The carter was helping two others to haul the bodies from the cart. ‘Him? He was their leader. I think the men who caught him made sure he was dead. Must have hit him with a rock.’
‘A rock?’ Baldwin said. He was about to leave and had in fact opened his mouth to speak to Sir Richard, when one of the other riders peered, frowning at the line of men.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin said. There was a strange quickening in his blood. He knew that something was wrong.
‘This is Perkin. I recognise the birth mark on the back of his hand, look! But these were his clothes,’ the man said, bewildered.
Baldwin glanced down. The fellow was pointing at a man in an ancient cotte and hosen. ‘Are you sure?’
Sir Richard had joined him. ‘Those are the clothes of the man who rode at us and saved Sir Charles.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, and walked to the body in Sir Charles’s clothes. ‘And I don’t think this is Sir Charles, either!’
Chapter Thirty-six
Exeter Cathedral
Second Friday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist1
Simon could not help but look up at the soaring columns and arches high overhead with a feeling of apprehension.
It was true that a man had to die some time, and equally true that the best place in which to die was undoubtedly a church, best of all a cathedral – but somehow that reflection was of little consolation when the next moment could bring a large rock tumbling onto his head. Simon knew, of course, that masons were magicians with their tools and their knowledge of balancing stones one atop another. However, he had seen magicians in the street who had signally failed to achieve their little deceptions, and he did not wish to learn that one of the masons involved on this project had similarly much to learn.
He had felt safer yesterday riding against Sir Charles.
There were so many stories of cathedrals whose spires and towers had collapsed. Ely and Salisbury, for example…
‘Simon, concentrate!’ Baldwin said.
He returned his gaze to the vicars presiding over the service.
It had been a sad little gathering that had met last night after their return. As soon as Baldwin had told the city’s guards about Sir Charles, he and Sir Richard had hurried to the Cathedral. Adam Murimuth and the chaplain to the castle had discussed the funeral, and had agreed on the terms for the service to honour the Sheriff. Baldwin had heard that on top of the costs of the wax for the candles and other expenses there were to be payments of eight pence to each canon present, four to each vicar, a penny to each of the annuellars and a halfpenny to each boy. But first there must be the service for the dead Bishop, and they were all in here now to witness that.
‘So, you are sure?’ Simon said.
‘There can be no doubt,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sir Charles escaped. I believe he is here in the city.’
Simon grunted. ‘Why?’
‘Hush, Simon.’
The body of Bishop James was up near the altar, that of Sir James de Cockington a few yards behind. Both had been carried in with great ceremony, with canons and vicars in their solemn black gowns and caps all holding candles. Baldwin, in a moment’s cynicism, wondered who would be paying the bill for all the wax: the Cathedral for the Bishop, the estate for Sir James. It was quite likely, he decided, that the estate of the Sheriff would end up paying twice, because the Cathedral was still desperate to make sure that they earned enough money from every activity.
As Sir James was brought in, his face exposed so that all could see him, his herald led his procession. More vicars and annuellars were with him, although no canons. The funeral of the Sheriff was a glorious moment for the Cathedral, but his must not overshadow the Bishop’s, and so it had been agreed that the Sheriff could come to the church and lie here for a day, but that the Bishop’s funeral would go ahead as planned.
The herald, carrying Sir James’s sword upside down, point at the ground, was one of the few in the room who appeared genuinely affected by the death of his master. He had tears flowing down both cheeks. A man losing his master was always in a terrible position, as Baldwin knew. There was no son in Sir James’s family to take over a loyal servant, and whoever was promoted to the Shrievalty was unlikely to want a servant from his predecessor. He would bring his own men with him.
It was a poignant thought.
‘What is it, Baldwin?’ Sir Richard said.
‘I was thinking. When I was in the Holy Land, I heard of monarchs from the past who had their slaves buried with them in their heathen pride, and it strikes me that our English lords leave their own retainers in perhaps a more troubled position. It was the reason for Sir Charles of Lancaster’s original descent from grace, after all. Once, he was a loyal servant of his lord, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, but when Earl Thomas lost his head after Boroughbridge, and his lands were sequestered by the King, Sir Charles was one of many knights who found that he had lost all. His home, his hearth, his food and his duty. All a knight possesses, when his service is taken away, is his horse and his sword, and these Sir Charles took with him to France to find a new life.’
‘Aye, well, the man will be found and hanged. You can ask him about it then.’
‘There are others worse than Sir Charles.’
But it was astonishing that he should have dared kill a Bishop. Even with his fearless attitude to the world, that was stunning to Baldwin.
Paffards’ House
Agatha Paffard rose late that day. When she entered the hall, it was empty, and it seemed so much a metaphor for her own existence that she felt a sob tear at her breast. It was only with an effort that she could swallow it down. She would not show the world how utterly meaningless her life was.
Because her life was a sham. All through her childhood she had dreamed of marrying and being ‘happy ever after’. It was the way that girls were brought up. The idea that one day they might be married to a cruel man who would be happier finding women on the streets, and who would beat his wife for complaining was not totally strange, however, for all women knew a man like that. Agatha herself because she saw it every day in her father. She hated him.
Yet she hated her mother more. Claricia was scared of her own shadow! She deserved the contempt in which she was held. She should have been more firm, not only for her own sake, but for that of her children too.
Agatha knew her brain was better than most men’s. It was an enduring sadness that she could never take over the family business. And stupid, too, because while she adored her brother, Gregory was not suited for matters of finance and organisation, whilst Thomas would never be academic or capable with figures. And a good manager of a business, a good merchant, needed those skills in spades. Here she was, the one member of the family who had the competence to take over from father, and she was the one who was excluded by the mere chance of sex.
She knew she was intolerant, argumentative, and she gloried in it. Her dread was that one day she might grow to be like her mother. Better that she should never marry, than that! Perhaps Claricia had not been that way when she was younger, but it was no good to look at her and think how she might once have been. It was how a person developed and grew that mattered, not how much promise they had exhibited long ago. Many could show promise: it was how they lived up to their potential that signified. Well, Agatha had more promise than any in her family, and her mother was drained of all purpose.
It was no surprise. She had been forced into a life that was repugnant to her. She knew, as well as Gregory and Agatha, how her husband had made use of the maids in the household. Agatha herself had been out in the street when Henry had paid money to one of the whores. She had seen him, drawn into a tavern by the giggling wench, and Agatha had felt as if she would be sick. Luckily she had not been alone that day. John had been with her, and he kindly drew her away and back homewards.
Agatha bit her lip with disgust. That a man like her father, with all his wealth and intellect, should be so prey to his own urges beggared belief.
> ‘Sister, are you all alone?’
‘Yes, Gregory, but don’t let that stop you coming in. I was only enjoying some intelligent conversation.’
‘Alone? I thought conversation meant at least two people.’
‘Intelligent, I said, brother dear.’
‘Ouch!’
‘You see? Even you can understand me sometimes. Rarely enough, true, but occasionally.’
‘Why do you have to be so mean to me all the time?’
‘It’s hard to know where to begin – or how to describe the reasons in a suitably vacuous manner such that you would comprehend.’
He laughed.
‘You do realise the state of our business?’ she said, not looking at him.
He groaned. ‘You know that if I could, I would gladly pass the business to you – if there is one still, once Father is dead.’
‘There would be a business if I were in charge,’ Agatha said immediately. ‘But as matters stand, we have less than three months. That will be how long I expect you to survive without Father at the helm.’
‘Why is it you have such a lousy opinion of me?’
‘You know I don’t. Not really.’
He chuckled. ‘Your contempt for my intellect is as vast as the oceans.’
‘Well, if you’re going to put it like that…’
He was stony-faced. ‘Do you really think I’m that dull-witted? I couldn’t ever manage to make pewter like Father, I know, but I could learn the mercantile trade, surely.’
‘Again, it is hard to know how to respond to that. I wouldn’t want to patronise you – that means talk down to you, by the way – but I—’
He flushed angrily. ‘I was being serious.’
‘Brother, dear, you have many wonderful attributes,’ she said, ‘but when it comes to the trades that Father has arranged, you would have little idea how to negotiate them, even if you understood where the profit would come from.’
‘I’m no fool!’
Agatha looked at him. His face worked, and he looked as though he was going to burst out with a curse, but he couldn’t. He knew he would lose her favours if he did so. That was the thing. She had such control over him. When she saw him turn and stamp from the room, she had a little frisson of pure delight.
She arrested him in his tracks when she called, ‘Oh, Gregory, don’t forget to ask someone to come and mend the front door. There’s a bit of a draught coming in today.’
He paused, his back to her, and then marched on out of the room.
It gave her a spark of joy to see him so angry.
Paffards’ House
In the yard behind the house, Thomas was kicking his pig’s bladder in a desultory fashion against the wall. The bladder bounced high over his head, and slammed into the vegetables, cracking a stem of kale, and he looked guiltily towards the house, but no one was there to observe his casual vandalism, so he scurried over, liberated the ball from the vegetables, and began to kick it again.
At least his brother and sister weren’t out here. He didn’t feel safe around either of them. Gregory was scary. Had been, ever since Thomas saw them in the hall that terrible day. It was all right, Gregory had said, and he shouldn’t be scared, but Thomas was old for his years, and he found it very unsettling.
He kicked again, and the bladder bounced back, rolling to stop at the storeroom where John kept his barrels. It was the sort of place Thomas would have liked to play in, but John always had the door locked against thieves. Anyone could break through the garden’s gate, he had said, to steal their ales and wines.
Thomas went to the shed and picked up his ball.
Benjamin reckoned that there was less chance of someone stealing the ale than of their taking the lead or tin from the workshops, but Thomas had heard him say that old John was a fool who thought only his barrels were valuable, and didn’t understand the true amount of money a man could win for even a single ingot of tin.
Thomas stood at the wall, his ball in his arms. There was a little crack in the wood at the bottom of the panel, and he stared at it for a moment. It was quite round, gnawed into a hole about the size of his hand. Smaller than his head. He put his hand to it and pulled. A piece of the rotten timber came away in his hand.
Then he heard someone enter the garden, and he stood back quickly.
But that hole interested him. Sometime he would have to go back there and have a look at it. He reckoned he could open it up a bit more, and see if he could squeeze into it and make the storeroom into a hiding-place for games.
With Gregory behaving as he was, he might want it as a place to hide in, in earnest.
Exeter Cathedral
The incense was cloying, and thick in Baldwin’s throat. He was glad when the service finally ended and they might return to the fresh air. Especially since he was on fire to catch Sir Charles.
As they came out, they were hailed.
‘Good gentles, God be with you!’
Sir Richard turned and Baldwin was surprised to see him pull a face when he saw Adam Murimuth hurrying to them. He saw Baldwin notice his expression and muttered, ‘I can’t feel comfortable about that priest. Every word I say seems disrespectful before him. Can’t tell him any of me jokes.’
And a good thing too, Baldwin said to himself. Aloud, he added, ‘Good day to you, Precentor,’ as Adam stopped, puffing slightly.
‘And to you!’
‘Good to see so many folks in there, eh?’ Sir Richard rumbled happily, as he and Simon trailed after them.
Baldwin heard his comment, and looked about him at the houses of the Close. There were so many, and all of them, he knew, filled with men. No women, no wives existed here in the Cathedral Close. Only countless men.
‘You will excuse me speaking frankly, Precentor,’ he said, ‘but it struck me as sad to see two men without a woman to mourn them.’
‘There were many men to mourn them,’ Adam murmured. ‘The good Bishop will be speeded on his way, I hope, and will soon be received into Heaven.’
‘Amen,’ Baldwin said.
‘It is terrible to see the Sheriff die. What news is there of the outlaw responsible?’
‘We believe he may have escaped into the city, and all the men of the city’s Watch are looking for him,’ Sir Richard said. ‘They know the places a man may hide.’
‘He has caused a terrible void at the heart of the city,’ Adam said.
‘A new Sheriff can be found with ease,’ Sir Richard said carelessly.
‘It will require careful thought. All too often the Sheriff is shown to be corrupt.’
‘Without casting comment on the late incumbent, I think few could dispute that,’ Baldwin smiled.
‘The city needs a strong man to take up the duty,’ Adam sighed.
‘I am sure you will find that the post will soon be taken up by a strong man,’ Sir Richard said with a chuckle. ‘Nature abhors a void, as they say.’
Baldwin smiled. ‘Sir Richard, you are a constant source of surprise. But you are correct. The emptiness will soon be filled, probably by a member of the de Courtenay family. There are many there who would desire to take on the position.’
‘For reasons of service to the people?’ Adam asked hopefully.
‘No, for reasons of profit and corruption,’ Sir Richard snorted. ‘There aren’t many left who consider the aid they may give to others, Precentor.’
They left him then, marching on together to the High Street. ‘I still think it sad that there were no women to mourn in there,’ Baldwin said.
‘Aye, well, there has been enough thinking of men without women recently,’ Sir Richard said more quietly.
‘Sir Richard, you must not think I was passing comment on you,’ Baldwin said. ‘I was merely thinking of the Bishop and the Sheriff without a woman to grieve their passing.’
‘It’s all right, my friend. I didn’t think that you were associating them with me,’ Sir Richard said. ‘But I was thinking of my wife when I was fightin’ with that man
Charles, and the poor woman I saved from his men. There are too many who are prepared to make use of any disturbance for their own advantage.’ He looked over at Baldwin, and for once his face wore no smile. ‘And that is why I am anxious to see him captured or killed. He’s outlaw, so any can take his head off.’
‘I will aid you as I may,’ Baldwin said.
‘It ain’t just him, you realise. It’s all to do with the release of Sir Edward of Caernarfon. While he’s abroad, men like Sir Charles will try to return him to his throne. And that must mean more farmers killed, more widows made, more women raped, more orphans. I don’t wish to see that.’
Simon whistled. ‘And you were yourself a keen supporter of the old King.’
‘Aye, Master Puttock,’ Sir Richard said. There was no twinkle in his eye. ‘But I am a still more keen supporter of the people in my own manor, and they will suffer if there’s more bloodshed.’
Simon nodded, thinking of his own family. He hated to think that there could be war down here. In the last months he had seen rioting in London, and the murder of his friends. War had trampled the land with battles, sieges and death, and he wanted no more of it.
‘It would be better that they were both captured quickly,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sir Charles is unpredictable – and while I supported Sir Edward, and was loyal to him and to my oaths, now I would prefer that he continue to remain in safe custody, rather than he should be loose, and persuaded by others who have their own motives.’
He was filled with displeasing thoughts, paying scant attention to the people who pushed and shoved about him, feeling an irrational anger – although whether it was focused at Sir Edward of Caernarfon, at the new King, at Sir Charles, or someone else, he could not tell. Perhaps it was Sir Charles, because he had disturbed Baldwin with his murder of Bishop James, who was by all accounts a thoroughly decent man and priest, and by his support of men who could rape and slay for profit. Sir Charles had always been a troubling companion, ever prepared for violence, but to see this man whom Baldwin had quite liked, a man who had a great strength of character and was himself a loyal friend, become outlaw for these appalling crimes, was depressing.
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