31 - City of Fiends Page 4

  ‘Perhaps.’ Murimuth ducked his head, preparatory to making his exit. He disliked dissembling. There were situations in which he felt comfortable, but this was not one of them. The Sheriff never impressed him with his intellect, but the man was the King’s own representative.

  ‘It would almost seem as if you knew something about this murder, Precentor,’ the Sheriff said. ‘Do you know who was responsible?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Murimuth said. ‘If I did, I would say so, to prevent another innocent being accused. Murder is a grave matter.’

  That was the fact that absorbed him as he left the castle. Murder was indeed a serious affair, and if Janekyn was right, the murderer could have been one of the Cathedral’s inhabitants.

  He stopped at the High Street. There were some people coming into the city from the East Gate, and he saw a watchman on the gate push a man leading a packhorse against the wall, while his companion began to search the panniers on the beast’s back.

  Nothing there, thank the Lord, and the sumpterman was soon on his way again, but it was just another proof to Murimuth of the tensions all felt. The King had been forced from his own throne, replaced by his fifteen-year-old son, and gangs of men were now ravaging the land in the old King’s name. One such had breached the castle at Kenilworth, trying to free him, a few months ago. All the guards here, and elsewhere, were on tenterhooks, expecting a fresh upsurge of violence.

  He made his way back to the Cathedral feeling depressed, convinced that there would be more bloodshed. There were too many men like the Sheriff who were out to seek personal advantage from the realm’s troubles.

  Until the kingdom was stabilised, with the new King grown to maturity, there would be no peace for anyone, only increasing disorder.

  Well, that may be so, he told himself. But the disorder would only increase if men felt they could get away with it. It was vital to uphold the law, and show that justice would swiftly follow a crime, be it large or small.

  He must do all he could to bring justice to the felon who killed that poor young maid.

  Paffards’ House

  Benjamin, Henry Paffard’s apprentice, had been to the church that morning, offering prayers for Alice. He would miss her. She had been a part of the household.

  When he first arrived at Exeter, the boy had thought himself fortunate to be apprenticed to Henry Paffard. The latter was known as the best decorator of pewter in the city, but the glorious engraving for which he had made his name was a thing of the past. The work he performed today was at best pedestrian – when he could be bothered to visit the workshops. Henry was living on the reputation he had forged years ago, and Benjamin was hard-pressed to recall a single day during which he had learned anything from his master.

  In those early days, before disillusion set in, everything had seemed possible. Benjamin was sure that, once he was ready, he would soon be made a pewterer in his own right, that he would set up his own little business, and start to earn his fortune. And over time, when luck allowed, he would meet a woman to marry, and he would raise his own family. And when he did, he would remain loyal to his wife.

  But he had not done any of those things, and while he got on well enough with the other apprentices, there was none he could call an especial friend. Most, he suspected, looked down on him.

  Of course, they all knew about Henry Paffard’s nocturnal visits to Alice in her chamber, the trysts they held when they thought no one else was listening. Henry should not have insulted his poor wife by taking a maidservant as a lover. And when Claricia remonstrated with him, Henry had beaten her! That was not Christian. But nor was Alice’s behaviour, and the couple’s flagrant adultery brought disgrace to all in the house.

  Henry Paffard’s unseemly behaviour meant that Benjamin would be forever remembered as the apprentice who lived with the reprobate – and not as the skilled artist of pewter which he hoped to become. His reputation was ruined before he could carve it out for himself.

  For some weeks now, the pleasure he had once gained from working metal, the joy he had experienced at the sight of a perfectly rendered decoration cut into the metal, was lost to him. His disappointment gave him a bleak view of the future: he now was convinced he would never find a woman, never have children with her, never know the joy of a professional career.

  In this bitter mood, he went to the buttery to fetch himself a strong ale, but the small cask there was low. He dared not empty it. Perhaps he could fetch a pot of ale from one of the barrels in John’s locked storage room at the rear of the house? The keys hung on the bottler’s belt usually, but today Benjamin had seen them resting on a protruding wooden peg. He hesitated, but then snatched them up. Pox on what the bottler might say!

  Striding to the storage room, he unlocked the stiff door and tugged it wide. The cool interior always had a strange smell, like meat left drying for years, enhanced by the malty sweetness of the ales stored here after each brewing.

  He stepped on the elm flooring, his feet echoing hollowly in the shed, and went to the nearer barrel, tapping it. There was a good, wholesome sound to it, and he fetched himself a mazer.

  The bellow made him almost drop the cup. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘John! Hell’s teeth, you could have killed me!’

  ‘I still may,’ John said, his hand dropping to his knife. ‘Why are you in here? Are you robbing our master?’

  ‘God’s honour, no! I was thirsty.’

  ‘Thirsty? That’s why you stole my keys? I put them down for a moment, and when I turn my back, you steal them and come to fleece my master! I trusted you, apprentice, and this is how you repay me?’

  Ben was regretting his impulse now. ‘I was thirsty,’ he repeated, ‘and you weren’t there. I thought it was better to come and drink from here, rather than from the cask in the buttery. It’s almost empty.’

  ‘Oh,’ grunted the bottler. He seemed to accept the lad’s explanation and calmed down.

  ‘I am sorry, Benjamin,’ he said. ‘We’re all on edge, after what has happened. Just remember your duties, and all will sort itself out. Our lives are devoted to service, and that is how we shall be measured.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry I took your keys,’ Ben said contritely, passing them back. ‘I won’t do it again.’

  ‘I hope you won’t,’ John said. He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I didn’t mean to shout, boy. That young maid’s death has affected us all.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it has.’

  Precentor’s House

  Adam Murimuth remained sitting at his desk when Janekyn Beyvyn entered with the vicar behind him.

  ‘Come in and stand before me, Father Laurence,’ the Precentor said. ‘I wish to hear what you have to say.’

  He was a good-looking fellow, Murimuth thought. Father Laurence Coscumbe was tall and ruddy-complexioned, with powerful shoulders and arms. He had the sort of face that would have suited a knight more than a man of God: square, rugged, with strong brows over intent, green eyes – a face that could have snared many a maid’s heart. However, today there was a pained look about him.

  ‘Do you know why you are here?’

  ‘Janekyn saw me at the gate, Precentor. But that murder was nothing to do with me. I had been with Father Paul in his church, and when I realised how late was the hour, I hurried back. That is all.’

  ‘Did you go into the lane where this maid was killed?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her, Precentor. I happened to be passing by on my way back from the Church of Holy Trinity, that is all. I would never harm a maid.’

  ‘You didn’t go up the road there?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of kicking a maid to death?’ Father Laurence demanded with spirit. ‘Look at me! I am no felon, Precentor. I have never had an accusation of any kind against me. It is simple villeiny-saying to suggest I could have had anything to do with her injuries.’

  Precentor Murimuth remained gazing at him for a long time, but the vicar stared back stolidly.

  ‘Very
well,’ Murimuth said at last. ‘You may go for now, but I think it would be well, were you to remain within the Close for some days. At least until after the inquest.’

  ‘Yes, Precentor,’ Laurence said. ‘You may be right.’

  Church of the Holy Trinity, South Gate

  Father Paul watched as his little congregation drifted away from his church, and then made his own way from the nave into the small room at the north side.

  He had a large chest here, and he pulled off his vestments and stored them carefully within it. The alb was showing its age, he thought, as he folded the long white linen tunic; and so were most of the other ceremonial items. His daily robes, too, he thought, glancing down. But it didn’t matter, not today. He had other things on his mind.

  Last evening, he had seen Philip Marsille out in the road. He knew the Marsilles, and how desperate was their plight, so he went to speak to the lad.

  ‘Philip. Are you well?’ he asked gently.

  Philip looked up at him with eyes raw from weeping. He was a tall, well-favoured lad with a shock of fair hair and blue eyes in a pale face. ‘You couldn’t understand, Father. It’s a matter of love between a man and a woman. Or not!’ His eyes filled again, and he bent his head to his hands. Through them, he choked, ‘She doesn’t love me.’

  There was the sound of a door opening, and Father Paul saw that Henry Paffard and his family were emerging from their home. Henry’s son and daughter walked out, then his wife, all following after him like servants in a Canon’s familia, descending the short flight of steps one by one.

  Philip stared at them, his face working. The eldest son, Gregory, glanced back at him without emotion, as if the poor boy was beneath his dignity. The master of the house peered briefly at him, but Philip was his tenant, and what interest would a man like him have in a fatherless son, after all?

  The lad should pull himself together, Father Paul thought. It was ridiculous that he should be so, so . . . overwrought.

  It was then that Philip had hissed the words that so alarmed Father Paul.

  ‘You bastard, Henry! You son of a pox-ridden whore! I’ll kill you!’

  Hearing of a murder in Combe Street, Father Paul had immediately assumed that Philip had gone ahead with his stated purpose: to strike down Henry Paffard. He had knelt in front of the cross, hands clasped, knowing he could have done nothing to prevent the crime, but rocking with the guilt nonetheless.

  This morning, he had heard it was a maidservant who’d been killed – some wench trying her luck as a tickle-tail no doubt, and the relief had been overwhelming. If it had been Paffard, he would never have forgiven himself.

  There were many such women selling themselves, tempting men with their leering and lascivious teasing. Only two weeks ago, one outside the Cock Inn had bared her breasts at him, offering him a tumble with a wink and a wriggle of her hips. He had flushed in an instant, and had gone back to the church as fast as he could, to pray for himself, and for the whore.

  They were all women who had fallen from the path of virtue – he must try to remember that. Kindness was more important than condemnation.

  He drank a cup of wine while he set his pottage over the little fire, and sat on his stool stirring; he was still there when the knock came at the door.

  Rising with an effort, he went to open it. Outside were two women from the stews. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not what we want, my lover,’ slurred one. It was plain that she had been in an alehouse for hours. Sarra was typical of her kind, Father Paul thought – blowsy, red-faced, and with a cap that had slipped sideways to show her thick, coarse hair.

  ‘No! We wanted to give you something,’ the other said. She was younger, with a slight cast in one eye and a lop-sided grin that exposed a pair of broken teeth. He didn’t know her name. Both were as thin as rakes.

  Father Paul looked them up and down, and then sighed. ‘Come inside.’

  Friday after the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist3

  Combe Street

  Juliana Marsille, a slim woman of almost forty, with greying hair and flesh drawn tight over a heart-shaped face, was walking back from the baker’s, a tiny loaf held carefully in her hands. It was all she could afford.

  She was unhappy. Two days ago she had lost Emma as a friend, and nothing she could do or say would repair the damage.

  It had been one of those days. Juliana had been trying to talk sense into Philip, her son, but he paid no attention. It was important! She’d been talking about money, saying that he needed to find work, and when she saw him ignoring her, she had been infuriated: she slapped him, just to make him listen.

  He had snapped. Catching her hands, he stared at her as though he didn’t know her. For a moment, she had seen utter wildness in his eyes and knew he could have broken her neck without regret.

  It was a shocking revelation, but she was not stupid enough to deny it. Philip was a man, not her darling little boy any more, and if she were to push him, he might strike back.

  He was weak, that was the problem. He had no idea that for the family to survive, each must do their part. He was the head of the house now her poor, beloved Nicholas was dead.

  She missed him so.

  A pig’s bladder skittered by, and the figure of Thomas Paffard darted past in pursuit, a thick-set little boy of six with a thatch of tallow hair above a face moulded into a frown of determination. With that fixed concentration on his features, he could be mistaken for a serious-minded child, but Juliana knew him better than that. His face was more usually broken almost in half by his broad grin. His blue eyes were seemingly designed for joy and for inspiring it in others. He was the sort of boy who could make any mother wish for a child again, just to enjoy those years of merriment and laughter.

  ‘Hello, Thomas,’ she called as he ran behind her to fetch his bladder.

  He looked and gave her a shy smile that quickly faded, before returning at full pelt to his companions.

  It was enough to make the breath catch in her throat, to make the sob begin deep in her breast, when she thought of her own older boy and what he had become.

  Cock Inn, South Gate

  The tavern was full of noxious fumes from the poor quality logs. The hearth was a small pit filled with ashes in the packed soil of the floor, and every now and again there was a loud crack from a splitting log, and a spark would be hurled over onto the rushes that lay all about. No one bothered to stamp it out, for with the amount of spilled ale, spittle, and urine from the host’s dogs, there was little likelihood that the sodden flooring could catch light.

  Philip Marsille walked in, feeling resentfully that everyone was staring at him as he made his way to the far side where the barrels were stacked.

  They didn’t understand what it was like. No one did. He had loved Alice with the honest conviction that she was the only woman he would ever love. All he needed to do was to rescue her from her life of servitude, and she would have adored him with an equal passion. That was all. He had planned his campaign, he had set his charm to work upon her, and he had been sure that she had begun to reciprocate his feelings . . . and then she threw it all back in his face.

  She had laughed at him; she laughed at his endearments and promises of undying affection, she was scathing when he told her of the house he would have when he had made his fortune.

  ‘Where is this house, Master Philip? Is it in the High Street near the Guild Hall, or behind it, where the goldsmiths work? Or is it in a small alley off Combe Street, here, where there’re more rats than men, where cockroaches wander over the tables, and the walls are rotten and flimsy? You’ll marry me and make me rich, you say? You don’t know what “rich” is!’

  ‘I love you, Alice. I can make you hap—,’ he had begun, but she cut him off.

  ‘I don’t want your love. I am happy without you, so thank you, master, but I think I’ll carry on alone.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he attempted patiently.

&nb
sp; ‘No, you don’t understand. I am well off where I am. I get food, I get my bed, and I’m content.’

  ‘But a life without love is a poor one.’

  ‘What makes you think I live without love?’ she retorted. ‘But I will not be content with a poor fish like you! What do you have? You rent a foul hovel from Henry Paffard with your mother and brother, and you want me to join you there?’

  Her contempt made him recoil, but still he had to try – he felt sure that if she only realised how deeply he felt for her, she must reconsider.

  ‘Alice, if you would only . . .’ he mumbled, and reached out to touch her hand.

  She pulled it back with an expression of disgust. ‘Keep away from me! If you touch me again, I’ll tell my master about this. A word from me, and the whole pack of you will be out on the street. You want that? No? Then leave me alone!’

  Even now, the memory of her words and the scorn in her eyes was enough to bring the hot blood to his face.

  Combe Street

  Juliana was almost back at the alley when she caught sight of Helewisia Avice.

  ‘He’s a pet, isn’t he?’ Helewisia said with a wistfulness in her tone as she eyed Thomas.

  Juliana shot a look at the woman. Helewisia was tall, heavy in build, with large breasts and a well-padded backside. In her youth she had been much sought-after for her looks, but they had flown when she and Roger lost their son, Piers. He had fallen into a well in a silly accident. Helewisia had watched other boys with jealous longing ever since.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Hard to imagine such a lovely fellow born to that bastard Henry!’

  Juliana was not surprised by the venom in her voice. ‘Even the most miserable old sinner can father a saint.’

  ‘You believe that? Well, I say a man’s blood runs in his son’s veins. Perhaps the boy is not his.’

  ‘That is a dreadful thing to say,’ Juliana gasped. ‘Such villeiny-saying could get you into trouble, Helewisia.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Juliana was unsettled by her comments. Still, it was better than dwelling on Emma, the friend she had lost.