City of Fiends Page 9

  ‘We needed bread for the servants’ meal.’

  ‘I see. What of Alice? Who last saw her?’

  ‘She was well enough that evening. She was there when the master left for the Cock with his family,’ John said.

  ‘All the family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she do after that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was in the buttery, after sending Joan for the bread, and then the apprentice and I met for a mazer of ale in the yard later, and we were there when we heard Joan’s screams.’

  Baldwin nodded. A short way away, he saw Paffard. The merchant was tall, with rather gaunt features. There were lines about his face and brow, but his brown eyes looked clear and steady.

  Just now he looked like a man who had been insulted. In fact, he had the demeanour of a felon who had narrowly escaped the rope, but who felt that an inquest into his behaviour was unreasonable.

  Seeing Baldwin’s eye on him, he turned abruptly and strode away.

  ‘What is it?’ Sir Richard asked, seeing Baldwin’s expression.

  ‘Probably nothing. He has lost a maid. It is a disturbing event for a man. But his manner is curious, nonetheless.’

  Road east of Exeter

  Ulric watched Sir Charles drop from his horse and study the land closely with one of the two archers who were always close by him. The rest of the cavalcade remained on their horses, chatting among themselves.

  He had nothing to talk about with them. Yesterday, in the church, he had seen them… Those scenes wouldn’t fade. The women, pulled from their children and forced to the ground while the men took their pleasure, the children squealing in terror, men gritting their teeth and watching with despair on their faces, until one man, a tall, grey-haired fellow of perhaps fifty summers, launched himself at the nearest guard.

  The guard was a weasel-faced fellow with a cast in his eye, who had been watching the nearest woman’s torment with a grin of anticipation, and didn’t expect an attack. He fell under a blow from a fist like a block of timber, and his dagger and sword were snatched up in an instant.

  A shout, a scream as the sword was thrust in a man’s chest, then a roar of fury as the old man lunged at Sir Charles’s second archer. The man side-stepped like an acrobat, and the sword missed him. A second guard sprang to his side, and the desperate man was forced to block both their weapons while the rest of the menfolk watched, held back by a ring of steel.

  When a woman screamed, it was enough. There was a general movement by all the men in that church to break free of their captors, and Ulric watched as they leaped upon the weapons hemming them in. He saw the young men nearer Sir Charles gripping his sword with their bare hands, trying to yank it free of the knight’s grip even as their blood flowed down the fuller. Others ran forward, only to be spitted on their enemies’ blades; a few were shot with arrows, some beaten about the head with a steel war-hammer, and when the madness was done, there was still only one trio remaining: the older man and his two opponents.

  At a nod from Sir Charles, the man with the war-hammer went to them, and with one blow from his spike, ended the man’s battles forever.

  Afterwards, while the bodies of their menfolk cooled all about them, the women were forced to lie in their husbands’ blood while they were raped.

  Ulric could not close his eyes all night, for fear that those tortured faces would return to haunt his dreams. And now, in the daylight, as he watched Sir Charles walk about the lane here, gazing at the trees with the eyes of an expert tactician viewing a new ambush site, all Ulric could think of was somehow warning people about the band. Surely he could get news of the men to someone before more died?

  But he could not think how to do this. Escape was impossible, and without flying from the men, he had no hope. Already he could feel their eyes upon him. He had not helped when they killed the villagers, but had stood back at the waif, clutching at the stones to stop himself falling. Now many of them viewed him as an enemy in their midst. They were watching him all the time in case he tried to run.

  The only man who viewed him with any fondness was Sir Charles. The knight appeared to consider him like a slightly wayward boy, to be treated with an amiable tolerance. He would not forget that Ulric had saved his life.

  But it did not help Ulric. He was sure that soon he would die. Whether at the hands of the men here, or those of a posse, it made no difference. He had no hope.

  No hope at all.

  Near alley at Combe Street

  Baldwin and Sir Richard waited until the body was released for burial.

  Glancing down, Baldwin noticed that Wolf had been distracted. The huge dog sat at the wall of the Paffard house, panting happily, while a young boy cuddled him.

  It was a sight to make a man smile. In the midst of this pain and suffering, it was good to see that there were still boys who behaved as boys. Baldwin could recall when he had been young. In those days he had spent more time with his dogs than with his family. They had been happy days.

  Happier than these, certainly, he thought.

  A boy was sent to the Cathedral to instruct the Fosser to dig a new grave, and to bring a cart of some sort to transport the body. The Holy Trinity was the local parish church, but the Cathedral had an absolute monopoly on funerals, and Alice would have to be taken up to the Close.

  The Coroner was relieved to be done, chatting to his clerk, but for his part, Baldwin was dissatisfied. He left Sir Richard where he was for a moment, walking over to Emma and Helewisia where they knelt beside the girl’s body, wrapping her in a winding sheet.

  ‘Mistress, I should like to ask you a question.’

  Emma looked up at him with suspicious eyes. ‘Why? The inquest is over, isn’t it?’

  Baldwin drew her away from Helewisia. ‘Yes. I didn’t wish to embarrass you before the jury. This young woman died a vile death. The matter is less about her, than about the man who was prepared to do this to her.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Emma bridled, immediately on her guard. This man had dark eyes that fixed on her with a curious intensity; it was alarming, as though he could see through her foolish defences to all the secrets she held in her breast.

  ‘You are a clever woman. You know she had a lover, don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she allowed.

  ‘Madam, I do not wish to slander her now she is dead, but I have to know the truth if I am to discover her murderer. Who was her lover? Was it a man from about here?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ she said, and refused to look away, staring up at his face with firm resolution. He couldn’t force her, after all, and she would not lose her house and home just because of this man.

  Helewisia had been watching them both talking, and now she stood a scant ten paces from them.

  ‘What of you, mistress?’ Baldwin asked, seeing Helewisia as though for the first time.

  ‘Me?’ she echoed.

  Emma could see that Helewisia was flattered to be asked, the silly woman. She was easily flattered. She deserved sympathy, but there was a limit to the compassion owed even to a woman bereaved of her child, when she behaved so ridiculously.

  ‘This maid had a lover. Do you know who he was?’

  Helewisia did not look at Emma, but instead stared over her shoulder. ‘If you wanted to learn, you could do worse than question Henry Paffard’s son, Gregory.’

  Baldwin turned and followed her pointing finger.

  Gregory was a boy of middle height, with a chubbiness about him like his mother. He wore a long tunic, fur-lined cloak and warm felt hat as he entered the hall. His eyes were deep and brown, and he had a habit of blinking rapidly, Baldwin saw. Perhaps it showed he was upset, but in the past Baldwin had known such signs to be proof of guilt. He cast an eye over the lad, saying, ‘You have seen them together?’

  ‘No, it’s just that he’s a wastrel who spends his time in frivolous enjoyment instead of working. You ask him, if you want to know who she was with before she died.’r />
  ‘He was with his father at the Cock,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘And came back before his father.’

  Rougemont Castle

  Sir James de Cockington was a man of power and authority. He commanded the Posse of the county, he was responsible for the main strategic sites, such as Exeter, and he upheld the law across his demesne.

  And yet Baldwin de Furnshill had disappeared.

  He had no right to go when he had been told to wait for Sir James to call him in. He was Sheriff, in God’s name, not some tradesman who could be expected to remain waiting for a knight to return at his leisure.

  But there had been that cryptic comment about the King. He didn’t like that. There was something threatening about it, and it was not for Baldwin to threaten his Sheriff. That was not his place. It was insulting.

  ‘What is that noise?’ he demanded of his page-boy.

  Outside there was the sound of bells rising up from the Cathedral.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ the boy said, quailing at the sight of the Sheriff’s anger. He was used to being beaten or kicked when things did not go well for the Sheriff. Today he was safe, however. Sir James had other things on his mind.

  ‘Go and find out. And while you’re there, also find out where in God’s good name that damned fool Furnshill has got to! Find him, and demand that he come here and explain himself!’

  Combe Street

  Gregory watched the knight talking to that busybody Helewisia, and when she turned and looked at him, he knew it was his turn to be questioned.

  He stood firmly, refusing to be antagonised. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Precentor Murimuth asked me to learn about this maid’s death, if I may.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Were you her lover?’

  Gregory stared at him, then gestured down at the body. ‘With her? You have a poor opinion of me, if you would accuse me of that. No. She was not my lover, neither willingly nor unwillingly. Besides, you heard: I was with my father and mother at the Cock.’

  ‘Others think you a wastrel.’

  ‘People should be careful whom they insult,’ he said, his voice lower and angry. ‘I would not take kindly to such smears being bandied about.’

  ‘It is hard to keep secrets in a small house.’

  ‘Is it?’ he said. ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Did she have a lover inside the house? An apprentice? Another servant?’

  ‘I never saw her with anyone,’ Gregory said firmly. ‘If I had, I would have spoken to her and her lover. I wouldn’t want a promiscuous maid in the house.’

  Baldwin nodded, and then looked at Wolf. The boy was still cuddling and petting him enthusiastically. ‘You like him?’ he said gently.

  Thomas looked up at him and seemed about to reply, but then, seeing his brother, he rose to his feet and slowly backed away.

  ‘My brother Thomas is very fearful of all people since Alice’s death,’ Gregory said coolly. ‘It shocked him.’

  ‘As it must,’ Baldwin said.

  But there was something in Thomas’s manner that jarred. The young lad looked less alarmed by the corpse which had been the focus of their attention, and more by his own brother.

  Chapter Eleven

  De Coyntes’ House

  Bydaud de Coyntes was glad to be away from the alley. Every so often the breeze had turned and brought with it the distinctive stench of death, and he had almost gagged.

  His house was at the other side of the alley from Paffard’s. It was small, more or less the same size as the Avices’ house, but better located, bordering Combe Street. Of course, both were a great deal smaller than Paffard’s. That was enormous, as befitted one of the city’s wealthiest men. But that did not matter. Bydaud was rich enough, he felt. Emma was a good woman, his daughters were the pride of his life, and he had money enough to keep them all warm and fed. There was little more a man would wish from life usually.

  ‘Peg, bring me a flagon of wine, and mazers for me and Emma,’ he called to the maid as he squatted at the fireside, poking the embers until sparks gleamed and burst into the air. He blew gently, and flames erupted along the length of the logs resting on top, until he could feel the heat.

  It was bright outside, but in here it was always gloomy. He took a taper and lit the candles in their great iron stands, then the smaller candles on the spikes in the walls.

  He needed light to drive away thoughts of death. Since the unrest last year, when the King had been captured and imprisoned, there had been a lingering sense of unease about the city, and Alice’s murder only served to underline the tension.

  ‘Husband, to burn so many candles is expensive!’

  ‘I know, woman. But I enjoy the light.’

  Emma sighed and shook her head. ‘We should save money, Bydaud.’

  He blew out the taper and dropped it into the pot hanging on the wall by the door, then dipped his finger in the stoup of holy water and crossed himself, before going to his chair and sitting. ‘Come here.’

  Emma scowled. ‘This is no time for—’

  ‘Woman, come here.’

  She gave an exclamation of annoyance, but obeyed him and sat on his lap.

  He placed his arms about her waist. ‘There, that’s better.’

  ‘You should be working.’

  ‘I have a meeting with Henry later at the Cock Inn. I will be working then. All work and no pleasantry would make for a tedious life, wife.’

  ‘Oh? Get off me!’

  He withdrew his hand from her bodice as she slapped him, but then clasped her in a tight embrace, and this time kissed her until she put her hands on his head and pulled him closer. He was utterly maddening, but he was kind, considerate, handsome, and she loved him.

  And while the maid from Paffard’s was dead, Emma wanted to celebrate life, as though by making love with Bydaud she could eradicate the memory of the other girl’s cold, lifeless flesh.

  Precentor’s House, Cathedral Close

  Baldwin was standing and tickling Wolf’s ears in Adam Murimuth’s chamber when the door opened and the vicar entered.

  After the inquest, Baldwin had suggested to Sir Richard that they should inform the Precentor of the outcome. It was there, in Murimuth’s hall, that the Precentor had told them of the man suspected of running into the Close after the murder.

  ‘I am sure he is innocent,’ Murimuth said unconvincingly, ‘but I would be remiss were I not to tell you.’

  ‘I should like to speak with him,’ Baldwin said.

  Adam Murimuth nodded with sadness as he sent for the vicar.

  It was some minutes before Father Laurence entered, and Sir Richard gave him a quizzical stare, commenting loudly, ‘They build vicars more heftily here than at my home.’

  Murimuth was already feeling guilty, as though he had surrendered Father Laurence to the hangman. Laurence was the son of a baron near Axminster. It was unthinkable that he could have had anything to do with the murder of some maidservant. Out of the question. He sat on a stool with a sense of misery that he could ever have thought Laurence involved. And yet…

  ‘Father, there was a murder in a yard out near Combe Street last Saturday,’ Baldwin began.

  ‘In the alley,’ Father Laurence said calmly.

  Sir Richard said, ‘You saw the body?’

  ‘I almost fell over her. As soon as I realised she was dead, I was struck with fear lest I should be thought to be the killer. I ran, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Which way did you run?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Down to Combe Street and back up Southgate Street. I knew that Mark on the Bear Gate would let me in.’

  ‘So you didn’t see the woman who was declared First Finder?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I saw no one. Or didn’t notice. It was late, so—’

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted Baldwin. ‘It was late – so why were you there?’

  ‘I was visiting a friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Father Pau
l at Holy Trinity.’

  ‘And after that you walked up to Combe Street?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Why turn up there, instead of heading into the Cathedral Close?’

  ‘I was thinking of things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Private matters that concern only me,’ Father Laurence said quietly.

  ‘So, you found her. Why run? It was your duty as a priest to pray over her. You were derelict in your duties, surely?’

  ‘I was. I went to her, and saw who it was, and that scared me.’

  Laurence was pale, but composed. Baldwin thought it was strange to see the man accepting his failure without trying to defend himself.

  ‘Was there a reason for you to fail in such a dramatic manner?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I panicked.’

  ‘Was she your lover?’ Sir Richard demanded.

  ‘No,’ he said, and there was a slight movement of his lips, as though he was close to smiling.

  Sir Richard said scornfully, ‘It ill behoves you to run away at the sight of a poor young girl’s corpse.’

  ‘Why were you in the alley?’ Baldwin pressed. ‘It leads nowhere, but to the Paffards’ house.’

  ‘I had a lot on my mind, as I said,’ Laurence said, and now he glanced at Adam Murimuth. ‘I was in the church with Father Paul, and he gave me many things to consider, so I went outside to think through all he said. It has nothing to do with this murder.’

  It was clear that the man was determined to stick with this story.

  Murimuth peered at him anxiously. ‘Is this a matter for the confessional, Father?’

  The priest looked at him, and there was pain in his eyes. ‘No. There has been no sin on my part. Only a foolish hope.’

  Baldwin did not get the impression of guilt from Father Laurence’s appearance. In his experience, a guilty man would look away, would nervously fidget, would twitch. This vicar stood resolutely, like a man-at-arms waiting for a cavalry charge: with trepidation, but with courage. Yet some men who were guilty did not think their crimes a felony. Perhaps this was one such man.

  ‘I will ask one last time: why were you there? Will you not answer?’