City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  Outside there was a sudden commotion as the congregation was herded inside, the archer and two others grabbing any weapons from the unresisting peasants as they came.

  It was all so easy. Ulric gazed in wonder to see the people brought in and forced to kneel on the ground, while Sir Charles’s men moved amongst them, cutting away purses and pulling rings from fingers. Some rich, most poorer, men with sullen eyes, women with fear in their faces, holding children to them, terrified of what might happen, all pushed to the rear of the building while Sir Charles’s men took up positions around them.

  And only then, when Ulric glanced at the grim faces of the men from Sir Charles’s party, did he feel a leaden fear in his belly.

  Exeter North Gate

  It was already late when they finally reached the gates to the city, and Simon knew that they must hurry if they were to get to the Cathedral before the Close was shut.

  ‘Simon,’ Baldwin said as they rode under the city gates, ‘there is no need for you to come as well. If you join us at the Cathedral, you will be held up there and may not escape this night. Go to your daughter’s house instead, and we shall come to meet you tomorrow morning as soon as we are free. We can visit the Sheriff tomorrow, and then head for our homes.’

  It was a welcome plan. Simon grasped Baldwin’s hand, waved to Sir Richard and Edgar, then called to his servant Hugh, and trotted off in the direction of Edith’s house.

  Baldwin watched him, then grunted to himself as he and the others carried on down the street to Carfoix, and along the High Street to the Fissand Gate.

  ‘Sirs, the gates will be closing soon,’ Janekyn Beyvyn called from his stool just inside. He was eating a husk of bread, and Wolf, Baldwin’s great tricoloured mastiff, went and sat in front of him, his eyes fixed earnestly upon the crust as his jowls drooled. Janekyn glowered at him.

  ‘Aye,’ Sir Richard agreed. ‘But we have urgent business with the Dean.’

  ‘I’m afraid Dean Alfred is not well,’ Janekyn said. ‘He has been bled, and is away resting. I think the barber took too much blood. He’s not a young man, but the surgeon wouldn’t listen to anyone.’

  ‘Well, the Precentor will do,’ Baldwin said. ‘Porter, could you send a boy to tell him that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Richard de Welles regret interrupting him at this sorry time, but we have some grievous news to impart.’

  ‘Sorry time, sir?’

  Baldwin gave a quick frown, ‘Have you not heard?’

  ‘Simon was right, then,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Please send to the good Precentor, porter. We have bad news for him.’

  Cathedral Close

  Monday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist2

  Adam Murimuth walked from the Cathedral in a state of shock. So much effort had gone into selecting the new Bishop, and to learn from Baldwin and Sir Richard that he had been murdered was devastating. Already he was thinking of the messages that must be sent: to the Archbishop, to the Pope, to the King… there was so much to be done.

  He had walked from the West Door and was halfway to the Charnel Chapel before he realised he had no idea where he was going. He scarcely even recognised where he was. For a moment he thought the ground was bucking beneath him, like a violent sea, and had to close his eyes to steady himself.

  He had lived here at Exeter for some little while, and in that time he had seen many disasters. When the news of the murder of Bishop Walter II was brought to the Cathedral last year, it was he, Adam, who had arranged matters as best he could. When the dispute arose about who would replace Bishop Walter, it was Adam who had negotiated and persuaded until Bishop James was elected. It had not been easy. And now, a scant three months after his enthronement, Bishop James too was dead. It was a disaster for the See. For the Cathedral, it was a catastrophe. The Cathedral needed a Bishop, never more so than now, with a King who was under-age, and a Pope who sought to take over ancient rights and customs. The next Bishop might be selected not in Exeter but in Avignon.

  The noise of the masons brought him back to his senses. The hammering of chisels on stone, the rasp of saws, the creak and rumble of the treadmill slowly hauling rocks to the top of the new walls, and all around the bellowing of the hundreds of men involved in the building works. He had almost walked into a massive stone lintel, curved to form a part of an arch.

  To hear that Sir Edward of Caernarfon had escaped, that was shocking enough – dear God, to think that so many men could wish to see him return to the throne! – but it would surely mean little to Adam down here in Exeter. Whoever was King, the taxes demanded from the Cathedral would not change. But to lose the Bishop – that was a substantial blow.

  Enough! His duty was to keep the Cathedral working so that it could perform its sacred duty of caring for the souls in the city. He must pull himself together so that others could do their job.

  Meanwhile, Adam had been responsible for the administration of the Cathedral when Bishop Walter had died. During this latest interregnum he would very likely be asked to take up that function again. His task was to manage the diocese, after all. He must look after the income and expenses until a new Bishop could be elected. The work involved was a great burden to be shouldered.

  No matter that a Bishop had died; God’s work on earth continued.

  The Precentor set his jaw. There was also this other matter of the man who had been heard running as that girl was killed. Should he report Father Laurence, or merely question him again? He would have to think about what to do.

  Standing at the edge of the cloister, he stared up at the towers. He tried to imagine this marvellous building without the latticework of scaffolding, without all those masons and plumbers, carpenters and labourers, who swarmed up and down the ropes and beams like so many monkeys, and it was as he stood there, marvelling at the insanity of the men dangling precariously so high above the ground, that he saw Sir Baldwin and Sir Richard ambling from the guests’ chamber by the Palace Gate. They were on their way to see the Sheriff, he remembered.

  With a sudden sigh of relief, Adam saw how he could delegate one task at least.

  * * *

  28 June 1327.↩︎

  29 June 1327.↩︎

  Chapter Eight

  Rougemont Castle, Exeter

  Baldwin and Sir Richard stood in the small room before the hall. They had been waiting for some little while already. Edgar lounged at the doorway.

  ‘The Precentor was very keen for us to have a look at this dead woman, wasn’t he, Sir Baldwin?’

  ‘I think he has much on his plate, what with our news of the Bishop and the affairs that must inevitably attract his attention,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Aye. So you think it’s fishy too, then, eh?’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘It is possible that there was something else about this matter that he forgot to tell us,’ he said, fielding Wolf’s ear.

  ‘Hmm. The inquest will be this morning, he said, so we should hurry.’

  ‘If the Sheriff will permit us to leave him,’ Baldwin agreed, looking out through the window at the shadows.

  Sir Richard followed his gaze. ‘We’ve been waiting a long time already. Do you think they forgot to tell him we were here?’

  ‘No. I think he intends to show us how unimportant we are,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Eh?’ Sir Richard asked, baffled. Such rudeness was incomprehensible to him.

  ‘He demonstrates that he has lots of important business to get through, and we do not measure compared with his other, more pressing matters.’

  ‘Ah, he does, eh?’

  ‘And in case there could be no doubt, I am sure that he has a scale of time for which to hold men up without seeing them. Perhaps a squire would be so long, a knight a little less, a peasant still longer.’

  ‘But we said we have very important news,’ Sir Richard growled. ‘And we have an inquest to attend, since the Precentor asked us to witness it for him.’

  ‘Only for a murdered maidservant. All the more reason for him to
keep us waiting, my friend.’

  ‘God’s blood, the arrogant puppy!’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘There, I admit, I have to agree with you. Sir James de Cockington dislikes me. I was responsible, in part, for arresting his brother last year. I fear he believes that I have a feud against him and his family.’

  ‘Well, can’t let the fellow get away with that,’ Sir Richard said, and there was a gleam in his eye. ‘Come, sir.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Baldwin asked as his companion began to clump his way to the door that led to the yard.

  In answer, Sir Richard bawled at a page and beckoned. When the boy had joined them, Sir Richard glowered down at him.

  ‘It would seem your master the Sheriff is too busy to see us at present. We have urgent business, so tell him he can come to us when he is ready. We’ll be at the inquest at Combe Street. Please also tell him it is a shame he doesn’t have time to hear news which involves the security of the Cathedral here, and even of the Crown itself. Now, Sir Baldwin, we must hurry if we are to reach the inquest, I suppose?’

  Combe Street near Paffards’ House

  Emma had arrived early with her husband, but the jury had already gathered at the entrance to the alley. They couldn’t all fit inside, for there were sixteen men all told, none younger than fifteen.

  The men were almost all known to Emma from the parish: a cobbler there from Combe Street, his brother who lived next door, a merchant who had once accused her husband Bydaud of defamation, damn his soul, but Bydaud had already won over too many friends in the city, and the fellow was forced to withdraw. Yes, looking over the grim faces, she knew them all.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am glad to see you all here for this sorry duty,’ the Coroner said, but quietly. He looked about him with a scowl as if daring any to ask him to speak more forcefully, and Emma tutted, wondering if this was his first inquest. He looked barely twenty. He was certainly younger than her.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Juliana asked. She had walked up behind Emma, and stood staring at the Coroner.

  Emma was tempted to ignore her, but with all these people about, she had no desire to show herself mean-minded. ‘I’ve no idea. I’d have thought it would be better to have a man with a little more experience for this kind of task. This one looks as though he’s not yet drawn his sword in anger. He’s so young!’

  ‘Aren’t they all?’ Juliana said. ‘That’s probably why he hasn’t been called away to the King’s war.’

  ‘Lucky him,’ Emma said shortly. ‘We never win against the Scots. Not since the old King died.’

  Helewisia Avice joined them, and Emma gave her a smile of welcome, which Juliana noticed. She felt a stab of hurt at the affirmation of friendship. Helewisia for her part greeted both with a reserve suited to the occasion. ‘You were talking about the old King?’

  Juliana nodded. King Edward I, ‘the Hammer of the Scots’, was well-named, but since his death twenty years ago, the Scottish had always maintained the upper hand, even in Ireland for a while. ‘Who are those two?’

  ‘No idea,’ Emma said, following her pointing finger to stare at Baldwin and Sir Richard. Edgar lounged behind them, and Emma was suddenly shocked to observe that he was giving her an appraising look. He smiled languidly and she felt her face colour as she hurriedly averted her gaze. She was a married woman, and wanted no attention from a man like him. In any case, this was no place for dallying. They had a stern responsibility here.

  The inquest was formal, the Coroner’s Clerk murmuring quiet instructions every so often when it appeared that the Coroner was becoming confused or lost, and then they reached the point where the girl must be viewed.

  ‘I have already viewed her body,’ the Coroner said. ‘Perhaps we should bring her out here, so the jury can study her?’ he added, glancing at his clerk.

  The clerk, a weasely little man, gave a sharp frown and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so, Sir Richard interrupted. His voice was like the rumble of a wagon on a poorly-made road, Emma thought, her ears ringing.

  ‘GOOD SIR REGINALD, WOULD YOU MIND IF WE TOOK A LOOK IN SITU?’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’

  ‘l am Sir Richard de Welles, Coroner of Lifton. I have some little experience of matters of this sort.’

  The man scratched at his beard, and then when he shrugged and stood aside, the two knights and their escort walked past him and up the alley.

  ‘What can they hope to see up there?’ Juliana whispered.

  Alley near Paffards’ House

  ‘Bit dark in here,’ Sir Richard rumbled as they stepped over the rubbish.

  ‘It is hardly congenial to an investigation,’ Baldwin agreed.

  The alley was a mess. Baldwin saw the body of a cat lying in a corner: it was clear that the scavengers had not cleared through here in weeks, which was a surprise, bearing in mind that Paffard was a wealthy man. Such fellows tended to receive better service.

  There was a City Bailiff standing by the body, and Baldwin nodded to him. He thought he recognised the fellow from a previous investigation, but for now his full attention was fixed on Alice.

  She lay on her left side, half-covered by a cloak, her legs against the wall. Her torso ran at an angle from the wall, while her head reached out almost halfway across the alley. He could see one arm, her right, which layover her breast, the hand on the ground in a natural manner, as though she was asleep. Sir Richard wandered up, and stood over her sadly.

  ‘Very young, this maid, eh?’ he said to the Bailiff.

  ‘Yes, sir. Seventeen, I think.’

  ‘Where was she from?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Not Exeter, I know that. She’s one of these girls who come in looking for work. You know what it’s like. There are hundreds of them each year, thinking the city’s paved with gold. They all reckon it’s the place to come and find a little work, have some fun, snare a man and live happily ever after.’

  ‘Most of them don’t have such a happy experience, do they?’ Baldwin said, crouching at her side.

  ‘No, sir. Too many end up at the stews, and if they’re unlucky, they die there. Thank God some come to their senses and go home.’

  ‘But many don’t have a home to return to,’ Baldwin noted.

  ‘What of this one?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘Was she a whore?’

  ‘No, sir. She lived here. Got a job with the Paffard family,’ the Bailiff said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the merchant’s house. ‘She was just unlucky. Probably caught the eye of some drunk, and he followed her and killed her here.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. He rose, facing along the alley towards Combe Street. ‘She has been stabbed twice in the breast. Not a frenzied attack, then. Her hands have defensive wounds, you see, Sir Richard? So she tried to beat him off, but presumably he wasn’t taking no for an answer, and when she still refused his advances, he stabbed her and let her fall.’

  The Bailiff nodded. ‘Could be.’

  ‘We should examine her in the light,’ Baldwin said. ‘Edgar, would you go and inform Sir… what was his name?’

  ‘Sir Reginald, sir.’

  ‘Well, let him know we are finished and that the body should be taken out for the jury.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Baldwin stared down at her. He breathed in the stench of decay; felt shards of broken pottery snap under his boots.

  Hers was a grim resting-place.

  Four men returned with Edgar. Two took up an arm each, a third her legs, and the fourth followed unhappily as the three lugged Alice’s body along the alley back to the inquest.

  ‘It is almost as though,’ Baldwin said, ‘she was placed here deliberately, along with all the rubbish.’

  Road east of Exeter

  The roadway here was ideal for an ambush, Sir Charles thought. He would have to keep that in mind.

  So far, their campaign had met with considerable success. They already had four carts containing rich cloths, gold and coin, and a number of plates and jewelled or ena
melled work. He could not remember a ride which had provided such profits.

  His companions were a raggle-taggle bunch – some peasants, two men who he was sure should long ago have been hanged, one renegade priest and a few who had been committed to the old King – but on the whole they seemed reliable. Yesterday in the church he had tested them and all had proved satisfactory.

  Ulric was different. He had no place here. His only duty had been to bring news from Exeter about the Bishop’s travels, but he had had no idea that his intelligence was to be used to kill Bishop James. Sir Charles was very content to have him as squire, untrained though he might be. The lad had saved him in that hall.

  Besides, this untrained squire had very light duties, since Sir Charles possessed little in the way of equipment to be cleaned and maintained. It was his fervent wish that he might renew his fortunes by this meandering ride through the Bishop’s estates. The thought of the armour and mail he could buy when he had the King’s favour was almost enough to make his mouth water. The proceeds of this ride must be deposited with the King’s backers, of course, but there should be a trifle left over for him.

  A fine spitting rain began, and he pulled his hood over his head. He was used to such weather. The main thing was to ensure that one’s sword and dagger were safe from the damp, and so he tugged a fold of his cloak about him as he rode, covering their hilts.

  Yes, there should be a good profit. For now, he must continue with his little campaign, and then get to the man in Exeter who was to take all the goods and sell them. Ulric’s master, a merchant called Paffard, would be happy to take all this from him for a good fee. And then the money could be taken to Sir Edward of Caernarfon and the Dunheved gang who had released him from his gaol, to help fund his return to the throne.