Peter de la Fosse shivered as he pulled on his robe, and licked his lips nervously. Out in the close, he knew his men would be waiting, and he stared fixedly at the cross before he could think of joining them.
‘God, forgive me if this is wrong, but I am only a weak man,’ he pleaded. He bent his head in an obeisance, and walked quickly from his hall into the bright November day.
It was all Jordan’s fault, he told himself. One series of mistakes, and he would spend his life in regrets — but there was nothing else he could do. How else could a man survive when caught up in such sinful times?
He had never felt that he had a vocation for the Church. The third son of an esquire, he had shown a certain skill for writing and reading at an early age, and the local priest had been so impressed that he had written himself to the Bishop’s man. Soon a message had come back asking Peter to go to the cathedral, and the path of his life was set out for him. He would become a chorister, then a secondary, and finally a vicar. If he was very fortunate, he might be elevated into the cathedral’s chapter.
And so, in due course, he became a canon — but by that time he was in debt, heavily in debt, to Jordan le Bolle.
The man was a snake. He had no feelings for others, only the desire to benefit himself. He owned the brothels where Peter had first been tempted by female flesh, and the gambling dens below where the cleric had gradually frittered away all his money, and inevitably, in time, he owned Peter.
Perhaps, if he had been more courageous years ago, Peter could have gone to the Dean or the Bishop and admitted what he’d done. The penance might have been severe, but it would have been better than this extended horror. He might not love the cathedral as he should, but there was a foulness in continually acting to the detriment of a holy place like this.
At least his actions today were justified. He was convinced of that.
Perhaps he should speak to the Dean and explain why he had become so deeply involved with Jordan le Bolle. The Dean was an intelligent, understanding man of the world. He must see that there was nothing else that Peter could have done.
The canon was the victim of a felon’s malevolent will.
Juliana Austyn was a beautiful woman. Baldwin had never considered himself immune from the attractions of ladies who possessed physical splendour, but he was still shocked by the impact her glance had upon him. She was slim and dark, with a face that was almost triangular, her chin was so fine. A small mouth didn’t marr her looks, it merely seemed in proportion — or perhaps it was that the mouth and nose emphasized her large grey-green eyes. They were serious today, but he could all too readily imagine them fired with passion, and the thought was curiously unsettling. Looking at the other men here, he could see that they were struck by the same impression.
Sir Peregrine was deliberately avoiding her gaze as though he feared that a single gleam from her eye could make him fall into an adolescent fit of giggling and nervousness. Edgar was more confident. He gave the woman his full attention, turning to face her directly, as though there was no one else in the room, and Baldwin had to conceal a smile. His servant had always been a confident and successful seducer, ever since the destruction of their Order. It was almost as though he had felt himself constrained all the time that he had been a Templar, and once he was freed from the shackles of his vows he went on to make up for all the years of abstinence. Clearly Edgar felt this woman was deserving of attention. Her beauty certainly made her worth the hunt, although Baldwin felt sure Edgar would regret any adultery were he to attempt it; his wife Petronilla would be bound to learn of it. Nothing could be concealed from her, and if she were to feel herself let down, Edgar would not be long in knowing about it. In any case, Baldwin did not wish to see Edgar propositioning a recently bereaved widow. He must make that plain to his man.
Strangely, seeing his servant’s reaction made Baldwin more confident, and the look of sheep-like humility on Sir Peregrine’s face only served to strengthen his resolve.
‘Your husband was murdered last night?’
‘In the middle of the night,’ she agreed. Her eyes were turned to him, and they held a confidence and self-assurance that was rather out of place. ‘I heard a noise, and woke my husband, but before he could get down the stairs our daughter screamed. Cecily has always been a good sleeper and is not prey to mares at night, so when we heard that, Daniel grasped his sword and ran down the stairs.’
‘You went with him?’
‘When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw him struggling with someone. I screamed, I think, and …’ Her face had lost its composure now, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out over her brow. She lowered her face, and Baldwin was instantly reminded of an actor he had once seen, pretending a display of grief. His mistrust of the woman grew.
‘Continue, lady.’
‘I saw them fight. I saw a dagger,’ she said, but her eyes wouldn’t meet his. ‘And then my husband collapsed like a pole-axed calf. Straight down on the floor.’ The body had lain there like a wretched felon’s. At first she had wondered, but then she saw that although his eyes appeared to be staring at her they were unfocused, their ire directed towards someone else she couldn’t see. ‘He was dead.’
‘Who else saw this fight?’
‘My little Cecily. Arthur, my son, had covered his head, I think. He saw or heard nothing, or so he says. He is terribly young. Only four years old.’
‘And your daughter?’
‘She is nine.’
‘Your husband told us of the man Webber who entered your house at night. He has been doing this for long?’
‘Six years or so.’
‘And in all that time you’ve been living in fear of him?’
‘Of course not!’
Baldwin and Sir Peregrine exchanged a glance. Sir Peregrine was frankly surprised. Baldwin said, ‘But your husband told us that he feared this man. So what had changed? Why be afraid of him now?’
She shook her head obstinately. ‘I don’t know why Daniel was more worried recently.’
‘Has there been a suggestion that Estmund Webber is suddenly more dangerous?’
She shook her head again. ‘No.’
‘Daniel must have had some reason for his suspicion of him, surely?’ Sir Peregrine asked more gently.
‘I … I don’t know.’
‘Come, woman, he must have had cause to fear something,’ Baldwin said. ‘And he was right, too, wasn’t he? Someone must have warned him of some danger!’
She said nothing, but her eyes filled with tears again and she looked away.
Baldwin studied her for a few moments. ‘Tell me, good lady. Who could have wanted your man dead? Did he have many enemies?’
‘Of course he did! He was an officer. Do you think you have none?’
Baldwin smiled at her sudden outburst. It was true enough that any man who spent his days capturing law-breakers and seeing to their accusation and conviction would inevitably earn himself adversaries who would be glad to see him removed. Daniel was no different from any other in this. ‘So you think that this attacker in the night was a man who bore your husband a grudge?’
His words brought her head round as though their import suddenly struck at her. ‘“Grudge”? Why do you call it that? No, there was nothing like that!’
Baldwin hesitated. He had been in situations like this before, when a careless choice of words had led to an unexpected retort. Her reaction was not that of a woman who was following the same line of thought as his own. He had meant only that an officer of the law would know people who might have had reason to want to revenge themselves upon him. Baldwin knew of three men whose brother or father had been executed as a result of his own enquiries, and he was always alert to the possibility of an attack from them. Surely Daniel had similar contacts who could desire his death — such as friends of the old man who had died when Daniel struck him on the head.