The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) by Michael Jecks Page A
Authors: Michael Jecks
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her father’s bare legs appeared
as he slowly descended. Once on the ground, she saw him holding a little candle high over his head while he peered about.
He had a sword in his right hand, and his face was black with suspicion. It was an expression that would stay with her for
the rest of her life in her mares: his square, rugged, honest face with an anxious scowl graven upon it.
She made no sound. When Father came down the stairs because of the children’s arguing or playing, he was invariably very cross
and beat them. Tonight he walked near the bed but, to her surprise, although he glanced towards them it was a cursory look,
and then he was crossing the room to the shutters. One was open, and as Cecily watched he pulled it wide and stared out into
the night.
‘Well?’ It was her mother, Juliana, on the stairs.
‘It’s nothing,’ Daniel said. ‘The shutter wasn’t fastened properly. I’ll make it firm now. You go back to bed.’
‘All right, darling. Be quick.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Cecily kept still and waited while he carefully slammed the shutters and slipped a peg over the bar to lock them. Then he
stood surveying the room awhile, before turning and walking out into the hall.
Quietly rolling over, Cecily listened. As usual the clearest sound in the room was her brother’s snuffling and snoring, but
over it she was sure that she could hear her father’s steps in the hall, crossing over the rushes and stopping at the windows
and doors, checking all were shuttered and barred, before returning to the solar. There he locked the door to the hall and
appeared to hesitate.
In the darkness, Cecily heard him muttering, and it was some little while before she made out what he was saying. Then she
realized that he was praying for her and her brother; a quiet, contemplative prayer, as though he was really scared of something
… or someone. ‘Please God, don’t let him hurt them. Not my little darlings.’
It was tempting to call out to him and ask him what he was doing, but Cecily had been thrashed often enough for interrupting
him at night. She knew he disapproved of her waking, even when it was he who had woken her. So instead she remained silent
in the bed, watching and listening as he grunted to himself and made his way back up the stairs to his chamber.
‘Nothing. I told you it was nothing. Go to sleep,’ she heard him say in response to a mumbled, sleepy enquiry from her mother,
and then Cecily heard him tumble into their bed again. There was a squeaking of ropes as the mattress took his weight, and
then the boards moved again, and in the thin light of the candle upstairs she saw a fine dust falling gently.
‘Why were you so long, then?’
‘I feared there might be a man there, that’s all.’
‘Est?’ Cecily could hear that her mother was wide awake now. ‘He’s no threat, is he?’
‘No.’
‘So why the sword?’
He made no answer for a while. Then, ‘Go to sleep. We can discuss this tomorrow.’
Cecily waited for the candle to be blown out, but for once her father did not heed his own stern injunction that all candles
should be extinguished when the family was in bed. She was asleep before long, and her last memory was of the thin beam of
light projecting between the floorboards.
Chapter Three
‘Why do you hate him so?’ Jeanne asked again. ‘You loathed him at Tiverton, because he was so keen on politicking and took
no account of the impact of his actions on other people, but he seems a better man now he is no longer at the castle.’
‘You think so?’ Baldwin asked. He was sitting in front of a polished copper plate while Edgar ran a razor over his cheeks.
It was not the best time to be discussing the finer points of his feelings for Sir Peregrine.
‘I know it seems irrational, my love, and that isn’t natural for you.’
Baldwin was silent awhile as he considered this. Jeanne’s question had annoyed him,
as he slowly descended. Once on the ground, she saw him holding a little candle high over his head while he peered about.
He had a sword in his right hand, and his face was black with suspicion. It was an expression that would stay with her for
the rest of her life in her mares: his square, rugged, honest face with an anxious scowl graven upon it.
She made no sound. When Father came down the stairs because of the children’s arguing or playing, he was invariably very cross
and beat them. Tonight he walked near the bed but, to her surprise, although he glanced towards them it was a cursory look,
and then he was crossing the room to the shutters. One was open, and as Cecily watched he pulled it wide and stared out into
the night.
‘Well?’ It was her mother, Juliana, on the stairs.
‘It’s nothing,’ Daniel said. ‘The shutter wasn’t fastened properly. I’ll make it firm now. You go back to bed.’
‘All right, darling. Be quick.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Cecily kept still and waited while he carefully slammed the shutters and slipped a peg over the bar to lock them. Then he
stood surveying the room awhile, before turning and walking out into the hall.
Quietly rolling over, Cecily listened. As usual the clearest sound in the room was her brother’s snuffling and snoring, but
over it she was sure that she could hear her father’s steps in the hall, crossing over the rushes and stopping at the windows
and doors, checking all were shuttered and barred, before returning to the solar. There he locked the door to the hall and
appeared to hesitate.
In the darkness, Cecily heard him muttering, and it was some little while before she made out what he was saying. Then she
realized that he was praying for her and her brother; a quiet, contemplative prayer, as though he was really scared of something
… or someone. ‘Please God, don’t let him hurt them. Not my little darlings.’
It was tempting to call out to him and ask him what he was doing, but Cecily had been thrashed often enough for interrupting
him at night. She knew he disapproved of her waking, even when it was he who had woken her. So instead she remained silent
in the bed, watching and listening as he grunted to himself and made his way back up the stairs to his chamber.
‘Nothing. I told you it was nothing. Go to sleep,’ she heard him say in response to a mumbled, sleepy enquiry from her mother,
and then Cecily heard him tumble into their bed again. There was a squeaking of ropes as the mattress took his weight, and
then the boards moved again, and in the thin light of the candle upstairs she saw a fine dust falling gently.
‘Why were you so long, then?’
‘I feared there might be a man there, that’s all.’
‘Est?’ Cecily could hear that her mother was wide awake now. ‘He’s no threat, is he?’
‘No.’
‘So why the sword?’
He made no answer for a while. Then, ‘Go to sleep. We can discuss this tomorrow.’
Cecily waited for the candle to be blown out, but for once her father did not heed his own stern injunction that all candles
should be extinguished when the family was in bed. She was asleep before long, and her last memory was of the thin beam of
light projecting between the floorboards.
Chapter Three
‘Why do you hate him so?’ Jeanne asked again. ‘You loathed him at Tiverton, because he was so keen on politicking and took
no account of the impact of his actions on other people, but he seems a better man now he is no longer at the castle.’
‘You think so?’ Baldwin asked. He was sitting in front of a polished copper plate while Edgar ran a razor over his cheeks.
It was not the best time to be discussing the finer points of his feelings for Sir Peregrine.
‘I know it seems irrational, my love, and that isn’t natural for you.’
Baldwin was silent awhile as he considered this. Jeanne’s question had annoyed him,
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