City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  An easy feint, that, he thought, as his blade was thrust up, but again it was blocked, and Sir Charles had an icy conviction that this man would kill him. He was far superior in swordsmanship.

  There was a scream, and then suddenly, four horses were thundering towards them all. Sir Charles stared as Ulric rode straight at him, leading a spare horse by the reins, keeping his own between Sir Charles and the others, while other horses ran wild amongst the men, distracting them alt.

  ‘Good man!’ Sir Charles managed as he slammed his sword into the sheath and hurled himself into the saddle. It took him only a moment. He had been riding and training with horses since he was seven years old. Now he snatched the reins, bending low over the horse’s neck, and raked his prick spurs along the brute’s flanks, feeling the surge of power beneath him. The huge beast seemed to take flight like the bolt from a crossbow, galloping straight off along the lane away from the men. There was one man who stood in their path, but a blow from a hoof sent him crashing into a cart, a great bloody welt on his face. And then the road was clear.

  He spurred and slapped reins to the horse, and saw that there was a corner ahead. He leaned into it with the mount, and at the other side the mud was thrown up in great gouts; splashes hurled at his face, on his lips, and he must wipe them away, concentrating all the while on the surface ahead, avoiding any potholes or branches that could turn his beast’s leg.

  A glance behind. Three men approaching. All riding well, low and eager. Good. They would be easily ambushed, then.

  Ulric was white-faced. He must know that if he was caught by the posse, he would be killed, Sir Charles thought. But it could be that he was scared of the ride. Sir Charles didn’t know how many times Ulric had ridden at full gallop. This might be his first time. A whistle, and he saw a clothyard arrow drop into the road’s hedge. So they had almost the distance, then. Soon he’d be out of their range and their line of sight. A hedge, and he crouched lower, and took it in one explosive leap that felt as though a tub of black powder had gone off beneath them both, and then there was a massive, jarring crash as they hit the ground again, and Sir Charles was turning, wheeling his mount with him, then riding back.

  The first man was over a moment early, and as his beast’s forelegs hit the ground, Sir Charles’s sword was out, and he skewered the rider, his blade ripping through the fellow’s belly; a second man was over, and Sir Charles had little time to recover. He slammed the guard into that man’s face, and he went down, unconscious, thrown to the ground while his horse careered away.

  Then it was the third. This one was a youngster, and in his eyes was the terror of death as he came over the hedge. Sir Charles took hold of his arm as he landed, and ripped him from his saddle, hurling him to the ground. He stabbed the boy in the throat, still holding his arm. He let go as the life left the fellow. He noticed a large red birth mark on the back of his hand. ‘Marked, eh?’ he said with a grin. ‘You were cursed from birth!’ His horse was prancing about, and Sir Charles had to get it under control.

  ‘Ulric?’ he called.

  The boy was sitting in his saddle still, stunned at the sudden battle, panting, his eyes as wild and anxious as his beast’s. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get that man’s shirt and jack off,’ Sir Charles snapped as an idea came to him.

  It was bold and dangerous, both of which made it appealing, and he smiled as Ulric set to work.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Paffards’ House

  Claricia Paffard watched her youngest son, little Thomas, as he entered the hall. Gregory was in the passageway and, on seeing him, the boy ran over to her and hid behind her.

  ‘Gregory!’ Claricia called. ‘What on earth have you done to upset him?’

  ‘Me? Nothing. It must be Father,’ Gregory said. ‘What is it, Thomas? Are you worried?’

  Thomas said nothing, but clung to Claricia; she could feel him trembling. She looked from one to the other.

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ Gregory said. Then he burst out: ‘Mother, we must plan for the worst. I still do not understand what Father thought he was doing when he confessed, but the business is already suffering. I’ve had several notes from other merchants telling me that they don’t want to have any more trade with us. I fear that the—’

  ‘Gregory! You are the head of the house now. It is your part to resolve these problems,’ she said sternly.

  ‘Mother, I—’

  ‘You have never enjoyed the work. Well, that is your fault and your shame. Your father created this business from nothing. He has a reputation of being the best pewterer this side of Bristol, but you never tried to emulate him. Now you can at least try to win back a little of the respect of the people of this city.’

  ‘How should I set about it?’

  ‘If you are so feeble-witted, speak with your sister. She at least has a good mind for the business,’ Claricia snapped.

  Gregory stared at her for a short while before spinning on his heel and storming from the room. She could hear him as he stamped up the stairs.

  ‘And what of you, little man?’ she sighed, turning to Thomas. ‘Are you so upset because your father is in prison, or because your brother now holds all our lives in his hands? It is a fearsome thing, is it not?’

  She could weep, if it were not for the jubilation that would keep leaping through her frame at the thought that Henry was in prison. He could no longer shame her or hurt her, while he was safely shut up there.

  Thomas gave her a great hug, his small arms about her shoulders, and then he hurried from the room, and Claricia heard the front door slam behind him.

  There were steps a moment or two later, and John appeared.

  ‘John, wait. It was only Thomas. He has gone into the street to play.’

  ‘Will he be safe?’

  ‘At this time of day, I think even I would be safe out there,’ Claricia sighed.

  John went to the sideboard and poured her a little watered wine, which he passed to her, but she did not sip. Instead she sat staring reflectively into the fire.

  ‘Mistress? Do you want some food?’

  ‘I am not hungry. I am just tired. So, very tired.’

  ‘He has not been a good master to you,’ John muttered.

  ‘He was a foul womaniser and I do not regret his imprisonment,’ she said with venom.

  ‘It was his lack of respect I found so troubling.’

  ‘He had none for me. Not even when I was with child.’ She wept.

  ‘I know,’ John said quietly.

  When she was young, she had been so pretty. Much like her daughter Agatha now. John had been steward to her father, Sir Geoffrey of Uplyme, and when the master’s wife died soon after the birth of their second daughter, John had been given the care of both children. He had hired the wetnurse and drynurse, as well as having charge of the hall itself, and some responsibility for the lands about.

  It had been a marvellous time. John had enjoyed all his years there. His master was often away, and that meant that John had the pleasure of the children and could manage the estates as he saw fit without interference or interruption. Being in such constant control did lead to some friction when Sir Geoffrey returned, of course. John almost resented the way that the master would look through all his decisions and question some of them. But the feeling soon left him as he returned to the girls.

  Claricia’s sister died, sadly, when quite young, falling from a horse. The brute broke his leg in a rabbit-hole, and she was thrown, landing on her head. Death was instant. John, who had been there on her first day, carried her home on her last. He had mourned her deeply, and even Sir Geoffrey had commented on his devotion, but to John it had felt as if he had lost his own daughter.

  When Sir Geoffrey had died during the battle at Roslin, it was natural that Claricia should marry. And Henry Paffard had then appeared a good, solid foundation for a family. Not too old, an apprentice with a good trade, and there was a certain thrill about marrying a man who was not a mem
ber of the knightly class. She knew no one else who had done so. But then she knew so few others who had no money, no parents, no brother to help look after her.

  ‘Thomas is troubled,’ she said.

  ‘Mistress, there are some things you may not be aware of,’ John said.

  ‘About Thomas?’

  ‘No, about your husband,’ John said. ‘You see, he had been sponsoring rebels.’

  Venn Ottery

  The men who trotted up a short while later were peasants from Sir Baldwin’s posse, Sir Charles saw with pleasure. They had a cart, on which one body already reposed, and now they were looking for others.

  ‘Go on, boy,’ he urged.

  He and Ulric had stripped the man whom Sir Charles had clubbed, and the loose-fitting chemise and hosen were a good fit. On his head he wore a cowl and hood to conceal his features. His own clothes they had draped over the moaning body, and then Sir Charles took a rock from the hedge and beat at the head until the dying man was unrecognisable. It took some while, and Ulric had stood away while Sir Charles worked, his face drawn with distaste.

  ‘Get them,’ Sir Charles said, pushing the lad on.

  ‘Over here!’ Ulric said, waving.

  The two men from the posse clambered from their horses and thrust themselves through the ruined hedge. ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ one said.

  ‘They lay in wait for us,’ Sir Charles said.

  This was the moment he had feared. A posse was formed usually of those from a near vicinity, and usually could know each other well, but he was hoping that such a large group as this would contain men from all over Exeter. He and Ulric were wearing other men’s clothes, and he hoped that all the posse members would be so tired after their day that they wouldn’t care to notice who else was with them. It was still a risk though, and he held his hand on his belt, near his dagger, while the two men glanced at the bodies.

  ‘Ah, well, best get them loaded,’ one said.

  Sir Charles glanced back at the men further up the lane. ‘Why don’t you go back and tell them to get started?’ he said to the other. ‘There’s no point them waiting for us. We’ll soon be done here, anyway.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. He pushed back through the hedge and was soon mounted and trotting back to the rest of the posse.

  Sir Charles breathed a sigh of relief. That meant that they could dawdle along behind the others, and with luck escape detection. He bent and helped the other man carry the bodies to the cart. There they hefted them up on the back, Ulric standing on the cart itself to receive them and to heave them into position.

  ‘For a knight, he did a lot of work,’ the posse man noted, glancing at the fingers of the man clad in Sir Charles’s tunic. They were black and grimy, homy as a dog’s pad.

  Sir Charles said nothing, but when he had a moment, he thrust his own hands into a muddy pool to simulate a peasant’s.

  When all was done, they gathered up the horses and set off after the rest of the posse. They were none of them in a hurry. Sir Charles pulled the hood over his face and rode with his head down, like a man exhausted after his labours.

  They would follow the others into Exeter, and speak with the merchant Paffard about money for Sir Edward. And then he would find out what he could about Sir Baldwin and that fat fool Sir Richard. He had a burning urge to see them both suffer for their theft of his treasure.

  Marsilles’ House

  William was at home, sipping cold pottage left over from the day before when Philip entered that evening.

  ‘Where have you been?’ William asked grumpily.

  ‘Watching the murderer of the girl Alice,’ Philip said with cold passion. ‘And probably the killer of our mother.’

  William put his bowl down on the table. ‘What are you talking about? They were killed by Paffard – we know that already – and he’s held in the gaol.’

  ‘What if he isn’t guilty?’ Philip said.

  William eyed his older brother with a wary disdain. ‘You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Have you spent what little money you had?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘When you know I have nothing?’ William grated.

  Philip gave a gasp of exasperation. Reaching into his purse, he brought out four pennies. ‘Here’s half for you, if you’re so desperate!’

  William took them and stared at them. With one or two of these, their mother’s final days would have been easier.

  ‘I was going to join the posse this morning. They refused me.’

  William asked pointedly, ‘You’ve done something stupid, haven’t you?’

  ‘I met with Father Laurence and spoke with him.’

  ‘The vicar who ran away? Where was he?’

  ‘Out in the street here. And you know what I learned?’ Philip ran a hand through his hair. ‘I think he is guilty of the “old sin”.’

  ‘You do realise I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about?’

  ‘I think he is a sodomite. And so is our neighbour Gregory.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you understand anything, Will?’ Philip said, disdain rasping his voice. ‘You know the penalty for a sodomite: death. So in order to protect his son, Henry Paffard was prepared to do anything. Perhaps that’s why he killed Mother – to keep her silent so Gregory would be safe.’

  ‘In that case our mother’s killer is in gaol and will pay for it. Thank God for that.’

  ‘And meanwhile his son will run our lives and can throw us from our home at any time.’

  William looked about him at their meagre possessions. ‘We can find another place, Phil.’

  ‘And the man who now has power over our lives is a sodomite, Will. Think of it! A sodomite who was responsible for our mother’s death and who could destroy us as well! Are you really prepared to allow him to ruin us?’

  ‘Look at us, Phil: we’re already ruined. There is little enough he can do to us, is there? Let’s just get out of here.’

  Philip sat down in a seat, and said no more. But inwardly, he seethed. If William thought he was going to lie down, roll over and forget that their neighbour and landlord had ruined their lives, he couldn’t be more wrong. Philip would find some way to bring justice to that shit Gregory Paffard and the priest.

  Exeter

  It was a mournful group that rode back to Exeter that evening. The carts with the belongings of the Bishop would no doubt be gratefully received at the Cathedral, but the mood of the crowds at the East Gate was sombre when the bodies on the carts became visible. There were so many!

  Baldwin and Simon had gathered together all their own wounded, and these were arranged in the carts, the dead tied to any available horses. Sir James’s body itself was at the head of the column as it reached the city, led by his herald, and as they passed under the gate, there was a shocked silence. Even hawkers and beggars were stilled as they turned up the castle street towards Rougemont.

  Baldwin and Sir Richard rode up the harrow way, but as Baldwin saw Simon, he told him, ‘You go to Edith, old friend. One of us at least should try to have a pleasant evening. Our time will be taken up with seeing to all these men.’

  ‘I’ll find a barber for you, and send him to the castle for the wounded,’ Simon said immediately. With all the arrow-wounds, they would have need of a good surgeon.

  ‘A good idea,’ Sir Richard said, his usual strident tones quite muted.

  ‘Are you quite well, Sir Richard?’ Baldwin asked, not for the first time on their ride homeward.

  ‘Yes. I think so,’ he replied. It had been a hard day. He had killed two men in the fighting, and it was a sobering experience, as always, to take life. But there was more to it than that. ‘You know, I had an intense rage against that fellow,’ he said. ‘It was as though he was the man who killed my wife, and that today I had a chance again to visit punishment upon him.’

  ‘Perhaps this will allow you to rest, and to leave her to rest,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I think not. The memory of
my wife will always be with me, I hope,’ Sir Richard said quietly, pain apparent in his voice.

  Baldwin nodded, but he could not understand. This strange, complicated man, with his enormous appetites for drink and food, was yet still so devoted to the memory of his wife. And it only added to Baldwin’s affection for him. After all, as he told himself, he was scarcely less complex himself.

  ‘Open the gates. Your Sheriff is here!’ he bellowed at the castle. And slowly the great gate began to creak wide.

  Baldwin rode inside, the line of carts following him, their wheels thundering over the drawbridge. He dismounted, watching the last of them entering the East Gate, and the last few members of the posse, plainly nothing loath, broke away at the bottom there, and trotted off along the High Street.

  Inside, he remained on his rounsey with Wolf, and he noticed that Sir Richard had dropped from his horse and gone over to a woman in tatty clothing, her dark hair matted. That, Baldwin assumed, must be Amflusia, the woman he rescued from Sir Charles yesterday.

  There were many carts. Those holding chests and trinkets that Sir Charles’s band had stolen from the Bishop and others were segregated in a corner nearer the gate, and as soon as they all were parked, there began the foul task of unloading all the dead and arraying them on the ground, in order that they might be identified. There would need to be an inquest over all these poor souls, he told himself, even as his eyes took in the sight of Sir Charles’s body.

  ‘Dear God, what happened to his face?’ he breathed horrified. The man had been beaten so violently that his nose was crushed, his jaw smashed. Even his own brother would not recognise him in that state.