‘Will, it’s pointless. We cannot go back. It isn’t our home anymore.’
‘Only a couple of years ago, we were rich, our parents were happy and content, and we had a future. Now Paffard’s stolen it all. Not just our money, Philip, he’s stolen our lives.’
His brother was right, Philip thought. They had nothing remaining of that happiness. And as to what they could do now, he had no idea.
Just then, he heard a door open, and looking up, he saw Gregory Paffard in the doorway of his house.
It was as though the sight spurred him into action. Without conscious thought, Philip began to walk, his body filled with a total, all-consuming purpose. He could not have put it into words but the intention was there.
Gregory had already run down the steps, and had set off in the direction of Southgate Street, Philip only a matter of paces behind him, when Gregory suddenly stopped with an audible gasp.
Philip took no notice. He drew his knife in one fluid movement, held it aloft for a moment, then grabbed Gregory’s shoulder, whirling him around.
There was a shout, an inarticulate cry, and Philip stood looking into Gregory’s frightened expression for a moment, and then his knife swooped down. And as it did, a man came, and thrust Gregory aside.
He was in the way, and there was nothing Philip could do as he saw Father Laurence’s face appear before him. There was a second in which all time seemed to stop. Philip could see the priest’s face in front of him, the eyes half-closed in anticipation – no fear, no terror, but an acceptance – while his knife appeared to be fixed in space.
But then it descended, slamming into the priest’s chest with a thud that could be heard in Father Laurence’s voice as a little grunt, and Philip felt his fist tug the blade free again, and stared with horror at what he had done.
There was a scream, and when Philip looked, he saw Agatha at the door to the house, an expression of horror on her face. But her eyes were on her brother, not the priest.
Father Laurence smiled at him, a patient, forgiving smile, and then he turned and walked three paces before he stumbled, and then simply collapsed, like a falling tree. He was already dead before any could reach him.
But Philip had heard him say those words. As he stood with Philip’s knife in his breast, he looked up at Agatha, and murmured, ‘I still love you.’
Chapter Forty-four
Carfoix
There was a rushing of men all about as they searched alleys and side streets to find Sir Charles. Sir Richard was used to this sort of work, but even he was growing despondent as the sun crept around the sky. There was a moment when he thought he saw a man furtively creeping along, but when Edgar went and questioned the fellow, he was only a hunch-backed peasant on his way home.
‘What d’ye think?’ he asked Edgar.
‘It would be a miracle to find him now, if he’s still here. He found a place to hide yesterday after he reached the city. He must have an ally here, or someone whom he can trust. Without knowing who that is, we are searching for a single straw amongst many.’
Sir Richard nodded. Then he said, ‘Hold! If the fellow knows someone here in the city, perhaps it was one of the men who had joined him in his gang?’
Edgar nodded. He wore a supercilious expression, but Sir Richard didn’t care.
‘So, if the fellow was with him in his gang, it was someone who left here a few days ago when Sir Charles first approached this city – someone who disappeared and has recently returned.’
‘Yes. That is possible.’
‘Aye, better than nothing, as you might say,’ the knight said with satisfaction. He turned and led the way to a watchman.
They were explaining Sir Richard’s reasoning when a boy hurried up. ‘The gaoler’s dead, sir,’ he said.
Sir Richard glowered at him. ‘What?’
‘Someone has killed the gaoler and the prisoner, sir. They’re both dead in there.’
‘That, friend Edgar, is why the man was at the East Gate – it’s near the gaol. Now, Watchman, is there a man of the sort I described – who left the city before the death of the Bishop?’
‘There is one young feller. He left the city almost a fortnight ago,’ the man said. He had a healthy three-day growth of beard, and when he scratched his chin, it rasped. ‘We can try him.’
‘Where?’
‘Down behind Smythen Lane.’
‘Take us there.’
Paffards’ House
Thomas ran. He pelted hell for leather through the house, through the kitchen and out past the brewery to the garden behind, but here he could not see anywhere to hide, and he hesitated only a moment before thinking of the shed.
It took only a moment to rush to the broken slat, jerk with his hand, and wriggle inside the cold, dank interior – and only just in time.
He saw through the broken plank the man who ran out, closely pursued by Joan, who was shrieking at him to know what he was doing. He turned to her, and as Thomas watched, the big knight struck her once on the side of her head, and she tumbled down to the ground, her wimple awry.
Sir Charles threw a harried look about the yard, and then began to trot to the workrooms at the rear. It was when he was almost there that Thomas squirmed about a little to look, and his foot caught on something. It was sharp, and scratched at his leg, and he instantly thought of rats.
Rats. Their sharp teeth that would gnaw through a wooden beam, that would score even a metal plate, rats were everywhere, and the memory of John’s words about rats eating through a boy’s leg in a moment, that was enough to make him whimper to himself. He dare not squeal, he dare not kick and scream for help, because the man he had seen robbing his father’s hall would come and find him. He must lie still, even if the rats ate through his leg. Better to be eaten alive than found by that horrible man.
He could not help a muffled sob though, and feeling something sharp again, he cast an eye behind him in the gloom.
And then he screamed for real, and fought his way through the hole once more, just as Sir Charles reappeared.
Thomas didn’t care. He raced back into the house – getting as far away as he could from the grinning face in that dark hole, the grinning face of the skeleton in shreds of clothing.
Smythen Lane
The house to which Sir Richard was directed was a small, shabby affair halfway down the narrow street, and as the knight strode along the cobbles, he was thinking about the man he sought.
If it was the one who had ridden off with Sir Charles after the fight, then Sir Richard had seen him when he rode at Sir Richard with a spare horse for Sir Charles. At the time, Sir Richard had gained the impression of a slender youth with a brown thatch of hair. Not the sort to inspire fear in a man. Sir Charles, of course, was a different matter.
‘Edgar, this man is not as dangerous as Sir Charles, I deem. You and I should be able to capture him. But if Sir Charles is with him, we need to worry about him first.’
‘I understand,’ Edgar said. He had a nonchalant attitude, but Sir Richard had seen Edgar fighting often enough to be assured of his skill and speed.
The watchman knocked hard, and Sir Richard grasped his sword. There was no answer, and he told the man to break down the door. ‘We can’t let him run out the back,’ he snarled.
Under the combined efforts of the watchman and Edgar’s boots, the timbers were soon broken in pieces, and the three men rushed into the small building.
‘You, upstairs,’ he shouted to the watchman. To Edgar, he jerked his head. ‘You, with me out to the yard.’
They hurried through the place. There were only two rooms downstairs, and in the second a family was eating, sitting on the floor. They said nothing as Sir Richard and Edgar hurried past, a group of four children and two adults, all with the same thin, weary faces, eyes grown enormous from starvation.
Outside they found a tiny yard, and Sir Richard immediately spotted a man struggling to climb over the rear wall. Sir Richard blundered on, but Edgar overtook h
im, springing up onto the wall and flinging himself over.
He had left Sir Richard behind. There was the sound of running feet and Edgar set off after him on his soft leather boots. A figure darted left, and Edgar followed.
The man was clearly in view now. A thin fellow, with a haggard expression and clothes that spoke of days and nights in the open. Edgar smiled to himself. This would be easy.
He lengthened his stride. Edgar was well-fed and fit, and the man he chased was neither. Already he was flagging, and Edgar slowed slightly too, keeping a watchful eye on him, to ensure that this wasn’t a feint designed to mask a sudden attack.
It was not. Ulric suddenly tripped and fell headlong. Edgar drew his sword and waited for him to recover. Ulric sobbed in the dirt where he lay, his face inches from a pile of horse droppings. They were behind the fleshfold, and the roadway was a darkened mass of excrement, made more liquid by the urine of all the cattle that passed by.
‘I wouldn’t want to be lying there myself,’ Edgar said.
‘Kill me here,’ Ulric wept. ‘I can’t live on.’
‘Why?’
‘I was with Sir Charles and his men when they killed the Bishop. I will be hanged anyway. Please, just finish it.’
He looked up, and Edgar saw the resignation in his eyes. It was strangely touching. ‘How did you meet with Sir Charles?’
‘Henry Paffard paid me to take a message to him. It told Sir Charles where the Bishop was and where he was travelling next. Sir Charles used that to hunt him down and slay him. I’m guilty of being a party to that. And then, I was with him when he raided the Bishop’s mansions, too.’
‘Did you dislike the Bishop for a reason?’
‘Me? No! I thought he was a good man – like the last, poor Bishop Walter. I used to work for him and I liked him. I was only a messenger – but when I had delivered the message, I was stuck with them.’
‘Why do you think Henry Paffard was involved with Sir Charles?’
‘I heard Sir Charles say that the treasure he’d collected was to go to Paffard, and the money he paid was to support the old King, Sir Edward of Caernarfon.’
Edgar gazed at him, his eyes narrowing. ‘You know that Sir Charles went to see Paffard today?’
‘Yes. I was outside the gaol when he went in.’
‘He killed Paffard.’
‘No!’ Ulric’s face crumpled as he took this in. ‘So I can’t even prove he used me as a messenger? I am ruined!’
‘Where is Sir Charles now?’
‘I don’t know. We were going to Paffard’s house when the Hue and Cry started behind us. He told me to come up this way, but I wanted to go home first and hide. I hoped I would be safe, but nowhere is safe now.’
Edgar lifted his sword, and Ulric flinched, shutting his eyes before the final blow.
‘Oh, in the name of Christ,’ Edgar said. ‘Killing you would be like strangling a kitten. Go in peace, boy, and don’t take dangerous messages again.’
Ulric slowly opened his eyes and stared in amazement. ‘You mean it?’
‘And lie, boy. When someone asks you where you’ve been, say you went to visit a friend in Tiverton or Tawton. Say that you were away drinking all the time. After all, Henry Paffard cannot accuse you of joining in the gang now, can he? And Sir Charles will have more on his mind than your offences. I think you will be safe. I won’t punish you more.’
Combe Street
‘Sweet Mother of God, Phil! What have you done!’ William screamed. He watched as the body of the priest kicked twice in its death-throes and then was still. ‘Quick! Let’s get away from here!’
There was a shriek of horror from a few yards away, and while William knew he ought to move, to grab Philip and bolt from this road, his legs wouldn’t respond. His mind was slammed into a blankness so intense he could not conceive of escape.
‘You go, William,’ Philip said. He was not looking at the priest, but at the smug face of Gregory Paffard. ‘You didn’t hear that, did you? Father Laurence still loved her. Not you!’
‘I never thought he did love me. Is that what you thought? You poor fool,’ Gregory jeered. ‘And now you’ve killed him. You’ve made my life easier, Philip. Thank you.’
‘Phil, come on! You can’t kill him, you have to get away from here! With me, now.’
William was close to sobbing as he pleaded with his brother. There was something so ineffably grim about the idea of remaining here, while the bailiffs and porters and Watchmen all congregated. They would die, both of them. That was when he realised. Philip intended to die here. He was not going to run away, because his mind was wholly bent upon the man before him. His aim had been to kill Gregory, and while Laurence had taken the blow intended for his victim, the error had not deflected him from his original purpose.
‘Phil, no!’ William groaned, but he could see he was too late.
Philip’s face wore a look of tragic determination. His was a mind torn by the loss of the woman he had loved, as it was by the death of his mother. And now, the representative of the family that had impoverished him and mined his mother’s last days was here before him. He stepped forward, slowly, like a cat stalking a bird.
‘You should go,’ Gregory said. ‘I am entitled to protect myself, churl. You come for me, you strummel patch? Worthless whorecop. What do you want from me, eh?’
‘Your life,’ Philip said, and crouched, his knife before him. ‘You can at least afford that.’
‘You realise that there are thirty men and women at least watching you right now? This is not self-defence, Philip. It’s you attacking me – unprovoked, too. You will never escape from here, you piece of shit. You can’t hope to kill me!’
‘I will.’
And William watched as Philip moved forward inexorably, his lethal blade sweeping from side to side. William saw Gregory pull out his own dagger.
That was when William heard another bellow as Baldwin and Simon came running. There was a snarl, and Wolf rushed up, but before William could respond to the dog, he felt a fist thud into his back, and was sent sprawling as John sprang over him, and with his hatchet in his hand, he hacked at Philip’s head.
‘No!’ William shouted in desperation as Philip seemed to shiver, the hatchet embedded. He dropped his knife and turned, falling to his knees as he went, and William saw Philip’s eyes go to him for one moment, before they rolled up into his skull, and his body collapsed.
Chapter Forty-five
Paffards’ House
Sir Charles saw the little gegge take off again, and he gave chase with a grim determination. If the bratchet got to the road, young as he was, he could call the Hue and Cry, and Sir Charles had had enough of running. He sprang over the body of the maid he had struck, and ran into the house again, past the rooms and into the kitchen, where the cook stood at the far end, a heavy knife in one hand, a cleaver in the other. She looked pale and slightly waxen as she stared at him with determination, but said nothing.
He was frozen for a moment. Then, ‘If you try to leave the house I will kill you, woman,’ he snarled, and carried on along the passageway. There was a wailing sound; it came from upstairs. With a smile fitted to his face, he went to the stairs and climbed as silently as possible. The steps were of wood, great square sections cut diagonally and pegged to a pair of flat sheets behind. They were immense and solid, and there was no squeak or creak to give him away as he ascended cautiously to the upper passage. There he stood a moment, listening. There was a scuffling sound at the front of the house, and he made his way there, stepping slowly and carefully. A board moved under his foot, and he heard a piercing screech as it rubbed against a wooden peg, and at the same time, all noise in front of him ceased.
There came the sound of a shutter sliding down its runners, and Sir Charles ran on into the room. At the far side, he saw Thomas, standing at the open window in the bedroom, the large bed against the wall on the left.
‘Away from the window, boy,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to shout, bec
ause I’ll throw you out if you do. I won’t have that.’
Thomas clung to the string that held the shutter in its place, and stared wide-eyed at the man who approached him, step by careful step.
The little fool must have been soft-minded, Sir Charles thought to himself.
‘Now, little man, you need to tell me something. Your father was looking after money for me. I have to have it to take it to some friends. Can you tell me where he kept his money? He told me it was in the hall downstairs, but the cupboard is empty. I don’t know where else it might have been moved.’
Thomas shook his head.
‘It is all right, boy. It is my money. Your father was looking after it for me.’
He was almost at the boy now, and he made a quick lunge, but even as he did so there came a red-hot searing pain in his right flank.
‘God’s cods!’ he roared. He darted away and turned, expecting to see a man with a sword. Instead it was a woman. ‘You stupid bitch!’ he snarled, and drew his sword.
He knew her. It was the pathetic lurdan of a wife of Henry Paffard. She had got her husband’s sword from somewhere… Sweet mother of God, but she’d struck well, just as he was bending over – and the thrust had slipped up above his hip and into his guts. He knew from experience that wounds in the belly would often go rotten and lead to an agonising death. She would pay for this!
The boy was shrieking and squealing. It was not to be borne! He aimed a blow at the boy’s head, but missed, and he knew in that moment that he had only a short time. Glancing down, he saw that blood had already stained the whole of his side and thigh, and he could hear a rushing sound in his ears. ‘Damn your noise, boy!’ he rasped, and as she stabbed at him, he knocked her blade away, thrusting forward at her. But his strength was leaving him, he knew. He caught something, but it may have been just her gown, untied as it was. He felt his blade catch, and then he saw her move away again, and he was left standing, panting, while she moved to the door, the sword in both hands, pointing at his belly.
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