Gregory took the scroll and glanced at the seal. It was from Master Luke the Goldsmith, and Gregory frowned at it for an instant before breaking it and reading the letter.
‘The rats have begun to leave us,’ he said without mirth. ‘The first merchant who finds that he is now unable to assist us in our business. Well, so much the better. I wouldn’t want to see him making money with us.’
‘The first?’ Baldwin asked.
‘He won’t be the last. All those who now feel distaste for any dealings with my father will be sending similar letters, although I hope others will couch their phrases more inoffensively. This tarse Luke tells me that his house will do no business with mine until my father has paid for his “gross and obscene crimes”. And what then? I suppose I should be grateful that he will deign to work with us again!’
He screwed the note up and hurled it at the fire. It caught almost immediately, as it rolled away and sat at the edge of the hearth, a ball of yellow flames. Gregory could have wept for the ruin of his father’s reputation almost more than for his impending death. Henry Paffard had never been a man to inspire great friendship. He was too arrogant and too aloof. But he had founded this house on firm respect for himself and his acumen. Since that was lost, there would inevitably be a lessening of the family’s status. They might even lose much of their money.
‘Master?’ Baldwin said. ‘Can I help? You are deeply troubled, I see.’
‘It is going to be a hard time for me and my family,’ Gregory said. He remained staring at the fire. The ball had turned into a sphere of glowing embers, and he thought how apposite that was: like his family, it had flared briefly, and now was no more.
Strange how things turned out. Only a few days ago he would have welcomed the idea of the closure of the family’s business; it would have left him free to make his own life without the baleful presence of his father watching over everything he did. But in reality, what else could he do, but continue with the business he had been taught, the craft that he had learned from the age of seven? He was a pewterer, and his father’s mercantile ventures had created a thriving business for him to drive forward. Yes, it would have been better if Agatha had been born a boy and older than he, so that she could lead the business, but she had not.
He would do all he could to run things as his father would wish, Gregory decided. Which meant he must go and see him. There must be a number of things that Henry would wish to discuss with him.
‘Master Paffard?’
He looked up. He had quite forgotten that Baldwin and Simon were there. ‘l am sorry, sir. I am too confused. Please excuse me.’
‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. He rose, Simon with him, and the two men walked from the hall.
Gregory covered his face in his hands, but today he had no urge to weep.
He was merely steeling himself for the ordeal to come.
Outside the Paffards’ House
John did not escort them as Simon and Baldwin walked to the door. Baldwin opened it and began to walk down the steps, when Simon heard a slight noise from the shop-front. He glanced inside. There he saw the maid, Joan, standing and sweeping with a great besom, carefully moving between piles of lead ingots and shining tin, stacked in piles waist-high.
On a whim he went in and said, ‘Maid, are you well?’
‘Yes, I thank you,’ she replied with a duck of her head.
She was a pretty enough little thing, Simon thought to himself. Large, anxious eyes, set in a sweet face with rosy cheeks, she had the kind of looks that would tempt many a man to sweep her up and cradle her in his arms. He had always found small, compact women like her attractive, and she would never lack for admirers, he was sure.
‘You must have been sad when the master was taken away,’ he said, seeing her stillness.
She stared at him, and for a moment he wondered whether the loss of her master had left her deranged. The impression was only strengthened when she began to shake, her shoulders jerking spasmodically. It was some time before he realised that she was laughing silently.
‘Maid?’
‘I cannot help it! I am so happy, to know I’m safe at last! He will never come to my room to take me at night after this. Never again! You ask if I am sad? No. Never! He can rot in hell for all I care,’ she said with a horrible determination.
‘He raped you?’
‘Every night since Alice died. I was under his protection here in his house, and he should have guarded me, but instead he… He forced me to submit. He is evil!’ she spat.
‘What of his son? Are you safe from him?’
‘Gregory? Oh yes, I feel entirely safe with him.’
‘So the son is not the same as his father. That is good.’
Quick as a flash, she said, ‘You think?’
Simon was bemused. ‘What do you mean?’
Joan shot a look at the door, then at Simon, wondering whether she dared speak. This man looked kindly enough, but she was loath to trust any man after recent experiences. She had already said too much. If Gregory were to overhear her comments, she could be thrown out on the street once more, looking for work. A vision of the stews appeared in her mind, and she muttered, ‘I must return to my duties.’
‘One moment, maid. Tell me – I swear I will keep your part secret. If you have something to say about your master, you should tell me. We don’t want any others harmed. Do you doubt Henry was guilty?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I cannot.’
‘Very well. But before I leave, let me ask you this: when you found your friend’s body on Saturday, why was Alice outside? What was she doing out in the alley? Did you hear anything about that?’
‘Master Henry came back before all the others, I know – I saw him. And heard him and her upstairs in her bed,’ she said, her lip curled primly.
‘I see.’
‘He had no shame – not that she minded. She was happy to do as he wanted. She boasted about her affair with him. Not just with me, but with others in the house, in the street. All over. As though he was going to make her his wife. She thought he would buy her a house and give her servants. The fool.’
‘She loved him? Or simply played the whore?’
‘She didn’t mind his attention,’ Joan said. Her head was hanging, and she was embarrassed and ashamed to be speaking of her dead friend in this way.
‘Who else knew?’
‘Master Henry never bothered to hide his passion. All knew, even his wife.’
‘And, on the night you found Alice, you heard them upstairs, and after that you went for the bread? But where were all the others, then? Surely Master Henry would have been anxious that his wife could return and find him rolling on the floor with their maid?’
‘I think the mistress would not come back, exactly for that reason,’ Joan said. ‘She knew what Master Henry was doing with Alice, and didn’t want to see proof of it. So she stayed in the tavern and hid her head. Later, Master Henry returned to the inn, and she could come back with him when she was sure it was safe, I suppose. No wife would want to be confronted by the sight of her husband with another woman.’
‘What of Master Gregory? Did he not say anything?’
She blinked and looked away.
‘Maid, please. Trust me.’
‘He wouldn’t say anything. He dare not!’ she hissed, and fled out and up the passageway.
‘Oh,’ Simon said helplessly. The girl was plainly distraught, but he had no idea why still.
Baldwin was waiting at the end of the street, so Simon hurried on down the steps, closing the door behind him, and went to join his friend.
‘Did the maid have anything useful to tell you?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Only that her master was in a loving grapple with Alice on the night the girl died. And then she was sent out to buy food. Just as we’ve heard.’
‘So the last person seen with the maid was Henry.’
Simon shrugged. ‘Who else would it have been? He admitted to the murders.’
‘Yes.’
‘But something is niggling at you?’ Simon said.
Baldwin gave a sour grin. ‘You too?’
‘It seems entirely out of character for the man to confess,’ Simon said with his hands held out. ‘He allowed all in his house to realise he was swyving his maid, and then took up with Joan the minute Alice was dead. He acted with the arrogance and lack of shame of a lord exercising his rights over his peasants – and then confesses to a double murder with no apparent motives. It makes absolutely no sense.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Near Clyst St Mary
It was a groggy Sir Charles who woke to the sunshine on his face. The warmth and beauty soothed his aches and pains when he opened his eyes. He was near a causeway over a little river with boggy banks, a village at the other side.
And then, all at once, a thundering pain exploded in the side of his skull, enough to make him close his eyes and give a hissed curse.
‘Awake, eh? Glad to see it, sir.’
That booming voice… Suddenly Sir Charles remembered the chase, the alarmed knight, the two men and woman, the stones flung at him, and then the crushing blow that felled him from his horse. He attempted to spring to his feet, but his hands had been bound, his legs were too enfeebled after the attack, and his sword and daggers were gone.
‘It would appear that you have me at your mercy, sir,’ he said. Sir Charles had the gift of apparent mildness to conceal simmering rage. It had been a useful asset in the past, and he kept his voice low and calm now as he studied the knight before him. ‘I am Sir Charles of Lancaster. I do not think I know you.’
‘No reason why you should, Sir Charles. I am Sir Richard de Welles, Coroner to the King at Lifton Hundred,’ Sir Richard responded with a smile. ‘I trust I didn’t break your head?’
‘You hit me hard.’
‘Aye, well, Sir Charles, it was necessary to slow you down a little. And now, since we have a few miles to ride, it’d be best for us to get under way.’
‘Oh?’
‘Aye, you will be glad to hear that you’re to be taken to Exeter. You and I will be talking to the Sheriff before long, I think. He’ll be keen to hear all you have to say on matters of interest. Such as the damage you’ve done to the Bishop’s lands.’
‘What damage have I done?’
Sir Richard looked at him, and the smile remained, but grew hard and cold. ‘Sir Charles, you may think me some vill’s fool, but I know about the rampage you and your followers have been set on for the last days. And with the death of the Bishop, I think there’s enough there for me to consider you a felon, along with your men. Especially if I learn you were up at the Bishop’s lands near Honiton when he was killed.’
‘Me?’
‘Luckily there were many witnesses of the attack, so we should soon know whether you were involved, eh? You will find that the men of Devon can be determined when they decide to punish those who’ve attacked their Bishop.’ Sir Richard narrowed his eyes as he peered back the way they had come. ‘But first you will be tested for the murder of this good woman’s family, and for her rape.’
‘Let us hurry back, then,’ Sir Charles yawned, glancing at Amflusia without interest.
‘Perhaps we should,’ Sir Richard said. ‘How many men were there with you?’
‘Back there? Five-and-thirty or so. There were some good fellows you killed, too. I don’t like to see good men slaughtered.’
‘Nor do I. So, there, we have something in common, eh?’ Sir Richard said equably. ‘Now, let’s get you on your beast so we can ride to Exeter.’
‘I doubt me I can ride yet,’ Sir Charles said. He winced as he looked up at Sir Richard, and rolled over to try to lift himself, but the effort made him gag and retch.
‘Ach,’ Sir Richard muttered. ‘Come, boys. Help the knight upon his horse. So, Sir Charles, tell me: you had so many men to raid the Bishop’s lands, but why would you wish to do so? Do you have an unreasoning dislike of Bishops generally, or just ours?’
‘Only yours. He was a member of the Berkeley family, the ones who kept my King prisoner.’
Sir Richard looked at him with a measuring eye. He was no fool, and just now he was wondering what sort of man Sir Charles was. There were plenty who deplored the capture of Sir Edward of Caernarfon, himself included, but to kill a Bishop, and then to ride about the land despoiling all those manors owned by the Bishop, were the actions of a simple felon rather than a knight. After all, once the Bishop was dead, there was no need to maintain a campaign against him. This knight could have returned to his home, but instead chose to launch a series of attacks – in the hope of making profit, or Sir Richard was a Moor.
‘So you killed the Bishop because his brother was a Berkeley? For that you were prepared to roam about the countryside stealing whatever took your fancy?’
‘It was laying waste the lands owned by the Bishop. We wanted to bring home to the people here how much damage the Bishop has caused by his betrayal of his King.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Sir Richard said happily. Many men were content to believe his buffoonery when he put on his show of being a rural knight of limited, even bovine intelligence, but in reality his mind was as sharp as any. And now he was calculating how many of the men Sir Charles had at his disposal would be competent to attack manors like Bishop’s Clyst and others. Of the men he had seen so far, at least thirty seemed capable of creating merry hell in even a large manor.
‘Would you help me to my horse?’ Sir Charles said thickly.
Sir Richard nodded to the two men with him, and then it was that the situation changed.
As the two went to Sir Charles and took his arms, Amflusia was standing a short way away, watching Sir Charles with terror in her eyes. Something had caught her attention. She goggled with horror, frozen to the spot, and then managed to scream.
A whoop, two blasts on a horn, and suddenly a mass of men and horses appeared at the farther end of the causeway, and thundered towards Sir Richard.
He saw Sir Charles’s hand dart down to one man’s belt, and suddenly there was a sharp scream, and the man clutched at his breast. Sir Charles had grabbed his dagger and stabbed him. The second man was only a farmer, and he leaped away from the path of the dagger’s blade. He had a long knife at his belt, but for a man like him to draw and fight a knight would take more courage than he possessed. Lunging for his horse, he grabbed the reins and threw himself into the saddle even as Sir Richard drew his own sword.
Yet even as he did so, he saw that the men from Sir Charles’s force were halfway to him already. He must fly, if he was to save himself.
Hastening to his mount, he saw Amflusia.
She stood gaping at the approaching men. Her mouth worked soundlessly, and her eyes were fixed with a terrible certainty. She was lost, if they were to catch her.
‘Woman? Mistress? Amflusia, COME HERE!’ Sir Richard bellowed, and grabbed the second man’s horse. It was no racing thoroughbred, but it would suffice. He lifted the woman about the waist and flung her onto the horse. The latter, realising this was no time for delay, set his ears back and cantered off up the road. Sir Richard had bare moments. He took the reins of his own beast, threw his leg over the saddle, and then drew his sword, holding it carelessly in his hand as the men approached.
‘Sir Charles, I look forward to our next meeting,’ he said, before spurring his mount on, back towards Exeter.
Rougemont Castle
The Sheriff was irritable as he stamped his way along the corridor to his hall. He had plenty to do, what with the news of Sir Edward of Caernarfon’s escape and the death of Bishop Berkeley. The two matters, equally shocking and terrible, were cause for much thought. But as yet, Sir James had been granted little time for quiet reflection.
This evening the food had been late from the kitchen; his guests (a more tedious set of wastes of good skin he hoped never to have about his table again) were first boorish, then downright repugnant when drunk – which they were, r
ight speedily. His tumblers, intended to lighten the mood after he had delivered some unpalatable home truths about the way the city of Exeter had been managed so far and how he, Sir James, was going to see it alter its way for the future, were also late. And it was very late when the guests began to filter from his hall, some blaring their disgust at the idea of the additional taxes, others meandering about, dazed from wine or from dismay – he didn’t care. All he knew was, he wanted them out.
The sudden appearance of the man in his doorway as he was ushering the last guests out of his home was enough to make him groan. Not another damned fool who wanted to petition him for some favour or other.
‘Tell him to go away and come back tomorrow,’ he growled to his steward, but the man would not listen. Gabbling some garbage about finding a small force attacking the Bishop’s lands, he approached the Sheriff.
‘Shut up! No, I said shut up,’ the Sheriff repeated loudly. Sir James did not like having strangers in his hall at the best of times, and this man would not have looked out of place in a pigsty, with his filthy clothes and pink, anxious features. ‘Calm down, you fool, or I’ll have you thrown into the gaol for disrespect!’
‘Sir Sheriff, sir, it’s Sir Richard de Welles. He sent me on ahead to warn you.’
‘Warn me of what?’
‘There is a host outside the city walls, Sheriff. Sir Richard captured their leader, but when a large force came to fetch him back, we had to run. We only just got here with our lives,’ he added, as though worried that the tale was not sufficiently gripping.
‘Tell me all,’ the Sheriff sighed.
Cock Inn
Baldwin was glad to sit in the inn and rest his legs and mind.
Simon sat at his side, plucking at his sleeve. ‘I have had an idea, Baldwin.’
‘Speak!’
‘Think, Baldwin – and not like a noble knight, but like a felon. Imagine you are a killer. You kill to save yourself trouble, to protect your reputation, perhaps even for the joy of killing, women in particular. It would add a spark to your lovemaking, to know you are going to kill a maid later. You do not care a fig for how your actions may affect others. You do all you can to serve your own interests. It is more likely that you would “remember” suddenly that your apprentice had been there at the moment the girl died, or that your other maid had been jealous of her from the first, and that she had killed Alice. The last possible thought in your mind would be to announce to the world that the deaths were your responsibility, and to accept the charge against you.’
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