City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  Baldwin was ambivalent. His oath had been given to the King anointed by God, and he was reluctant to be forsworn. Once he had been a warrior monk, a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and he detested the idea of casting aside an oath. If Sir Baldwin gave his word, he held to it. Yet Sir Edward had voluntarily abdicated, and Baldwin felt that absolved him from the responsibility of protecting his King.

  In any case, the escape of Sir Edward while in their care was a disaster, since his supporters might now, at any time, launch an attack on the young King Edward III. The latter might even have to defend his throne against his own father, which was not a prospect Simon or Baldwin wished to contemplate. The young King ruled under a council of regents, who advised him at every step, but Baldwin felt sure that news of the release of his father must inevitably lead to recriminations against those considered responsible – himself and Simon – since their failure could lead to a renewal of civil strife.

  Many, like Simon, did not understand how anyone could seek to release the old King. Others believed that past crimes could be pardoned, or perhaps they acted for their own financial gain, by removing Edward III and replacing him with his father. Some thought that removing God’s anointed King was an atrocious crime, and could lead to the realm being placed under anathema, as had happened in Scotland when the Bruce rebelled; Baldwin himself had some sympathy with this view.

  All he did know for sure was this: if Sir Edward of Caernarfon were to attempt to regain his kingdom, there would be bloody civil conflict. And he did not wish for that.

  They had reached Taunton the previous day after riding hard, and now, breakfasted, and having attended Mass in the castle’s chapel, they were ready to continue. They must ride to Exeter to inform the Sheriff of the escape of the King; so far, with God’s grace, news of Sir Edward’s escape had not become widely bruited about. And then they could at last return to their homes. Baldwin had gained a strong dislike for travelling, and he knew his wife must be anxious to see him again, just as he was to return to her.

  Having travelled for many leagues together already, the three companions had used up their stock of conversation. Being men of action, all preferred to tend to their thoughts rather than airing inconsequential comments. Simon jogged along with a smile on his face, thinking of his wife. Sir Richard peered ahead, as if seeking out a memory of a joke in the views between the trees. For his part, Baldwin was glad of the time to consider his position. This should have been a delightful journey. The sun was shining, and with his mastiff, Wolf, trotting on ahead, his friends nearby and his servant Edgar close to hand, he should have been able to relax. But he could not.

  ‘You look weary, Baldwin,’ Simon remarked.

  ‘l am, Simon. I have been Keeper of the King’s Peace for more than ten years now, and I have had enough of it.’

  Like other Keepers, he held a warrant to chase felons ‘from hundred to hundred, shire to shire’, with the posse. It was a basic premise that people must see justice in operation, if they were to maintain any faith in the King’s laws, and that meant bringing men to the courts where their guilt could be proved.

  ‘You would give up the job?’

  ‘Possibly. I took on the role in gratitude to others: to you, and to Dean Peter of Crediton. I carried on, really, for Bishop Walter.’

  ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘I revered him. Since his death I have lost much of my motivation.’

  It was not only the Bishop’s death. If Baldwin were honest, it had been a gradual realisation that he was too aged. His body was old, even if his mind was unchanged. His right ear had lost all hearing, his hips ached when he spent too long in the saddle, and there was a stiffness in his back that was often painful. Hurtling over the countryside in search of malefactors was work for younger men. As for his other duties: sitting in judgement on others had never held much appeal for him, and seeing men convicted and taken to their deaths gave him no pleasure.

  They had passed by Wellington and were continuing southwards when they saw two men on horseback riding towards them at a gallop. Baldwin and Simon glanced at each other. There was no reason to suspect danger, but since the escape of Sir Edward, both had been extra vigilant Sir Richard trotted up to their side with Edgar, and the four waited together.

  ‘You ride in a hurry,’ Baldwin said as the two came into earshot. ‘What speeds your journey?’

  ‘We’re from Dunkeswell Abbey, sir. We have urgent messages to take to Taunton.’

  ‘Urgent?’ Sir Richard said. ‘How so?’

  ‘I fear the Bishop of Exeter is dead.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Sir Richard muttered.

  Marsilles’ House

  Juliana Marsille entered her home and stood in the doorway, staring about her with a feeling of weariness.

  It had been here, sitting at her table over there, that Philip had caught her hands and left her convinced that he could kill her. She had been too harsh, perhaps. But he must grow used to the fact that he was their breadwinner now. He must snap out of this ridiculous melancholy!

  Nicholas had died but two years since. Two years, and yet in that time she and her boys had lost everything. Oh, God, she wanted him back so badly!

  Nicholas Marsille had been a kindly soul. He’d never managed to join the higher ranks of the city, because he was not born into the sort of position that conferred ready acceptance into the Freedom; it was a particularly exclusive club within Exeter. But Nicholas had been a genial soul, and his generosity and reliability had made him popular with his peers. He had made Juliana very happy all their married life, and his ventures had been generally successful. Until that last one.

  He died in a silly accident, and that was the worst thing he ever did to her. Walking along the High Street, he saw a mother stumble and fall, and her baby tumble from her arms into the path of a cart. Nicholas darted out to rescue the child but, unsettled by his sudden lunge into the roadway, the carthorse kicked out. A hoof stove in his skull, and her lovely Nick was gone.

  Other families in such circumstances would have been able to call on friends or relatives, but when friends tried to help, Juliana proudly refused them. She would not take alms, she said. Her parents were peasants on Lord de Courtenay’s lands down at Topsham, and had no money. She couldn’t turn to them. And without any other means of supporting herself or the boys, she was forced to sell their house. Henry Paffard had helped, yet even so the price she received for the place with all their belongings had been pathetic. As Henry explained, Nicholas had owed considerable sums. Now, with the proceeds mostly gone to creditors, there was only a paltry sum left, and they must all live on that. Her only hope was that one of her sons might make his fortune. It was too much to hope that either could marry into wealth – those with money would not wish to wed their daughters to the impoverished.

  Which was a shame because Juliana was sure that Katherine Avice would have appreciated Philip’s advances. Her eldest son had been pining for a woman, she knew. At first she had dared to hope that the object of his affection was Katherine. Only sixteen, and perhaps a slightly froward young vixen, but if Philip could marry her, all their problems would be over. As it was, the fool seemed to have lost the desire to find his own way in the world. How he hoped to win a woman without the means of supporting himself, let alone her as well, baffled Juliana.

  She’d be better than Anastasia de Coyntes. Juliana wouldn’t want anything to do with Emma’s family, not after the way Emma had behaved towards her. Well, Juliana didn’t need her friendship.

  With a flare of anger, she kicked the door shut, walked to the table and dumped the loaf down.

  Yes, if he could have taken Katherine, they would have been secure for life, but oh no. Instead, he had fixed his eyes upon the Paffards’ maid – that silly little tart Alice. Even though the girl had made it clear that she had no interest in him, he had continued to plague her, until she had been forced to demonstrate, in no uncertain terms, that s
he had no feelings for him.

  Which was why Juliana had feared that he could have been responsible for the maid’s death.

  It was such a relief to hear that the killer was from the Cathedral, and therefore could not be her son.

  Road south of Wellington

  Simon looked at Baldwin. They had all dismounted, and the messengers were happy to break their journey and share some crusts of bread with cheese.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Baldwin asked.

  The two messengers exchanged a glance, then one admitted, ‘I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t there. But I was told to ride to Bath to let the Bishop know, and to stop in Taunton and pass it on there, too.’

  ‘I see.’ It was natural enough that there should be messengers sent hither and thither on the death of a Bishop, but he was surprised that the man did not know how the Bishop had died. What Baldwin did know was that the Bishop would be sorely missed. He had taken on the Bishopric only four months before, a popular choice amongst the Canons of the Cathedral who elected him, and to lose him so soon, only a matter of months since the murder of Bishop Walter II, would be devastating to the Cathedral.

  ‘What is happening to the good Bishop’s body?’ Sir Richard asked mildly. ‘He’ll be taken back to Exeter, no doubt?’

  ‘Yes, but the progress will be slow, naturally, out of respect.’

  The messengers could add little more. Soon they had remounted and were riding away again.

  ‘It seems a terrible coincidence for the Bishop to die just when Sir Edward has been released from his brother’s castle,’ Baldwin said as he climbed on to his own horse. ‘Almost as if one was punishment for the other.’

  Sir Richard cocked an eye. ‘You believe that sort of twaddle?’

  ‘What, a divine intervention? No, I think God has more important matters to interest Him,’ Baldwin said lightly.

  Simon was frowning. ‘I suppose that those messengers would have had companions leave for Exeter at the same time as them?’

  ‘Yes, so they ought to arrive in Exeter before long,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I was only thinking’, Simon said, ‘that while we have to ride to Exeter and give news of the King’s escape, it would be easy enough to let the Dean know what we’ve heard. We may arrive before the messengers.’

  ‘Good idea!’ Sir Richard declared, a beatific smile spreading over his features. ‘I would be pleased to test the hospitality of the Cathedral for an evening.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘It would be more to my taste than the castle’s gaol, in any case,’ he muttered. ‘So long as we can return home soon.’

  Chapter Seven

  Church near Broadclyst

  Sunday after the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist1

  Ulric shivered as he walked into the church, looking about him at the devastation.

  The body of the priest who had stood at the door to refuse them entry had been dragged outside now, only a smear of blood showing where he had been cut down. Inside, the simple altar had been sent flying, and the cross and rich hangings from behind had been taken away and packed in a cart, while men ransacked the small chamber beneath the tower.

  It was sacrilege, and Ulric was all too keenly aware that he was now a part of this band of desperate felons. He had saved their leader, and was now viewed as Sir Charles’s personal squire. If he could, he would have fled, but to where? He knew he was miles from Exeter, but he had no idea of the land about here. He would be caught before he had ridden a mile.

  That was his difficulty. He was no trained outlaw, he was a merchant’s assistant from Exeter. God, the memories he had of Paffard’s house. He ought to be there now, helping measure the white tin and lead, melting them to make the pewter, working it – not here, wallowing in blood.

  However, there was a thrill to being one of this band, he couldn’t deny it. Being one of a group for whom the usual rules and laws did not apply was scary but intoxicating too. He had begun to feel as though there was nothing he could not do.

  But in here, in this little church, he felt all the old doubts. He did not want to die on a felon’s tree, his body spinning in the wind as the hemp tightened about his throat, and then be sent to hell to suffer torments at the hands of the Devil. Surely for aiding those who killed the priest, he would one day pay.

  ‘Come, Ulric,’ Sir Charles called. He was sitting on a bench near the altar. ‘You see this little church, and you think you have been brought to the brink of ruin, eh?’ he continued when Ulric was standing before him. ‘No, my friend. We are doing God’s work here.’

  ‘It is not God’s will that we should kill innocent priests and rob their churches!’

  ‘It is God’s will that His order be renewed. The removal of a King is His responsibility, and His alone.’

  ‘But to kill a Bishop, and a priest, too.’

  ‘The Bishop of Exeter was the brother of the man who captured and held the King, brother to the man who told the King he must surrender his throne, against all the laws of man and God. Berkeley must be forced to realise his error in setting his face against God.’

  ‘You cannot succeed with this,’ Ulric said with miserable certainty. He looked at the altar once more and felt like weeping. ‘God will punish us for this.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sir Charles said. There was a shout from outside, but neither paid it any heed. ‘Ulric, for once and for all, get it into your head that the men who caused this are the men who took the stern decision to forswear themselves. They were servants to the King, and broke their oaths. There is nothing for them when they die but the pits of hell. We are serving God by our—’

  There was a fresh cry from outside the church, and Sir Charles muttered a curse before bellowing, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Men coming here!’

  Sir Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Of course there are,’ he said with a long-suffering sigh. ‘This is their church.’

  Exeter Cathedral

  Adam Murimuth felt a vague disquiet. It was the expression on the face of Philip Marsille. The poor fellow was plainly upset by the murder, as a man should be – and yet there was something more than sorrow in his expression.

  He squirmed as unobtrusively as possible, his legs already aching. For his part, he had spent much time considering whether he should take matters further with Father Laurence. The fact that the vicar had denied absolutely any part in the girl’s murder should have reassured him, but Murimuth felt that there was something shifty at best about his behaviour. Perhaps he himself had not been involved, but had seen someone else in the road who could have been?

  From here in the choir, Murimuth faced the altar, looking along the heads of the choristers towards the newly-built eastern half of the Cathedral. It was warm, and there was a fug of humanity that incense could not subdue. Murimuth himself could feel the itching of sweat at his beard and the stubble of his tonsure. It had been some days since his last visit to the barber, and he felt slightly unclean as a result.

  Father Laurence himself was always clean and fresh. He belonged to that category of men who were always washing themselves, as though it was some form of ritual in its own right.

  Murimuth suddenly had a vision of a man washing away blood from his hands, as though he could as easily wash away his guilt. Cleanliness as proof of a crime? No, that was nonsense! At least the Coroner should soon be able to open his inquest. Murimuth rested his backside on the little carved misericord behind him and tried to ease his legs. It would be a good thing to rescue that poor child’s body from the alleyway in which she still lay, and see to her burial. There was no excuse for leaving her out there any longer than necessary.

  He would make some notes later. Perhaps that would help clear the fog in his mind. Because for now, he felt such a heaviness of spirit.

  It was as though his soul was telling him that Father Laurence did know something of the maid’s murder.

  Church near Broadclyst

  Sir Charles was on his feet and halfway to the door before Ulric
had registered the call. There, Sir Charles motioned to a pair of his men. They were rugged-looking fellows, who wore leather bracers like archers, and had the appearance of experienced fighters in the way that they stared through the open doorway with calm concentration, showing no anxiety.

  ‘Are they Bishop’s men?’ one of the men asked as Ulric reached their side.

  ‘No. Looks like the congregation is on its way to the church for Sunday worship,’ Sir Charles said with a chuckle. ‘Get the men ready to greet them.’

  One of the archers hastened away to the side of the church where the rest of the band were waiting with the carts and horses. There was a muttering of quiet orders, a slithering hiss of steel, and then nothing more.

  Ulric looked at Sir Charles and the other archer. There were another six men in the church, and Sir Charles nodded his head to them. ‘The people are coming. Make haste!’

  In the blink of an eye, the men concealed themselves about the church, while Sir Charles and the archer took their positions at either side of the door. Ulric was motioned away, impatiently, and he darted to the wall behind Sir Charles.

  There was a chattering of voices, and then the door opened, and a tall, grizzled man entered. He was clad in good scarlet, and Ulric instantly thought he must be the vill’s bailiff. Behind him was a short, buxom woman, and a couple of young fellows who looked like their sons, and Ulric saw more people behind them, thronging the little entranceway.

  Whoever he was, the man was no fool. In an instant he took in the sight of the altar thrown against the wall, the blood on the floor, and he roared a warning, setting his hand to his hilt, but even as he made to draw steel, Sir Charles had rested his blade on the man’s shoulder, the steel against his throat. ‘You’ll wait, man.’