City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  Henry Paffard was not like them. He strode out with his head high, and while he had no means of keeping himself clean, he had somehow contrived to avoid soiling his clothes or face. And he looked as easy in his mind as he had two days ago, before he confessed.

  Either he was mad, Simon concluded, or he was a very extraordinary man indeed.

  ‘I don’t understand what you are saying,’ he said coolly as he looked from one to the other. He shot a quick, eager look up the hill to Rougemont as if hoping for rescue.

  Baldwin frowned at that. ‘It is not the day of your hanging yet, Master Paffard. Although that will be soon enough.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Henry said. He turned back to Baldwin with a slight puckering between his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

  ‘We wish to know why you say you killed those women.’

  ‘Oh, is that it?’ Henry said. He looked at them in turn again, a slight curl at his lip. ‘And what then? You will offer me my freedom? Or food?’

  ‘You said in there that you would be speaking to your wife about food,’ Sir Richard said. He had a broad smile on his face. ‘That is like a man saying that he’ll go to the butcher to complain about the chop he ate last night. Except you can’t, can you? If she won’t come to visit you, you won’t ever be able to chastise her again.’

  ‘I am sure I will.’

  ‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Why are you so certain that you will be able to escape your fate?’

  Henry said nothing. Why should he tell them that when Edward was throned King again, with the help of his loyal subjects, pardons would be granted to those who had helped him. These fools had no idea. Just as they couldn’t understand why he had taken it upon himself to accept responsibility.

  ‘You see, we may be as foolish as you think us,’ Baldwin, ‘and that means we will be likely to make a silly assumption. For example, I may well believe that you confessed because you were intending to prevent another man from being accused. From all I have heard, you would be unlikely to do so unless the man at risk of being caught and punished were close to you. Man or woman, of course. It could be a wife or daughter – but it is more likely to be a son, I think.’

  ‘So you think, eh?’ Henry managed. The knight’s words had hit home hard, and he had to force himself to keep looking at Baldwin without displaying emotion.

  ‘It is clear enough that you don’t want to die, I think,’ Baldwin said, his head cocked to one side in appraisal. ‘You have not submitted to despair, as men will when they are to die. You look like a man who has determined to shame himself, but you don’t expect to die. I have no idea why.’

  ‘I am a man of integrity.’

  ‘No. You are a man of business,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘They are different men, from different worlds. And your life is to end soon, with you unremarked as a felon, who deserves no sympathy.’

  ‘I will be freed. You will see.’

  ‘Really?’ Sir Richard said. ‘By whom, eh? The world is busy with other matters, Master Paffard. Not many wish to exert themselves on behalf of a fellow who murdered women. I had to slay a man yesterday because he joined others to rape and kill on the Bishop’s manors. He helped to kill a woman too. No one raised a finger to help him either, so don’t think anybody will to save you.’

  Henry stared, and his mouth fell open a little. ‘What man did you kill?’

  ‘One of a gang of felons. Sir Charles of Lancaster led them. We destroyed them east of Exeter yesterday.’

  ‘It’s not true!’

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘If you were hoping for Sir Charles to come and save you, your hope is forlorn. Sir Charles fled. His carts are here at Rougemont, and he is a fugitive.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Paffard said, and in his eyes there was genuine horror. He turned and walked from them, back into the gaol, then down the ladder to his cell. ‘I have nothing more to say to you. Any of you!’ he roared. ‘Leave me to prepare myself for death.’

  Paffards’ House

  Sir Charles was led through to the hall. Claricia and Agatha were there, Claricia sitting, Agatha standing at her back.

  ‘You are Madame Paffard? Henry Paffard’s wife?’ Sir Charles asked.

  He was aware of the old man behind him, but was unconcerned. John wore no knife. If need be, he could have the elderly bottler dead before he could turn and run to the door. Sir Charles knew his abilities only too well, even after his mistake with Sir Richard.

  ‘I am. Who are you?’

  ‘I am a friend of his. Sir Charles of Lancaster.’

  ‘I do not know you. If we owe you money, sir, I—’

  ‘More than mere money, my lady, but it will do for now.’

  ‘Then you will be disappointed. There is none.’

  ‘Your husband promised me and my companions plenty, if we were to—’

  ‘He could have promised you the sun and the moon and all the stars in the heavens, but it wouldn’t change the fact that we have nothing. His business has failed in recent months, and while he was hoping for something to rescue him,’ Claricia said, ‘it too failed.’

  ‘I was the rescue,’ Sir Charles said. ‘It was my business that was to have helped. And there is still time.’

  He was unsure how far to unburden himself. This woman looked frail and agitated, while her daughter was a hard-faced harpy, from the look of her.

  ‘My husband is in prison for murdering two women. He will never be released.’

  ‘He may be proved innocent in court.’

  ‘He has already confessed.’

  Sir Charles shrugged. He had known others walk free after being found at the scene with the blade dripping blood still gripped in their hands.

  ‘Where is he being kept?’ he asked.

  Marsilles’ House

  William was still standing in the chamber when there came a loud knock on his door. With a sigh of annoyance, he opened it wide. ‘Well?’

  There were three men outside, all rough, hardy-looking types. One pushed past William and snorted as he looked about him. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing?’ William demanded.

  ‘You’re being thrown out. Don’t piss us about or it’ll be painful.’

  ‘No, Master Paffard told us we could stay. You’ve made a mistake. We’re allowed to stay!’ William said with desperation.

  ‘Well, we’ve been told to get you out. We were told today. Now, out of my path, boy.’

  ‘It’s a mistake. Come with me now and speak with Master Gregory. Leave my things and come with me!’

  William had grabbed the man’s wrist, where he had taken hold of a chair. This man must surely see it was a mistake! The Paffards wouldn’t throw them from here, not really.

  The man turned lazily and swung his other fist into the side of William’s head.

  It was as if he’d been hit with a club. A dull thud set his teeth rattling, and his legs wobbled as though their muscles were turned to blancmange. He collapsed to his knees, gripping the table, eyes wide.

  ‘You don’t listen, do you? We were called to the Paffards’ place and told to get you out. You’re not wanted any more, boy, so like I said, piss me about and you’ll regret it. Now, out of my way!’

  Talbot’s Inn

  Gregory Paffard had remained in the tavern for an age after Father Laurence left him, but he didn’t touch the ale before him. It tasted sour, just as did everything that touched his tongue today.

  Until only a short while ago, he had been a contented, successful young man. What, was it a year, or more, since he had realised? Perhaps longer, but it was not until he and Agatha had met with Father Laurence that he truly understood the horror of his situation. He could never be happy. Laurence had told him. The bastard didn’t even shed a tear, showed no sympathy. Nothing. Just a blank face that concealed his true feelings.

  Gregory groaned. He was cursed! All his life he had craved love, and now he had found it, now he had learned how glorious and fulfilling it could be, he was to be deprived o
f it. That was what Laurence said: Gregory must part from his lover forever. They must be separated, Laurence told him, for the sake of their eternal souls. Perhaps a life of penance could save them.

  He was himself God’s finest joke. A man with free will who willingly chose a path of heretical crime.

  Leaving the ale, he rose and staggered from the room. The coolness of the air outside acted upon him and he felt as though he was a little mad. People looked at him differently, he was sure, with a kind of horror, as if he wore the leper’s cloak. There was nothing for him. Better to go and hang himself. Suicide was a sin, true, but no worse than the one he had already committed.

  Standing at the corner of the High Street and Cooks’ Row, he had to clutch hold of the nearest wall to support himself. A wave of nausea washed through his body and he wanted to spew. It was only the looks of curious passers-by that stopped him. He forced himself upright, and was about to walk off, when Benjamin hurried up to him.

  ‘Master Henry wants you to go and visit him, sir. He said it’s very important you go right away.’

  Paffards’ House

  Thomas kicked the ball again.

  There was nothing he liked as much as this. A sunshiny day, with a ball and a wall to kick it against. He booted it hard, and it catapulted behind him, narrowly missing his head, which made him laugh in exhilaration as he chased the ball, and kicked it again. It went high, hit the wall and fell in among the herbs. He looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure Sal hadn’t seen it, but there was nobody there in the doorway, and he scuttled over to it, his quick pang of guilt soon forgotten.

  He played a while longer before the ball soared high, and then landed again beside the bottler’s store-shed.

  Thomas walked to it, and knelt again. That broken board was so tempting.

  Joan said, ‘So, still trying that piece of wood?’ She had come out quietly with an armful of clothes, which she was soaking in water from the well, and she chuckled to see his look of comical alarm. Both were recovering from their fears of the last few days.

  He sprang up and clutched his ball to his breast as though it was a shield against any adult recrimination.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tommy. I won’t tell him. I don’t think it’s as dangerous as he says anyway.’

  Gradually the hunted look left his face, and he wiped at his cheeks, aware that they felt very hot after his exertions. He returned to kicking the ball, but every so often his eyes went to that appealing gap in the timbers, and at last he couldn’t resist another look.

  He went and peered inside. There was something gleaming dully in the gloom. Perhaps if he just got his arm in… But no, it didn’t reach.

  With a look at Joan, he began to squirm his legs in first, to get in there and find out what it was that lay beneath.

  And then he screamed.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Marsilles’ House

  Philip had given up. He had followed Gregory and Laurence up the street to Bolehill Lane, but there he lost them among the milling crowds. Giving up, he walked into an alehouse and drank a quart of strong ale, then bought a meat coffin from a cookshop and ate it on his way back down the road. That was the last of his money, so carefully saved.

  On entering the alley to his house, he stopped, aghast. ‘Whatever’s happening?’ he cried.

  All their furniture – the chairs, table, cupboard, everything – was sitting out there in the filth. ‘Will! Where are you? What on earth is going on?’

  There was a rattle at a door, and he saw Emma de Coyntes peering at him.

  ‘Philip, I am sorry,’ she said ‘I had nothing to do with this, you have to believe that. They have ordered that you be evicted. You haven’t paid them rent for a long time, and they are demanding that you leave.’

  ‘Who is this “they”? The Paffards wouldn’t do this to us. No! Is it Gregory?’

  It made no sense. Had Gregory ordered their eviction before he left his house, before Philip started to follow him down the road?

  ‘I don’t know. William was here, but he’s run off, I don’t know where he’s gone.’

  ‘Will’s gone?’ Philip was staring at her. He could not understand what was happening, and then it was as if a hammer had struck inside his brain, and he was filled with a righteous fury. ‘Who said they could do this? Isn’t it enough that they have already seen us ruined?’

  ‘It wasn’t their fault, Philip,’ Emma argued. ‘Look, come inside with us for a little while. There’s nothing out here for you. You know that Henry—’

  ‘Not their fault? No, but they haven’t helped as much as they could have,’ Philip snarled. The anger was making his heart feel hot, like steel at the forge. It seemed to him that it must burst from his chest at any moment. ‘My father was a good friend to Henry Paffard, and where does it leave us? Deserted, left in the street, our belongings all gone. What sort of a friend would treat his friend’s family in such a way? My father thought he was leaving us in the care of someone who would protect us. Now my mother’s dead, my brother’s fled, and look at me! No future, no trade, no chances of making a life for myself, let alone for any other. Not that there is another, now Alice has died.’ His voice broke with grief.

  ‘Come in here,’ she said again. ‘Please, calm yourself before the bailiffs hear you and have you taken for breaking the peace.’

  ‘Go with you? It was you who complained to Paffard about us in the first place. It was you telling tales about my mother that us caused to be threatened with eviction, wasn’t it?’

  Emma flinched.

  ‘Well, I congratulate you, Mistress de Coyntes. You’ve succeeded! You are rid of us at last.’

  She bridled, her own rage ignited in the face of his attitude. ‘You want me to apologise? When your mother was so rude to my little Sabina that she cried for an hour afterwards? You expect everyone else about here to run after you – to dish out money and food and gifts – but when your friends try to have a quiet time of things, what do you do? You insult us and annoy us, and think you can just get away with it, don’t you? Well, you can’t.’

  ‘That’s it, is it? You asked me in because you were feeling guilty about us, nothing more. No sympathy or genuine Christian charity, just scared for your own soul. Well, I hope you can live with yourself after this, woman, because you’ll get no sympathy from me when your life is altered.’

  ‘Our life altered?’ she jeered. ‘My husband is a good provider for us.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Then he gasped. ‘Do you insult my father now? Have you no shame, mistress? You would insult a dead man to his son?’

  ‘Oh, in God’s name, boy, take a look at yourself. Listen to yourself! A beardless boy with no means of earning a living, and all you can do is snarl and make a show. If you were half a man, you’d go out and achieve something without others constantly having to do it all for you!’

  ‘Do what for me? Forcing me to lose my home by complaining to my landlord?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, get out of here, boy! Go on! Take your rubbish and clear off. This isn’t your home, not any more,’ she spat, pointing down the alley.

  He turned from her and strode away, ire lending wings to his feet, but as he reached the road, the tears were already stinging. There was no way Philip would allow them to fall. He was too proud for that. It was little enough, perhaps, but his pride was all he possessed now, and he would not give it up.

  There was a cart rolling past the entrance to the alley, and he waited until it had gone, and then marched on resolutely to the Paffards’ house, where he ascended the steps and knocked loudly on the door.

  John the bottler appeared in the doorway after a long wait, and Philip swallowed and asked to see Gregory.

  ‘He’s not here just now, master. He went out this hour past.’

  ‘Then may I speak to Claricia?’

  John nodded thoughtfully, and shut the door. After another wait, he returned and jerked his head inside, down the passageway.

 
Philip followed him along the flagged way until they came to the hall. Inside Philip saw Claricia sitting huddled.

  ‘John said you wanted me,’ she said without looking up.

  ‘Mistress, all our belongings are in the alley. Your son had men throw us from our house…’

  ‘Not Gregory, no. It was me,’ Claricia said. There was no emotion in her tone.

  ‘But why? We cannot survive without a home, mistress.’

  ‘Remember the old friary up beyond Saint Nicholas’s Priory? Since the friars moved out beyond the walls, there are places to sleep there.’

  He knew that area. The friars had taken down the stones to move them to their new friary. What was left was a miserable collection of rough chambers constructed of old boards and planks, with sometimes a waxed cloak thrown over the top. The poorest of the city lived there, the beggars and drunks who could find no other place to rest their heads.

  ‘You would leave us there? What have we done to you?’ he pleaded.

  ‘You have done nothing,’ Claricia said. She lifted her faded eyes to him, and he saw that they were red from weeping. Her cheeks were sunken, and she looked as though she had become an ancient crone in the last two days. ‘It is not you, master, it is us. My husband. He has ruined you. When your father died, Henry took the money left for you, and invested it for his own advantage. I know it has happened before, and it will again, but today it means you have nothing because my husband took it all. And I cannot repay you. That would impoverish my son. It would take my daughter’s dowry and leave her without a husband. So, for my family to survive, yours must be utterly ruined.’

  He stared, uncomprehending, wondering how she could be inventing all this. And then he saw the papers on the table behind her. ‘You mean this? He stole all our money? What of the house? Our gold?’

  ‘It is gone, Philip. All gone. Henry took it all and lost it.’

  Exeter Gaol

  Gregory paid the gaoler to let him see his father, and was soon inside, wincing at the stench, but then he burped as some of the ale returned. He reeled a little passing down the ladder, but his father didn’t notice.