City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Father?’

  Henry Paffard looked at him and said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘I have been told that Sir Charles of Lancaster’s men were killed and that he’s gone on the run. Is this true?’

  ‘Yes. They were caught over east and mostly killed, from all I’ve heard,’ Gregory said.

  He could hardly believe the change in his father. Henry was grey about the face, and whereas in the past he had always been a strong, resolute man with the suave manner of a lord – because in many ways he was a lord to the people of Exeter – now he looked like a common churl from the streets. His was the first family among those of the rich men who ruled the city, and his assurance and patrician manner had served to add to that aura. And all now was gone.

  ‘Then we are ruined, Gregory. My money was invested in Sir Charles and the others. God’s ballocks, I was so stupid!’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Gregory was close to hiccuping, and had to put a hand over his mouth as another wave of ale washed up through his system. The atmosphere in the cell made him feel as though he might choke.

  ‘You understand nothing, do you?’ his father groaned. ‘I promised to help the men who have released Sir Edward of Caernarfon from his prison. I was going to be repaid handsomely, and you would have gained a knighthood when he returned to the throne. Think of that, my son! The first of our family to be raised to the chivalry! And now Sir Charles – the man I thought would come here and save me – is dead, and that means all I paid to him is also gone. We are lost, Gregory.’

  ‘You have been a traitor to our King?’ Gregory said disbelievingly.

  ‘We only have the one King. This boy on the throne is no more our King than you are,’ Henry growled. ‘He deposed his own father, at the behest of that bitch his mother and her lover. They have no right to say the boy is King. Only God has that authority.’

  Gregory passed a hand over his brow. He was sweating. ‘Why are you here, Father? Why did you confess?’

  Henry looked up at the ceiling of the chamber. Like him, it was old, worn, on the verge of collapse. ‘It seemed the best thing to do.’ Then: ‘Gregory, I know it was you – you who killed Alice. Why did you do that, son? She wasn’t hurting you, was she? I suppose you heard she wanted a house of her own. She would not have damaged our family. I thought if you were captured for the crime, you might be slain too quickly, but that if I confessed, I could count on the men of the Freedom to protect me, especially since I knew that Sir Charles was on his way. That was what I thought,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘You knew Sir Charles was here?’

  ‘Of course I did! I sent him messages with Ulric. How else do you think he would know when the Bishop was on his way to the manor at Petreshayes?’

  ‘But… you were going to set him upon the Bishop? Why?’ Gregory’s eyes were stretched wide.

  ‘Can you imagine how much money there would be in that? I was going to win back all I had paid with good interest.’ For one second, Henry looked animated.

  ‘But… a Bishop!’

  ‘Oh, I would have been pardoned on my deathbed. It was all arranged. The new Bishop would be approved by our King, once he had regained his throne and removed his son, and the new Bishop would be more amenable to my part in the overthrow of his predecessor.’

  Gregory could only stare. He had never realised that his father was so ruthless.

  ‘But I still don’t understand. Why did you confess in the first place, Father? Why not just deny it all?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t see you in gaol, Gregory. Dear Christ, don’t you realise? I know all about you, you’re my son. My son! I knew you killed them both. I couldn’t see why, but you were obviously guilty. If they’d arrested you instead of me, you would be dead by now!’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with any of it, Father. Please believe me: I didn’t kill them.’

  Henry stared at him, and in his eyes Gregory saw his own despair mirrored perfectly.

  ‘You mean I did all this for nothing?’ he said brokenly. ‘Sweet Jesus!’

  Paffards’ House

  John was in his buttery, but he could not settle.

  It was most curious. Since the deaths of Alice and Juliana he had felt a kind of heightened tension, as though his life was edging towards its climax. A not unpleasant feeling. He had lived a good life, after all. A life of service and duty, which meant much. There were so many who sought only their own self-advancement, through corruption or theft. He was proud to be different.

  The air was warm, and he took off his heavy robe, setting it on his hook. As he did so, his keys were pulled from his belt, and he took them up, placing them on the protruding peg in the wall. He often rested them here – it was a convenient place so he wouldn’t forget them.

  Then he eased himself down on his stool, back against the wall, legs on a small cask, and closed his eyes. He did feel enormously tired today. A rest would not hurt…

  High Street

  ‘Why are we here?’ Simon asked as Baldwin and he walked to the Guild Hall and entered, Sir Richard following.

  ‘There must be some reason for Henry Paffard to have confessed to two murders that he did not commit,’ Baldwin said. ‘If we can find out why he would do such a thing, that motive may itself help us with resolving these matters.’

  ‘Go on,’ Sir Richard boomed, gazing about him with approval.

  ‘If he was protecting his son, for example,’ Baldwin said. ‘If his son were to confess, that would lead to a speedy resolution.’

  ‘Seems unlikely to me,’ Sir Richard decided. ‘The man is typical of a newly rich merchant – a nasty piece of work and dishonest too: little better than a picklock. The sort of churl who will only speak when his clerk’s beside him counting the number of words so they can charge later.’

  Baldwin grinned, then: ‘You don’t think he would be loyal to his son? Paternal love is a force in its own right, after all.’

  ‘From the look of him, no,’ Sir Richard said bluntly. ‘He struck me more the type who’d stab his own son if he thought he could sell the skin to a tanner for tuppence.’

  ‘I wonder…’ Baldwin said. ‘I have known men like this before, and while they show little affection in public, in private they can be as devoted as any.’

  ‘Even men as stiff and unbending as that prick Henry? You saw how he was just now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said simply. A clerk in a corner of the main hall directed the three to a house a few doors along the High Street. At one side of it was a shop – clearly successful from the number of men standing at the wares. Beside this broad front was a dark door, where Baldwin knocked; a maid ushered them into a large room.

  This was a modern house filled with all the trappings of wealth. The timbers were new, the oak a shining gold, the daub all limewashed until it sparkled, while on one wall a series of paintings showed the religious sensitivities of the owner. A large sideboard was filled with silver and pewter, and the glass in the window showed how the owner could afford the best. Not for him mere waxed sheets. He had paid a plumber to fit the glass together to stop the draughts.

  When he entered, it was to this panel of bright glass that he walked, as though to ensure that they all noticed how splendid his house was.

  He was a short man, but very lithe and taut as a bowstring, Simon thought. With his rich tunic and coat with fur at throat and hem, he could have been a lord, especially with the jewelled rings at his fingers. He had a narrow, contemplative face, under grey hair, with kindly eyes set deeply, and he looked like someone who would be hard to shock or even surprise. His complexion was slightly pale, as though he was recovering from a malady, but there was no shaking or tension in him.

  ‘Sir Baldwin,’ he said with a short bow.

  ‘Master Chepman. I hope I find you well?’

  ‘As well as can be hoped with the state of the kingdom,’ the merchant replied. ‘How may I help you?’

  Simon remembered meeting this man some years before, during the Ch
ristmas celebrations, but it was clear that life had been kind to him since then. When Simon met him last, Luke Chepman had been setting out as a new member of the Freedom. Now, he gathered, Chepman was one of the four stewards. As such he was one of the most powerful businessmen in the city. There were few who wielded as much authority.

  ‘We are here about Henry Paffard, Master Chepman.’

  ‘Oh, yes. An unpleasant character. Did he really kill those women?’

  ‘He says he did.’

  ‘I know. That wasn’t what I asked,’ Chepman said with a thin smile.

  He went on to tell them all he knew. ‘I have never liked Henry. He is one of those men who tempts you to count your fingers after shaking hands. Exceedingly ruthless, even for a merchant used to dealing overseas. Such men have to be used to negotiate with some of our most difficult clients – but in his case, he would always appear to strive to get the better of a man for no other reason, I believe, than to demonstrate his own superiority. How often would a merchant ask to be reimbursed for the cost of candles while tallying his cargo! Henry did that to me once. Only once, mind,’ Chepman said with a small smile. ‘Besides, I am fortunate in that I am rich enough now to be able to ignore men like him. But he is clearly in real trouble this time. Murder is a serious business.’

  ‘He confessed.’

  ‘Which did surprise me. The Freedom would have done all it could to protect him.’

  ‘Would it still?’

  Chepman smiled again, but there was a depth of cynicism in his eyes. ‘Sir Baldwin, would you defend a man who told you that he had killed your wife? No. Juliana, whom he claims to have killed, was the widow of a friend of Paffard’s. Nicholas Marsille was not so very competent at his trades, but he was a man of his word, and respected. Their family was popular, and it was a shock when Marsille died suddenly.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘There was no foul play, if that is what you mean! He saw a woman drop a babe into the road, and being Nicholas, he wanted to help. A horse was coming close, and Nicholas leaped into the brute’s path to save the child. As a result, he was himself killed. It was just an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘But little remained of his estate to pass on?’

  ‘There were many who were prepared to help the family, naturally. But Nicholas had long worked with Henry Paffard, and when he died, Henry volunteered to help. He said that he would see to all their debts. And he did. He arranged for all Nicholas’s debts and outstanding payments to be paid. Some, no doubt, tried to take more money than they were entitled to. I know that Henry tried to protect Juliana and the others from that. I saw men who were prevented.’

  ‘But you had suspicions, from what you say?’

  ‘Nothing firm. But the family seemed to lose all their treasure. And now they are living on the charity of the Paffards. To me, it seems curious.’

  ‘So you believe that Henry Paffard took their money deliberately to rob them.’

  Chepman shrugged. ‘Sir Baldwin, this is the purest speculation, of course.’

  ‘And let me speculate further. You think that he might have admitted he killed the women because he was ashamed and felt his guilt?’

  ‘No – I doubt he was at all worried about them. I don’t believe he feels any guilt about the fate of the Marsilles,’ Chepman said, and coldness had crept into his voice. ‘I think that the whole idea of guilt is hard for him to comprehend. No, he confessed because he felt it was just another deal and he expected to escape. He never thought the great Henry Paffard would remain in prison.’

  ‘But he would have to!’ Simon expostulated. ‘How could he think he would get away with this?’

  Chepman looked at him. ‘An example would be Sir Hugh le Despenser: he was guilty of stealing from people for many years, Master Puttock, and he carried on doing so, without concealing his thefts, and without any punishment. I do not doubt that Henry Paffard believed he could get away with it too.’

  Chapter Forty

  Cock Inn

  ‘So, brother,’ Philip said as he saw William sitting on a bench by the wall. ‘I hope you are well?’

  ‘You know about the house?’

  Philip sat beside his brother and took up his drinking horn. It held a rough, sour ale that to Philip’s mind was probably off, but he drank it anyway. He had need of it today. ‘I know of them both.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘I spoke just now to Madame Paffard with a view to trying to talk her into letting us stay, but she said no. And then she began to tell me how her husband had stolen all our money. Our father left us with plenty to keep us, Will. It was Paffard who embezzled it all. And the superb irony is, not only did he do so, but then he made us take his own hovel and pay him rent. A perfect theft.’

  William looked at him. ‘And he got away with it? He robbed us blind and walked away?’

  ‘And now he’ll die, but we’ll still be poor,’ Philip nodded. He drank more of the ale. ‘This tastes better if you drink enough,’ he mused.

  ‘Enjoy it while you can. I can’t afford another,’ William said, eyeing the remains of his drink with regret. ‘That’s the end to my money. My last farthing.’

  ‘What will we do, brother?’ Philip said.

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘If I could find a sword, I’d go to the King.’

  ‘You’ve said that before, but you still don’t know one end of a sword from the other,’ William pointed out.

  ‘That’s unkind.’

  ‘It’s still true.’

  Philip passed him the drinking horn to finish. ‘I think we should find out if we can recover even a little of our money, Will. I don’t want to die knowing we were robbed and our mother died in poverty without trying to do something about it.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  Philip frowned. ‘We could speak to Gregory. I was trying to follow him this morning because…’ The memory of the look in Gregory’s eye came to him, and he murmured, ‘There may be a way we could persuade him to give us money.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Master Gregory. I think he may be willing to pay us to keep quiet.’

  Paffards’ House

  There was a squeal at the rear of the house, and John leaped up, disorientated for a moment. Then he yawned, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and hurried off to find the source of the noise.

  In the garden, he found Joan comforting little Thomas.

  ‘What is it with the boy?’ John demanded, still feeling the effects of a shattered rest.

  ‘He fell over, that’s all,’ Joan said, wiping at the lad’s face. She did not look up at him.

  ‘Was he playing in my shed? Or beneath it? It’s dangerous there, as you know.’

  Joan shook her head. ‘Of course not. He was being sensible and careful, but something cut him when he fell.’

  ‘Oh. Is he badly injured?’

  ‘A nasty cut in his knee,’ she said. ‘There must have been something there.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘There, by your storeroom,’ she said, pointing with her chin.

  John walked to it, and prodded carefully with his foot. ‘Ah, it’s a piece of metal from an old barrel,’ he said. He bent and picked it up. With his back to them, he frowned. ‘You should take him inside, and wash the wound with egg-white, Joan. The metal is rusty, and we don’t want the boy to get lockjaw.’

  Joan agreed. She had seen a man lose his leg from a small scratch before. This was deeper than a scratch, and possibly more dangerous. She bundled the shivering Thomas up in her arms and hurried inside, sitting him on the table in the brewery, where there was a copper of hot water, and she moistened the edge of her apron in it and dabbed it on his knee.

  Thomas sniffled and moaned, but Joan wiped until she was satisfied that the worst of the mud was cleaned from the wound, and then she went to Sal and took an egg, breaking it into a pot and using her fingers to smear the white all over the wound. She wrapped a strip of linen about it and stood b
ack to eye the results.

  John was in the doorway. ‘It was a bad cut, wasn’t it?’ he said to the boy. In his hands he held a rusted piece of metal that might have been a cooperage band a long time ago. ‘It must have fallen from a barrel many years ago. I am sorry, Master Thomas. I should have seen it, and not left it to hurt you.’

  He gave him an apple, smiled in a fatherly manner and walked away.

  ‘There you are, pet,’ Joan said, and she cuddled the boy. But she had a frown on her face. The wound on Thomas’s knee was one with very straight edges, as if cut by a sharp blade on Sal’s table, not by a rough piece of rusted metal. But she had enough on her plate already without searching for a shard of sharp steel.

  Exeter Gaol

  ‘Father, In God’s name how could you believe I’d have killed them’ Gregory hissed. ‘Why’d I have done that?’

  Henry sighed heavily. ‘It was hard to see you like that. I know you didn’t realise. Perhaps it was Thomas who brought it all home to me – how you spent all your time with Agatha when you were little, whereas Thomas is always happier outside with a ball and sticks, playing rough and tumble and getting into mischief. I should have seen it before, but I never thought a son of mine would turn out this way.’

  Gregory was hot, and there was a stickiness about his upper body that was horribly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t even know what you mean,’ he said, his throat dry.

  ‘You will have to marry and hope that this… this aberration ceases,’ Henry said.

  ‘Father, I cannot help my love any more than I can help breathing,’ Gregory said quietly.

  ‘No, you don’t love,’ Henry said, shaking his head. ‘You cannot. This perversion is not love.’

  ‘Father, I…’ It was a shock to know that his father had guessed his secret, but that Henry would have confessed to protect him – that was extraordinary. ‘I feel the same as you do towards your women, believe me.’