City of Fiends
Page 38
He weighed the key in his hand as he opened the door and stepped inside, looking about the room with a feeling of unutterable emptiness. It was good to know that he had a place to live, but that was scant compensation for the loss of home and family which Henry Paffard had caused.
There should be a mother in here with him, and Philip, too. They should have been able to join him here with happiness. If all the money which his father had left for them had been given to them, they would have been able to enjoy a glorious time here, but they were gone, and William was the sole survivor of his family.
Walking through the room, he peered out at the tiny yard area. Still, while small, there was space for a few vegetables. It would suffice.
Claricia had been determined to give him this place. At first he thought it was simple guilt which made her want to give it up, but then he began to wonder. If this had been intended as a love-nest for her husband’s young lover, it would scarcely hold pleasant associations for her.
Up a ladder, there was a bedchamber over the fire. He climbed up and stared at it, then clambered in and lay on his back. There was nothing here. All his belongings were lost. Cupboard, table, chairs, all had been broken up for a bonfire outside the Paffards’ house. But at least with a house he could start afresh.
There was one thing of which he was absolutely certain, and that was, no matter what, nothing in the world could ever make him copy Gregory and kill himself. No. To end a life was the greatest cowardice.
And he was no coward. He was son of Nicholas Marsille, and he would build a business to rival any in the city.
Paffards’ House
Without the servants it seemed loud. Thomas could hardly imagine why, because with fewer people about the house, it should have been quieter, but no matter.
Sal was still there, even though Joan had left, and she seemed to have cheered up considerably since the disappearance of both the younger maids. Thomas didn’t know why. But she was also nominated, or believed herself to be, his guardian, and she made his life cruel. Every time he played with his hoop in the road, he could count on her to shout to him just because a horse was coming, or a cart or some men and women. He could see them! He wasn’t a baby!
Today there was a curious feeling about the house. Ever since his mother had returned from the shops, there had been a kind of tension in the air. It didn’t bother him unduly – it wasn’t like the bad atmosphere in the old days. It was more a feeling of excitement, rather like a feast day. Except it wasn’t, he was sure.
When a knock came at the door, Thomas was worried. He still remembered the other knockings. Callers to let them know a maid was dead, others to try to barge in and burn the house down. Callers scared him. As soon as he heard this one, he ran to his mother in the hall.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked sternly. ‘Should you not answer the door, Thomas?’
He looked up at her, and as the knock came again, he buried his face in her lap. A mute appeal for protection.
‘Oh, very well, child,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
Picking him up and resting him on her hip, she made her way to the door. Unbarring it, she pulled it wide, and Thomas saw a man with a sack. It wriggled alarmingly.
‘Here it is, mistress,’ the man said, lifting the sacking and passing it to her.
‘I thank you,’ she said, and the fellow was gone. ‘Thomas. This is for you.’ She set him down on the ground, and passed him the sack.
He didn’t want it. He stepped away from it, eyeing it suspiciously.
And then he heard a little sound, and his heart leaped.
Because the noise was a sharp whine. Like a puppy’s.
Furnshill
Baldwin cantered up the last part of the roadway with his heart lightening.
It was always the same when he came home. There was a vague sense of anticipation that bordered on fear, in case Jeanne or one of the children had fallen sick, perhaps died even, but that could not be drowned out by the feeling of utter joy he felt on seeing his house again, the long house with the great hall, the solars, the stables, the neat pastureland before, the trees behind. It was a scene of rural perfection. He knew that he was the luckiest man alive to possess this manor, and there was not a day when he woke here and didn’t think of that.
‘Home, Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar said.
‘And I am as glad as a king ever was to see his palace,’ Baldwin said. ‘I will never again willingly leave my house and family. There is no task, no function that could tempt me away from here. All I love is right here.’
Edgar looked at him with a grin. ‘So, until the next time you are called away, we can rest?’
‘Edgar, old friend, I shall relinquish my duties as Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said. ‘How can I continue in that role when I do not fully believe that the King is on his throne? This boy, Edward III, may be more callow and incompetent than his father. And if there is any steel in the committee of regency running the kingdom, it will be due to Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. And I trust neither. No, Edgar, it is time for me to accept that at my age, I am too old for this position.’
‘So we shall retire at last?’
‘Aye, my friend. We shall hide ourselves in obscurity here in Devon. And at last, perhaps, find peace.’
And so saying, he whipped his rounsey into a gallop.
Road to Bristol
It was a hard and weary ride to the King, Adam Murimuth knew. He had only just set off this morning, and already, some thirty miles from Exeter, he was regretting the impulse that had made him agree to be one of the delegates with the messages telling the King about the death of the Bishop and the Sheriff. There was no escaping the fact that the journey would take a long time.
But he did at least have some ideas that had been fermenting at the back of his mind, and now, on the road, he would have time to consider their implications.
For some years he had been maintaining his little journal, and the exercise had been rewarding. It was not in any way a great chronicle, but a series of notes and jottings. He had started when he was about thirty years old, as an exercise in memory, reminding himself of the things he had been doing on certain days and while it had been useful – and he could not deny it, enjoyable too – it was of such little meaning as to be irrelevant. If he stopped today, it would not be noticed.
Which was curious, in so many ways. Here he was, living through a momentous period in the history of the realm, and all someone looking at his journal would note would be the order of service at his Mass, the food he disliked at table, or the catty remarks he made about certain companions in the choir. This was no way to be dealing with the great matters of moment that were being played out all about the kingdom.
No, what he should be attempting was something on a grander scale entirely. Something that had sweep, and that would entrance and educate. Something that would show the world what a marvellous thing was this creation of God’s. Something people could refer to for information, perhaps. And in its pages, he would record the truth. No concealments like the latest sorry adventures in Combe Street. He would have the facts of Henry Paffard’s criminality, the horrible truth of his bottler, the sorry acts of his children. No, perhaps not. Little could be achieved by tales of ordinary men and women and their secrets. But to tell the story of the kingdom – that would be an undertaking of importance. As befitted a…
He smiled at his pride. A journal was surely all he could manage. But there were such attractions to attempting a chronicle. A book that would tell the tale of the history of the last years. Perhaps he could go back a short way, and speak of Edward II, and then tell of the shameful way in which he lost his crown and throne, that unhappy monarch. A chronicle that would certainly be of instructive use…
It was indeed a glorious idea.
And today was a day of wonderful inspiration. For it was as he settled beside the fire that evening, that he had another excellent idea.
He had been musing for s
ome time about how to broach the death of Sheriff James de Cockington. It was sure to upset the King, for finding suitable souls to take on such positions was increasingly difficult. The Sheriffs were a difficult bunch. Some were honourable, but for the most part they were aggressive and corrupt. They took what they could from the people and extorted money from all those who were forced to go to them for justice. It was no way for the realm to administer the law.
But once in a while a knight proved himself honourable. A good, kindly man with a sense of fairness and integrity – that would be a man to make a rare Sheriff. If he could temper the loss of one Sheriff with a recommendation of a replacement, he would make himself popular.
And Sir Baldwin would, Adam felt sure, make a perfect officer for the King.
* * *
7 July 1327.↩︎
Glossary
Bratchet: a diminutive form of ‘brat’.
Coffin: a pie-case of pastry.
Deodand: the fine exacted for the value of a thing that occasioned death. Deodand finally disappeared after a train killed a man in the nineteenth century, and the full value of engine and train was charged to the company.
Deofol and Foumart: two terms of opprobrium.
Gegge: term of contempt for man or woman.
Leman: lover or sweetheart.
Lurdan: sluggard, vagabond, rascal – also implying dimness.
Misericord: small wooden projection set into choir stalls for monks and canons to rest upon to ease their legs during long services; also a long, narrow-bladed dagger for the coup de grâce. Both implying compassion, pity, or mercy.
Parnel: wanton young woman, harlot.
Recusant: one who refuses to submit to authority.
Scanthing: very small, insignificant in size.
Strummel patch: term of contempt.
Villeiny-saying: speaking slander of a person.
Author’s Note
The idea for this book came to me while I was researching what I had intended to be a very parochial little story about four families in Exeter. Why is it that, when sitting in a darkened library, so many curious little diversions always occur to me?
This one came about because I was looking into that strange period after the capture, and escape from captivity, of King Edward II.
The kingdom must have been in complete turmoil. Many men were keen to try to spring Edward from his prisons, first at Kenilworth, then at Berkeley, while others were more than happy to see him languish in gaol, letting his son rule in his stead.
Despenser, at last, had been removed. But in his place was the evermore avaricious Mortimer, who took every advantage. Some believe he was hoping to take the throne for one of his sons. I don’t believe that myself, but there is no doubt that he grabbed all the money, lands and authority he could lay his hands on.
And in the middle of all this, poor Bishop Berkeley suddenly died.
The facts are few and far between. We know that the good Bishop was elected, and confirmed on 8 January 1327. He left no Register, or other record, apparently. About the only document we have from him was a letter to Adam Murimuth, on 12 January, appointing him his Official-Principal.
It is thought that he was enthroned soon after 25 March, and then, following the precedent of his immediate predecessors, he went on a tour of the ecclesiastical estates. Proof of his determination to be a good administrator, I suppose.
But his journey was cut short by his death.
It is Murimuth’s chronicle that tells us that he died at Petreshayes, in Yarcombe, on 24 June. A shockingly sudden death.
What could have led to such a brief episcopate? Was he merely unwell?
I suspect not.
Generally, it is true that men, whether bishops or lords, could die while travelling from one manor to another. Their entourages generally used up all the resources of a manor quite quickly, after which they would move on to the next. However, if there was even a hint of ill-health, they would stay put, since there was no point in hastening a man’s demise by forcing him to cover twenty miles on horseback.
Be that as it may, there is other evidence that must be looked at.
Berkeley’s successor was Grandisson, one of Exeter’s greatest bishops. According to Wikipedia there was mention in Coulton’s Social Life in Britain of a section from Grandisson’s Register that said Berkeley had been murdered and his estates despoiled.
I am not convinced. This is the only mention I have seen (in Wikipedia, I mean) of this murder and despoilation. Looking in Coulton’s book, which was published in 1918, there is a footnote on page 27 that reads: Grandisson succeeded (after a very brief episcopate of John (sic) de Berkeley) to that Bishop Stapeldon whose murder is recounted in the French Chronicle of London (Camden Soc. 1844), P.52.
I do wonder whether the mention of murder and the vision of rampaging hordes which it brings to mind are due to someone’s misreading Coulton’s book when they put the comment up on Wikipedia.
Don’t get me started on inaccurate quotations on Wikipedia!
However, although this researcher may have had a problem, there is no doubt that Berkeley’s contemporaries did view his death in an especial light. For several years after his demise (and to the disgust of Bishop Grandisson, according to Professor Nicholas Orme in his Death and Burial in Medieval Exeter, Devon & Cornwall Record Society, 2003), pilgrims went to pray at his tomb. This cult lasted until the 1340s, after which it dwindled.
So, I was left with the idea of a bishop who was revered by his people, even to the extent that they would travel to visit his tomb under the disapproving eye of his successor. A man who had died suddenly – and a man with the magical name of Berkeley – just at the time that King Edward II was being held by Berkeley’s brother at the castle that still holds their name. And also, of course, at the time when certain men were trying to free their King from that castle. And when the Dunheved brothers had succeeded in doing so.
Is it any wonder that a fiction writer would be attracted to this story?
As always, my gratitude goes to my copy editor, Joan Deitch; to my marvellous editor, Jessica Leeke; my agent Eddie Bell; and the many people who have contributed (knowingly or not) to the story: Jules Frusher, Kathryn Warner, the excellent Ian Mortimer, and all the many others whose research I have shamelessly pinched!
My greatest thanks must go to my wife and kids for their patience and fortitude during the writing and editing of yet another book. Love you all.
And as ever, any errors are my own.
Unless they were caused by my mislaying an important note after being called out to liberate a cricket ball from the barn roof…
Michael Jecks
North Dartmoor
July 2011
The Last Templar Mysteries
The Last Templar
The Merchant’s Partner
A Moorland Hanging
The Crediton Killings
The Abbot’s Gibbet
The Leper’s Return
Squire Throwleigh’s Heir
Belladonna at Belstone
The Traitor of St Giles
The Boy-Bishop’s Glovemaker
The Tournament of Blood
The Sticklepath Strangler
The Devil’s Acolyte
The Oath
King’s Gold
City of Fiends
Templar’s Acre
Find out more
About the Author
The published author of over 40 novels, Michael Jecks has always been fascinated by history, but it was only after a career change that he was able to indulge his interests full time. A hugely-respected historical mystery specialist, he has been the Organiser of the Crime Writers’ Association’s Debut Dagger, as well as a judge for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger.
Michael and his family live in a small village in northern Dartmoor with their scatty Dalmatian and far-too-bright-for-her-own-good Rhodesian Ridgeback, with whom he walks regularly looking for inspiration for his books.
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Also by Michael Jecks
Crusader
Pilgrim’s War
The Last Templar Mysteries
The Last Templar
The Merchant’s Partner
A Moorland Hanging
The Crediton Killings
The Abbot’s Gibbet
The Leper’s Return
Squire Throwleigh’s Heir
Belladonna at Belstone
The Traitor of St Giles
The Boy-Bishop’s Glovemaker
The Tournament of Blood
The Sticklepath Strangler
The Devil’s Acolyte
The Oath
King’s Gold
City of Fiends
Templar’s Acre
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, a CBS Company
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Copyright © Michael Jecks, 2012
The moral right of Michael Jecks to be identified as the creator of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781800323995
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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