The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (20 page)

The thought coincided with a sudden great resurgence of the pain, and she gasped with it, putting her hand to her breast,
hunching over as the stabbing, grinding agony ripped into her. She clenched her teeth while the spasm lasted, then stood panting,
eyes wide.

Yes, this was going to end her soon. It was like a birthing, but longer and so much more relentless. That was what her mother
had said when she was struggling for breath herself in the dark in their room: that it was unrelenting. The pains just went
on getting worse and worse all the time, and there was nothing to be done about it. A leech might be able to provide a potion
to stupefy the senses, but then she’d be useless. At least like this, enduring the pain meant that she could still earn a
little money to put food on the table.

Another scream from the upper room and she had more or less controlled her breathing. She could scarcely miss the shrieked
words. As always it was Agnes.

‘You can’t mean I would have taken him?’

Juliana’s voice was a low, saddened mumble, unintelligible.

‘Me? I didn’t regret losing Daniel. I didn’t want him. I was only glad you took my cast-off.’

Gwen stiffened to hear that, and then she began to grin. Surely that was the jealous child
denying
she wanted the other girl’s toy. She began sweeping again, and as she worked she could hear the bitter cries from Agnes,
the inaudible replies of her sister. Juliana was too quiet for any words to be heard. She showed the correct restraint and
didn’t seem to rise to any of Agnes’s taunts.

‘Perhaps I did love him once, but not for many years!’

‘Of course I know what love is; do you think me such a frigid sow? I can love just as any other can!’

‘You say I can’t love so strongly – of course I can, and with more determination, probably. You just don’t understand.’

‘I am
not
jealous!’

‘It’s up to you, but you’ve lied. You lied to the Coroner after you swore to tell the truth; you’ll burn for that.’

‘What are you talking about? You couldn’t mean—’

‘
No!
’

Gwen heard the door slam at the back of the house, but she wasn’t listening by then. There were too many other thoughts running
through her mind, and then, before she could collect them, Cecily ran in from the front room, Arthur behind her, his eyes
wide with fear.

‘Mummy! Mummy!’

Gwen caught the girl as she tried to dart round her. ‘Hissht, child, hissht! Leave her a little. She’s had a row with her
sister, that’s all. No need to be upset. She’ll soon be all right, but leave her alone for a moment.’

‘I’m fine, Gwen,’ Juliana said. She was in the doorway now, pale and fretful from her appearance, and she stood there staring
at Gwen with a hunted expression on her face. It was an unspoken question.

Gwen chose to answer the question that would have occurred to her. ‘Your little girl heard your sister shouting, I think.
Nothing more than that. Isn’t that right, Cecily?’

The little girl nodded, but her eyes remained on her mother.

By the next morning, Baldwin was feeling a great deal better. He had taken to his bed early the previous evening, still feeling
exhausted after his exertions, and now, lying in his bed, he realized that he was not bound to strain himself into an early
grave for the Coroner. Perhaps just this once he could leave the Coroner to earn his own money. There was nothing about the
matter that needed the independent eye of a Keeper of the King’s Peace. True, it was his duty to seek out and apprehend those
who might have been guilty of a felony, especially a murderous attack, but he saw no reason why the city’s men shouldn’t find
Estmund themselves, as well as Mick’s killer. He was not Keeper for Exeter, and it was time he went home to his own territory.
They were more directly responsible than he, and he had a more important duty to perform: getting better.

He rose soon after dawn and stood idly swinging his arm to see how it moved. Ralph was a better physician than some, clearly.
The pain was significantly improved, and Baldwin could already lift his arm higher than he had been able to the previous morning.
There was a little weeping when he looked underneath the bandages, but for the most part his wound appeared to be healing
nicely.

Edgar had risen as soon as he heard his master wake, and
had dressed himself. Seeing his master was well-rested and fully awake, he left to fetch water and towels. Soon he was back,
and Baldwin splashed water liberally over his face, trying to work up a lather with the cheap soap which was all he could
find at the inn. Giving it up as a poor job, he splashed more water on his face and beard and wiped them dry before taking
a sip of water. Although others, notably his old friend Simon, were prone to taking the strongest of wines and ales at the
first opportunity in the morning, Baldwin had learned in the heat of the Holy Land to try to avoid too much by way of fermented
drink. He had learned that it was likely to give him headaches and could make him feel sick. Since returning to England, he
had found that it was easier to keep to his old regime, and now he preferred to have very weak or non-alcoholic drinks in
the morning, although he was quite content to drink wine or ale later in the day.

Seeing Edgar watching him, Baldwin grinned briefly. ‘Prepare our bags. I think it is time we returned home to Furnshill. If
we travel gently, it should not hurt my shoulder.’

‘Husband.’

‘Jeanne, my love. Did you sleep well?’

She wiped her eyes, which felt gritty, and moved forward into the security of his arms, sighing. Her heart was racing and
she felt quite light-headed, almost sick with relief to know that they would soon be home again. She was desperate to see
their daughter Richalda.

‘Now, my love, be easy in your mind,’ he said, pulling away from her. ‘Put some clothes on, and I shall go and tell the good
Coroner that I intend leaving here at noon. After that, we can break our fast.’

He felt very contented as he walked along the road to Sir Peregrine’s house. He had heard that the Coroner lived in a
house near the castle, on Correstrete, and he walked out there quickly, swinging his sore arm deliberately.

In the past, when he was knocked from a horse or beaten in a battle, he used to find that there were very definite periods
for recuperation: a battered head might need some days in bed before the dizziness would leave him; a slashing knife wound
would heal generally in a few days, followed by another few weeks before the soreness went; a stab would take a little longer,
and the weeping could last some days. That was when he was younger. Last year he had travelled to Okehampton and taken part
in some tournaments, and the battering he had taken had needed weeks to heal. This time, with the hole in his breast, he felt
as though it was going to take a great deal longer. He set out feeling fine, but only a matter of yards from the inn’s door
he felt short of breath and tired. It just showed, as he told himself ruefully, that he wasn’t so young as he once had been,
and much though he liked to think himself indestructible, this was proof that he was not. No, he must learn to respect his
age a little more. He was still strong enough to beat most youngsters with sword or mace, but there were times when he really
should not be in the fight. He was growing too old.

He forced himself onwards. Up ahead rose the red keep of Rougement Castle, and he peered up at it critically. It was strong
enough as a fortress, although he was unsure how secure it would be, were decent artillery pieces to be brought up against
it. The red sandstone walls were likely to be brittle. From Baldwin’s experience, the sandy rocks were little defence against
heavy missiles.

The Coroner’s house was easy to find. Among the merchants’ and traders’ homes, it stood out for the lack of signs outside.
All the others had their advertisements showing that they were selling skins or wine or something else. Looking along them,
Baldwin was amused to see the servant of Ralph of Malmesbury appearing from one doorway, and thought that the physician must
be visiting a patient, until he saw a second man whom he recognized entering the same house, and realized that the place must
be Ralph’s home.

That gave him pause for thought. It was one thing to learn that Sir Peregrine lived here, because he was a knight bannaret,
the highest level of chivalry below baron. To be able to afford a property in the same street implied to Baldwin that the
physician was more successful than he had thought. On an impulse, he crossed the road and went up to Ralph of Malmesbury’s
door.

‘Let me see the physician.’

‘He is busy.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said, showing his teeth to the pimply youth at the door. ‘Because I am too. That should mean we can save each
other time, should it not? I will wait here in the passageway. Tell him I am here.’

‘Who are you?’

Baldwin looked at the boy. His manner was insolent in the extreme. Baldwin dropped his gaze to the lad’s boots, scruffy, scratched
and scuffed, and then took in the holed and tatty hosen, the faded but at least whole tabard, and the acne-ridden face. ‘If
you are an advert for his business, boy, I’d suggest he remove you instantly. Tell your master that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill,
lord of my own manor, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and Justice of Gaol Delivery is here, and … boy?’

‘What?’

‘If you are so rude to me again, I will have you arrested for possessing a face that could curdle milk. I have the power,
you know.’

Agnes woke with the anger still simmering.

Her sister was incapable of honesty: stealing men from other women, trying to pretend that she was a good sister by taking
Agnes in when she lost her home, only to throw her out when she found a lover … She had no honesty at all.

After the sad break-up of her affair with Daniel, Agnes had not run weeping to the nearest man. She had bottled up her sadness
and grief and behaved in a manner more becoming. Where Juliana would doubtless have grabbed by the cods the first man who
appeared, as though to prove her ability to ensnare another, Agnes kept herself under a tight rein.

She had always possessed that ability of focusing her thoughts inwards. Where some folks cared too much what others thought,
Agnes had the ability to ignore it. She really didn’t care what anyone thought. All that mattered to her was her own feelings,
and this, she thought, was a better way to live. A maid couldn’t go through life worrying about what other people thought
all the time. There were certain proprieties to consider, but apart from them a maid should not worry. Better by far to worry
about yourself, and let the opinions of other people look after themselves.

Juliana had denied lying, but that itself was a lie. She must think that Agnes was a fool if she thought she was going to
convince her of that. And then she had said she knew who the murderer was, as though Agnes should stop asking questions about
it! Why shouldn’t Agnes be interested to know who had killed her brother-in-law? It was only natural.

Anyway, lying to the Coroner was stupid. He would learn the truth, given time. He seemed a most assiduous investigator. Agnes
would like him to investigate
her
! And if he didn’t find out what Juliana was hiding, God would. To lie under oath was
a terrible thing. No, Juliana was a fool, and the sooner she came to realize that fact, the better.

With that thought came another, though. If she was lying, why was that?

Agnes suddenly had a clear memory of how Daniel had reacted when he learned that she had invited her lover to the house. Daniel
had first gone entirely white, as though in horror, and then flushed with fury and begun to accuse her of being little better
than a strumpet from the stews; at the time she had been convinced that his anger was merely proof of his foolish care for
the nicer proprieties of life in the city, not wanting it to become known that his own sister-in-law was enjoying a lascivious
relationship with a married man. Adultery was a dangerous crime.

But now she was intrigued. Perhaps the man’s rage had not been caused by the fact that Jordan was married, but by some other
reason. Juliana had said before that Daniel hated Jordan and didn’t want him in the house, and perhaps that was in part his
attraction for her; yet what if there was some other reason for Daniel’s loathing? He only ever appeared to take a violent
aversion to those who threatened his authority as sergeant … could it really be true that Jordan was a felon?

She had never really confronted that possibility before. In the past she had automatically assumed that Daniel’s attitude
to Jordan was based on his hatred of adultery, but now she considered the possibility more seriously. Juliana had appeared
to feel that the man responsible for Daniel’s death must be protected – that was why she was lying about him. She said, because
he had threatened her and the children. But there must be some other reason why she was holding back. Jordan couldn’t have
killed Daniel.

And yet … there was a circular common sense to the idea
that Jordan had indeed killed Daniel. The two men had hated each other for quite some years to her knowledge. It was only
her bringing him into Daniel’s home that had led to the explosion, but she knew that Daniel and Jordan had avoided contact
whenever possible, only occasionally nodding stiffly to each other in the street or at other encounters. Perhaps her lover
was indeed a felon. And perhaps he had, as Juliana had appeared to imply, killed Juliana’s husband.

Agnes was entirely still for some time as she considered this, and then she made a decision. She put on a clean apron, her
best wimple, and went out into the street. She had business to attend to. No matter what she thought of her dead brother-in-law,
she was not going to consider maintaining a relationship with his murderer. If Jordan had done it, she would see him pay for
the crime.

Ridiculous that Juliana should try to conceal his guilt. Perhaps she just didn’t want to upset Agnes with the truth.

Baldwin waited only a short time. Soon the scowling youth returned and, with his best approximation to courtesy, invited Baldwin
to follow him.

The knight found himself brought into a pleasant hall, not vast by any means, not a great hall like the one at Tiverton, nor
even so broad and deep as his own at Furnshill, but a goodly sized room for a house in a city none the less. It was tastefully
decorated with tapestries, and had a good three-shelf sideboard displaying rows of plate, all of good quality.

Ralph himself sat on a comfortable-looking chair near the fire roaring in the middle of the floor. ‘Sir Baldwin, is your shoulder
worse?’ he asked, with what Baldwin considered to be a rather hopeful air.

‘No, I thank you. I am feeling well today. Well enough to
leave Exeter for home. I wanted to make sure that there was nothing more you felt I should do,’ Baldwin lied smoothly.

Ralph’s brow lifted in surprise, but then he shrugged and told Baldwin to remove his upper clothing so he could look at the
wound again, and passed him a large glass bottle for a urine sample.

While Baldwin used the bottle, Ralph gave his shoulder a cursory look, and then took the urine from him, holding it up to
the light and frowning as he peered. ‘Yes, this looks good now, and the wound appears to be healing still. I should think
that you are well on the way to recovery, Sir Baldwin.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ Baldwin said heartily, beginning to pull his shirt back up over his shoulder.

‘So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?’ Ralph said.

‘You don’t believe I’m here for my shoulder?’

‘Of course not. You’re a knight. You know full well what a bad injury looks and feels like. Not that you’ve taken yourself
to a physician often from what I’ve seen. I can imagine your telling your wife to make up some of her family concoctions rather
than trusting yourself to some overpaid and incompetent star-watcher like me. Isn’t that so?’

Baldwin smiled widely. He studied the man for a few moments, then said, ‘Send your servant for some wine and let’s talk awhile,
Ralph.’

‘Go on, Geoffrey – and not the cheap barrel. Bring us some of the Bordeaux.’

When they were alone, Baldwin leaned forward. ‘Ralph, I am concerned about that girl in the brothel. Her suicide and the murder
of her pander both point to someone else’s being involved, but I have a feeling that there’s unlikely to be enough evidence
to find anyone.’

‘What of it?’

‘I don’t believe you think that. I think, from what I saw of you in that place, that you care for those women. They are still
women, after all. If one of them was cut up like that … why? What was the point? And her pander was simply executed. That
means, to my mind, that someone had a definite object in mind.’

‘Explain yourself. It is too early in the morning for me to play with words.’

‘Then I shall be plain. I think that the man was killed as punishment. Betsy mentioned something about him and Anne leaving
to set up a new life. If that was so, who would have wounded her and killed her man? Obviously someone who thought that the
pair of them owed him something.’