The Butchers Funeral: A Medieval Murder (10 page)

'Call who off?  I've got you now, there will be no more chasing.'  Perry had not been happier.

'The ghosts, they keep plaguing me.'

'What?  There are no ghosts, just your guilty conscience.'  Perry felt a shiver pass up his spine at the thought of spirits.  He was not particularly superstitious, but they were in a dark and quiet alley after all.  Butcher also had an air of conviction about him, the kind a recent convert to religion had.

'I keep seeing them.  They're trying to chase me.  Take them away.'

'The only taking, is of you, and you're coming to the gaol with me.'  Perry moved his grip so that he could lead the unsteady criminal to a place where he could await trail, 'Depending how you help me, it'll at best be a pillorying for you.  Of course, don't help me and I'll mention the small matter of failing to respond to a hue and cry and we'll see if we can make things much worse for you.'  Perry, in his moment of triumph was being too heavy handed in his approach.  He was desperate for the breakthrough that would open up the gang and he was not prepared to bide his time.

'No, you can't!'  Butcher shouted as he twisted in Perry's grip, throwing a punch that connected with his target's head.

'Why you...'  Perry did not finish the comment as he tried to hold on to the struggling man who continued to lash out at him.  Within moments Col Butcher broke free and started to run down the alley, although it was more of a skip and a stagger.  Perry took chase.  It was not hard to catch up with the older man, he simply was not in a fit state to run.  Butcher turned around and tried to throw a punch.  So it was going to be a brawl, Perry thought.  His blood was up and while it was easy to dodge the first punch, he did not avoid the second which caught him in the shoulder.  Without thinking, Perry struck back, anger and frustration boiling into a blind rage.  There was no way for the butcher to avoid the punch Perry threw, hitting his temple.  The butcher staggered but turned and began to run off again.  He got a couple of yards before he tripped on something on the alley floor, falling to the ground.

It took a few moments for Perry to push back the rage.  As he ran over, he tried to kick the prostrate butcher, but only struck a glancing blow to his leg.  His strike had been obstructed by some rubble, almost invisible in the dark of the alleyway and probably the cause of the fall.  The miss had been enough to force Perry to pause.  He really wanted to smash the butcher to pieces, crack his ribs with his kicks, crush his skull under his boot.  He had been chasing the bastard for so long he wanted, justice, not revenge for all the missed opportunities, the wasted months and frustrations of the long chase.  At first his breath was ragged with the excitement, but quickly slowed and before he realised it, his hands were shaking. 

'My God', Perry said, 'what have I done'.  He looked at the butcher at his feet, the man was not moving.  Perry crouched down to get a closer look.  In the dark, he could not tell if the butcher was alive or dead.  He should not have been hurt badly by the punches Perry had dealt, but the carniter well knew that head injuries could be deceptive.  He ran his hand over Butcher's face and head in a panic.  He could feel no blood, but he could also feel no breathing, the butcher lay there still as the grave. 

'I've killed him.' Perry fearfully whispered.  Perhaps Butcher had banged his head when he tripped over.  Yes, that was it, he must have bashed his head as he hit the floor.  The clumsy oaf had fallen while running away, that must be it.  Perry had only wanted justice, the kind of justice that would be a public example, the kind of justice where he would clearly be the public hero and Col Butcher the villain.  All could learn from the example that crime was punished.  Perry knew from experience that violence could be a part of his investigations, he had even hoped that it would be and the butcher would be on the receiving end this kind of justice.  At the very least, a good public pillorying would destroy the butcher's reputation.  But this, that was happening now, was not right.  In his righteousness he was already certain that the fatal injury had not been done by himself, but rather by the clumsy fall of an escaping criminal.  He could not interrogate a corpse nor roll up the rest of the criminal gang with the information he had obtained, he could not go after the butcher's business assets, nor could he put a corpse on trial.  Worse still, how would it look when the object of his investigation turned up dead, or worse, if he reported this death himself.  He could end up on trial instead of the butcher.  Trial for murder, there would be no way out of it, no witnesses, an alley, worse still, the butcher's business associates would give false witness to remove the thorn in their side giving salacious false witness of how they had seen Perry mercilessly beat their friend to death.

Perry checked the butcher again.  There was no life that he could detect.  Carefully he started to back away.  He simply could not risk being caught in this situation.  He would have to carefully leave the area and come up with a plausible reason why he had left the tavern.

A short while later, ever so slowly, Col Butcher got to his feet.  His body ached all over, his head pounded, blurring his vision.  The accusing spirits were still there, whispering their accusations, taunting his every thought.  He could not escape, there was no way.  He had to get out of this alley.  He had to get into space, perhaps they would leave him then.  Butcher staggered off in the direction of the city wall.

The boy was hungry, but it was not the hunger that was fuelling his adrenaline.  Barely twelve years old, dressed in rags and barefoot, he may have been named after a saint, but he could not live like one if he wished to survive.  Mark moved quickly through the market, looking for opportunities.  Market days always offered the best opportunities for him to earn his living, a good day could set him up for a week or more.  Lots of the traders hired extra hands for a few hours of lifting, some might even hire him as an extra hawker, calling out their wares.  Then there was even the clearing up at the end of the day. 

Besides these legitimate ways to earn a crust, there was an even larger number of less wholesome ways to fed and cloth himself on market days.  Begging was not tolerated by most of the market traders, but that did not stop Mark.  He was known to beg from time to time, but it was not what he considered an acceptable way to survive.  What he preferred was to steal.  The market offered such good opportunities for a thief.  He was quick and sly, with a preference for stealing food.  He would target both traders and the people attending the market, whoever, and whatever, he could get.  There were risks, but on the rare occasions Mark was caught, he got away with nothing more severe than a clip around the ear or a boot aimed at his behind.

Mark had been a normal and cheeky boy until his mother had died in childbirth.  The child would have been his first brother.  Mark had been four at the time and only barely remembered his mother.  His father had turned to drink and one night he had not returned home.  Mark's grandparents had tried to look after him for a while, but they had both died a short time after they took him in.  There were others in the community who looked out for him, but no more family.  Those first nights were the worst.  He had stayed in his empty grandparents' home, alone and scared.  Mark had quickly learned through necessity and had spent more than half of his life on his own, looking out for himself, sleeping in run down abandoned buildings, barns, or on the streets when things got bad.  When necessary, he survived on hand-outs from the various parish churches and the generosity of the labourers building the cathedral.  If he had been stronger, he might have been able to labour on the cathedral, but years of malnutrition had left him smaller and weaker than his peers.  Yet he bridled at receiving charity and avoided it whenever possible, but Mark knew that he could always fall back on the hospitality of religious orders when things became desperate. 

The worst times were the winters.  The long, cold nights and the damp, freezing rain had nearly killed him on more than one occasion.  During the previous winter, snow and ice had given him a chill on his chest which he knew he had been lucky to survive.  Something called his Humours, there were four of them, had become so unbalanced that he had expelled large amounts of phlegm.  All he knew was that he was constantly coughing up a vile green mucus that had been laced with blood, his every cough agony.  Mark had been cared for by the monks in the monastery, admitted to the infirmary where they had treated his soul with prayers, scriptures and the readings of their order.  The monks had also tended to his body with herbs, honey and warmth.  The memories were clouded by the delirium he had suffered, yet his abiding memories were of warmth and a stained glass window showing heaven and hell.  As a thief, he knew what his destination would be in the afterlife, and should he live long enough he might enter a monastery to atone for his crimes.  However, the reality of life always got in the way of this idea, besides he was not sure he wanted to give up the excitement of a dangerous life, and the joys of youth, for a boring life of prayer and service.

The market was his true domain.  Mark knew it, he understood it, and he could see opportunities that no-one else could.  The other boys that hung around generally ignored him, he was an outsider to them as they all had homes to return to, yet they also had a degree of respect for his affinity towards the market and would sometimes watch him to see what subtle opportunities they had missed around them.

Among the adults on the market, Greg the baker was a bit of a soft touch.  If Mark visited the baker later in the afternoon, Greg would frequently give him some bread or rolls that had not sold.  Good fresh bread at that, not stale.  Mark could usually make this hand-out last several days, almost always long enough to tide him over until the next market.  Martin sold fish, and again, would often give Mark small quantities of leftovers at the end of the day, usually before they became too unpleasant.  Mark did not really like the fish, but was often so hungry, that he did not care.  The various farmers, and their wives, occasionally gave him unsold vegetables that they did not want to carry back to their farms with them.  Once or twice, he had even been given an egg, a luxury that had started him on a short career based around raiding henhouses across the city.  That path had ended after being attacked by a particularly vicious cockerel who leapt at him, cutting his arms.  Of course not all of the adults on the market were pleasant, notably Col the Butcher.  The butcher never gave hand-outs, although his wife sometimes took pity on Mark and occasionally gave him a lukewarm pie.  Mark therefore was more of a mind to try to steal from the butcher's stall, but after the last time, when he had been caught and given a good beating, he had been avoiding the place.

It was the other shops and market stalls that were of the greatest interest to him.  Places where he could lift something small, or valuable, and then sell it on in one of the taverns.  He did not go for the really risky items like jewellery, but instead focused on combs, clothes pins, buckles and small pieces of fabric.  All these were valuable, but not to such an extent that he would face a determined shopkeeper if caught in the act.  Again, all of these items would have a ready buyer in the tavern.  He also tried to target the regular shopkeepers and stallholders, not the travelling ones or traders who occasionally visited from the countryside.  He knew which of the city folk were successful and could afford his minor pilfering, whereas some of the people in from the countryside were little better off than he.  The other advantage was in knowing how his normal targets reacted and what he could get away with.  There were too many unknowns with strangers.

Currently Mark was staking out some combs.  He was not looking at the most valuable, carved from narwhale tusks, instead he was focused on wooden combs.  They were well made and fine toothed, valuable, but not too precious.  Combs were always in demand as a way to remove lice, some people even used them as accessories to pin up their hair.  Earlier that morning Mark had walked by the stall, placed outside the comb shop, a couple of times.  The shopkeeper had not spotted him and Mark's chosen items were near the edge of the counter.  The boy knew that if he was sly, he would probably get away with the theft and the shopkeeper would not realise that he was missing stock until much later in the day.  However, he might be unlucky and get caught by the shopkeeper.  If that was the case, he would run, making use of the narrow alleys and the bustle of the marketplace itself.  He knew this part of the city really well and was fast enough to escape all of the people likely to pursue him.  Besides, while the combs were worth several pennies each, the shopkeeper would be unlikely to make pursuit himself for fear of leaving his shop unattended.  So all Mark really had to do was clear the area around the shop.  The boy had checked carefully that the shopkeeper was working on his own today, and was reasonably certain that this was the case, so there was less likelihood of any real chase from the shopkeeper.

The shopkeeper was busy with a customer when Mark finally made his approach.  He walked along the side of the market, close by each shop and stall front so that he would blend in with the crowd.  Nerves were not a major problem for the boy as Mark was so used to stealing in this way.  Besides, if he got a bad feeling, or spotted signs that the shopkeeper had noticed him, Mark would continue walking past as if that had been his intention all along.  The shopkeeper would not know any better and Mark would come back later to try again.  The closer he got, the better the opportunity was looking.   The customer was leaning over the counter preventing the shopkeeper from seeing the approaching thief.  Mark seized the opportunity, barely speeding up to close the gap, the timing of the customer was excellent.  Mark's arm gently brushed the counter and only a thief, as skilled as he was, would have seen the comb vanish up his sleeve.    Mark did not even break his step as he carried on walking out of the far side of the market.

When he arrived at a quiet alley, he sat in a doorway to examine his trophy.  The comb was everything he had thought it was.  New, well made and decorated with a simple pattern.  He tried flexing the wooden teeth and they had just the right amount of give, good quality wood.  He knew he would get a good price in the tavern later, possibly enough to live off for the rest of the week.  Mark was aware that he had to be careful stealing these more valuable items, even if it was not the best item on the stall.  If he took too many, too often, the shopkeepers would become move vigilant.  However, Mark knew he could probably get away with another theft today, as long as it was from a different stall.  He felt confident in both his skills and luck.  Besides, it was still early and he did not want to waste the rest of the day, not that he really had anything else to do.  He would possibly target something of similar value to the comb, or maybe some food so that he did not have to wait until he had sold his ill-gotten gains later on in the day.

There was such a choice of other things to steal and Mark wandered around for some time taking in the opportunities and considering what would be worth taking.  At one point he spotted an excellent opportunity to take a brooch, but discarded the idea as it would probably be valuable enough for the storekeeper to chase him and raise the hue and cry.  He also ignored several chances to steal different items of food, especially after he ate a roll he had successfully stolen from the baker, not prepared to wait for charity at the end of the day.  Yet, the thief was not happy with any of the recent opportunities that had arisen and was beginning to think that his luck was spent for the day.

As Mark walked past the blacksmith he finally saw an intriguing possibility, one that had not presented itself today, one that rarely presented itself.  A large, and clearly wealthy, man had been careless in the way he had tied his purse to his belt.  Being somewhat fat, due to his great wealth, he had shifted his belt around his middle when rearranging his clothing, leaving the purse hanging behind him.  Mark had occasionally indulged in purse-snatching and pickpocketing during his career.  It was something he tended to avoid as it was generally hard to achieve, but when successful, the victim would not even be aware until long after Mark had exited the area.  The payoff was nearly always good as coin often when further than items which he had to sell on.  The opportunity seemed to good to miss and Mark felt the flush of excitement, confident in his skills and good fortune.  The thief stalked his prey, checking carefully to see if the men had brought some form of bodyguard or other company with him, but he did not want to take too long, should the man be tempted to adjust his clothing again.  It did not take long for Mark to establish that the man was on his own so he drew his small knife, using his long sleeves to conceal it.  He knew he did not have long to make his move as the man could turn around at any point to rearrange his clothing or check on his purse.  The man may even notice the absence of the weight of the purse as it was taken, but even if he did, Mark would be able to escape quickly through the crowd.  He judged the opportunity to be worth the risk.

The man moved into a thicker part of the crowd and Mark closed the small gap between them and grabbed the purse with one hand, quickly severing the leather ties with the knife in his other hand.  He concealed both purse and knife quickly about his person, turning away as he did so.  The thief was pleased to feel that the purse had a fair bit of weight to it, clearly worth stealing.  The purse-snatching had happened so quickly that only someone looking closely would have seen what was going on.  However, as Mark had feared, his victim did feel a sudden lightening of the weight hanging from his belt.

'Hey!'  The large man turned quickly, patting his belt frantically, trying to find his purse, confused that it was not where he had thought it was.

Mark did not wait, and ran off at a sprint.  He would later realise that if he had continued walking innocently by, the outcome would probably have been somewhat different.

Law had been looking for work in the market all day.  He had only been to the market a few times, but knew he could usually get some kind of work, often moving heavy items or helping with the livestock.  Yet today had been quieter than usual with no work available.  He did not even consider that the cause of this had been his late arrival, having overslept after drinking too much the night before with Judd.  Of course, Judd had spent some time reminding him that heavy drinking and work did not go together, but he was not truly convinced that his friend knew what he was talking about.  After several refusals of offers of help, Law had finally given up on trying to find work and decided he would stay with Judd for the rest of the day. 

Judd had annoyingly shaken off any lingering effects of the previous night, waking early and driving some pigs to market from just outside of the city.  During the morning Judd had quickly sold most of the pigs he had brought, some to the butchers, others to families who either did their own butchering, or in the case of the smaller pigs, intended to fatten them up.  Law helped out, knowing that while he would not get a wage, his friend would ensure he had enough to drink tonight as well as enough to eat during the long afternoon.  Besides, it was better than sitting around doing nothing all day or drinking in the tavern on his own.  Since he had moved to the city, Law had not been bored, he had not had the opportunity to sit around doing nothing.  Living in a city, there was always something going on somewhere, something that could entertain him.