City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  There was a lantern nearby, and caught in its baleful gleam, he saw the alley as a series of little scenes. There was the sobbing boy, being hugged close by a woman, two pigs behind him, a man with a stick keeping them in their makeshift pen in the corner of the alley. There were two bailiffs, both ashen-faced, there were neighbours gathered to help as they might – and then there was Juliana.

  She lay on her back, and at her throat there was a gaping maw, where a knife or sword had slashed. Blood had splashed all down her breast and skirts, and made them slick and foul. But the worst thing was her face. She had been rendered almost unrecognisable.

  Baldwin approached her with a frown of concentration. Death held no fear for him. He had seen too many bodies in his life. As a young man he had joined the warrior pilgrims who set off for the Kingdom of Jerusalem to try to protect the last city, Acre, from the enemy’s swords. There he had seen people slowly die from starvation and disease, or Mamluke weapons. Since returning to England and becoming Keeper of the King’s Peace, he had viewed many corpses, and had witnessed judicial executions, as well as killing men himself. But even for him, this was a sight that shocked.

  Juliana’s murderer had hacked at her face as though in a frenzy. Her left eye was ruined with one stab, while another raked down her right cheek. But it was her mouth that made Baldwin stop short. Both lips had been cut away. One was missing, probably lying in the alley’s mud and filth, while the lower lip hung, revolting, over her cheek. It was one of the worst cases of mutilation he had ever seen.

  Simon was leaning one hand against the wall, head low as though he was about to throw up. Baldwin motioned to Edgar to take him away. It was bad enough here without Simon adding to the stench. When Simon had gone, Baldwin spoke to the man by the body.

  ‘Bailiff,’ he said, ‘I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace.’

  ‘I know you, sir. I’m glad you’re here.’ The man was thick-necked and built like an ox, but at the sight of the body his voice had thickened, and there was a break in his tone.

  ‘You must ensure that all the neighbours are collected. Has anybody sent in search of the killer?’

  ‘There are men all over the alleys here.’

  ‘The alley only has two entrances? Has no one seen a man about here?’

  Sir Richard was staring down at the body. ‘This is Mistress Juliana, isn’t it?’ he interrupted. ‘I recognise her clothes.’

  ‘I believe so,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘This boy came up from the city wall,’ the woman comforting him said. ‘He said he was following his pigs when he heard her scream.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Baldwin said, crouching before the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

  The boy was shivering, his face grey, but he swallowed and nodded. ‘I’m Rab. I was watching my master’s hogs, and she screamed. I didn’t want to come here, but the hogs went off and found her. I couldn’t leave them—’

  Baldwin held up a hand as the boy’s voice became higher and more strained. ‘Calm yourself. You were down by the wall then, and came up here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the killer must have headed back to Combe Street,’ Baldwin decided.

  ‘He may not have had much blood on him,’ Sir Richard observed. ‘If he got her in front of him, and slashed with a knife while pushing her away, the blood would have mostly missed him. He might have walked the streets and no one realise.’

  ‘It all depends upon who was in the street at the time the first scream was heard,’ Baldwin said. He looked up, past Sir Richard, and saw William and Philip Marsille approaching. Grabbing at Sir Richard, he said urgently, ‘Stop them! For God’s sake, don’t let them—’

  But it was too late. Baldwin saw their faces freeze in horror. Philip’s expression became fixed and yellowish, until he looked like a corpse himself; William’s reddened until Baldwin feared he might suffer an attack of choler and fall, but then the boy’s face went absolutely white, and he tottered. Edgar caught him before he could fall, but then, as the people around the body and the bailiffs drew together to hide the remains of their mother from them, William happened to glance behind him.

  ‘You did this! You killed her, you murdering bastard!’ he bellowed at Paffard.

  Baldwin ran to William before he could struggle free. Edgar had him by the shoulder, but before Baldwin could reach them, William had punched Edgar in the side of the face and was already yanking his arm away. Behind him, the sight that had enraged him were Henry and Gregory Paffard, Father Paul at their side, and even as Baldwin caught sight of them, he realised William had drawn his knife.

  There was a short jerking motion from Edgar, a blow to the side of William’s head, just above his ear, and William crumpled to the ground. Edgar shot a look at Baldwin, then at Philip, as though daring Philip to try a similar attack, but Philip took one look at the grimly smiling man-at-arms and decided against it.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I think we should fetch Master William home,’ Edgar said calmly.

  Baldwin nodded. Simon was up and recovered, his back to the body of Juliana, glowering at the Paffards himself. ‘You do that, Edgar. Hugh will help you. Simon, Sir Richard and I will speak to the Paffards.’

  Paffards’ House

  It was good to stand near Henry’s fire after the chill of the alley and feel the warmth seeping into his hands, Baldwin thought. His skin was growing thinner as he aged. He was falling apart, he told himself without bitterness.

  It was natural. He was well into his fifties: his muscles ached after even moderate exercise, his right ear was grown deaf, and he could not stay awake through the night as once he had been able to. His body was giving up its strength. Yes, it was natural that a man his age should begin to show signs of decrepitude. Father Paul stood near him, holding his hands to the fire, and Baldwin eyed him curiously for a moment before turning to the master of the house.

  ‘Master Henry, it would seem that William believes you must have had a hand in the murder of his mother. I shall speak with him later, but for now, is there anything you would like to tell us?’

  ‘It’s nonsense! How could anybody believe that? I am a merchant in the Freedom of the City, not a cut-throat.’

  ‘Why then should William Marsille make such an accusation?’

  ‘Because he’s a fool!’

  ‘It is one thing to be a fool, and another to make scurrilous accusations, Master Paffard,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘It’s because he hates us. That’s why,’ Gregory said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Father told them that he’d see them thrown into the glitter,’ Gregory said.

  Baldwin eyed the fellow. Gregory looked intelligent, but he was restless. His gaze moved on, away from Baldwin and on to the fire, then to his father, to Sir Richard, to the jug on the sideboard – it was as though he found it difficult to maintain his concentration. Or was it a sign of guilt?

  ‘Do you own their house?’ Baldwin asked Henry.

  ‘Yes – and I want them out. Those boys think the world owes them a living,’ Henry said. ‘Well, I don’t. I want my property back so I can give it to someone who’ll pay the rent. They haven’t paid for weeks.’

  ‘So you have told them they will lose their home,’ Baldwin said. ‘What else? They wouldn’t accuse you of murdering their mother just because of that. And you wouldn’t suddenly threaten them with eviction after weeks of no rent without some other motive.’

  ‘They’ve been upsetting people,’ Henry Paffard said. ‘I told them they must leave the house because they have broken the peace. It is my duty as a responsible landlord to keep the peace between people living here.’

  ‘That is still no reason to say that you killed their mother, Master Paffard. So what is the reason for that?’ Baldwin insisted.

  ‘Their mother came here earlier. She wanted me to go tonight to see her in that alley.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. How could I?’ Henry demanded. Some of hi
s old arrogance was already returning. ‘The woman was lunatic.’

  ‘Because she thought you guilty of murder?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. ‘All around here say how well you treated your maid.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gregory sneered. ‘Everyone is so impressed with my father. He was so generous, so kind to that maid.’

  ‘Quiet, Gregory,’ his father threatened. ‘You don’t know… You don’t understand.’

  ‘You allowed her to use your front door,’ Baldwin said. ‘That means she was more than just a maid to you.’

  ‘She had been here many years. She’d earned the right,’ Henry retorted.

  Baldwin eyed him for a long moment. The man’s manner intrigued him. He was waspish and arrogant, but there was another tone to his voice that spoke of some kind of internal conflict. He was a man to watch, Baldwin decided.

  ‘They’re jealous,’ Gregory said. ‘It rankles that they have to depend on us, while they think that they ought to be in here instead of us.’

  ‘Why would the Marsilles think that?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Their father Nicholas was a friend of my father. After he died, his investments and properties had nothing behind them, he owed so much money. My father has been forced to protect them. That is why they infest that house. It’s a matter of charity. We have looked after them with care, but we can’t carry on if they offend all their neighbours.’

  ‘That is why they hate you, and your family?’ Baldwin said, looking at Henry.

  ‘Yes. They would pass around any scandalous lies to upset me.’

  ‘And in so doing, guarantee that they would lose their home? It makes little rational sense to me,’ Baldwin noted.

  ‘You saw them!’ Gregory said spitefully. ‘They aren’t rational. All the bad luck they attract, they blame on us.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Marsilles’ House

  It was pitch dark outside now, and without a moon-curser in sight, Baldwin stumbled as they made their way to the Marsilles’ home. Simon had to catch his arm.

  Simon was still feeling embarrassed about his reaction to the body in the alley. He had thought he had grown accustomed to such sights, but the first glimpse of her face had sent his belly reeling, and the ales he had drunk in the Cock Inn had fought for release.

  The entrance to the little house where the Marsilles lived was further up Combe Street, past the alley in which Alice had been discovered, and up the next. Along this squalid little way they went, until they came to a dog-leg, and it was just past this that Simon realised they had been walking along one of the walls of the Marsilles’ place.

  ‘God’s cods,’ he muttered as he looked at it. ‘I wouldn’t keep my cattle in a shed like that.’

  It was no more than a lean-to, built against the side of a more substantial building, and as Simon looked at it, he could see holes where the rotten planks of wood had decayed. There were patches of cob where someone had tried to fill in the worst of the holes in a vain attempt to stave off the elements. The roof of shingles was black and he suspected that it held many gaps between.

  In the dog-leg, the alley formed a natural courtyard, and as well as the Marsilles’ door, he saw two more in the adjacent wall as the door opened and Edgar let them inside.

  William Marsille was sitting on a table, holding a cool, damp towel to his head, wincing, while his brother stood next to him, glowering at Edgar. Hugh stood behind him at the wall, wearing his customary frown.

  Simon walked in and glanced about him with interest.

  The chamber was small. There was scarcely enough space in it for a few men to stand; it was perhaps fifteen feet by six or seven, no more. The fire was a small heap of embers in a hearth, and the chestnut shingles must have been adequate to allow the smoke to leach out, because there was no chimney, nor even a louvre. To one side of the fire was a table, with three chairs about it, all good quality and entirely out of place with this chamber. There was a good iron-strapped chest, too, such as a merchant would use for his money, and a sideboard took up much of the outer wall. It must have formed a partial barrier to the cold, he thought. A ladder rose to the eaves, in which a series of loose boards had been laid, and up there Simon could see the palliasse on which the entire family slept. It was a miserable hovel, yet with furniture that would not have looked out of place in the Guild Hall, he thought.

  ‘How is your head?’ Baldwin asked.

  His voice drew Simon back to the present, and he studied the boys. The older one, Philip, was a nervy youth who, in Simon’s opinion, needed a damn good thrashing to wake up his ideas. William, on the other hand, even with his injury, was clearly a more mature individual, for all that he looked two years younger at about sixteen.

  ‘I’m still alive. But if I keel over in a year and a day, I trust you will bring your servant to trial on my behalf,’ he sneered weakly.

  ‘You were about to attack a man. We could not allow that, no matter what the provocation.’

  ‘I had intense provocation. He killed my mother.’

  ‘Who did?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Henry Paffard.’

  ‘Did you see him?’ Sir Richard demanded. He had walked to the table and now sat, forearms resting on the tabletop.

  ‘If I’d seen him, I’d have killed him,’ William said. Wolf had wandered to his side, and now sat, looking up at him hopefully. He put a hand on the dog’s head and stroked him.

  ‘So it is only supposition?’ Baldwin said. ‘But he had already told you that you would have to leave this place?’

  William looked up and about him with a wry grimace. ‘Hardly a great threat, would you say? Yes, he sent his bottler, and said that he would see us all thrown into the street because of a tiny squabble between Emma de Coyntes and Mother.’

  ‘What was your mother doing in the alley?’ Sir Richard asked.

  ‘Seeing Henry. She said that she knew something,’ William told him. ‘She said that it was to do with Gregory, and that Henry wouldn’t want it bruited about.’

  ‘What was it?’ Sir Richard demanded.

  ‘I don’t know,’ William said. ‘She didn’t tell us.’

  At his side, Philip’s head drooped. He was still deeply in shock, from the expression on his face, and Simon wondered how he himself would have responded, had he seen his own mother slain and mutilated in an alley. Not well, he concluded.

  ‘So, could your mother have witnessed Alice being slain, do you think?’ Baldwin asked. He was thinking of the tall priest again, wondering whether Laurence could have been there. It would have explained Juliana’s reticence to talk about Alice’s death, if the perpetrator was a priest.

  ‘No. She would have said if she had… But she had been out when Alice was killed, so Henry might have thought she saw him do it,’ William said.

  ‘Or Gregory, if your story is correct,’ Baldwin pointed out.

  ‘Or, she saw nothing,’ Sir Richard summarised. ‘I think you are lucky you didn’t get close to the merchant, boy. You could have injured him, and ended on the gallows tree. You have nothing to prove he killed your mother or his maid. There is no witness, no evidence, nothing.’

  ‘Someone must know what she knew,’ Philip said. ‘Another maid, or a woman around here. They all gossip among themselves.’

  Simon nodded and cast a look at Baldwin. The latter was watching Philip closely with that intensity Simon recognised so well.

  ‘We can ask and find out,’ William said. ‘I will speak to all the women and see what they know.’

  ‘You will leave them well alone,’ Sir Richard growled in response. ‘You almost landed yourself in very deep water tonight. Your mother is dead. You must concentrate on arranging her funeral and inquest, rather than trying to bring more mischief on yourself and your family.’

  ‘Sir Richard is quite right,’ Baldwin said, more gently to the two bereaved youths. ‘You should avoid anything to do with the Paffard family. If Henry Paffard is hurt o
r injured in the next weeks, everybody will assume it was one of you. There is nothing you can do to escape the fact that all in this street know your feelings about Henry and his son. It is a shame your mother did not confide in you. Could it have been Gregory’s affection for the maid, do you think?’

  Philip suddenly looked up, his eyes narrowed. ‘Gregory?’

  ‘We were told that he was a wastrel and had an affection for the maid.’

  ‘Not him. It was his father. That man thinks he can use any woman in his house,’ Philip muttered.

  ‘My brother was in love with Alice,’ William explained. ‘He offered her his hand, but she told him she was happier with her rich merchant. With Henry.’

  Baldwin gave a grunt of understanding. ‘I see.’

  ‘We won’t be here long anyway, if they have their way,’ William added.

  He looked as though he had come to the end of his self-control and was about to burst into tears, Simon thought. He had an instinctive sympathy for the fellow. Glancing at Baldwin, he said, ‘We will not allow that in the immediate future.’

  ‘How can you stop him?’ William demanded hoarsely. ‘This is his house, and the only things we own are these pieces of furniture we managed to salvage. That bastard can have us thrown out tonight, if he wants.’

  ‘If he wishes to make the Cathedral angry, he can try. We are here because we have been asked to come by the Precentor, and if Henry Paffard tries to evict you, he will incur my wrath also. I will personally visit him and have him change his mind,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, I will ask the Precentor to threaten excommunication.’

  ‘You don’t have the authority to promise that,’ Philip said ungraciously. ‘You are a knight. A secular knight doesn’t have the power to demand things like that of the Church.’

  ‘Once I was a monk, and I travelled to the Kingdom of Jerusalem before you were born,’ Baldwin growled. ‘I was a fighting pilgrim in the Holy Land, and I have more authority in this than you can know. And besides,’ he added, drawing his sword and setting it on the table where the peacock-blue metal gleamed wickedly in the candle-light, ‘I can back up promises with steel, when necessary.’