slowly, and in the pale
light all appeared silver and shining, as though the soil itself was made of steel. Puddles glimmered like pools of quicksilver,
but Ralph paid them no attention. He hurried on, ignoring the pain that started in his belly and grew to a stitch in his side.
All he knew was that Jordan was trying to return to the brothel where he had already killed.

The building rose up before them in the gloom, and Ralph had to slow to catch his breath. There was no sign of their quarry,
and he peered about him with a sudden alarm. It was so quiet and peaceful, it was hard to believe that anyone could be here,
and yet Jordan was, somewhere.

Sir Peregrine was gripped by the same conviction. The man was somewhere nearby, and they both needed to tread carefully. He
had shown himself a capable, astute fighter, more than competent at killing even a strong, powerful fellow like Daniel. They
had to be cautious.

And then Ralph heard the scream, and it felt like a bolt lancing through his head.

‘Betsy!’

Baldwin and Simon hammered on the door and roared to Reginald to open it. There was no response for some while, and then it
burst open. Reginald was in the doorway, pale, shaking with the reaction. ‘Thank God! Thank God!’

‘Where is he?’ Simon demanded.

‘He came here, and tried to break in – but he left a few minutes ago, I think. There’s been no sign of him. He was bashing
at the door to knock it down,’ Reg explained as he led the way through the house. He took them to the rear chamber, and pointed
at the secret door. It still had the cupboard pushed in front of it. ‘I put that there to stop him getting in.’

‘Mistress,’ Baldwin said. ‘It seems you are everywhere; whenever I arrive, you are there already today!’

Simon hadn’t noticed her sitting on a stool by the door wrapped in a blanket. She lifted her chin, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘My
husband didn’t get in. He tried, but we didn’t let him.’

‘He would take adultery seriously, I suppose,’ Baldwin agreed with a cynicism that surprised Simon. ‘Where would he go?’

‘His options are few,’ Reg said, watching as the men pulled the cupboard aside and peered into the yard. ‘He can’t go home,
and he isn’t here, so I suppose all he could do would be to go to the brothel or find a boat to escape.’

There was a large bench lying on the ground, its surface covered in bloody hand prints. Simon saw that there were corresponding
dents on the door itself, which showed that the bench had been used as a battering ram. ‘Jordan tried to break in and gave
up.’

‘There were men outside. I think he grew nervous that he’d be caught,’ Mazeline said.

‘Why did he try to break in so forcefully? Did he know you were here?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I don’t know, nor do I care. I hate him! He’s a murderer and loathsome! I only hope you catch him and kill him soon!’

‘Which we shall,’ Baldwin said. ‘Simon, he’s not here. He can’t get to the brothel at night with the gate shut, so …’

Reg gaped unhappily. ‘You can’t just leave us! What if he comes back here?’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘What if he does?’

‘He’s a murderer, man! I’ve seen him …’

‘What?’ Baldwin snapped. ‘Speak, or we’ll leave you here alone.’

‘I saw him murder Mick, one of his panders. He scarred Anne, too. I saw him do both. And others.’

‘You could have told us this before,’ Simon said.

‘He would have killed us too,’ Mazeline said. ‘What, would you believe Reg’s word against those of others? Jordan has many
men who will speak for him when he pays them enough!’

‘What else?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

Reg hung his head miserably. He was rent in two: a part of him wanted to confess to all he knew of Jordan, but another part
was reluctant – Jordan’s vengeance would be dreadful if he found a means to exact it.

Baldwin set his jaw. ‘He’s killed again tonight. You know that? He’s murdered Estmund Webber, and mortally wounded Juliana,
Daniel’s widow. How many more must die for your weakness?’

It was enough. Reg told himself that Jordan must be hanged if he was guilty of so many more crimes. ‘I’ll tell all! He told
me to kill Daniel, offered me money to do it …’

‘Did you?’

‘No! I can’t murder in cold blood. I was there that night, trying to steel myself, but while I waited outside, Est pelted
out and nearly knocked me down. It petrified me, and I had to return home. I was terrified that Jordan would hurt me for being
so weak, but then I heard that Daniel was dead, and then Jordan paid me so I thought I should just keep quiet. But then last
night Jordan told me he wanted the women dead too, and Daniel’s children, and … well, I told him he’d have to do it himself.
I said I wouldn’t hurt women and children. It left him in a dreadful rage. I thought he would kill
me!
’

Baldwin looked at him as a man might view a rat’s corpse. ‘You had best lock your doors after us. I will send men to guard
you later, mistress.’

‘What about me?’ Reg demanded. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds me.’

‘I don’t see that is any concern of mine,’ Baldwin said coldly. ‘You should pray that we find him first.’

‘He’ll be at the brothel, then.’

‘How can he get there?’ Simon scoffed.

‘Knock on the porter’s door, three times hard, twice soft. The porter has been paid for years to let people in or out to visit
the brothel. How else would men get to it, or get home after their visits?’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said. ‘We’ll go and see whether you’re right or not.’

‘What about us?’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘I feel sure that you will be safe enough – if you have told us the truth about where he might have
gone. Perhaps you should pray that you are right.’

Jordan sniffed and sucked his hand where the bitch had bitten
into it. It was the fleshy part of his palm, and there was a ring of tooth-marks in it now. He had to clench it to stop the
stinging.

At the same time his belly was aching more and more with every passing minute. It wasn’t bleeding all over him now, but there
was more pain than simple dull thudding, as there had been. He was beginning to wonder whether the wound was worse than he
had thought.

‘Betsy, get me some ale,’ he said.

The place was quiet now, with just a couple of rooms rattling to the tune of their occupants’ jigs. Mostly the clients were
asleep, drunk and considerably poorer, if Jordan’s men had done their jobs properly. The gambling rooms always made a fortune
for him, and it cost little to replenish the stocks of fighting cocks every evening. There were some farmers near Bishop’s
Clyst who were always training up cocks for the ring.

Jordan sat at the table, still studying his hand. When Betsy put the jug at his side he didn’t look at her. The bitch had
screamed when he pushed the door wide; it had taken a punch with all his body’s weight behind it to silence the stupid strumpet.
She should have known he didn’t want noise at this time of night. What was the matter with the wenches in this place? None
of them seemed to understand anything.

God, but his belly was sore. It felt as though he had inhaled flames when he took a deep breath. Betsy was wandering about
the place with a look of dread on her face. He watched her a moment or two, then snapped, ‘Sit down! In God’s name, I can’t
think with you wandering about like that! Sit down, bitch!’

She did as she was told, her hands in her lap, head hanging.

He would kill her later. It’d be good to remove her. He’d never liked her, she was just a competent whore and mistress of
whores, that was all. But now he was going to have to escape from here with as much money as he could … and what about
Jane? He couldn’t leave her behind, could he? It would be appalling to desert her. She’d be raised by her mother, the traitorous
bitch. Shit, if he’d only thought, he could have fetched Jane first, before coming down here … he would have to do something.
Fetch her here and take her with him when he left in the morning. Had to find a ship, too. There must be one somewhere. Perhaps
he could take one himself, just a small boat, take it down to the coast, and there buy a berth on a ship bound for London
or Bordeaux? If he did, perhaps he shouldn’t kill Betsy yet. She could go with him. Pretend she was his wife, and set up a
new brothel in whatever town he took her to. There must be places all over the King’s lands in France that would want to have
a decent brothel.

But he couldn’t leave Exeter without Jane. Christ alone knew what would happen to her if he left her … he must get a message
to her, have her brought here …

‘I want a boy to go to the city,’ he said.

Juliana could feel the warmth leaving her body. Beside her, gripping her left hand, the priest was mumbling his foreign words,
and her right was held in both of Cecilia’s. Juliana tried to lift her head to kiss her daughter one last time, but the effort
was too great. The muscles of her throat wouldn’t obey her commands any more. As her vision clouded, she closed her eyes to
blink away the tears, but it helped only a little, and she felt herself start to shake all over, her feet trembling, her teeth
rattling.

Agnes bent and kissed her on the mouth. ‘My sister, I am so sorry. It’s all my fault!’

She could feel the drops falling on her cheeks, but Juliana only noted them with mild interest. She wanted to tell Agnes that
she loved her, that she always had loved her, that she should find a decent man, a fellow like the Coroner, and that
she didn’t blame her for seeking a little joy and happiness in her life. How could she, when she had been blessed with a wonderful
husband and her precious children?

She adored her children. The only sadness was having to leave them.

With the very last ounce of energy in her body, she clenched her hand and squeezed Cecily, whispering, ‘I … love …
both …’

And then she gasped and felt an odd sinking sensation, as though her body was falling through the floor and into a deep darkness.

Ralph and Sir Peregrine stood and stared at the door.

‘With just your sword, I would be unhappy to attempt to launch an attack on the place,’ Ralph said.

‘With just you behind me, so would I,’ the Coroner grunted. He was chewing at his inner cheeks, his hand clenching and twisting
at the hilt of his sword. ‘There could be any number of men in there.’