He looked up and saw Jolinde nod. If he could have, Peter would have turned to him, begged for help, but he couldn’t. His secret was so terrible that he couldn’t seek the help of any other man. He hated even to see the sympathy in Jolinde’s eyes as his companion watched him rise.
‘Where are you going?’ Jolinde asked.
‘I’ve got to get some air. You stay here. I need solitude… to think.’
Taking the cup of wine which Jolinde had given him, and the loaf which the other pressed upon him, Peter went out into the cold air.
It was almost oppressive, it was so still. Animals appeared to have fled the area, seeking a warm chamber or stable. Only a human could be out in this, Peter told himself. He shuddered as another spasm shook his body, but resolutely forced himself on. Perhaps the cold would help him. He sipped wine and broke off a piece of bread, chewing it slowly and swallowing it with more wine. It hurt his stomach and almost made him heave, but that was all part of his disease. If he could eat at least half of the loaf, then he would have a little strength, could combat the evil within him.
With a series of cries, Choristers burst from the Cathedral, released from their final singing practice. Most scampered or pelted along the paths, heading for their hall and a last drink of hot wine before bed.
He watched them wistfully, recalling a time when he had been carefree and happy. Before he had been lured into evil and had been taken over. A violent clenching made him clutch at his belly.
‘Sir, are you all right?’
Looking down, Peter saw Luke peering up at him with an expression of concern. ‘I am fine,’ Peter told him. ‘I just have this pain. If it hasn’t gone by morning, I’ll see the infirmarer. You are on the way to your hall?’
‘Yes. Are you?’
Peter smiled faintly. ‘No, I came out for a walk.’
‘With your supper?’
Looking down, Peter realised he was still gripping his bread. ‘I’d forgotten it.’
Luke gave him a vague smile. He wouldn’t have forgotten a whole loaf of bread. Like the other Choristers, Luke lived in a state of perpetual hunger. No matter how much he ate, there was always a corner of his stomach that felt just a little empty. Not that the Secondaries were all that different, he thought. All, Secondaries and Choristers, depended upon their Canons for their food and some were more frugal with their servings than others. Luke’s Canon was Stephen, a man who carried his thrifty habits with him from the Treasury into his own home. It was rare for Luke not to be hungry of an evening.
Peter was still gazing at the loaf. The sight of it made his stomach churn anew. Glancing at Luke, he smiled. ‘I remember that when I was a Chorister, my Canon considered that if a few loaves and fishes could feed a crowd, a Chorister should be grateful for the same share. He was a most religious man.’
Luke giggled. It was rare for a Chorister to be treated as a human by a Secondary, and he rather liked it. Peter was known as one of the few Secondaries who would act with generosity towards the Choristers, but his next act surprised Luke.
‘Here!’ he said, breaking the loaf in two and passing one half to Luke. ‘Keep it for the moment when you need a little extra to eat.’
‘Thank you… Thanks very much,’ Luke stammered, holding the gift tightly. He watched as the Secondary slowly walked away, then looked down, thinking, he’s mad.
It was a view with which Peter would have entirely agreed. He stumbled as he walked, trying to ignore his aches and pains. It was not easy. He chewed methodically at the bread, his mouth dry, washing it down with slurps of wine.
‘Oh, God,’ he moaned to himself as he felt the queasiness attack his belly again. ‘God, please help me! Save me!’
Chapter Six
Jeanne and her husband left Vincent le Berwe’s house just as the sun was sinking. Here in the city there was a curious twilight as the sun hid behind the houses and city wall; at their home in Furnshill, the sun concealed herself behind the woods, leaving the sky illuminated from within by a golden-pink torch, then swiftly extinguishing herself. Here there was none of that healthful, glowing ruddiness. The air was filled with the smoke from a thousand fires and down towards the river, west of them, the tanners and dyers sent up plumes of yellow and black smoke from their coal furnaces. It coloured the sun’s dying rays with greyness and filth.
It was the kind of impression that filled Baldwin with longing for his own manor. He was out of place here, among the bustling hordes, and yearned for the clean, fresh air of Cadbury, a good rounsey beneath him, a hunting dog at his side and a quarry before him. That was life. Not this mean existence in narrow alleys and streets filled with the refuse of other men, of rotting carcasses of cats and dogs, of scuttling rats and the all-pervasive reek of excrement.
A drunk walked towards them and Baldwin took his wife’s arm above the elbow, guiding her gently towards the wall where she would be safe. The drunk saw his movement and belched uncomprehendingly, then staggered on, bouncing off a wall and swearing at it.
Baldwin sighed. They were still in the High Street, but now he turned northwards along Goldsmith’s Street. It was quiet now as the sun disappeared. Fine gold and silverwork could not be produced by candlelight, so the smiths were all shutting their shopfronts, lifting up the shutters and bolting them inside. A short way along the street lay the crossroads. The left turning led to the Talbot’s Inn, and Baldwin was about to turn this way when he happened to glance right.
A few yards from him stood a pleasantly appointed house and shop. Limewashed timbers and plaster showed that it had been looked after, but now there was an air of sadness about it. A cross had been painted upon the door, and a small bunch of flowers lay on the doorstep. Nearby stood a lone figure, a one-legged cripple resting uncomfortably on a crutch. He was staring up at the house. Recalling Vincent’s words, Baldwin guessed that this must be the house of the dead glover: Ralph.
Vincent had said that it was the apprentice who had killed him. Probably a dispute over how much the apprentice was being paid, or an argument over whom the apprentice was seeing. Masters were sometimes short with their boys, especially when their charges discovered the sweet delights of the opposite sex, although it was extremely rare for an apprentice to murder his master.
Baldwin had never heard of such an event in all his years in Crediton as Keeper of the King’s Peace. The idea that a servant could murder his master was terrible – incomprehensible. It was surely caused by the evil nature of life in a city, he thought. Not much worse than Vincent’s tale of the robbed man and his robber, Hamond, someone who already had an evil reputation. Anyone who had once been thought guilty would inevitably be assumed to be the perpetrator when another offence was committed. Why look for another felon when the whole town knew of one already? was the attitude of many. Especially when confirmed by the evidence of the merchant and his clerk.
When the Knights Templar had been destroyed, Sir Baldwin was horrified. He knew his friends and comrades were all men who had chosen to dedicate their lives to God, to obey His will, to swear the threefold oaths of poverty, chastity and obedience, and to fight in His holy army. Templars had been accused of hideous crimes: that they renounced God and worshipped Satan at their initiation ceremonies – accusations which were ludicrous! Baldwin’s Order had demonstrated near-fanatical devotion to Christ. At Safed, two hundred Templars were captured and told they could live if they renounced Christ and accepted the true faith of Islam. Next morning they were forced to watch while their commander was hideously butchered: skinned alive in front of them. When he died at last, his men were ordered to abandon Christianity or die. To a man they affirmed their belief in Christ and one by one were beheaded.