City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Rowdy?’ Simon repeated, gazing about him at the men.

  The two men at the front of the crowd were rousing the worst elements into a frenzy of hatred towards the Paffard family.

  ‘Look what they did to me!’

  The ragged slashes inflicted by John were displayed to increasing anger amongst the people there.

  ‘Come along, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Richard boomed fussily. He pushed his way onwards, and the others followed in his wake like small boats trailing behind a ship. The people parted for them, until they were in the front. And Sir Richard did not hesitate, but carried on up the steps to the door. ‘You fellows know who lives here? Aye, I thought you did. He is dead. He was killed this afternoon. All there are in here are the womenfolk of the house, and the children. Are you all bold enough to make war on women and children? Come, now. Disperse before the Watch is called to you.’

  ‘We want them out, and then we’ll fire their house!’ the man with the cut arm yelled.

  Sir Richard cast an eye over him. ‘Edgar, do you think you could silence him?’

  Edgar nodded and moved off while the man continued haranguing the crowds. Simon watched him uneasily, while the two knights moved together slightly. Wolf was with Baldwin, his hackles rising.

  There was a roar from the people, and the man before them raised his injured arm again with a fierce yell. He pointed at the house. ‘So, let’s get at them!’ he screamed, but as he turned to rush the house, he found himself staring into Edgar’s smiling face.

  The man raised his fist to punch Edgar, but Edgar was a trained fighter. The punch he landed on the man’s chin hurled him backwards a yard. He looked bewildered at the force of the blow, and shook his head like a drunk trying to clear the wool from his wits, while two others supported him, and then he was about to lunge at Edgar when there was a sudden lull.

  Simon turned to see that the front door had opened. In it stood Claricia Paffard. She was clad in a white linen tunic that made her look otherworldly in the light of the torches, almost like an angel. At her side was Thomas. Her head was encased in a tight cowl, and she looked at the people filling the street with a kind of wonder. ‘What do you want with me?’

  There was a stillness. The man Edgar had hit was feeling his chin with a look of bewilderment, and others were shamefaced. It was one thing to attack a building, but quite another to hurt women and small boys. At the back, Simon saw two men look at each other and turn away. Hopefully more would soon disperse, and the matter could be forgotten. It was only fortunate that they had come out of the church in time to prevent a serious attack, he thought.

  And then Gregory appeared. ‘What do you want with us?’ he demanded imperiously. ‘Do you think you can attack us because my father has died? I will have my place in the Freedom before long, and when I do, I’ll see to it that each and every one of you here tonight is punished.’

  Simon could have cursed the fool. His words were inciting the crowd to violence even more efficiently than the rabble-rouser in front of Edgar. Shooting a look at Baldwin, Simon could see that he too recognised the danger, and was urgently indicating to Sir Richard that they should push the boy inside.

  There was a stone flung, which crashed into the wall near Gregory’s head. All at once, Gregory’s face changed, as though he suddenly realised his danger. Another stone was thrown, and it smashed into his shoulder, making him lurch backwards. He gave a cry, and Claricia turned to reach for him. Before she could do so, however, Edgar had swept her off her feet, and drew her away with Thomas.

  And that was when the crowd surged forward. Baldwin and Sir Richard were thrust aside, Baldwin knocked from his feet before he could draw steel, and Sir Richard took up his position above him, his own sword in his fist, saving Baldwin from being trampled. Simon managed to push his way to the side of Sir Richard, and clasped Baldwin’s forearm, lifting him from the ground. Then all three, with their weapons ready, tried to make their way to the doorway, but could not beat their way through the press.

  Gregory had disappeared. Simon hoped he had made his way inside, but could not be sure. There was the sound of breaking wood, and then hammering as the mob tried to break into the house. Simon saw a section of the wall to the side of the door gave way under the efforts of six men with hammers and picks.

  Uppermost in Simon’s mind was Agatha. She was only a young woman, and with a drunken throng like this, she would certainly be in danger. It was unthinkable that a girl so much younger than his own dear daughter Edith could be left to fend for herself against so many, and he shoved his way towards the hole in the house wall.

  Someone had clambered inside and removed the door’s bar, and now it was thrust wide, and there was a shout of victory as men tumbled in. Simon was among them, and he ran ahead hoping that he might reach the girl before the crowd. He was the seventh man to hurtle along the passageway, but then, when he reached the hall, he saw it was too late.

  Agatha and Gregory lay on the floor, entwined in a pool of their own mingled blood.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Precentor’s House

  Second Saturday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist1

  Adam Murimuth poured the wine himself that morning. He was grateful to these men for their efforts in the last week, and it was a sign of his respect that he brought the drinks to them.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, Sir Richard, Simon, I can only say that I and the Cathedral are indebted to you for everything you have done. It is sad indeed that this affair should have come to such a pass, but at least you have resolved it. I trust you are all well now? You slept well?’

  Baldwin nodded. It had been some time before the crowd had been induced to leave the street. Some men were still wandering about the house trying to find the caskets of jewels and diamonds that were rumoured still to be lying in profusion all over the house. They had to be forcibly ejected by Edgar and two Watchmen. Baldwin and the others had come here to the Cathedral Close for safety. There was a distinct impression that more violence could ensue, were they to try to find their way to an inn. Random members of the mob could try to seek them out, and none of them were willing to risk that.

  ‘You are sure that it was not the intruders who killed the two?’ Adam asked as he took a mazer of wine for himself. He had used all his goblets for his guests.

  ‘Quite certain, yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘The injuries that killed them were entirely consistent with the knife that Gregory held in his hand, and it fitted the sheath about his waist. Simon was there almost immediately, with the leaders from the crowd. No one would have had the time to place the sheath on his belt, and I myself saw that belt about his waist, and the sheath and the knife earlier in the afternoon.’

  ‘So they killed themselves from shame, do you think?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘No. I think Gregory so loved his sister that he would not see her ravaged or slaughtered slowly by the crowd. And then, in his grief, he took his own life.’

  ‘Terrible, terrible,’ the Precentor murmured. ‘To think that such awful events could take place here. It makes one think that it should be recorded. Such things should not be forgotten.’

  ‘I believe, with respect, that there is no need to record what has happened this last week,’ Baldwin said firmly.

  ‘I am sorry? I do not understand.’

  Baldwin looked at Sir Richard and Simon, both of whom nodded. ‘We have been discussing this already, Precentor. If we allow news of all this to be bruited abroad, we run the risk of inciting more people to violence. This began as the treachery of Henry Paffard. He was keen to make money by selling his Bishop to a known mercenary. If news of that murder is allowed to escape to the wider world, and people realise that Sir Edward of Caernarfon is free, they may rally to him, even perhaps allow him to raise a force about him. Then again, if the Berkeley family realises that their kinsman was murdered in revenge for their holding Sir Edward, it will lead to further ramifications. I would avoid that, if at all possible.’

&n
bsp; ‘I cannot conceal Henry Paffard’s murder!’

  ‘He died in prison. Any death in prison is usually considered to be from natural causes, be it from cold, hunger, thirst, or an injury. He suffered an injury. I should leave matters at that.’

  ‘What of the mob violence towards the Paffards?’

  Sir Richard spoke up now. ‘This is a good city, Precentor. The people here are not so unruly as some. They were incited to fury by a few hotheads, but that is an end to it. I think you will find that they will be as calm and sensible as you could wish. This ain’t London, after all.’

  ‘I see. And you are all sure of this? Well, very good, then. I am only glad that the character of poor Laurence is rescued without a stain to besmirch it. Although I still do not know what he was doing there in the alley when Alice was killed.’

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘We will probably never know.’

  Cathedral Close

  After they had made their farewells to the Precentor, Baldwin was in a pensive mood as he walked with his friends up towards the Broad Gate. He had been struck with the same question as Adam, and as he walked, he became more and more convinced that there must be a clue somewhere to Laurence’s feelings.

  At the gate, he waved the others on, and stood inside the gateway. He didn’t have to wait long. Janekyn Beyvyn was in his chamber, and when he realised Baldwin was outside, he hurried out, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  ‘Sir? You wanted me?’

  Baldwin sucked his teeth for a moment, then said, ‘Would you walk with me a moment, Janekyn?’

  ‘If I can keep the gate in view. I have my job to do, sir.’

  They strolled along. Horses roamed here, cropping the grass over the graves, and two boys were playing chase in among the slabs.

  ‘Janekyn, I have thought much about the night of that first murder. It strikes me as peculiar that Father Laurence would have gone out into the town, then when he saw the dead girl, come running back to the Bear Gate. Why wouldn’t he have gone to the Palace Gate, for that would have been nearer? And then something else struck me: he would have assumed that all the gates would be closed. He would have naturally known the hour when the gates were locked. It was a miracle that any was still open, wasn’t it? He was fortunate.’

  ‘Yes? I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘If he thought all the gates would already be closed, it is clear what his purpose must have been. I mean, he must have already decided that he was not going to come back that night. It was only the shock of seeing Alice dead in that alley that made him return. Otherwise, he was going to flee the city that same night.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Oh, I think we both know it. I remember you saying that there were two men on that gate that night. One was a friend of Laurence’s, wasn’t he? Who could be relied upon to open the gate for him?’

  Janekyn said nothing, but his pacing was slower now as he listened, and his face had taken on a similar appearance to the chips and blocks of rock that lay all about.

  Baldwin continued: ‘I do not recall his name – nor do I wish to. But it is plain enough to me that Father Laurence was a popular man amongst the clergy. The porter at the gate too liked him. As did Father Paul at Holy Trinity. All seem to have been struck with him. And yet he was a sad man who was determined to leave the Cathedral and the city. That astonishes me, frankly.’

  Janekyn licked his lips. He cast a look over his shoulder at his gate, and then turned to Baldwin with an eye half-closed as though measuring Baldwin in some way. At last he nodded, as if he had passed some test.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I remember you from years ago when we had all that trouble here in the Cathedral. You were straight with us all then. I don’t see as you’ve changed much over the years, so I’ll tell you. There were several of us here knew how unhappy Laurence was. He didn’t want to be a priest: he was a strong, happy soul, who would have been contented as a peasant with a small plot to plough and work. And the worst of it is, he could have been that by now.

  ‘I don’t know what made him come back, but I know why he left. He was in love. The girl Agatha who died at her brother’s hand – he was going to ask her to run away with him. So he went to see Agatha that afternoon, full of mustard, but she refused him. Cut him right down. Running off with a renegade priest wasn’t good enough for her, see. So he went to say goodbye to Father Paul, and after, he went back to the house one last time. I think he walked up the alley to be near her, but hidden. He could stand in there and imagine her only a foot or so away, the other side of the wall. But he never saw her.’

  ‘Instead he found a dead woman.’

  ‘More than that, sir. He found a dead young thing who was the same age as Agatha, and who had a similar face and build, from what I saw at the inquest. I think he might have thought it was her.’

  ‘He thought the dead girl was his beloved?’ Baldwin said with a flash of insight. ‘Of course, in the gloom of the alley, it would be easy to mistake her.’ He should have thought of that. ‘So he ran back here in shock?’

  ‘To the gate where he knew the porter,’ Janekyn nodded. ‘He was just lucky that it was so early in the evening.’

  ‘And you knew all this?’

  Janekyn lifted an eyebrow. ‘If I’d heard, I’d have told the Precentor in the blink of an eye. No, I was told all this by my porter on the day Laurence ran. He was anxious about him after all that.’

  ‘I see. I am grateful to you, friend Janekyn. You have eased my mind a little on the matter.’

  ‘Little enough,’ Janekyn observed. ‘It is sad to think Laurence is dead. But at least he died in protecting another. That’s good. But it’s a miserable twist of fate that the man he was saving was such a coward he killed himself so soon after.’

  * * *

  4 July 1327.↩︎

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Cowley Ford

  Second Tuesday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist1

  When he reached the bank of the river by the ford, Ulric stood and stared at the fork in the road, wondering which way to go.

  He had been lying low in the city since being discovered by the strange servant, and every day had brought him a new moment of terror. There were so many there who might recognise him. Only yesterday at a cookshop, he had seen a man who had been in the posse. Ulric had been so alarmed, he had fumbled the change in his purse and dropped two pennies, and the man had himself stepped on one of the coins, picked it up and passed it to him.

  Ulric had been so shocked, his hand had shaken like the ague. ‘I drank too much last night,’ he said, but he was sure that the man had seen through his little fiction. The fellow’s eyes had been on him all the way along the street, he could sense it, even if he hadn’t followed him. But that meant nothing. He could have paid some urchin to trail after him, and perhaps even then was preparing a group of sturdy citizens to come and capture Ulric for his part in the murder of the Bishop… But no one had come, even though he had sat up in his room, waiting. At any time they might break down his door and crash in to capture him, but nothing happened.

  It was this morning that he decided he must make the move and flee the city. He had wrapped up his spare shirt into a bundle, along with half a loaf of bread and a lump of blueish cheese, and as soon as the gates were open, he was on the road.

  His way was easily chosen. He would go to Tiverton and see if he could find work. Or Crediton. Both were goodly-sized towns, so he’d heard. Perhaps he could start a new life there. Get employment in a shop. His skill with a pen would help him.

  Tiverton or Crediton. He stood, frozen by indecision. Then, with a flash of simplicity, he chose north. At least with Tiverton he wouldn’t have to cross this river and get his feet soaked.

  ‘Hello.’

  Turning, he saw a young woman. She was a pretty thing, with her hair straggling from beneath her wimple.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. She was familiar at once. ‘You used to work in Paffard’s house, didn’t yo
u? I was apprenticed there. Ulric.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a wary politeness. A look of pain crossed her face. She didn’t want to remember that place. ‘Where are you going?’

  He pulled a grimace. ‘North.’

  ‘Oh?’ She glanced at his meagre pack. ‘Me too. I’m going home. A friend died, and I don’t want to stay in the city.’

  ‘Where is home?’ he asked.

  ‘A farm,’ she smiled. ‘North. Can I walk with you?’

  Ulric smiled back, and the two began their journey. It was a pleasant day, and Ulric had almost forgotten his fears when he heard horses approaching from Exeter.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, seeing how he blanched.

  The horses were on them, riding at an easy canter. Two men, one knight with a thin beard that travelled about his jaw, and his servant was the man who had caught Ulric on that fateful day. Ulric sighed. This was the capture he had feared. He felt a sob rise to choke him, and was about to drop his pack, when the two men rode on past, and off into the distance. But as they passed, Ulric was convinced that the servant had looked at him and winked.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’ Joan asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Perhaps if you wanted, I could go with you,’ she said. The thought of return to the farm was not appealing. Memories of her father’s strap lingered, even while she was determined to get away from Exeter.

  ‘I’d like that,’ he said.

  It brought a glow to her face that he thought was exquisitely beautiful, and later, when they sat to share his food, they sat very close together.

  Stepecoat Street

  William Marsille entered the house for the first time that morning.