No. It was better that she took charge. She would do anything for the protection of her family.
Even blackmail.
She turned down the alley off Combe Street; he had agreed to meet her before curfew.
It was dark, with tall houses shadowing the pathway. Ahead rose the great mass of the wall, while overhead she could glimpse the sky between the houses, occasionally concealed by wafts of greyish-black smoke from a seacoal fire nearby. A ringing of hammers came to her ears from the blacksmith further up Combe Street. At houses all about, women and cooks were preparing food, and the odour of stews and pottages nipped like pincers at her nose, she was so hungry.
There was a snort, and along the alley she saw a snotty little churl aged nine or ten with scruffy chemise and hosen that were more holes than material. He gave her a disinterested glance, then returned to stare at his charges, two hogs, each of which was considerably larger than himself.
She wanted time to marshal her thoughts, and the presence of this little tatterdemalion was distracting. What’s more, his pigs were blocking the way.
She squeezed past. One snuffled at her leg and Juliana pushed it away. Hogs had been known to carry off babies, and she wasn’t going to have it bite her. She glared at the boy, but he was too cold and hungry to care.
Master Paffard wouldn’t be long, she hoped, and then he would hear what she had to say about his oh-so-perfect son.
It had not been warm all day, and she was chilled to the marrow as she waited. It was a strange area, this, at the foot of the wall. Men used the wall as their toilet, and it reeked of urine – but it was the coolness she noticed more than the smell. There was a special kind of chill at the base of the walls. Even in the depths of summer the sun did not reach in here. Nor did the paths ever dry, for several gutters ran here, and ordure accumulated until the rain washed it away.
She turned, hearing a slight slap, like a man’s boot striking the mud of the alley. She peered through the murk. Above, it was still daylight, but down here, it was hard to see. She heard another sound – and the idea that she was being hunted suddenly sprang into her mind and wouldn’t leave. She became aware that this was a good place for a trap. There was no one to help her even if she were to scream; someone seeking to hurt her could do so with impunity.
Memories of stories of ghosts walking the streets came back to her. Tales of the dead – of men who had been buried, but who retuned to terrorise their neighbours, making the dogs howl, rendering the very air putrid, drinking the blood of the living . . . And with a sudden horror, she thought she saw something there in the alley before her.
Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and her heart beat fast like a lark’s. And then she saw the bloated, ugly face of the hog as it turned to her, snuffling, and she almost collapsed from relief.
And then her relief turned to anger. Henry Paffard had not come. Why, did he think she was tugging his cloak when she threatened to tell all she knew about his son? Did he think she was joking? The man would learn that a woman with nothing to lose could still bite!
Setting off, she tried to put all thoughts of phantasms and vampires from her, and strode along resolutely, back to the safety of Combe Street.
Until she came to the corner, and the figure appeared before her.
Church of the Holy Trinity
Father Paul had completed his last service of the day, and his vegetable garden was looking as good as it could after the depredations of pigeons and rats. Still, even a feathered agent of destruction had its merits. He had loosed a stone at one, and broken its wing. It had tasted glorious. The flavour had distracted him from the pain where the door had ripped at his toenail’s, and the bruising that still throbbed so in his belly and his back.
But no matter what he did, he could not remove the memory of the girl whom he had buried: the Paffards’ maidservant. Why had Henry Paffard come to his house and beaten him and threatened him? It was ridiculous of him to think that he could remain incognito with a sack over his face when his cloak was so distinctive.
There was only one conclusion that the priest could reach: Paffard wanted him silent because of something he had seen on the night Alice was killed.
He recalled Alice now. A pretty little thing, all large, liquid eyes and a body that made even a priest think of earthly delights. He remembered that the first time he had seen her, he wondered that the angels themselves didn’t get tempted to fall from the sky at her feet. But he was an older man who had been truly celibate for many years now, and he could look at a young woman, daydream about her, imagine her kisses and caresses, and still not feel the need to try to bring the vision to reality. A consummation would inevitably bring disaster for him. And after so many years of fidelity to his calling, he would not wish to throw it all away.
It was astonishing, Father Paul thought, that any man could have wished to destroy so pretty a woman. There must be a hideous urge at the centre of any man who could desire something so much that he would break it into pieces, annihilate it, so that no other could possess it. Other priests, he knew, had seen men kill just so that the object of their own desires might be forever their own, and it was surely the same when a man slew his wife because she had been taken by another. It was that sinful sense of pride and possession: once defiled by another, she was ruined forever. So perhaps it was natural that a man might as easily seek to murder the focus of his affection, in order to save her from being sullied?
This was not a happy reflection.
It was a curious coincidence that the very day young Philip Marsille had threatened to commit murder, was the same day that poor Alice was slain. Perhaps the death of the girl had dissuaded Philip from his evil plan, but somehow Father Paul doubted it.
The incident had occured in the road outside the Paffards’ house. Father Paul had seen Philip out in the lane, and both had witnessed Paffard walk through his door then stand a moment, preening himself, as he waited for his daughter, son and wife to join him.
‘You bastard! You evil, raping bastard,’ Philip had breathed, adding, ‘I’ll kill you for stealing her from me!’
Father Paul had been appalled, and would have gone to the boy, had Philip not then blundered away to his home. Perhaps he should make the effort to find Philip now, take the time to speak with him. It could not hurt, and it might serve to ease his anxiety about the lad’s apparent intent to kill Paffard. That would surely be better than to sit here worrying at the mystery of his attack by Paffard last night. Besides, as he told himself, Sarra could have been mistaken. She spent much of her life looking at the world through a fug of strong ale or cider. She could have got men confused, cloaks confused. After all, why should the merchant attack him?
He would go and see Philip. With that conclusion, he pulled on a cloak against the early evening chill and left his room. It was only a short walk, but with his injured toes and sore kidneys, it was far enough.
The evening was fine, and the traffic was almost gone for the day. Soon the bells would ring for curfew and the gates would be slammed shut and locked, and another day would be ended. It was comforting to reflect that all the people were snug here inside the protection of the great city walls, the thousands of souls wrapped up like children in a nursery.
He was almost at the Paffards’ house when he heard it. A shrill scream of horror and fear.
Combe Street
The priest stood stock-still, and he could feel the hairs on his scalp rising as the trembling scream faded on the cool evening air.
There was no power in his legs. He stood as though his boots were rooted in the muck of the street’s surface, a terrible dread gripping him, because he was convinced that whatever had created that hideous sound was not human. It must be a creature from hell itself. And then his hand touched his cross, as though of its own volition, and with that first tingling sensation, his body reacted. He grasped it firmly, and holding it aloft, hobbled to the nearest house. It was the Paffards’ dwelling. Father Paul pounded on
the door like a man possessed. It was opened a crack by a most reluctant Gregory, and only when he recognised the blanched features of the priest did he pull the door wider.
‘Father, get inside. What was that noise?’
‘I have no idea,’ Father Paul said as he stumbled after Gregory along the passageway to the hall.
‘You saw nothing in the street?’ Gregory said.
‘No. I was walking along, and it was quiet. Most of the traffic’s gone. It’s late, you see. Most are at home.’ He realised he was gabbling nonsense, and closed his mouth. ‘Please may I have some water, or wine – anything,’ he said thickly.
Claricia and Agatha entered, both pale, demanding to know what was happening, and though Paul gripped his mazer with both hands, still the wine almost spilled from the edge, his trembling was so acute.
A door slammed, and he looked up fearfully. Then there were steps, and a few moments later he was relieved to see Henry Paffard, cloaked against the night’s chill. The cloak was above his ankles, and Paul saw the stain and tear clearly. He felt his mouth drop open.
The master of the house strode in, dropping his grey cloak as he came, looking about him with disdain. ‘Well? What is all the fuss about?’
‘Did you not hear the screams?’ Gregory demanded as the old bottler bent and gathered up Henry’s cloak.
‘If that is what they were, we should be sending someone to ensure that no one from our house was hurt,’ Henry stated. ‘Where is John? John? Oh, there you are. I want you to take a stout staff and go out to see where that cry came from. Understand? Don’t put yourself in danger. Now, where is Thomas?’
Gregory muttered something about Thomas being in his bedchamber, and Henry told him to go and bring him down. Father Paul was almost past caring by now. The wine had warmed and soothed his belly, and now he looked about him with his mind apparently clearer and calmer.
The sense of moderate well-being was short-lived, however, for Gregory returned in a hurry. ‘Father – Thomas is missing!’
Paffards’ House
Thomas had heard the scream, and at once his scalp crawled in terror.
He had never felt scared until the last week. Before that, he had been entirely secure and safe, especially in his home. His mother would always cosset him, the maids would indulge his every whim and pamper him, and even John would unbend slightly at the sight of him.
All that changed last week, and now, with that scream, he was thrown back into the terror of that night. He remembered the bodies writhing before the fire. Too late he had moved back into the shadows, but Gregory had seen him.
The look in his eyes terrified Thomas, and he would have fled, but Gregory hurried to him and held his shoulders, telling him to be calm, to be quiet, that he must never tell anyone, that this secret was between them, and them alone, and he must go to his bed now, and never speak of what he had seen . . . and Gregory’s eyes had been as cold and dark as the water at the bottom of the well in the garden. Joan was already gone, and so Gregory didn’t see her. He told Thomas once more to go back to his bed, to forget.
He hurried there, and when he was between the sheets, he firmly closed his eyes, trying to find rest and sleep, but he couldn’t; the memory was too upsetting. And since then, whenever he knew Gregory was near, he could not help but duck away to avoid him.
Gregory scared him. He was scared of his own brother.
The scream cut into his thoughts like a sword stabbing butter. When he heard the horns, and shouting, it seemed to him that he had no choice. He must make his way to the hall, find Mother and Father.
Quickly, he scurried down the passage, but as he reached the hall, he heard voices, and paused to peer in from the shadows. There was a hole in the screen that separated the passage from the room, and by that he saw a man with his back to him. A man with a tonsure. A priest, he thought with relief.
Then he saw Gregory and the sight brought back his horror. His home wasn’t safe! No matter what he did, he couldn’t stay here.
All the thoughts tumbled though his mind in a moment, until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to escape. Running silently to the door, he opened it – and bolted out into the night.
Cock Inn
Baldwin and Simon were talking to each other, for Sir Richard had engaged the serving wench in a conversation that had already progressed to the stage where she was giggling and sitting on his lap. Even Edgar, Simon noticed, had a bemused look in his eyes, as though wondering why the girl would find the hoary old warrior of any interest whatsoever.
That ended when they heard the first blasts on the horn. For a split second Simon, Baldwin and all the other men in the room were still, listening. Then Sir Richard sprang to his feet, and the squeal of dismay from his discarded wench was the signal for all to rush for the door. Simon and Baldwin were held up by the crush in the doorway itself, and then they were all running for Combe Street, ales and cups forgotten in their urgency.
Simon was a little ahead of the others, Edgar just behind him, when he came to the alley. He set his hand to the hilt of his sword as he pelted down it, partly drawing his weapon as he went.
There were four or five men already there, all grouped about a boy and two hogs. The hogs themselves were almost as terrified as the boy, and were backed into the corner, where they snuffled and grunted anxiously.
‘What’s the matter with the lad?’ Simon demanded, irritated to have rushed all this way for nothing. He slammed his sword back in the sheath, still panting. ‘Who is he?’
A woman with a round, sweaty face glared at him. ‘The poor lad’s been scared out of his wits, and I don’t blame him. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been sent moonstruck!’
‘Why?’ Simon said impatiently, then glanced behind her to where she pointed. ‘Christ’s pain!’
Waves of nausea rippled through his frame, and he had to stand back, breathing deeply, to let Baldwin and Sir Richard get past to Juliana’s body.
Paffards’ House
Gregory raced back through the house again, hurtling up the stairs while the others ran about below, calling for Thomas all the way. He went into the bedchamber he shared with his brother, looking under the bed, behind the chest, inside the chest, but there was not a hair of the lad in there. His parents’ room was empty, as was the maids’ at the back of the upper part of the house. He even went to the windows in case Thomas had tried to climb on the roof, but they were all closed and barred.
Down in the hall again, he found his mother sitting with a cup of wine. Father Paul was seated on a stool, his face ashen. Gregory set off again to the rear of the house, to the garden and the outbuildings behind and opened the gate and peered out to where the body of Alice had lain.
‘What’s all the noise for?’ Ben asked.
The sudden appearance of his father’s apprentice made Gregory jump. He had forgotten that Ben slept out here at the back where the stock of tin and lead was stored, so that he could guard the valuable metals.
‘It’s Tommy. He’s disappeared. Have you seen him?’
‘No – not for a long time.’
Gregory ran back into the house. Agatha was in the hall too, now. He told them that he thought Thomas must have fled through the house to the front, and set off once more after the boy. John was with him this time, and the two ran into Combe Street, Gregory breathing fast as he stared about him anxiously.
‘Master Gregory, don’t worry,’ John said. ‘He’ll be fine.’
‘Where is he, though? If there is a murderer on the loose, Thomas could be killed too. You heard the Hue and Cry, didn’t you? Where could he be?’
‘I’ve not heard of many murderers having a need to kill little boys.’
Gregory would have snapped at him, but at that moment he saw the crush of people up ahead. He pointed, and John hurried with him along the stony roadway, both of them dreading what they might find there.
Men and some women were staring into the alleyway, and as they reached it, Gregory spott
ed a small figure. ‘Thomas!’ And then, to his surprise, he saw his father standing a short way away.
‘John, you take Thomas back to the house. He should be in his bed, not wandering the streets at this hour,’ Henry Paffard said, and cast a look at Gregory as if to challenge him.
Alley off Combe Street
Baldwin saw Simon stagger and reel, and the moment he did so, he caught sight of Juliana.
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.
31 - City of Fiends Page 16
