‘You were the baker at this manor?’
Bakere rolled his eyes impatiently. ‘Yes. I told you – I’d been here two years when I left a fortnight ago.’
‘But even then you heard that the Bishop and his entourage were to come here?’
‘Yes.’ Wat looked up at him, his eyes creased in sardonic amusement. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. They hear their lord’s coming to visit, and all hell is let loose! Rooms must be cleaned, beasts must be slaughtered, money must be counted and recounted, food stores checked so the master can see nothing’s been lost or stolen . . . there’s no peace for anyone. As soon as his visit was announced, the villeins were driven lunatic by the steward’s demands. So was I. I needed more flour for their food, and the steward was never willing to—’
‘What makes a man like you become disloyal to his master, I wonder?’
‘I owe them nothing!’
‘I see,’ Sir Charles said languidly. He suspected that Wat had been found with his hand in the food bin. Bakers were notorious for making undersized loaves, keeping back the excess flour to sell, or making their own loaves larger than those for others. A greedy little man, this Wat.
He turned his attention back to Ulric. The scrawny wretch was looking miserable. It was he who had brought confirmation that Bishop James Berkeley was heading this way, and now he knew the consequences of his report, he was regretting it. The lad was too young; he needed his spine stiffened.
Sir Charles studied the road ahead and soon made his dispositions. The men for the woods dismounted, the youngest boys taking the reins while the older men shifted their weapons on their belts, bound quivers to their hips or backs, laced their bracers, and strung their bows. There was little sound from any. All knew their part.
Those on foot were to work their way to the north of the manor and drive the terrified workers south, to where the horsemen could cut them to pieces. After that they would head for the manor itself. Easy prey, these, although it was best not to be complacent. Sir Charles had once been all but bested by a pathetic-looking chaplain who had displayed a ferocity in fighting that was more suited to a Teutonic Knight.
The men were disappearing into the trees already. When the last was gone, Sir Charles nodded to himself. He would wait until he saw the first signs of panic in the fields, then race down and destroy the peasants.
Wat’s eyes were fixed on the scene ahead. ‘They don’t realise what’s going to hit them,’ he said with glee.
‘Few ever do,’ Sir Charles smiled.
Wat was about to speak again when the knight’s fist caught him in the chest. He jerked with the slamming shock, then hunched to save himself being thrown over the cantle, and glared at Sir Charles.
‘What’s that for?’ he gasped, but even as he spoke, his eyes fell to the mailed fist at his breast.
Sir Charles pulled his hand away, tugging the long-bladed dagger free, and Wat’s mouth moved without sound as he gaped at the knight. Then his body convulsed, his head snapping back, and he fell from the saddle, twitching and thrashing on the ground in his death-throes.
‘That, boy,’ Sir Charles called to Ulric, ‘is what happens to rude sons-of-whores who are disrespectful to their betters. Remember that. And also remember, I distrust those who are dishonourable and faithless.’
He smiled, and Ulric, who had been staring at the body lying on the ground, found that smile more terrifying than any outburst of rage.
It was like the smile of the devil.
Marsilles’ House, Exeter
William Marsille nodded to his neighbour Mistress Emma de Coyntes as he walked home up the alleyway from Combe Street, and was surprised when she ignored him.
Pretending not to notice her manner, he pushed his door open, saying to his brother as he entered, ‘Emma’s pissed off about something again.’
‘What is it this time?’
His brother Philip, two years older at eighteen, sounded grumpy. He spent half his life snapping at William now. Perhaps it was the hunger.
William reached the sideboard – which was one of the few items of furniture that they’d rescued from their old home – poured himself a cup of wine from the cracked earthenware jug, and drank. ‘No idea. She just ignored me. You know what she’s like. ’Er wouldn’t ’cknowledge me if I ’uz on vire,’ he added with a grin.
His attempt at humour failed.
‘Pathetic!’ Philip muttered with a viciousness that surprised William. ‘We spend our lives trying to soothe her ruffled feathers, but we always end up with the sharp end of her tongue, the stupid bitch!’ There was something alarming in his over-reaction.
‘She was all over us like a rash when we were rich,’ William agreed. ‘Now we are poor she can exercise her contempt for us while she tries to suck up to the next lot of fools. We can live without her sort of friendship, Phil.’
‘Yes, she was always hanging around like a wart when we had money,’ Philip ranted. ‘Why can’t she give some peace now? That’s all, just a bit of peace!’
‘I think I prefer her like this,’ William said. ‘Philip, are you all right?’
Philip nodded. His normally animated features were pale. ‘It’s nothing. Just . . . Oh, God’s teeth! Just leave me alone,’ he said, and wiped his hand over his face, as though remembering a disaster that pained him. Then, with a gesture of despair, he blundered from the room leaving William staring after him.
Petreshayes
Sir Charles could make out his men at the edge of the woods as the light faded. Shortly the fight would begin. He enjoyed the feeling of liquid fire in his belly. A sharp battle, the slaying of his enemies: he was looking forward to it!
He drew his sword, held it before him and bent his head a little to the cross, kissing it. He was doing God’s work today, upholding His will.
‘Ready!’ he roared, lifting his arm so the rest could see his sword. He heard the slither of metal being drawn from all around him, and was about to give the order to canter towards the manor, when Ulric gave a cry.
Sir Charles followed his pointing finger. There, on the road curving across from their right, was a raggle-taggle line of men. A great flag moved in the air above them; there was a strong contingent of men-at-arms, walking men, carts, a wagon – all in all at least fifty men.
He threw a look at the lad beside him. ‘Well?’
‘It’s them. They must have been delayed on their way here,’ Ulric said.
‘You are sure?’
‘I know the Bishop’s banner – gold chevron on a scarlet background with ten crosses. Anyway, look at the men there! Most are clerics.’
Sir Charles gave a wolfish grin. Thinly on the air he could hear the shouts and screams of peasants dying under the first flights of arrows. The manor’s peasants would be fully occupied in protecting themselves, and would pay no heed to the attack on travellers.
He stood in his stirrups and gestured with his sword. ‘There! There! To Bishop James of Exeter! Ride with me!’
Cooks’ Row, Exeter
The sun was sinking as Joan hurried back down Cooks’ Row into Bolehill with her loaf of bread, the limewashed buildings on the other side of the road drenched with an orange glow. The colour reminded her of bodies writhing in the firelight, and the thought made her shudder. She averted her head from the buildings, from the pictures in her head, her belly curdling.
There was a crunch from an alley, and she felt her heart pound like hooves at full gallop. She turned reluctantly, staring, only to see a baker’s boy breaking up staves from a broken box for firewood. He glanced at her without interest before returning to his task.
She hated the city, with its tiny, narrow alleys and reeking, clamorous streets. The rich lived well, the clergy better, but for the others who eked out an existence, it was horrible. She was fortunate that she at least had a place in a merchant’s house, but if for some reason she upset her master, she would be out on the streets in an instant, and probably forced to join the other women in t
he stews.
At first it had been exciting, being away from her bully of a father, with his cidery breath, and the sting of his belt, away from the cold, dismal hovel, but just lately, for Joan, Exeter had become a place of fear. Walking the streets was unsettling; the people were so brash, so threatening. Only last morning she had felt a man’s hand on her arse as she passed by an alehouse, saw his other hand reaching for her breast. He could have pulled her into an alleyway, like some common draggle-tail. She’d only escaped with difficulty.
But there was worse here than the streets. Here there was the terror of the soul.
If Joan could, she would return home. Apologise to her father. She had run away in a fit of pique after an argument, and wished she could go back, admit that her dreams of finding a husband, an easy life, in Exeter, had failed.
She couldn’t. Her father was an unforgiving man, who would never let her forget her failure. Her life would be made unbearable.
It had seemed such good fortune when she found a position in the home of Henry Paffard. Their last maid had run away, and she was lucky to be settled so quickly.
That’s how it had seemed, anyway.
Steps. She heard steps – a panicky, bolting sound – and she darted into a darkened corner, eyes wide in sudden fear. A man came hurtling around the corner, arms slamming back and forth in his mad rush, his robe flying high. A priest, then, and running away from the Paffards’ house. She watched as he pelted up into Southgate Street, then away, out of sight.
Petreshayes
Their surprise attack threw the weary men-at-arms into disorder. They had not expected an ambush here, so close to the manor.
Sir Charles bellowed with joy as he cantered into the guards about the Bishop. There was a man on his right, and he hacked at him with his sword, saw a gout of blood, and then he was at the next, a terrified-looking fellow with a heavy riding sword. Sir Charles knocked his blade aside and thrust his pommel into the man’s face, feeling the bones crunch, before spurring on to the Bishop.
Bishop Berkeley was no coward. He had a sword of his own, and was as experienced as any nobleman. His blade was up, and he rode on to aim at Sir Charles with a roar of anger.
Sir Charles turned as the edge flashed past his shoulder, rolling back to slash, then used the point.
It caught the Bishop in the throat, and Sir Charles felt his sword jerk in his grip. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his victim huddle as if to hide from the assailants, but then one of his archers slammed down with a war-hammer, and the Bishop was thrown off his horse. The hammer rose and fell – and Bishop Berkeley was dead.
His banner was already trampled on the ground, and as Sir Charles turned, he spotted the remains of the Bishop’s guard galloping off towards the manor.
‘With me, with me!’ he roared, and hared off after them, his soul singing with the joy of the encounter.
Yes. Today, he was doing God’s work.
Alley beside Paffards’ house
She was panting. The sight of that priest’s terror was enough to bring back all her own terrors. Thank the Holy Mother she was close to the house now. The mass of the South Gate was in front of her, and she turned right, along Combe Street. Only a very little way to go now.
The house was imposing, with its great height on three levels, yet narrow. Steps were cut in stone before it, bridging the filth of the gutter. Today the area stank even more than usual. Someone had left the corpse of a dog in the road, and now, trampled and squashed by cartwheels and hooves, it rotted half-hidden beneath the bridge where it had been kicked.
To the right lay one door, which opened onto the place of work. Here the merchant plied his trade, while the other, to the left, was where he would invite his guests, clients and friends. They would enter to his welcome, drawn along the passageway to the hall behind where his fire would cheer any visitor.
These doors were not for her. She was only a maid: the lowliest servant in his employ, not even the equal of Alice. She must use the alley on the farther side. This led to the rear of the house, where servants and apprentices were expected to gain entrance, but from here, it looked like the entrance to hell. She hesitated. She always did. It was like the little copse of trees back at home, where it was said a woman once hanged herself. All the children knew that place, and all avoided it. This had a similar brooding menace.
There was little light here, between the buildings, and she kept her eyes ahead as she hurried down the alley. If she looked about her, she might see something, and it was better not to dwell on that. There was a skittering of claws, and she imagined rats scurrying.
She had to keep away from the wall’s edge on the left here, she remembered. A dead cat’s corpse lay there, and she didn’t want to carry the reek of carrion on her shoes.
At last she saw a lighter patch a few yards away, and grunted with relief. This was the little door in the wall that gave into the garden behind the kitchen – sanctuary. Without conscious thought she increased her pace but, just as she was about to reach the gate, her foot caught on something and she tumbled to the ground, dropping her package and breaking her fall with her hands, grazing both on the stones and dirt of the alley floor.
‘Oh, what . . . ?’
She clambered to her feet, and saw the head she had tripped over. She took in the fixed gaze from those dimmed blue eyes, the bright, red lips with the small trickle of blood, the golden hair surrounding the young woman’s face, and began to scream and scream as she desperately scrabbled for the door handle, to get her away from that hideous stare.
Paffards’ House
In his bed, six-year-old Thomas Paffard heard the maid’s screams, and his eyes snapped wide. He didn’t dare move until he heard men shouting. The knowledge that other grown-ups were there made him relax slightly.
‘Mother?’
His bed was low, and he pulled his legs up to his chest as he listened. He couldn’t recognise the voice of the person screaming. It almost wasn’t human.
‘Mother?’
He had heard a dog being killed once. Thomas had found it wandering in the streets, when he was only four years old, and had brought it back to the house here, concealing it out in the yard in a small lean-to that used to hold the family pig. After his meal, he took pieces of bread and some meat to it, and fed it, and the dog had been grateful. It had wagged its tail, and it made Thomas feel happy. His heart seemed to grow bigger, and he knew he loved it.
His family had never owned a dog. Most of his friends had a little dog of some sort, and he couldn’t understand why he didn’t. He was sure his mother would let him keep this one, if he told her about it, but Father and John, their bottler, didn’t like dogs. He couldn’t see why. It didn’t make sense to the young lad. So he didn’t tell anyone.
But it is difficult to conceal a dog.
That night, while Thomas slept, it had escaped from the makeshift kennel and began to bark and howl in the yard. That had sounded scary, too. Thomas had heard it, and the noise woke him in the end. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and then felt his whole body grow cold as he realised that if it had woken him, John might hear it and go down and hurt it.
Thomas quickly climbed from his bed and stole to his door, hoping to get outside before anyone could waken. And then, as his finger lifted the latch, he heard a horrible, wet sound, and the barking changed into a screech of agony. There was that wet thudding sound again, and then once more, and the noise died.
He never saw his dog again. There was a patch of redness on the dirt by John’s old shed, where he stored the ales and wines in their barrels, near to where a plank had been badly scratched. It looked to Thomas as though the little dog, his little dog, had been scrabbling to get in there, under the raised floor, to escape the spade of the bottler.
Thomas had never brought another dog home. He couldn’t bear to think of a second being killed.
‘Mother?’
‘It’s all right, dear. Go back to sleep. It’s nothing to worry you,’
his mother called from the next room, and with renewed confidence, knowing that she was there, he rolled over in bed and closed his eyes.
But in his mind, he still saw that poor dog. His darling little dog.
Alley beside the Paffards’ House
Standing in the gloom, Henry Paffard tapped his foot impatiently as the neighbours gathered. A boy with a horn lamp shed a pale glow over the scene, his own eyes fixed on the corpse.
Henry had been standing here since the first alarm. It really was time they got on with things. A man of his status shouldn’t be forced to wait out here like a peasant.
‘Where is Juliana Marsille and her boys?’ he demanded, but nobody answered. His wife looked at him, then glanced away. She was shivering with cold.
Henry Paffard was tall and strong, with the blue eyes and fair hair of a king, but today as he looked along the alley at the huddle of death, he felt the sadness again. Poor, sweet Alice.
All his life he had been fortunate. He had sired two boys and a girl: the boys to secure his future, the girl to bring him a noble connection. Agatha would one day be a useful bargaining chip. The boys, meanwhile, were healthy and intelligent. Not like others. He had not even suffered the loss of a child.
Only this maid, he told himself with a frown. Only Alice.
The watchman who had been sent to beat on the Marsilles’ door at last returned with Philip and William.
Philip looked as peevish as ever, Henry reckoned, while his younger brother William was his usual self, ducking his head in polite acknowledgement to the others before glancing down at the body with every appearance of sorrow.
The reaction of his brother was shocking, womanish.
When Philip recognised Alice, he seemed to crumble, his face a mask of anguish. It was ludicrous behaviour, Henry Paffard thought impatiently. Most lads his age would bear up, show a little backbone. Not Philip Marsille. He’d simply fallen apart after his father’s death. While his brother held himself like a petty baron, Philip was going to pieces.
Henry sighed, deeply. They really should hurry along. Poor Alice couldn’t be helped by any of them now.
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