The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) Read online

  ‘Useless! Someone has levered this away.’

  ‘How could they do that?’ Sir Peregrine demanded. He pushed past Edgar to join Baldwin and studied the flap of wood. ‘But this has not merely been prised away, has it?’

  ‘No. It has been expertly done. One nail at the top is the same length as it was, and hinges the panel. The wood lies flat, and when pushed is held in place by the remaining shorter nails. But a man who knows of it can easily pull it away and slip it up, giving access to the hole once more like this …’ He put his hand on it and rocked it gently, and with a quiet squeak the wood moved to one side, still held by the one nail. ‘Someone knew of this work and levered the wood away, then filed down three of the nails so that they would grip but still be easy to remove. A rather ingenious means of gaining access to the peg’s hole.’

  ‘You seem thoughtful.’

  ‘I am. This work must have taken some time. And it must have been done by a man who had a good knowledge of the way the shutter was patched.’

  ‘Perhaps the pederast arrived here one evening and learned that his access was blocked, and so he performed this work to make it easier to gain entry?’ Sir Peregrine suggested.

  ‘You think he could have taken a lever to this, then filed the nails and hammered the first one back in again without waking the household?’ Baldwin smiled. ‘No, this was planned and executed with skill. And the man must have come here when the house was empty.’

  ‘You mean he heard of a time when all would be out of the house and came here to do this then? It would have been a brave thing to do.’

  ‘Scarcely,’ Baldwin said coolly. He replaced the block of wood on the panels of the shutter and pushed it. The nails soon bit into the shutter and held the block in place, apparently firmly. ‘Yesterday was Monday; the day before was the Sabbath. I fear someone planned to come here and kill him on Sunday. A dreadful crime to contemplate on a holy day.’

  ‘Or any other.’

  ‘True … Daniel mentioned a man who’d caught this nocturnal visitor, did he not? Reginald Gylla, wasn’t it?’

  He strode round the house with his head lowered in thought. At the front door, he stopped and called to Daniel’s maidservant. ‘Yesterday your master spoke of a man – Reginald Gylla? Do you know where he lives?’

  The woman nodded and gave directions to a house up near the Priory of St Nicholas.

  ‘Good. And now we should enjoy some refreshment – is there a tavern nearby?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Left up the street.’

  ‘And who would know most of this stranger who enters houses at night?’ Baldwin pressed her. ‘Estmund Webber.’

  She blanched and looked about her. Then, ‘Ask old Saul at the tavern. He’ll be there at this time of day, and he can tell you all you need to know. You ask him.’

  He should have realized the depth of the mire into which Jordan would drag him, but Reginald was too content to be able to sleep with a roof over his head, to feel his belly filled once more, and to know that he didn’t have to worry about starving again, not for a while.

  On his way to the market for a treat for his wife, he recalled those days.

  They had changed direction soon after the sale of the pardoners’ goods, and almost immediately Jordan started looking for a place to rent. Soon he was the proud master of a small brothel, and that one grew into a trio, one in Exeter near the East Gate, one just outside the walls at the South Gate, in case the city grew more censorious about such activities, and a third in Topsham, to catch all the sailors. Reg hadn’t wanted any part of the businesses, but Jordan wanted a friend, a man he could trust, to help him. Reg had little choice unless he wanted to upset Jordan, and no man with sense would want to upset Jordan. So no, he had remained quiet, and helped. He had invested in the venture, and when the profits began to flow, he had taken that money and used it to buy small loads on a ship that traded between Bordeaux and Dartmouth. Soon he was building a profitable business.

  Jordan had more ideas. As the whores began to bring in more money, he started to look for new schemes to increase his wealth. He scorned legitimate business, because the profits were lower and the risks higher, so he said. The only risk in prostitution was that another man might persuade one of his women to leave him for another pander, but if that was the case, Jordan would threaten the man and scare him off. If he couldn’t, he’d destroy the fellow. And often the woman too. He had no time for women who were disloyal to him. Or men.

  The memory of the night before Daniel had attacked poor old Ham came back to Reg and he felt sickened once more.

  Once Mick had been a man whom Jordan had trusted. It was that which had made Jordan’s rage so extreme, probably. He lost all his inhibitions when he was confronted with betrayal, and would seek to destroy any man who stood in his path. That, for the man who was betraying him by taking his wife for a tumble, was a source of terror. If Jordan ever came to hear of Reg’s infidelity – and Mazeline’s, of course – he would tear them limb from limb in his blind fury. There would be no holding him back.

  ‘Hello, Reg.’

  The sound of Jordan’s voice made Reg’s heart leap so violently, he felt sure it must burst from his body. ‘Sweet Mother of God …’

  ‘Friend, I can only say thank you, but if there is ever a favour you need from me – well, let me know,’ Jordan said. ‘And for now, here’s a token.’

  He thrust a purse into Reg’s shaking hands, and then strode away in a hurry. Reg gripped the bag, staring dumbfounded, and only when Jordan had disappeared from view in the crowds did he untie the thongs at the neck and stare in at the coins that shifted and moved with a merry tinkling ring as his entire body shook with reaction.

  The tavern at the end of Daniel’s alley was called the Black Hog, and Sir Peregrine hesitated at the door.

  ‘You really wish to enter here?’

  ‘Sir Peregrine, believe me, you will go into worse places than this as Coroner,’ Baldwin chuckled, and ducked under the lintel. To see bold, political Sir Peregrine so anxious made him want to laugh.

  It was not so bad as some of the rougher alehouses at the north-western corner of the city. Until recently the Franciscans had lived there in their little convent, but the insanitary conditions were not conducive to prayer, and when several friars had died they petitioned to acquire another block of land. Now, although their church remained, the only other recognizable feature from the convent days was the huge open midden that flooded the roadway in front of the church. Baldwin knew several of the alehouses along that way, because they were particularly useful when he was seeking a man who was inured to a life of felony.

  Now, however, he was looking for a man who would appear more respectable, if the maid’s whispered description was anything to go by. Soon Baldwin spotted him: a burly figure sitting at a table with a large pot before him and the contented expression of a man who was already much of the way down his first quart of the day.

  ‘Master Saul?’

  ‘Aye? Oh. Keeper.’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘Seen you about the place, Sir Knight. Who doesn’t recognize you? What do you want from me? My pigs are—’

  ‘This is nothing to do with your pigs, master. A man was murdered last night and we are attempting to learn why.’

  Saul glanced from one to the other. ‘So you’re looking into Daniel’s murder?’

  Sir Peregrine peered at him closely. ‘You know of this?’

  ‘We don’t have that many murders of sergeants even in this street, sir,’ Saul said simply. ‘People have been gossiping about his murder all morning.’

  ‘And who do the people blame?’

  ‘There are many who had reason to want to see him suffer. Daniel was a dedicated sergeant.’

  ‘Do you obey the law?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘For my part, yes. Not everyone did, though.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Henry Adyn, for examp
le. He was dreadfully wounded by the sergeant. Daniel hit him with a pickaxe and took away half his chest. He’s still half crippled. Works as a carter.’

  ‘Where is he to be found?’

  ‘Usually in here, but today he’s not around. I think he has a place down just off Pruste Street.’

  ‘In the meantime, have you heard of a man who enters bedrooms and studies the children in their sleep?’

  Saul let out a guffaw and slapped his thigh. ‘Who hasn’t? Everyone knows about Est, poor soul.’

  ‘Est again?’ Sir Peregrine asked, drawing up a stool and sitting opposite him. ‘He’s the man we need to know about. Tell me: who is this Est?’

  John took Robert with him when he went to visit the cathedral close. At the Ercenesk Gate they strode past the grinning gatekeeper with their heads held low in humility, ignoring the sniggers and ribald comments of the porter and a couple of lay servants. Instead, fingering their crosses, John and Robert made their way down the track worn in the grass that led over the cemetery towards the great west door of the cathedral.

  The sun was shining again now after a short period of gloominess when clouds had blanketed the sun and blocked its gracious warmth, and John had felt the desolation of loss at that time.

  There were some in his position, he knew, who were happy to take the wealth of men and think nothing more of the poor dead soul, but he was not one of those. He enjoyed his task, knew he was good at it, and tried on all occasions after a success to compose himself and remember that he had a duty to exhibit meekness and humility. Still, sometimes delight would overwhelm him and he would think of punching the air for simple excitement of a job well done. By taking the money he was helping his Order, and saving a soul.

  That canon was strange. There was something about his appearance, as though he knew he should be safe, but somehow doubted it. Guibert should have let John stand against him. There were enough men there to prevent the theft of Sir William’s body. In God’s name, the man’s own wishes were being ignored! It was scandalous!

  The money would serve to feed the brethren, keep the chapel filled with candles, and help finance the alms which the friars sought to give to the needy. It was not for personal use, of course. None of them had need of money, because no Dominican held property. They had given up all their possessions so that they might concentrate on their responsibilities. They had the duty to preach and save souls. They weren’t like those leeches the pardoners, who were little better than official thieves who took money in return for pieces of paper that promised spurious security. Like most friars, John had no sympathy with secular fund-raisers of that sort. They spent their time wandering the country, fooling the gullible into giving them their wealth, when all people needed to do was speak to a friar, a man learned in helping the flock. He could listen to their confessions and grant absolution, and that without huge expense. Most people would prefer that, surely, to having to go to an illiterate fool of a parson, who might listen to certain sins with an ear more attuned to his own sexual gratification than to the effect they might be having upon the poor offender.

  That was the trouble so often. People would enter the priesthood when they had no vocation. There were so many men in the Church now, and a large number were not there because they wanted to help the poor and needy, but because they were younger sons who had no inheritance, or because they were sick in spirit and sought an easy life in the Church. There were also the corrupt, who saw entry into the Church as a means of inveigling their way into the skirts of the female members of the parish.

  And there was more … worse!

  ‘Look at this place, Robert! Filled with gluttony and greed. The house of God sits amidst this wealth like a solitary beacon, while about her are all these places dedicated to Mammon and self-gratification.’

  ‘I don’t under—’

  ‘This place,’ he said, standing still and waving a hand. ‘Here on our left are the great houses of the canons, each of them big enough for several families, all needing magnificent incomes to pay for them, but here they house only the canon and a few servants. Over there is the great house built for the choristers, and beyond it the deanery. All these buildings, all these servants, and yet we know that all a man needs is his bowl and a space to pray. There’s no necessity for these enormous estates and such stolen wealth. The Church is a wonderful institution, but how much more marvellous would she be if she were here in the open for all to share? The Dean and chapter should tear down these houses, remove these proofs of their greed and worldliness; they should give up their incomes for alms to support the poor, and leave this place to go and preach to those who need to hear the Word of God! Instead they rob us!’

  He fell quiet again as he caught sight of Peter de la Fosse, the canon who had stolen Sir William’s body. The canon appeared braver now, but there was still something about him, some nervousness that sat oddly with his elevated position. As soon as he caught sight of John and Robert, he looked away as though pretending he hadn’t seen them, but then John saw him casting little glances their way. Probably just guilt, he decided.

  At his side, Robert looked about him. John’s fervour was known within the friary, and Robert had honoured him for his godliness many times in the past, but today he was unsure of his companion’s meaning.

  Where John saw greed and personal aggrandizement, Robert saw a mess. Before he had joined the Order, he had grown up the son of a rich knight, and been used to the trappings of wealth. To him, wealth meant hunting, resting and playing, with women who could sing and cheer a lonely soul. Here there was none of that. It was all work.

  A thick, foul smoke rose from one area near the church’s walls, and stone chips crunched underfoot. The canons’ houses were magnificent, but the canons themselves walked about in austere black, several of them keeping an eye on the building works, while clerks moved among the workers ensuring that they did not slacken. Horses and donkeys wandered in their midst, seeking any forage they might, while the soil from a newly dug grave was being carefully sifted by the fossor, who sought to retrieve all the bones for reinterment in the Chapel of Bones out in front of the west door. It was no paradise, Robert thought, but he let no sign of his own impression fix itself upon his face. Better to humour old John. There was much for Robert to learn from him, after all.

  ‘And after the Bishop,’ John growled, ‘the most rapacious of the canons is the evil man who is behind this attack on our privileges. The Dean,’ he spat contemptuously. ‘A man so covetous he would steal a corpse from our chapel for his personal benefit!’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘What is it now, husband?’

  Reginald grunted to himself. ‘Sabina, my dearest, please. For today, don’t you think that—’

  ‘You sit there staring into the distance as though you were sitting at table alone! Is there nothing to tell me about your day? Perhaps you think that a foolish cow like me has no interest in your business?’

  ‘I always admired your intelligence, you know that.’

  ‘You admired my father’s money more! And now … you can’t even admire me in bed, can you?’

  He turned away and stared down at his trencher. She was right, of course. And she knew very well why it was. She had never caught him with another woman, but God’s blood, what was he supposed to do? When they married, he had been devoted to her. All right, so he didn’t necessarily love her, but he respected her and had a lot of time for her intelligence, and that meant more, generally, than mere love. Love was an emotion that could come and go, but a couple who liked each other would remain moderately happy for life.

  That was the problem, though. He … he esteemed her. And when they had married, she had been besotted with him. That was no basis for a marriage – or so he felt now. At the time he’d thought differently, of course, and all his friends said the same, that it was the best thing in the world for a man to marry a woman who wanted him above all else, because then he could guarantee he’d get his way in everything. Wha
t a load of bull’s turds! The fact was, she soon saw through his protestations of adoration. Of course she did. She knew what real love was, and expected to see the same shining adulation reflected in his eyes that she felt in her own.

  Christ’s pain, but he wished he’d realized sooner. The first few months of marriage were fine, but after that he had to hide his true feelings for her, growing sadder and sadder with the passing years, for ever bound to a woman he admired, but didn’t love.

  Now, since she had realized he didn’t love her, her passion for him had turned from worship to loathing. The only good thing in his life was his son, Michael, the lad whom they had conceived in that first flush of desire after their wedding. Their boy, his boy – and now his betrayer. He had told his mother when he heard Reg with his woman. Sabina had been away at the time, and Reg had thought that his own bedroom would be safer than anywhere else for his late-night assignation. But Sabina had heard something from Michael. He must have heard Reg with Mazeline last time she was here – perhaps when the alarm was raised? – and asked his mother who was there. The fool! Now her shrewish, jealous and unforgiving nature had been exposed. She had lost any remaining love for him, and as a result her only delight was his pain and misery.

  At the same time Jordan had been seeking his pleasures wherever he might. He’d always enjoyed dipping his wick in another man’s tallow. It might have been amusing when they were younger, but for boys like Jordan and Reg the pleasures they should have enjoyed as lads had been lost in the grim reality of starvation. They grew up quickly in those days, missing out on much of the fun of youth, and instead took what amusement they could from the same ribald entertainments at an older age. Jordan had never grown out of them.

  Perhaps there was more to it than the mere lustful fascination with another man’s wife, though, because when Jordan took his new woman, Reg couldn’t believe his ears. And Jordan’s long-suffering wife was similarly astonished.

  The cruelty of laughing about his latest woman in front of his wife was lost on Jordan, of course. Reg once thought to comment on his behaviour, but wouldn’t ever try that again. No, Jordan was incapable of understanding how his actions might affect his poor wife. A man who tried to tell Jordan how to behave could rouse him to extreme anger, and that would invariably mean pain. No man should give Jordan cause to lose his temper.