‘The God-damned moron has killed a man. Just some drunk who had too much ale and waved a knife at him. There was no need to slaughter him for that, but no! Our sergeant went in with his staff flailing and killed him.’
‘Have you held an inquest?’
‘No. I was only made aware of the matter just now. I do not intend to hold an inquest on the Sabbath, so would you join me in the morning to hear the case? Not that it matters: we’ll have to find him innocent. We can’t have people thinking that a sergeant could be guilty of murder. The cretinous son of a diseased goat!’
Baldwin nodded slowly. ‘If I find that he acted unreasonably, I’ll find him guilty.’
‘I would expect no less,’ Sir Peregrine said sharply. He sighed. ‘Perhaps it would be best if we went to speak to him now. If we hear his side of the tale, it may explain some aspects.’
‘True. If, as you say, the victim had drawn steel against him, that would be adequate justification for defence. Provided there were witnesses, of course.’
‘Witnesses can always be found. Damn his soul, he should have shown more caution,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘You can’t go upsetting the mob by killing someone when everyone thinks there was no need.’
‘Is there cause to fear the mob here?’ Jeanne asked.
Sir Peregrine looked at her. ‘There is always need to fear the mob, lady.’
Daniel felt as though every eye was upon him as he walked from the cathedral. Juliana wouldn’t look at him, not after their argument that morning, but he would have preferred that she took his hand. Instead she walked out with her sister, and the two of them trailed along behind him as he marched out.
It made him feel guilty — especially when he saw how people stared at him. Many openly contemptuous, having heard how he served old Ham.
He could not blame her, though. They had argued this morning. She had said again that he should leave Jordan alone. This constant fear was sapping her spirit, she said, and her panic was all too plain as she sat on their bed, cradling their children in her arms. After last night that was to be expected.
Last night they had heard it again: a strange noise downstairs in the middle of the night. He had put it down to rats at first; God knew, there were enough of them in the house. Every time he went and looked in the buttery, there were fresh signs of shit. They made him feel sick, but there was little to do, other than try to trap them or catch them and stab them, and he didn’t have time to bother with that sort of rubbish.
Yet there was something about the noise which wasn’t quite right. Juliana had heard it first, and she had waited a while, so she said, until she heard it again. A scratching noise, like a piece of metal rubbing against something. She lay in the dark, listening to it, and nudged him.
It was the same. Daniel set his jaw and rose from the bed as quietly as possible. A pair of boards creaked, but he crossed the floor to the open doorway with a long-bladed knife in his hand and stared down into the darkness. Last time he had heard this, he had sat in his bed and waited until he was quite sure of the noise, but not this time. He’d heard it before, and he was certain he knew what it was.
The fucking madman! If it was Jordan, he’d cut the bastard’s cods off and make him eat them! If that bastard thought he could get into Daniel’s house, he was wrong. Last time Daniel had given him warning by lighting his candle; well, he wouldn’t do that tonight. If the little shite was down there, he’d feel Daniel’s steel this time.
He stepped slowly, cautiously, down the stairs. Behind him he could hear Juliana quietly leaving the bed, the rugs and heavy skin rustling as she slid out, and her feet padding almost silently across the boards. He took the first step, listening intently. There was no more noise, only the very faint hiss of his children’s breath, and Daniel slowly and carefully walked across the room to inspect the window. Again, the shutters were loose, and the wind soughed through the gap.
Daniel stood with the flesh creeping on his back at the thought that a man might dare to come in here and threaten his children. It was terrifying. No man should have attempted to break into his home of all the houses in Exeter. That a man might enter his showed that the churl was entirely without fear. He must have the courage of a madman. Or be a madman.
‘Husband, do you think he might be in the garden? Will you see if he remains out there!’ his wife called.
‘Wife, I am unclothed. Do you think that it would serve any purpose to walk about in the dark with my ballocks dangling?’
‘Husband, if you valued your children and your wife, I should have thought you’d be keen to go and find the man,’ she hissed in return.
‘I am keen!’
‘Then go and find him and cut off his ballocks, man! Stop waving that knife at me and find him!’
Daniel had glared at her, but there was sense in her instructions. He kicked at the bed where his children lay, turfing them out and sending them up the stairs to their mother, while he donned a cloak that had lain on a chest and, pulling on some light shoes, stepped out gingerly, walking about his garden and yard.
There was nothing. If he had been superstitious, he would have thought that a malevolent ghost had taken an irrational dislike to him and was tormenting him.
But that idea was easily dispelled when he returned to the chamber and his light glinted on a splinter of steel. It looked like a fragment of a blade, snapped off as it twisted to open his shutter. Ghosts did not carry steel.
Of course the problem with Jordan was, his insouciance was entirely justified. Christ’s pain, Reg knew that well enough. When he said that no one would care about losing two pardoners, he was speaking no more than the literal truth. Nobody would even notice. Reg had helped drag the bodies away, wiping at the rain that fell about his shoulders and ran down his face, aware that this was a matter that would change, that had changed, his life. No matter what happened, his life would never be the same, and now, hauling on the body of the oily little man, he felt sick. He was involved in the death of these men; he would help to conceal the murder. He was complicit.
Reg was no coward, but he had not been a murderer before this evening. Thieving, yes, that was necessary, because it meant he could live. He needed food to continue. But that was different from taking a man’s life. However, to his shame, even his last reservations fell away when he saw what was in the pack. These pardoners were successful men. They had learned how to charm trinkets and valuables from their audiences, and when Jordan had killed them they’d been about to stop and rest, sell their goods and recuperate for a while after all their travelling.
‘Look at that! Came from a rich woman, that did. Good pearl. Should fetch a fair sum.’
‘Where can we get rid of this stuff? Look at it! If we’re found with all this, everyone will know we’re robbers,’ Reg said, appalled at the size of their haul. There were bracelets, necklaces, rings and plate, all worth a small fortune.
‘I know a man,’ Jordan said with confidence.
And that was the problem. It sometimes seemed as though the mere exercise of his will lent force to his ambition. They had taken the jewellery and an acquaintance of Jordan’s had soon disposed of it for them — not for the sum it was worth, but for enough money to give them sufficient to live on for some months to come.
Soon Jordan had decided that lying in wait to catch merchants and travellers was little use. There were better ways to make money. He had concealed his wealth carefully, hoarding it, and although that cretin Daniel had tried to catch them both, reckoning that they were involved in some unsavoury dealings, by the time he took notice of them Jordan was already well set up.
Yes, Daniel was right about their activities — not that it would do him much good.