The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (4 page)

Sir Peregrine was not a natural regicide, but he would have been delighted to see this appalling king removed and destroyed.
King Edward had proved himself to be incapable of ruling the kingdom. He chose to take his own advisers and stole lands, treasure,
and even lives to enrich those he most loved: the Despensers. Their rapacity had led to the destruction of many, and it was
in order to fight against these men that Sir Peregrine had counselled his lord to prepare for war. At the time, he had been
certain that the Lords Marcher must win their battle against the King. As soon as they gave the word, men would flock to their
side, Sir Peregrine thought.

But it had not happened. To his private astonishment, he had discovered that the Lords Marcher were not in fact prepared to
raise their banners against King Edward. None could deny that he was their lawfully anointed king, and so they surrendered
rather than take the field against him. Only Earl Thomas of Lancaster, the King’s own cousin, would fight, and he only because
the King hurried to attack him. At Boroughbridge Thomas’s host was destroyed … and then the persecution began.

Sir Peregrine had reached the cathedral, and now he gazed about him before entering. This would, one day, be the most magnificent
tribute to God. The two towers of St Paul and St John, with their squat spires thrusting upwards amidst the chaos of the building
works, stood out as isolated beacons of
sanity. Apart from them, it was a mess of builders, plasterers, carpenters and masons, all hacking and chiselling together
in a cacophony of appalling proportions.

For his part, Sir Peregrine would take the word of the Dean and chapter that this would one day be a magnificent edifice,
honouring God and His works; the best efforts of man would have gone into it in praise of Him. It would soar mysteriously
over the heads of all the congregation, a fabulous, unbelievable construction that could only stand, so it would appear, by
God’s grace. All would gaze down the length of the vast nave and marvel.

But at present it was nothing more than a building site, and Sir Peregrine could only cast about him with distaste at the
sights and sounds of masons, smiths and carpenters as he made his way inside.

Even with the old walls still standing, it was long and broad enough to make a man wonder how the ceiling could be supported.
Massive columns of stone rose up into the gloomy shadows high overhead. The ceiling was arched between them which, so Sir
Peregrine had once heard, was the cause of its stability, but he made no claim to understanding such matters. As far as he
was concerned, it was a matter of common knowledge that God existed, and in the same way he knew that ceilings were supposed
to remain suspended without collapsing on the congregation below. Fortunately, such disasters were quite rare, although Sir
Peregrine had heard that Ely’s cathedral tower had recently fallen. An appalling thought, he considered, glancing up into
the darkness overhead.

Censers swung, filling the place with their incense, and the light was filtered by their smoke, while the bells calling the
faithful to their prayers could be heard tolling mournfully outside, and Sir Peregrine bowed his head as the familiar sights
and sounds took him back to that time only a few years before when he had been so happy. Keeper of his lord’s most important
castle, a bannaret with the military skill and knowledge to lead his own men into battle, and at last content in the love
of a woman who adored him. A poor woman, perhaps, whom he could not marry, but still a good woman who wanted to have his children.

And it had been the child that killed her, he reminded himself as the grief swelled in his breast, threatening to burst his
lonely heart. His child had killed her during that difficult birth, and died in the process.

‘Who is he?’ Agnes asked quietly.

It was normal, of course, for people to be segregated by their sex as they entered the church; women to one side, men to the
other. That way there was less chance of members of the congregation being ‘distracted’.

Juliana gave her sister a sharp look. There was no point in separating people in this way if her sister would insist on peering
round all the time to see who was there and who wasn’t. It was one aspect of her sister’s nature that never ceased to astonish
her, this inquisitiveness. When there was someone new in the city, she must try to learn as much as she could. Especially
when it was a man. With a sigh, Juliana told herself she should be more patient.

‘I suppose you want to know whether he is married or not?’ she whispered in return.

‘It’s not that. I just wondered where he comes from. I’ve not seen him in here before,’ Agnes said, ignoring the reproof in
her sister’s voice.

‘I dare say he is some wandering knight travelling past our city and you won’t see him again,’ Juliana said dismissively.

‘Perhaps so. Yet look at his behaviour! Is he really weeping?’

‘I neither know nor care, sister. Please concentrate.’

‘I shall … but I should like to know who he is.’

‘We can ask later,’ Juliana said. ‘I will ask my husband if you wish.’

She saw Agnes incline her head a little, and turned back to face the altar with a little sigh of annoyance. It was typical
of her older sister that she should be so fascinated by a mere stranger. There was probably nothing of interest about him.
Juliana glanced towards him and saw a man of some authority, but bent in silent prayer. He scarcely looked prepossessing enough
to attract her sister.

That was unfair, of course. No man looked at his best when riven with grief, and this stranger knight appeared to be consumed
with sadness, from the way he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, keeping his head down and his eyes closed. Perhaps Agnes
had developed a maternal instinct at last, and would like to have taken him and cuddled him to ease his sorrow? The thought
that Agnes could be so empathetic made her smile. Agnes was the least thoughtful or considerate woman Juliana had ever known.

Poor Agnes. Juliana stole a look at her, considering her features. In profile, they had grown more sharp and intolerant, much
as many an older maid’s would. She had not been fortunate, of course. It was sad to have to say so, but the last years had
not been kind to her, whereas of course Juliana herself had been enormously lucky. After all, she had a man who doted upon
her. Where Agnes was lonely and dependent on others wealthier than herself, Juliana had money and security. And love, of course.

When the service was concluded, she walked outside with her sister, and she was surprised to see that the stranger was
talking to the receiver, the most important man in the city’s hierarchy. Perhaps he was worth getting to know after all, she
thought. And then she noticed the depth of his green eyes and found herself modifying her initial view.

Yes – she could understand Agnes’s interest. Handsome and powerful, this man could make her sister a good match. Juliana would
speak to her husband at the first opportunity, and learn who he might be.

Exeter, November 1323

Blithely unaware of the impact of his presence on Agnes, Sir Peregrine was soon conversant with the new responsibilities he
had taken on – or, as he put it, which he must endure. It was an advantage to have the advice of the Keeper of the King’s
Peace, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, who was in the city recuperating after being struck in the chest by a bolt.

Sir Baldwin was already greatly recovered, and when the weather was clement could often be found outside the inn where he
was staying, his wife ministering to his needs. Always at his side was his servant Edgar, closely observing all those who
approached his master. Edgar took his duties seriously, and his key role here was the guardian and protector of Sir Baldwin.

It was on the vigil of St Martin’s Day that Sir Peregrine would later feel that the case started. Although it had no resonance
of especial significance for him when he first approached Sir Baldwin, in due course he would come to realize that this was
the day on which God decided to play His cruellest trick on him. At the time, however, he had no inkling of the fate God held
in store for him.

The convalescent knight was sitting on a bench indoors
while his physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, studied his urine in a tall glass flask, holding it up in the sunlight shafting
through a high window. ‘I don’t want my patient upset or excited today,’ Ralph said, sucking his teeth as he sniffed the urine
thoughtfully. ‘The stars aren’t good for that. Not this week.’

Sir Peregrine had a healthy respect for battle-trained surgeons, because he had seen their skills demonstrated on the field
of war, but for others, such as this piss-tinkering prick, he had none. He ignored the man. ‘Godspeed, Sir Baldwin. My Lady
Jeanne, my sincerest compliments. You grow ever more beautiful!’

Sir Baldwin’s wife smiled in a rather embarrassed manner at being so praised, but she was also pleased. She knew Sir Peregrine
was not prone to idle flattery.

He could not help but admire her. Lady Jeanne de Furnshill was a tall woman in her early thirties, entirely unspoiled by motherhood.
Sir Peregrine had seen many women lose their attractiveness and charm when they had become mothers, but not Jeanne. She still
had bright blue eyes that brought to mind cornflowers in a meadow on a summer’s day, and red-gold hair that reminded him of
warmth at the fireside. Neither had faded with the years. She was slender, but not weakly; her face was a little too round,
perhaps, her nose maybe a bit short and slightly tip-tilted, and her upper lip was very wide and rather too full, giving her
the appearance of stubbornness. Yet all gathered together, her features made her an intensely beautiful woman, and one of
whom Sir Peregrine would be eternally covetous.

‘When you’ve finished staring at my wife, would you like some wine?’ Sir Baldwin asked sharply.

Sir Peregrine laughed and sat at his side. Sir Baldwin was a tall man, running slightly to a paunch now, especially after
some weeks recuperating, but he was striking in his manner
and his looks. Used to power, he displayed a firmness and confidence in all he did, and his dark brown eyes had an intensity
about them that many found intimidating. His face was framed by the flat, straight, military haircut over his furrowed brow,
and below by the line of hair that clung to the angle of his jaw. Once, when Sir Peregrine had first known him, that hair
had been black, but now it was liberally sprinkled with white, as was the hair on his head. A scar reached from one temple
almost to his jaw, the legacy of a battle of long ago.

Now Sir Peregrine received the full force of those eyes.

‘Have you come to enquire after my health,’ growled Baldwin, ‘or to dally with my wife while I sit here as an invalid?’

‘Neither, friend.’ Sir Peregrine chuckled. He leaned forward as Lady Jeanne poured wine from a heavy jug into a pottery drinking
horn. It was cheap, fashioned in the likeness of a bull’s horn with a man’s face embossed on the front, all glazed green,
and he studied it a moment. ‘No, this is a little business which may be more to your taste than mine.’

‘You are the Coroner,’ Baldwin remarked.

‘This is not a matter of a body … not yet, at least. It is a matter of the King’s Peace. I have been told that there are
some friars causing trouble again.’

Baldwin winced. ‘Rather you than me if it comes to a fight over rights and liberties between a friary and the city. Which
friary is it?’

‘Worse than that.’ Sir Peregrine smiled. ‘It’s a straight fight between the friars and the canons. The friars are preaching
in the streets against the canons. Apparently one of their older confraters is on his deathbed and wants to be buried in the
friary, but the canons are determined to enforce their claim to the funeral.’

Baldwin did not smile. ‘I see.’

It was odd. Sir Peregrine had always respected Sir Baldwin, who was clearly a fighter of prowess and some courage, and yet
Sir Baldwin could not bring himself to like Sir Peregrine. It was all because of his personal loathing for politics, as Sir
Peregrine knew full well.

They had a different view of the world, so he thought. While he sought to improve the lot of the people by his own active
involvement, Sir Baldwin tried to avoid any participation in the disputes and political struggles that so often absorbed the
entire kingdom. In the last few years, since the accession to the throne of the weakly King Edward II, the realm had suffered
from the greed of the King’s friends and advisers, first the grasping Piers Gaveston, and now the still more appalling Despenser
family. The King appeared incapable of reining in their ambition, and it would soon be necessary, Sir Peregrine felt sure,
to remove them by force. That was his firm conviction, and the attitude of rural knights like Sir Baldwin, who wanted to enjoy
their quiet existence without running risks, seemed to him to be both selfish and short-sighted. Avoiding conflict only guaranteed
that the strong would become bolder.

‘Has the Dean raised the matter yet?’ Sir Baldwin asked.

‘No. I have heard all this only from the city. The receiver wants no more disputes. The city can remember too clearly all
the nonsense twenty years ago.’

Jeanne looked interested. ‘What happened then?’

‘I don’t know, nor do I care.’ Baldwin held up a hand. ‘It’s a matter for the Church, not for a king’s officer. If they wish
to bicker amongst themselves, that is for them to decide. I know this: I have no jurisdiction over any of the men involved.’

‘Quite so,’ said Sir Peregrine.

He could have grown angry with this fellow. It was
pathetic. There were many men rather like Baldwin, he supposed, men who were not driven to treat the protection of everyone
in the realm very seriously, but for his part he had seen the dangers. The Despensers had caused too much disturbance and
bloodshed already. They had to be stopped.

Perhaps Sir Baldwin’s attitude was an indication of the lethargy which affected the rest of the country. Or was it something
else?

Out at the southern gate of the city, there were spikes from which hung some blackened, wizened shapes. Not many, but enough.
If a man took a close look at them, he could see the rough, sharp edges of the yellowed bones where they protruded through
the leathery old flesh. That was what had happened to the last of the rebels after the recent civil wars. The King and his
henchmen had captured all those whom the Despensers saw as a threat to their power, and had them slaughtered, from Earl Thomas
of Lancaster down to the lowliest knight, simply because they had dared to stand up and declare that the King must control
his advisers. Many a man might have been scared by the prospect of ending his life in front of a jeering crowd, only to have
his remains dangle from a spike for the populace to contemplate as they went about their daily lives.

Perhaps that was it, Sir Peregrine reflected, gazing at Baldwin again. Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was scared by the possibility
of defeat. He was scared by the prospect of his own death.

In the Black Hog, there was no question of defeat when the friars entered late that same afternoon.

John was the older man, and as he gazed in upon the drinkers he smiled faintly. ‘These are the very fellows, Robert. Do you
listen to me, and I will show you how to work them up to such
a fair froth of emotion they do not even notice giving me their money!’

He strolled among the men drinking there, his bowl held unostentatiously in his hand, as though it was of no great significance.
It was there so that folks could put money in it if they so wished, but he was not here to make demands – not yet. He would
seek his payment later, when they had all heard his talk.

‘Friends! Friends one and all!’ he cried as he reached the middle of the chamber. This being a small tavern, there was little
enough space, and Robert could see that already he had managed to take a firm grip on their attention. He stood with a hand
raised as though in declamation, his eyes covering the whole room, a sad smile on his narrow face, which wore an expression
of mingled acceptance and affection. ‘Friends, do you know me? I am a shod friar, an ordinary man, much like you. Except I
have taken vows, extraordinary vows. You know why? Because I was once like you. Yes? I grew up in a city much like this one,
with the same people in charge, the same fellows who – ah – weren’t! I was apprenticed to a cutler. Can’t you just see me
as a rich cutler?’

There was a low rumble of laughter at that. The scrawny figure looked nothing like a rich burgess, especially when he puffed
out his chest and tried to look solemn.

‘Yes, you can see me as a rich businessman, can’t you? But how much easier life would be if we always got what we wanted.
Haven’t you thought that? Instead, there I was at mass one morning, listening to the priest up there in front, mumbling away,
and it suddenly struck me, “This man hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s saying!” Haven’t you thought that sometimes? Yes!
A parish priest will do the best he can, but really he’s no better than anyone else, is he? And you know as well as I do
that he sometimes doesn’t understand the words he says. Often you reckon you understand them better than he does himself.
Well, I thought that, and I thought, If the old fool’s supposed to be talking to God on my behalf, I think I’d prefer to talk
to Him direct! So I waited and thought, and then went to the friary. And I’m here now, preaching the words of God to those
who’ll listen.’

He spoke for a lot longer in the same vein, and Robert caught a sense of how a preacher could stir men’s blood with a few
words and ideas. That skinny, scruffy friar was reaching through the warm fug of ale, sweat and bad breath to convince them
all that they should start to speak to God again. And if they didn’t want to go to their parish church, he could help them
do it. He was a friar, and friars were allowed to hear a man’s confession, just the same as the parish priest. All they needed
to do was pay a little money to him, put a few coins into his bowl, and he could help them. He was a shod friar, after all,
a man with no worldly wealth. The friars had given away all their property so that they wouldn’t be distracted from their
task of protecting souls.

‘It’s not like we’re canons, friends. We aren’t like those rich men in their great halls, with their nice new church they’re
a-building. No, we’re honest, hardworking men like you. So long as we have enough for a crust of bread … and a sup of
ale, too! That’s enough for honest men, isn’t it? Why should a priest crave more?’

Robert suddenly realized what he was saying: that the canons and vicars in the cathedral were no better than parasites living
off the backs of the local men here.

A voice in the crowd called out, ‘He’s right. The vicar at my church is honest enough, but he’s less sense than my chickens.
He preaches as well as he can, but he’s no good. Not as good as
a friar, anyway. Vicar before him used to ask friars in to preach, but this one doesn’t care for friars. He’d prefer them
to stay away, and he won’t offer them hospitality or food. Why is that?’

‘He is discourteous, friend,’ John said, holding up his hand to silence the rumble that passed about the room, ‘because he
knows well that we would perhaps be more able to sway you than he. I do not say that he has a crime to conceal, but such things
have been known.’

‘What crime?’ was the obvious response to that, and it came from four different voices. There was a cynical lack of trust
in the clergy, who lived so well, who ate so lavishly, who wore the finest clothes … while at least friars tended to live
among the people to whom they preached.

‘There are so many. Stealing money they do not deserve; why, did you know that even now, the canons of the cathedral are concealing
the fact that one of their own vicars has stolen the money from the purse of a guest? A poor traveller whose only crime was
to beg hospitality at the door of the Dean and chapter has had his savings taken.’

‘The culprit will be found and punished.’

‘Found, yes, and punished, true,’ John said, but there was an edge of harshness to his voice, and he nodded sagely as he peered
around at the men grouped about him. ‘Punished to the full extent of the Dean’s rage, I have no doubt.’

There was a sudden thoughtful silence. Men who had been grinning to hear him talk now lowered their gaze. Everyone knew that
the courts were kind to vicars. They had the benefit of clergy, which meant that they couldn’t be subjected to the same punishments
as men who lived in the secular world. There were no whips or brands or hangman’s nooses for the clerics in the cathedral
close.

‘He stole six marks, so I’ve heard,’ John continued, peering at his audience from under beetling brows. ‘That would be death
to any of you here, wouldn’t it? Aye, but this felon, he’s safe. Yes? He has friends in high places, I dare say. Do you know,
the canons have tried violence and had to be chastised before? Last time it was when they attacked my own friary. You know
our little house, the place behind the canons’ great palaces, in the angle of the wall towards the East Gate? The canons came
in with their servants, and ransacked our church, striking down my friends in there, and broke the cross at our altar. And
do you know why?’