‘No?’
‘Of course not! How could you even think that! I had nothing to do with them. Either of them. So, John, we need to get the best pleader we can.’
John stared at him, and there was something unnerving about his gaze. Gregory was aware that the bottler was deliberately intimidating him.
‘Well?’ he said coolly.
‘I will ask Madame Claricia first.’
‘Then do so and hurry up about it! Or you will find you are no longer bottler in this house!’ Gregory snapped.
And then John did an astonishing thing. He stepped up close to Gregory and glared at him. Gregory was forced to retreat under the threat of those fierce eyes.
‘You need to remember that I am the servant of your mother: not you, not Master Henry, not anyone but her. And I will make sure that she is happy with your suggestion before I leave her alone in this house. If you don’t like that, you’d best go and fetch the pleader yourself, master.’
And, shaken, the only thing Gregory could do was nod his agreement.
Exeter Gaol
Sir Charles of Lancaster climbed the ladder with a smile still fixed to his lips, but his mind was racing and filled with anger.
The fool had not achieved anything he had been instructed to do! It had been his place to simply gather in some money to pass to Sir Charles to help support the Dunheved brothers. That was all. But instead, the fool had forgotten his promises and his duty of responsibility to Sir Edward of Caernarfon. He’d got a little money, so he said, but the damned fox-whelp had gone and got himself arrested for murder. Because he had admitted these crimes!
Sir Charles reached the top of the ladder and pulled it up after him, lowering the heavy trap-door to the cell, and tugging the bolts over.
‘You do realise that the success of the whole enterprise depends upon money?’ he had said to Paffard.
The man was already cowering by then. ‘Of course. But what would you have me do?’
‘You should have kept out of gaol until you had paid us!’
‘Can you free me? All you need do is get me home again, and I can present you with the money I have. There is a chest in my house. It’s a large chest, and it contains my store of spare funds. If you take me there, I can pay you.’
‘Where is the key to this store?’
‘Here! I have it here.’
Sir Charles eyed him doubtfully. ‘Where is the chest? Anyone might have taken it.’
‘No, no, it’s safe.’
‘Where?’
Henry Paffard was no fool. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he closed it again. As soon as he gave away the location, he knew that his personal value to Sir Charles would reduce to nothing. Worse than nothing: he became an additional liability, and Sir Charles would not want to leave a stray soul behind when he left.
‘Did you not hear me?’ Sir Charles smiled. He set his hand to his sword and slowly drew it. It gave off a whisper of steel as it came free, and Sir Charles held the tip pointing at Henry’s head. ‘I asked you where it was stored.’
‘In my hall,’ Henry declared and stared at him defiantly. ‘Beside the fireplace there is a wooden chest. Behind that is a door in the wall. The money chest lies inside.’
‘And the key?’
Henry curled his lip. The key was on a thong about his neck, and he slowly pulled it from his chemise and held it up, reaching around with his hands to untie it. But then he rolled and lunged away, trying to escape.
Sir Charles did not hasten. He stepped after Henry, and then stabbed once, leaning his full weight on the blade.
* * *
So now, here he was, with a key bound about his own neck to a chest in a house to which he had no access. All in a city in which he knew he was being hunted.
He closed his eyes and set his jaw. Just for a moment, Sir Charles was exhausted. The last days had worn away at him, and there was a cold certainty building in his heart that no matter what he did, he would not live to see Sir Edward of Caernarfon back on his rightful throne.
Then he snorted deeply, like an old war-horse sniffing fire and blood, and stiffened his back.
He was Sir Charles of Lancaster. He had survived too many battles in England, France, Guyenne and Galicia, to allow one more set-back to throw him.
Opening the door, he walked out as if leaving his own front door, turning and closing it gently behind him as he went, and then looked about him for Ulric.
The boy was a short way down, near the friary on the High Street, and Sir Charles strode over to him.
‘Come, we have to get over to the other side of this city again,’ he said gruffly, and then he suddenly saw a woman in the road before him.
She was dark-haired, wearing a scruffy tunic, her matted hair framing her horrified features.
Even as she began to scream, Sir Charles ran straight at her: she took the full force of his blow in her face, and hurtled backwards into the road.
The screaming had stopped. But in its place there were shouts and bellows, and a horn blew.
‘I think,’ Sir Charles said as he ran, ‘you will need to hurry yourself, friend Ulric, if you want to live to see tomorrow’s morning.’
Paffards’ House
The bottler made his way to his mistress’s room and knocked gently on the door.
When she called out, he entered.
She looked terrible, the poor lass. Hardly surprising after the way things had gone just recently, but still, it was very sad to see her like this.
‘Mistress, your son has asked if I can go to find a pleader. Your husband has changed his story, and now denies his murders.’
She looked at him pretty sharply at that. ‘What do you mean, changed his story? How so?’
‘Apparently Master Gregory spoke to him and it transpired that Master Henry confessed because he thought the felon was your son. Now he’s been told that he’s innocent, he wants to save himself.’
‘It was impressive that he had the desire to try to protect Gregory, if only for a short while,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think he had it in him.’
‘You don’t want me to find a pleader, do you?’ John asked, and there was a faint tone of surprise in his voice.
She smiled sadly and walked to him, placing her hand on his cheek. ‘Dear John. You don’t understand me, do you? You think only of the insults and shame he has brought to me.’
‘All the time,’ John said gruffly.
‘But I still cannot discard him without making an effort to save him. He is my husband, and I owe him the debt of chivalry. After all, I was the daughter of a knight. I understand duty. It is a painful duty, but it is mine. So yes, please, go to the pleader and see how we may have my husband released.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘You never know, John,’ she added. ‘Oftentimes a man can change. He can become reborn – with luck.’
John nodded, but as he closed the door and left the room, he was thinking that the main way he wanted to see Henry Paffard change was with a knife in his belly.
He was almost back at the buttery when he realised that he did not have his keys on his belt.
Chapter Forty-three
Combe Street
William and Philip had been standing there long enough for the shadows to move from almost overhead to point to the east, and William knew that it was at least one hour past midday. The bells were the only way to measure the passage of time generally, but he had always spent time watching the movement of the sun and the play of the shadows, and could tell the hour with great accuracy.
Shadows. That was what his life had become. No work, no money, and now no home either. He was like one of the shuffling tatterdemalions in the streets, the boys and men without homes and no means of supporting themselves. There was that man he had seen before, the old tramp with his cloth bag containing his belongings gripped to his breast, his ragged beard and his constant look of terror making him fearsome rather than fearful. He was a shadowman, always hiding in th
e darker corners, rarely daring to show himself in case he was persecuted, or worse.
William shuddered. Perhaps Philip was right, after all, he thought. Maybe they should just leave Exeter and find themselves new lives elsewhere.
The door to the Paffards’ house opened, and William felt Philip punch his shoulder to warn him. But it wasn’t Gregory who descended the steps.
‘Leave him,’ Philip said.
‘He may know something,’ William hissed. ‘Like, where Gregory is!’
Philip reluctantly agreed, and the two followed John as he crossed Southgate Street and went on up to the Bear Gate of the Cathedral.
William felt hunger gnawing further into his belly. At the bottom of the gate was a stool where an old woman begged, and she held out her hand hopefully as they passed. It made William imagine how he would look in twenty years’ time, if he would be taking her place there at the gate. The beggars here had to pay good money to be able to keep their posts, he knew. He wondered how much.
‘Sir? Sir – John, sir,’ Philip called, and the old bottler turned with an enquiring look in his eye.
‘What?’
‘Master Gregory, sir. We wanted to speak with him. Is he at home?’
John looked over their heads towards the house. ‘Aye, he’s there,’ he said at last, ‘but I don’t think he’ll want to see you.’
‘But he’s ordered us to be evicted,’ William said.
‘Aye. I had heard.’
‘It’s not fair!’ William said hotly.
Philip placed a hand on his forearm. ‘Sir, will he see us if we ask?’
‘No. I’m sorry, boys.’
‘You know,’ Philip said, ‘that his father stole our inheritance? All we want is something to help us start up again. Is that so wrong?’
John bared his teeth in a flash of ferocity so sudden that William couldn’t help but take a step back.
‘Look, boys, you know and I know that Master Henry took your father’s money, business and house – everything. So let’s not beat about the bush for the deer. Send in the hounds. You want to stay in your place? Gregory won’t let you.’
‘His mother said we were a reminder and an embarrassment.’
John gave a twisted grin. ‘She said that? It’s true: Gregory won’t want you hanging around because you’ll remind other people what his family did to you. You understand? A man has to trade on the value of his own word here. You take away his word, and his business will fail. And right quickly, too. You are the constant reminder to any clients that he cannot be trusted. They will think that Master Gregory doesn’t pay his debts even when under oath to the widow of his friends. So he will try to keep you as far from his door as he can – and if that means he has to pay sailors or roughs to beat you up – or even kill you – he’ll do it.’
‘Would he pay us to go?’
John laughed. ‘He’s a rich man. Rich men don’t get to be rich by giving away money. Paying a man to beat you or kill you is one thing; paying you blackmail to go, that is a bad investment. Henry taught his son well.’
‘Then there is nothing we may do,’ Philip said angrily. He rested his hand on his dagger’s hilt.
‘Aye, the world is a cruel, sad place,’ John agreed, ‘when a man can rob another and profit by it. But that is the way of the world now. There is nothing a man can own or enjoy that another cannot take from him.’
He left them then, but didn’t offer them godspeed or good fortune. What was the point? They had lost everything.
Paffards’ House
Sir Charles stood in the alley beside Henry Paffard’s house and listened carefully. It was hard to hear anything over his own stertorous breathing, but Sir Charles was never anything if not cautious.
Ulric he had told to run as fast as he could up to the North Gate, and escape. With his guilty look, he should soon be seen and caught, and since Sir Charles intended to be away from here in short order, when Ulric was caught, his testimony would come too late to help the Watchmen to capture Sir Charles.
Speed was essential if he was to escape, however.
The front door had looked most appealing, but should there be any dispute about his right to enter, he would prefer by far that it should happen in a less public location than the front of the house, where passers-by could all too easily be called upon to come and assist the family. So now he stood and waited a moment or two until his heart had stopped pounding quite so alarmingly, and his ears could still detect no sounds, and only then did he set his hand upon the wooden latch of the gate and test it. The lever lifted, and he pushed ever so gently. Sometimes these rich merchants would have dogs to guard their homes, and he had no desire to be mauled.
There were no hounds present. With relief he opened the gate until a short squeak alerted him to a rusted hinge. He slid through and closed the gate behind him. A small garden area was revealed, with the house on his right. No one was visible there, nor at the outbuildings behind. He gripped the hilt of his dagger and strode towards the rear door, opening it and going inside. There was no need for concealment now. If someone saw him he must silence them as swiftly as he could.
There was a brewery, then a large kitchen, and he hesitated there, hearing two voices.
He chose the route of arrogance. Sheathing his knife again, he stepped into the room, looking about him at the mess and smoke as though disgusted.
‘Who are you?’ the cook demanded.
‘I’m here to see your master,’ he said, ‘but no one is about. Do you know when he will return?’
‘You walked in without the master?’
‘Your bottler let me in, Cook. Do you know when your master is to be back, I said?’
‘No.’
‘Very well,’ he said, and passed through to the hall.
The room was empty, as he had hoped. He saw the chest at the wall, and pulled it away with a single yank on the handle. There was indeed a door set into the wall, sealed with a small padlock. He tugged at the key about his neck, hoping as he did so that there were treasures in here, and not coin. It would be hard to escape with a chest full of heavy coin.
Still, this was not the time to worry about that. He pulled the key’s thong in two, and took the key to the lock. He thrust it in and turned it, and opened the door. It was dark inside, but went back some distance. He reached in and felt about. There was nothing.
He sat back on his heels. The chamber was empty. If once there had been money or treasure or gold, it was gone. Probably because Paffard had been an incompetent businessman, he had frittered it away, or perhaps he had lost the money at gambling. For whatever the reason, the money was gone. And Sir Charles was in trouble.
There came a sound from behind him, and Sir Charles whirled, rising to his feet as he did so and catching sight of a little boy’s startled face. The lad looked like a faun meeting a hunter. They stared at each other for a split moment, and then the boy had turned and was gone, a flash of hosen and green shirt.
‘God’s cods!’ Sir Charles swore viciously, and took off in pursuit.
Southgate Street
Simon could not help but feel that he would be better off spending time with his daughter and grandson than traipsing about the city from gaol to merchant, to church and thence to God knows where. The, murder of the two women was sad, but it mainly served to remind him of the dangers of the city and the risks all took every day.
His musings were interrupted by a growing clamour from Carfoix.
‘What, in Christ’s pain, is that?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ Baldwin said, ‘but it sounds as though the Hue and Cry has someone.’
‘They’re coming down here,’ Sir Richard said. He was standing with his vast legs wide apart, thumbs in his belt. And then he stopped and peered ahead. ‘Can you see who’s being chased?’
It was impossible to make out what was happening. There was a clot of humanity in the road, and carters and tranters were already, shouting furiously at the men to clear the ro
adway.
‘No,’ Baldwin said helplessly, and then he saw a man break away from the crowd to remonstrate with a carter. ‘Hey, you!’ he called to him. ‘Who do you hunt?’
The man with his long staff paused. ‘The man they’re calling Sir Charles of Lancaster. He was up at the East Gate. Punched a woman, and laid her senseless, and ran on down this way. Been running after him ever since!’
‘You’re sure he came down here?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘We haven’t seen him.’
‘He could have taken any of the alleys,’ the man panted.
‘Sir Baldwin, you carry on. I am keen to see that this bastard doesn’t lay a finger on another woman,’ Sir Richard bellowed. ‘I’ll go with this man.’
‘Very good,’ Baldwin said. ‘Edgar, you go with them and see if you can help capture Sir Charles. You should recognise him as fast as I would.’
Edgar nodded and was soon off with Sir Richard and the man, who was a bailiff. There was a roar as Sir Richard approached the gaggle of men milling near the Bear Gate entrance, and then some order was restored.
‘Come, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let us go and speak with the priest.’
Simon nodded, and they continued down the street, but as they came to Combe Street, he spotted Father Laurence. ‘What’s he doing there?’ Simon asked.
Combe Street
There was no sense in protracted arguing. Both brothers sensed that this was the end of their road. There was nothing they could do to recoup their losses. They slowly made their way back to the Paffards’ house, as if drawn by a magnet, and there they stood in the roadway.
Philip could never remember such a confusion of spirit. All his soul was baying for revenge upon Henry Paffard, but the merchant was out of reach in the gaol.
‘Where can we sleep tonight?’ he wondered aloud.
They had no money to pay for board and lodging, and tonight they must leave the streets before the Watch appeared and began to ask difficult questions of them.
William said nothing, but stared at the alley along which their hovel stood.
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