‘It’s me, old man. Let me out. I have to see Betsy, and keep quiet about me being here.’
‘Jordan?’ The bolts were shot back and the door opened to display one suspicious eye. It widened as it took in Jordan’s bloodied clothing. ‘Master, you’re dying!’
‘Don’t be a fool all your life, old man! Do you have spare linen I can take?’ Jordan snapped. He pulled off the tattered remains of his shirt and studied it dispassionately. It was ruined, and he tore it up into strips. His belly was a mess. He could see that. In the light, he saw that the blade had jabbed upwards from beside his belly button, a four-inch gash that had miraculously not penetrated his lungs or touched his heart.
He quickly bound his wound with the strips of linen, and then took the old man’s only spare shirt. It was foul and small, but it would have to do. It was too cool out in the open for him to do without a shirt of some sort. He only regretted that he had not grabbed a cotte when he had been at home, but that stupid bitch, the stupid, treacherous bitch Mazeline had screamed so loudly and suddenly that he’d had no choice. He’d had to go.
Where was Jane? He couldn’t leave the city without his little sweeting. He must find her too. He turned and almost bolted back the way he had come, but then he saw the flaring of lights in the road: men with torches. There was a horn-call from a few short alleys away. His pursuers were all over the place; he could never reach Jane and bring her back here to safety … he must escape for now, and return later to fetch her. At the same time he could cut the throat of his wife and that other traitor, Reginald. They’d both pay for their behaviour tonight.
‘Did you hear about the other whore? A second’s been killed, so they say. Not just Anne now, but another,’ the porter said, eyeing his wound with a speculative expression as though assessing how long Jordan could live.
‘I heard. I’m off there now to see if I can discover her murderer.’
‘How did you get that?’
‘A footpad just now.’ Jordan laughed. ‘It’s nothing, but he’ll never attack another man!’
‘Good, Master Jordan.’
The wicket gate was opened, and he slipped through and started off towards the brothel. Later he’d get Jane somehow.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The first thing Ralph realized as he reached the South Gate was that he had no sword at his hip.
It was strange, to be sure, that he had set off tonight with the firm intention of saving lives if he could, and yet here he was equally determined to end one. He was on the trail of a dreadful, notorious felon, and he had no sword or even a simple dagger with which to catch him. It was quite foolish. If they were to find the man, he could kill them both.
The knight had no such concerns. Sir Peregrine was driven by a chill desire for revenge. He would see Jordan’s death tonight, as soon as possible. The man was evil, as dangerous as a dog with the rage, and he would destroy him in the same way he would slaughter a rabid dog.
In his mind he saw Juliana cuddling her two children, the blood slowly seeping from her wound and pooling on the floor. The sight was unutterably poignant. At least, thank God, the priest had reached her. ‘God! Why take her? Why?’ he burst out desperately.
There was no possibility of her living. Sir Peregrine had seen too many mortal wounds to think that she could survive this. She would be dead when he returned. Jordan had killed her: that was the thought uppermost in his mind. The vicious, evil … to kill a perfect woman like Juliana … it made Sir Peregrine feel drained, as though he had lost all his energy. Helpless, as feeble as an infant. He wanted to rage, to scream at the clouds at the injustice, the unfairness, but all he could do was sob.
Ralph had been watching him, and now he asked whether Sir Peregrine was feeling up to the chase.
‘I shall kill him,’ Sir Peregrine swore, and with those words he reached up to hammer on the door.
‘Let me. There is a signal.’
Sir Peregrine watched as he tapped three times loudly, then twice more quietly. There was a muttering and complaining from inside, and then the door was opened a crack.
‘Master Porter?’ Ralph said, speaking quietly. ‘I wish to get to the brothel. Could you open the gate for me?’
‘There’re enough already. It’s late. They probably won’t let you in anyway. Go home to your bed and leave me to go to mine!’ the surly old man grumbled.
Behind him Ralph heard steel ring and then the knight’s sword was thrust past him through the door’s gap.
‘Open now,’ Sir Peregrine rasped unnecessarily. The porter had already fallen back with a cry of shock.
‘What do you want with me?’ the fellow whined when they were in his parlour. He had his hands clasped as though in supplication, but Sir Peregrine was in no mood to listen and ease his mind.
‘Jordan le Bolle. Has he been here tonight?’
The porter shifted uneasily. ‘Who?’
The sword’s point rose and touched his throat. ‘He has …’ Sir Peregrine coughed to smother the sob that stood poised in his breast. Angrily he pressed the point forward, forcing the porter back to the wall. ‘He has murdered three at least, and now a fourth,’ he hissed. ‘If you wish to protect him, say so. He killed Daniel Austyn, and now Daniel’s wife is dying because of him.’
Ralph could see that this was not a crime that would overly perturb the porter. ‘It was Jordan who cut Anne and made her commit suicide, and he killed a girl this morning, too,’ he snapped. ‘You remember them? Do you want to protect him now?’
‘It was him did Anne and Mags?’ the porter said, and he paled. Then his expression hardened. ‘That bastard! He said he was avenging her! He’s gone to the brothel again. You’ll catch him soon enough. He’s not in a hurry. Said a footpad had caught him, gave him a big wound in his belly.’
Without waiting to hear more, the two men ran through the wicket as he opened it.
Above them the stars were bright spots in the deep purple sky. A pair of silken clouds floated past slowly, and in the pale light all appeared silver and shining, as though the soil itself was made of steel. Puddles glimmered like pools of quicksilver, but Ralph paid them no attention. He hurried on, ignoring the pain that started in his belly and grew to a stitch in his side. All he knew was that Jordan was trying to return to the brothel where he had already killed.
The building rose up before them in the gloom, and Ralph had to slow to catch his breath. There was no sign of their quarry, and he peered about him with a sudden alarm. It was so quiet and peaceful, it was hard to believe that anyone could be here, and yet Jordan was, somewhere.
Sir Peregrine was gripped by the same conviction. The man was somewhere nearby, and they both needed to tread carefully. He had shown himself a capable, astute fighter, more than competent at killing even a strong, powerful fellow like Daniel. They had to be cautious.
And then Ralph heard the scream, and it felt like a bolt lancing through his head.
‘Betsy!’
Baldwin and Simon hammered on the door and roared to Reginald to open it. There was no response for some while, and then it burst open. Reginald was in the doorway, pale, shaking with the reaction. ‘Thank God! Thank God!’
‘Where is he?’ Simon demanded.
‘He came here, and tried to break in — but he left a few minutes ago, I think. There’s been no sign of him. He was bashing at the door to knock it down,’ Reg explained as he led the way through the house. He took them to the rear chamber, and pointed at the secret door. It still had the cupboard pushed in front of it. ‘I put that there to stop him getting in.’
‘Mistress,’ Baldwin said. ‘It seems you are everywhere; whenever I arrive, you are there already today!’
Simon hadn’t noticed her sitting on a stool by the door wrapped in a blanket. She lifted her chin, ignoring his sarcasm. ‘My husband didn’t get in. He tried, but we didn’t let him.’