He washed his hands in a trough. Many butchers saw him, and many nodded. They all knew that he was wanted for supposedly murdering Daniel, but none of them had ever believed he could have done something like that. No, much more likely that it was Jordan le Bolle. Everybody said so, and so they had left Est alone. He had lived out at the Duryard for long enough. He couldn’t stay there another night. So he had come back, here, to the only life he had ever known.
But there was still that sad, unwholesome feeling that he had so dreadfully betrayed her. The little girl.
She had been born only a short time after his own little girl. Looked much the same when they were born, the pair of them. If his little Cissy had grown instead of dying all those years ago, perhaps she would look like this one? So pretty, so vivacious, so sweet and innocent when asleep in her bed. So beautiful, so perfect.
He ate a hunk of bread with a jug of ale in the yard behind the Black Hog. The publican there had never thought he could have had anything to do with the murder either. People here were so kind to him. They always had been.
After his meal, the sun was sinking low as he walked back to his little house. He was taken by the sight of a man walking towards him, and he wondered for a moment who it might be. He certainly looked familiar.
Jordan had been right. Since everyone had been told that Estmund was the murderer, and Estmund had fled the city, his house was the safest place in the city for a man who needed a little space to hide himself.
Rested and refreshed, he left the place as darkness fell, and stood in the street a moment or two savouring the air. There was the sweet tang of burning applewood on the air from someone’s fire, and the odours of cooking. Pottages and frying meats wafted on the breeze, and he was suddenly aware how hungry he was. Reg would have some food for him.
Reg. Poor Reg. He’d looked as though he’d have a fit when Jordan had asked him to kill the two women and the children yesterday. Christ’s cods, was it really only last night? And Jordan had thought that he’d be fine, that he’d go home today and hide himself and act quietly, just the moderate, sensible man with the doting wife, a calm and intelligent businessman, making a reasonable income from his dealings.
Only a few knew of his gambling dens and brothels, and those who did also knew his temper, and knew that they were best advised to be cautious about him. No one would dare to accuse him publicly — no one apart from those two bitches. He had to see them dead.
Unbidden, the thought of their bodies came back to him. Agnes’s figure he had already enjoyed, but there would be a delightful novelty with Juliana’s. It had always appealed to him. Under her clothes she always moved with such delicacy and gentle grace that he had felt his eyes pulled to her no matter who else was in the room.
Poor Reg didn’t want to have to do anything like that, killing women. So be it! He would save Reg the bother.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Est realized something was wrong as soon as he entered the room. His palliasse was spread over the floor, his rugs and blankets thrown aside as though he had been sleeping here only a short while ago. There was a mess of discarded food on the floor, bits and pieces from a meal of a pie and a chicken leg, and there, on the floor with them, tangled and filthy after wiping a pair of bloody hands, was Emma’s apron.
Slowly falling to crouch on his haunches, Estmund felt the breath sobbing in his throat. He put out a hand to touch the defiled material, his eyes brimming, but he couldn’t quite do it. His fingers reached to within an inch, but then stopped, and his fingertips trembled a moment before he drew them away again. He couldn’t. Not now. Her fragrance would have been washed away by the foul invader who’d done this to his home. Their home.
He stood. There was nothing else he could do. He had to leave this place, run away. Find some peace somewhere. He had to get out. Perhaps see Henry? Henry would help. Henry was clever like that, he would protect Est again.
Out, quick, turn right, and then along the roadway until the little alley on the right, the first one, and … Est slowed, and didn’t turn right. Instead he licked his lips, his heart racing. The night’s darkness made him bolder, and he felt the bravery seeping into his bones as though it was available to any man who breathed the night air.
Before he saw Henry, he wanted to see the little girl once more. It couldn’t hurt just once more. Henry said he shouldn’t go there, but now, so late, everyone would be asleep, so no one would know. It would be just like before, and at least he could tell whether the poor girl had been hurt. He’d be able to see whether she was ruined as he had feared after that last visit, when her father had died by Est’s knife.
Jordan had been outside the house for a while, seeking the best means of entry, but although he had waited until late, he was reluctant to walk across the street and simply beat down the door. He’d be captured for certain if he tried that. Someone would wake and call the hue and cry. So how could he gain access? There was perhaps a small window at the back that would merit investigation. He had seen an alleyway running behind the buildings which must give access to the yard behind the house, and from there he would surely be able to climb in somehow.
The yard was small and overgrown. He slipped over the wall and stared about him. The downstairs windows were all boarded and shuttered for security. Idly he walked along the rear of the house, testing one here or there, but there was no looseness, no ancient and weathered boards. He wouldn’t be able to get in from here.
Frustration was building when he felt, rather than saw, the other little shape.
A dark figure, cowled and cloaked, darted across the yard, silently slipping into the niche between two projecting storerooms. There it — he? — stopped and Jordan heard the ‘snick’ of a knife working a lock. There was a low rattle, and a squeak as a shutter was drawn wide. The figure slipped in over the sill.
Jordan was fascinated. He ran lightly to the window and peered in. The man was there in the room, standing over a large bed lying on the floor. By the light of a flickering rushlight, he saw the man bend his head and stare down.
Jordan sprang over the low ledge and pulled his knife free. It rasped against the leather scabbard, and the man heard it. He turned, and Jordan saw that it was the butcher, the one who had fled, the man whose room he had slept in. It made him chuckle, a deep, feral sound, as he walked closer.
‘Hello, butcher,’ he called quietly, and lifted his knife to stab.
‘NO!’ Estmund shrieked. He had his own knife in his hand already, and as he turned, the blade rose.
It met Jordan’s own knife, and the blades clanged as they skittered across each other. Then Jordan had his back, sweeping around to eviscerate Est. It caught on his cloak as Est’s own blade ripped across his belly, and he stepped back in alarm, a hand at the long gash.
He stared at the blood on his hand, turning his palm to meet the flickering light. It was blood, his blood! No one had ever hurt him like that before, not ever! He put his hand to his belly again, and now he could feel the pain starting, a terrible pain that seemed to rise in his groin and reach up to his heart.
With a bellow of incoherent rage, he leaped forward again. He heard a cry from the ground, and, turning, saw the little boy awake, bawling, the girl snapping alert, grabbing the boy and pulling him to her, and the distraction was enough to make him change his blade’s direction and aim it at the children. Bastards, both of them, mongrels from the womb of that whore upstairs, impregnated by that devil’s turd Daniel.