Read Online The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Jecks
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everyone knew that the new King, Edward II, would bring them to their knees in no time. Except it hadn’t
happened, had it? The Scots had slaughtered the King’s men and sent the few survivors scurrying back. If he’d gone, Est would
have died up there. No one who’d only had a limited experience of fighting with bare fists would have lived to tell the tale.
But he’d stayed, because their lives had already changed. The joy in her face … Emma had sat there, so happy, so content,
as she missed her monthly time in 1313, around the feast of St Andrew, and then started to feel the new life growing in her
womb. So happy. There was so much for them to be pleased about in those days. Except even as she realized that she was carrying
their child, the weather closed in. Rain. Rain for days. Everyone went about complaining, of course, but people always complained
about the weather. Englishmen liked to moan about it all year round. But no one appreciated what
this
weather meant. Sweet Mother of God, how could they? It was rain. In Devonshire they were used to that!
It was not only Devonshire which bore the rain. It was the whole country. Men and women and children watched their crops through
the downpours, and soon after Cissy’s birth in mid-August it was obvious to all that the harvest had failed. And then, when
the grain was gathered, it was useless. No goodness in the little they could collect, and what there was didn’t last long
because it was soon foul. It went black and disgusting. Inedible.
And a short time later prices started to rise. Food which had cost a penny rose to six, seven, even eight pennies. Just at
the time when Emma needed it most, they found that food was growing too expensive for them to buy. Emma left the city each
day to see what she could collect from the hedges, but thatsoon grew dangerous. Serfs from the vills disputed the rights of folk from the city to take from the countryside, and fights
started. A man was stabbed in the early August of that year, and Emma was punched and hit across the head by a woman from
a farm near Bishop’s Clyst. Estmund knew her; he’d dealt with her when she had a bullock to sell for market. She’d always
been a pleasant, kindly woman, he’d thought.
There was little money coming in from his butchery, either. No money, no food, and Emma needed all she could get. The Church
had helped at first. Alms were available for the needy, and Emma was plainly that, but soon even the Church had realized that
it couldn’t stave off the hunger of a city on its own. And people started to die.
Emma tried to keep herself cheerful, but how can any young mother be hopeful after finding a corpse in the street? And there
were so many. The elderly simply gave up, sat down and seemed to expire, like heifers struck with the poleaxe. One moment
alive, the next dead. And others fell the same way. Children next, their parents last. No one was safe.
She had tried to keep her sanity. Christ’s bones, everyone had. But when all that is to be seen is the dead, anyone’s mind
is affected. Bodies were everywhere. They said that half the city was dead by the end of it, and how can anybody cope with
that? The cemetery couldn’t, so men, women and children were piled higgledy-piggledy in obscene heaps while the cathedral
paid men to act as assistant fossors, digging pits and shoving in all the dead. Only the rats and the worms lived well.
When their child died, a little over thirteen months after the birth, it killed Emma. She died right then, in front of him.
Her body still moved, her mouth opened and shut, but the light that had gleamed from her eyes … Christ Jesus, she had
been so beautiful, it hurt, it hurt so much to think that she was gone!Emma just existed for the next two years. Nothing he did would bring her back. She was his own sweeting. The only woman he
had ever loved, and she was snatched from him so cruelly. Just when he
happened, had it? The Scots had slaughtered the King’s men and sent the few survivors scurrying back. If he’d gone, Est would
have died up there. No one who’d only had a limited experience of fighting with bare fists would have lived to tell the tale.
But he’d stayed, because their lives had already changed. The joy in her face … Emma had sat there, so happy, so content,
as she missed her monthly time in 1313, around the feast of St Andrew, and then started to feel the new life growing in her
womb. So happy. There was so much for them to be pleased about in those days. Except even as she realized that she was carrying
their child, the weather closed in. Rain. Rain for days. Everyone went about complaining, of course, but people always complained
about the weather. Englishmen liked to moan about it all year round. But no one appreciated what
this
weather meant. Sweet Mother of God, how could they? It was rain. In Devonshire they were used to that!
It was not only Devonshire which bore the rain. It was the whole country. Men and women and children watched their crops through
the downpours, and soon after Cissy’s birth in mid-August it was obvious to all that the harvest had failed. And then, when
the grain was gathered, it was useless. No goodness in the little they could collect, and what there was didn’t last long
because it was soon foul. It went black and disgusting. Inedible.
And a short time later prices started to rise. Food which had cost a penny rose to six, seven, even eight pennies. Just at
the time when Emma needed it most, they found that food was growing too expensive for them to buy. Emma left the city each
day to see what she could collect from the hedges, but thatsoon grew dangerous. Serfs from the vills disputed the rights of folk from the city to take from the countryside, and fights
started. A man was stabbed in the early August of that year, and Emma was punched and hit across the head by a woman from
a farm near Bishop’s Clyst. Estmund knew her; he’d dealt with her when she had a bullock to sell for market. She’d always
been a pleasant, kindly woman, he’d thought.
There was little money coming in from his butchery, either. No money, no food, and Emma needed all she could get. The Church
had helped at first. Alms were available for the needy, and Emma was plainly that, but soon even the Church had realized that
it couldn’t stave off the hunger of a city on its own. And people started to die.
Emma tried to keep herself cheerful, but how can any young mother be hopeful after finding a corpse in the street? And there
were so many. The elderly simply gave up, sat down and seemed to expire, like heifers struck with the poleaxe. One moment
alive, the next dead. And others fell the same way. Children next, their parents last. No one was safe.
She had tried to keep her sanity. Christ’s bones, everyone had. But when all that is to be seen is the dead, anyone’s mind
is affected. Bodies were everywhere. They said that half the city was dead by the end of it, and how can anybody cope with
that? The cemetery couldn’t, so men, women and children were piled higgledy-piggledy in obscene heaps while the cathedral
paid men to act as assistant fossors, digging pits and shoving in all the dead. Only the rats and the worms lived well.
When their child died, a little over thirteen months after the birth, it killed Emma. She died right then, in front of him.
Her body still moved, her mouth opened and shut, but the light that had gleamed from her eyes … Christ Jesus, she had
been so beautiful, it hurt, it hurt so much to think that she was gone!Emma just existed for the next two years. Nothing he did would bring her back. She was his own sweeting. The only woman he
had ever loved, and she was snatched from him so cruelly. Just when he
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