City of Fiends Read online

  Farm near Clyst St George

  Ulric felt as though there were no more tears left in him as he dropped from his pony at the little farm.

  A man’s body was being dragged from the doorway by two laughing fellows, over to a pile of corpses. Sir Charles was still on his horse, directing the men with the wagon and carts. They must all be secured for the night behind the main farmhouse.

  They had come down from the hill among the trees late in the evening, when many of the folk were in their houses eating their food. Quiet, domestic people, with only two older men and some youngsters sitting at table with their women, but a dog had set up a warning bark, and as Sir Charles’ men poured into the yard area, men had appeared in doorways only to be cut down.

  This was another of those places with little actual value. No gold, no silver. Only a little food. Nothing else.

  ‘Ulric, fetch me something to drink,’ Sir Charles called.

  Nodding, Ulric dropped from his horse and made his way into a low doorway.

  It was an old long-house. On the left he could hear cattle moving gently in their chamber, while to the right was the family’s living space. Here he found a small barrel of cider, and he had lifted the little cask to his shoulder, when he felt a hand on his arm. A man was behind him, and pulled him around, a blade resting on the side of his neck.

  ‘I have been watching you, boy.’

  It was the archer with the scar, the shorter one. Ulric had seen him earlier with a knife, laughing uproariously as he cut the throat of a little boy.

  The archer pushed the knife slightly and Ulric felt his flesh move with the blade’s point. ‘I don’t trust you. Remember that. You aren’t one of us. If I see Sir Charles hurt, I will kill you instantly.’

  There was a sudden pain at his neck, and Ulric gave a cry and staggered back.

  ‘Oh, did the poor scanthing boy get cut?’ the archer jeered. ‘You’d best take the drink to your master, hadn’t you? Wouldn’t want him to go thirsty.’

  Paffards’ House

  Father Paul remained sitting on his stool near the fire when the Keeper of the King’s Peace and his companions left the hall. There was not a sound but for the crackling and spitting of the fire. All the men were engaged in their own thoughts. Father Paul saw Gregory staring at his father every so often, while for his part, Henry spent his time staring at the far wall as though seeing a picture on the pristine limewash that would answer all his life’s problems for him.

  For the priest, there was nothing else he could think of, other than the moments before Gregory had announced that his brother was missing: the appearance of Henry Paffard – almost, as it seemed – at the moment that the Hue and Cry was sounding out in the street.

  He stood, feeling dizzy. It might have been his wound from Sunday night, but he wasn’t certain. He then made his way to the door without so much as a benediction. He was floating, a mere wisp of a soul.

  As he passed the wall on which Henry’s cloak was hanging, he could not help but touch it. The colour, the thickness, the feel: he was sure this was the same cloak worn by the man who had attacked and threatened him. At the corner, he saw the same little mark, the tear in the fabric that he had noticed while being beaten.

  Outside, the air was cool and calming. He stood, swaying slightly. If he moved, he might fall.

  Voices came from an alley. Not scary voices, just men talking, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He had to go and see. Lurching slightly, he crossed the road to where an orange glow showed that a lantern or two were illuminating something. There were more voices… and then he found himself outside the group of Watchmen and locals talking quietly. He was compelled to step closer and closer – until he saw the nightmare vision of his dead parishioner.

  There was a rushing in his ears, and he didn’t hear the men who called to him as he hurtled up to the open space of the street, and then, blessed relief, he could stop and take deep breaths, the cold air flooding his lungs and bringing clarity to his thoughts.

  ‘Father, are you all right?’ He recognised Sir Baldwin’s voice, but could not answer.

  There was a sparkling series of lights in his vision, and a blackness low and left, as though someone had removed all vision from that part of his eye, and then he felt his legs give way.

  Sir Richard bellowed: ‘HO, THERE! Grab him, Simon! Yes, take his arm.’

  ‘What has happened to you, Father?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Not now, Simon. Let’s get him to the Palace Gate – ach, no. Curfew has passed. Then to his church. Come, Father, you will be well enough after a short time.’

  He was aware of hands at his armpits, strong hands that supported him as he floated along the street down to the South Gate, and in at Holy Trinity. Those same helpful hands assisted him inside his room and deposited him on his bed.

  ‘Do you feel sick?’ Baldwin was asking. ‘Concentrate, Father. Don’t go to sleep. Keep awake. Talk to me!’

  ‘Water, please,’ he croaked. His throat was parched once more.

  ‘Here,’ Sir Richard boomed, bending and holding out a cup.

  He took it gratefully and drank quickly, slurping and spilling much of it down his breast.

  ‘Easy, Father,’ Sir Richard said, taking it away again. ‘Sip, man, don’t drown!’

  Father Paul leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes. But no matter how hard he screwed them shut, he could still see the figure of Henry Paffard walking into the hall just after the sound of the horns and shouting outside. And he saw too the terrible ruin that had been Juliana.

  ‘Father?’ Baldwin said. ‘What was it? What happened to you?’

  The priest stared at the knight with wild eyes that seemed to see through Baldwin to a horror beyond.

  ‘It was the devil. Tonight I have seen the devil himself. I must be in hell.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Paffards’ House

  The beating on the door was thunderous, and John the Bottler stood up sharply.

  His first instinct was to go straight upstairs and stand outside his mistress’s chamber door to protect her, but almost as soon as he had the thought, he squashed it. It was late, and any assailant would have to get past him here in his buttery.

  Arming himself with the small hatchet he used for tinder, he strode along the passageway to the door. At the hall, he saw Gregory, standing with Agatha at his side, and John eyed them coldly. Once, only a short while ago, he had adored those two like his own children, but no more. Now he had witnessed for himself how Gregory and Agatha could behave, John would never be able to feel the same towards them. Still, he was glad when he saw Gregory usher his sister upstairs, take his knife and join John at the front door.

  The hammering came again, and the two men looked at each other, both anxious. John cried out, ‘Who is that? What do you want?’

  ‘This is Sir Richard de Welles, Coroner, and Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace. If you want an easy life, you will let us in. NOW!’

  John kept hold of his hatchet, but slid back the bolts at top and bottom and released the door. He slipped the latch and pulled it open a short way, peering out suspiciously. ‘Well? What is it this time?’

  The door was shoved wide by Sir Richard. Automatically, John lifted his hatchet, but the knight’s hand gripped his wrist as he pushed the bottler from the door until John’s back was against the wall, his arm still held in an iron grip.

  ‘If you hold a weapon to me, my fella, you are threatening the King’s Officer. You understand me? Now, go and fetch your master.’

  Released, John nodded to Gregory, who sheathed his own knife. The bottler then scurried along the passage to the stairs at the far end, ran up them and made straight for the master’s room.

  ‘Who is it?’ Claricia demanded.

  ‘The knights again, my lady,’ he said. ‘They want to see your husband.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  John clenched his jaw. After a brief pause, he apologised.
‘I must have missed him downstairs, then. I’ll go and find him.’

  He hurried back along the passage, reaching the stairs just as the door to Joan’s room opened and Henry came out, tightening his belt. ‘Well?’ he said rudely, seeing John.

  John stood back to let his master walk down the stairs, realising he still carried the hatchet. If he had the courage, he would slam it into his master’s head right there and then.

  * * *

  ‘You took this long to realise?’ Gregory sneered.

  ‘Be silent, boy! I won’t have my private business discussed like this. There are certain matters which should be kept in the house. They don’t need to be discussed with all and sundry,’ his father snapped.

  ‘Don’t need to be discussed? The whole street knows about you and Alice, Father! Only you think it’s a secret still. No one else! Especially in this house.’

  ‘Well?’ Baldwin said. He had asked Paffard as soon as the merchant entered the room: ‘Was the dead maid your lover?’

  ‘I was very fond of Alice. She was particularly close to me,’ Henry said. He gave another sigh. ‘God’s blood, man, don’t you understand plain English?’ He could have spat into the fire. This bitch-son knight was a lurdan if he didn’t. He caught sight of Simon’s cold stare and glared back. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Simon said quietly, but there was something in his tone that grated and Henry narrowed his eyes before turning back to Baldwin.

  ‘Plain English I understand perfectly,’ Baldwin said. ‘So, you mean to say that you were taking advantage of this maid while she was under your roof?’

  ‘I have the same natural desires as any other man, and she was willing.’

  ‘Would she dare to refuse her own master?’ Sir Richard demanded.

  ‘I suppose you would reject the interest of your own maid or any other woman?’ Henry scoffed. This was beyond belief! He walked to his sideboard, pushing John from his path, and poured himself a large cup of wine, pointedly ignoring the knight and his friends. ‘I have taken many years to rise to my position, Sir Knight, and I will enjoy the fruits of my success whether you approve or no. It is nothing to do with you, nor to do with the Marsilles.’

  ‘But they thought you might have had a hand in the murder of their mother. Did you?’

  ‘She sought to blackmail me, I believe. As I told you earlier, the stupid bitch demanded to see me this evening. I didn’t go.’

  ‘Was it something to do with your affair with the maid?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t meet her, so I can’t answer that.’ He kept his eyes away from Gregory. The bitch had said it was a secret about him, hadn’t she? He could guess what his son’s secret was.

  ‘So you did not go to that alley and kill her?’

  ‘Eh? No, why would I? I wasn’t going to pay her. More fool her, if she wanted to stand in the cold as night came on.’

  ‘Who knew you had spoken to her? Who knew you were supposed to be meeting her?’

  ‘How should I know? Perhaps all my household here knew, and Juliana’s sons, I daresay. What of it?’

  ‘Only this, Master Paffard: those who knew that she would be there are the people who could have tried to kill her. So from your own mouth, you must plainly be our chief suspect.’

  Henry Paffard watched as Baldwin bowed and took his leave, Sir Richard and Simon following, and as they left, Henry cursed: ‘Damn them, and damn her, the strummel patch! What are you two staring at? Get out of here!’

  John and Gregory walked from the room, and Henry glared after them until he was alone in his hall, and only then did he cover his face with his hand and begin to weep quietly.

  Exeter Cathedral

  Wednesday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist1

  Baldwin and Richard went to find Simon as soon as the sun was over the wall. Once they had breakfasted together, they left Edith and made their way to the Cathedral Close.

  ‘You are leaving Hugh with Edith?’ Baldwin asked as they walked along the road.

  ‘I don’t like the idea that there is a man killing women in the city,’ Simon said. ‘I have told him to stay here and look after Edith while we’re here in Exeter. I don’t think I’ll be in any danger with you, Sir Richard and Edgar to protect me!’

  ‘I would hope not!’ Baldwin chuckled. He was thoughtful as they crossed over Carfoix. ‘The Coroner will have to visit the scene of Juliana’s murder last night,’ he said.

  ‘Have you any idea who could have wished to kill her?’ Simon asked.

  Baldwin sighed. ‘To do such violence to Juliana speaks of a mind that is itself tortured. This murderer’s heart must be completely without pity.’

  ‘Why stab out her eyes and cut off her lips?’ Sir Richard rumbled. ‘That’s what I don’t understand.’

  Simon said, ‘It’s as if the killer wanted to mark his victims. First Alice was stabbed in her breasts, now Juliana loses her lips and eyes. Alice, perhaps because of her affair with Henry Paffard, and Juliana because she was threatening blackmail. To stop her eyes from seeing, and her mouth from speaking.’

  ‘Henry Paffard could have done that to Juliana if, as he said, she threatened blackmail. But why would he have killed Alice?’ Baldwin wanted to know.

  It was a cool morning, and a thin mist hung above the river, he saw, glancing down to the water and beyond. His home lay over there. It was a grim way to spend his life, he thought, wandering this benighted city in search of a murderer, when all he wanted was to be at home with his wife. Still, he had to speak with the Precentor, if only to learn whether Father Laurence had left the Cathedral last night. Had he, in fact, been out and about in the streets? And if so, could he have had a reason to kill Juliana and mark her?

  Wolf sauntered along at his side, although he disappeared to sniff at some of the tempting treats spread out on the cookshop trestles until an unimpressed cook’s boy flicked his towel at Wolf’s nose. The mastiff gave him a pained look as he turned away to follow Baldwin again, then darted beneath the trestle to scavenge a titbit. This time the boy aimed a kick at Wolf’s rump, but the brute returned to Baldwin with a contented expression.

  ‘What if Father Laurence had been detained inside the Cathedral for some reason? We’d have to look at Paffard more closely, eh?’ Sir Richard said. He had consumed a brief snack – to ‘Keep body and soul together, eh?’ – before leaving Edith’s house and Simon, seeing the expression on her face, felt sure that he was eating his daughter out of house and home. It was tempting to suggest that they all eat at an inn, but that would offend Edith. The suggestion that they should dispense with her hospitality would be insulting. Better to remain here a little longer.

  ‘If he left the Close for any reason, then we would have to recommend that he be held in the Bishop’s prison until his case could be heard.’

  ‘Hmm. You think him guilty?’

  ‘I am sure that he is concealing something from us, but what it is, I have no idea.’

  ‘We should speak to the others, who live in the alley next to the Marsilles,’ Simon considered. ‘Perhaps one of them saw Juliana leave her house, and noticed if she was followed.’

  ‘A good idea, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

  They were soon in the Close, nodding to Janekyn at his gate, and to the beggars who plied their trade just inside the gateway. John Coppe was there, and smiled as Baldwin threw a penny into his pot. Coppe had been a fixture in the Close for all the time Baldwin had visited. A sailor, he had lost a leg in a brutal fight aboard ship and now begged at his accustomed spot daily.

  Baldwin stopped and returned to Coppe. ‘Do you know Father Laurence, the vicar?’

  ‘Aye, he’s known to me.’

  ‘How would you describe him? Is he a genuine, kindly priest, or one of those who mouths good words but has no real interest in men?’

  ‘Oh, you want to know how he treats a poor cripple, sir? I’d say he was one of the kindest vicars here. I’ve never heard a foul word from him, but once, when a hor
se was left grazing on the grass there and knocked an old widow’s body from the cart she was resting in, waiting for her grave, he used some words then I’ve not heard since leaving ship. Apart from that, he’s as mild in manner and speech as any I’ve seen. He’s brought me food too, before now,’ Coppe added pointedly. ‘And ale.’

  ‘Coppe, you are a disreputable vagrant who deserves the lash,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Aye, Sir Baldwin. So, you’d like to share some o’ your food with me?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Baldwin said, chuckling.

  ‘What was that for?’ Sir Richard asked as they carried on towards the Precentor’s house.

  ‘Just seeing if his opinion of the good vicar tallied with my own,’ said Baldwin. ‘And it does. Father Laurence struck me as a decent priest, not a killer.’

  ‘Which is not a great deal of help to us, is it?’ Simon muttered.

  ‘Perhaps it is, and perhaps it is not,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I think the vicar would be well advised to remain within the Close for his own safety.’

  They reached the Precentor’s house, and were being greeted by a young clerk, when they heard the hubbub in the hall.

  ‘What is the matter?’ Baldwin asked of the clerk.

  ‘It is one of our vicars, I am afraid. He has disappeared.’

  Sir Richard rolled his eyes.

  ‘I think that makes our case easier,’ Baldwin murmured.

  Talbot’s Inn

  Without his clerical robes, Father Laurence felt incredibly conspicuous, even though his tonsure was hidden beneath his cap and hood. With his height, he had to bend his head to appear more like others, and walking in that way made him feel still more as though everyone was staring at him. It was most unpleasant.

  He had arrived at this inn late last night. There were many inns and taverns in the city, but he was known in almost all of them. The city of Exeter was not very large, and this was one of the few places that he had never frequented. It had a good reputation, so he had heard, but it so happened that it was close to the north wall, and this was an area the clergy rarely visited. So much the better now, it would seem.