The event that had ended their friendship occurred soon after Philip had threatened her. She had been outside, and Sabina, Emma’s young daughter, had been singing the same tune, over and over again, until Juliana had snapped. A combination of anxiety about money, and then Philip gripping her like that, which had shaken her badly, made her screech at Sabina to just shut up. The girl had fled, and now Emma ignored her. There was nothing she could do to put things right. Emma was the sort who would put up with anything, but not unkindness to her children. She would never talk to Juliana again.
Helewisia was staring at Thomas still. Juliana said, ‘Is there any more news of the poor girl?’
‘Alice? No. Nobody knows what happened.’
‘The Coroner has been summoned?’
‘Of course. But he’s not in town. He’ll come when he may.’
‘It’s horrible to have her left out there like garbage.’
‘Aye, well. She was only a maid without honour.’
‘Helewisia!’ Juliana remonstrated, crossing herself. ‘Don’t speak ill of the poor thing.’
At that moment Claricia Paffard opened her door, a basket crooked in her arm. Seeing the two women, she joined them. She was of middle height, with hazel eyes in a sharp face that reminded Juliana of a ferret. On the surface, she was easy to dislike, with her money, her easy life, her affectations of superiority – but in fact she aroused sympathy in the hearts of many women in the neighbourhood. All of them knew of her husband’s womanising. Today her whey-coloured features filled Juliana with compassion. To have had her maid murdered, and so near to their home at that, must have been horrible.
‘Good morning, Gossips,’ Claricia said.
The two nodded and muttered greetings, both wary in the face of their landlord’s wife. She continued along the road towards Southgate Street while Juliana and Helewisia watched.
Neither noticed Emma approaching.
‘So: have you worked out who killed her yet?’ Emma asked when she was closer. She stood nearer Helewisia, and might have been unaware of Juliana’s presence for all the notice she paid her.
‘Us?’ Helewisia burst out with surprise.
‘Why not you?’
‘I haven’t heard anything,’ Juliana said. She was relieved that Emma had come to them. Perhaps she was going to forgive her, after all. Holy Mother Mary, but she felt the need of a friend just now. Never more so.
But Emma paid her no heed. ‘Helewisia, have you seen the Paffards’ apprentice? He looked awful. You don’t think he could have killed Alice, do you?’
‘Surely not! Benjamin seems a pleasant fellow,’ Juliana protested.
‘When I went to Mass, I heard something interesting,’ Emma said without apparently hearing Juliana. She looked at the children before adding quietly, ‘They’re all talking about it at the Cathedral. It seems the porter heard a man running after Alice’s body was found.’
Juliana felt her heart begin to pound unpleasantly. She dreaded to hear what Emma might say next.
Emma leaned towards them. ‘The man ran up the street and into the Cathedral, is what I heard.’
A shiver ran up Juliana’s spine, and she almost had to catch hold of Helewisia to support herself.
‘Are you all right?’ Helewisia asked, seeing Juliana’s face.
‘Y-yes. Just the thought of that poor child lying out there. It’s horrible to have to walk past her.’
She tried to pull herself together. She could hardly tell Emma and Helewisia how relieved she was: that until that moment she had suspected that her son Philip had killed the girl.
Cock Inn, Southgate Street
‘Brother, are you paying?’ William had joined Philip, and he stood tugging at the fingers of his gloves as he eyed the others in the room. ‘There are few enough in here with a penny for a pair of hardworking merchant’s sons.’
‘What of it?’
‘I want to work, brother. I want to learn all the aspects of business our father was trying to teach us.’
‘And how will you go about finding new clients?’ Philip sneered. ‘We’re sons of a failure, Will. A failure. Nobody cares to remember Nicholas Marsille, and that means they won’t be interested in us.’
‘Well, I think that’s where you’re wrong. There are plenty of men who would help us, in memory of our father. He was well-liked.’
‘If that’s so, why are we in this state?’ Philip had attracted the attention of the wench, who now deposited two green-coloured drinking horns before them. She was a slim girl, with ringlets of raven-black hair straying from beneath her wimple. She smiled at William as she waited to be paid.
William glanced at his brother with frustration, and finally reached into his own purse and dropped carefully counted coins into the maid’s hand. ‘There, Sal, but next time I want a kiss too,’ he said.
She grinned and slapped away his hand as he allowed it to casually drop towards her thigh. ‘Look but don’t touch, Will Marsille!’
‘Would you grudge a poor orphan boy a moment’s solace?’ he pleaded mock-seriously.
‘You want that, go and find a girl at the stews. It’d only take you a moment, I’m sure,’ Sal declared. ‘She wouldn’t be able to charge you much for her time.’
‘Sal, Sal, I’ll die for your cruelty!’
‘I’d better take away your ale then,’ she returned smarthy. ‘Wouldn’t want to waste it, would you?’
‘Your heart is made of ice.’
‘Aye, and it won’t be melting any time soon.’
‘Christ’s ballocks, leave her alone,’ Philip snapped. ‘She’s got work to do.’
Sal winked at William before striding away.
‘Why take it out on her?’ Will said without thinking, and then rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry, Philip, I didn’t consider what I was saying.’
‘I take it out on her because she is a parnel from an inn. And not even a very good one. Offer her enough and she’ll be your wife for the night, I have no doubt, but don’t expect me to listen to your maunderings. I have better things to be doing.’
‘She’s not like that, Philip. She’s a good woman. I know you’re upset because of Alice’s death, and—’
‘Alice?’
‘I know you loved her, Phil. I’m sorry she’s dead.’
‘You think I cared about that strumpet? The wench was nothing to me. In fact, I hated her.’ Philip was drinking grimly, and his red-rimmed eyes were bleak.
‘Buy me another drink,’ he said, draining his drinking horn.
William shook his head and stood. ‘We can’t afford it, brother. Come on, let’s get back.’
‘You wander back to that shabby little midden if you must. I need air,’ Philip said.
He rose and blundered from the room, pushing past a man with a muttered oath. It made William wince to see it. He didn’t want to leave his brother alone in his misery, but could see no alternative. It wouldn’t help either of them to come to blows.
Cook’s Row
Walking about the market with her basket on her arm, Claricia Paffard tried to maintain the smile upon her face, but it was not easy.
Early on, their marriage had been perfect. Henry had been the successful apprentice of Master Roland de Witt, a master craftsman from Bruges who came to Exeter when young and decided to stay. The decision had been a sound one, for Exeter had no pewterer to compare with the fine work he could produce, and soon he had taken over almost all the market. In his workshops Henry had learned much about the mingling of the two metals, lead and tin, the forging and engraving, and while he was not as skilled at the actual mixing of the metals and the production of lustrous, gleaming pewter as Master Roland, his engravings had been so transparently superior to all the other workers in the city that he had grown his business very quickly.
Claricia had been happy. When they were first wedded, Henry had been engaging, exciting to talk with, and funny. He charmed her into his bed, and every day he had something extraordinary to share with her; wh
ether it was to do with a design he had just thought of or some intriguing means of creating a new effect with the metal, hadn’t mattered. She had enjoyed listening as he planned how he was going to enhance his work, where he would have his shop, how many apprentices he would employ, and how he would take the city by storm with his ideas on running the markets. And astonishingly, he had never lost that ambition and drive. All through the lean years when he was still scrabbling about for money to invest in a larger workshop, or tools, or when she fell pregnant with Gregory, Henry still had the vision of what he wanted to do firmly fixed in his mind, and exactly how he was going to do it.
The first betrayal had hurt so much, the second too; the third had been devastating. He should have come to terms with his life, and with her by then. How many affairs had he had? Claricia could count five that she knew of in the last twelve years. It was as if he could not control himself. He was like a dog smelling a bitch in season when a woman caught his eye.
She took her purchases and set off homewards.
All women had to grow accustomed to the fallibility of their men, she supposed. But accepting his behaviour did not mean she had to approve of it.
Ottery St Mary
The small manor had been unprepared, just as Sir Charles had hoped. They came across it early in the afternoon, after riding quickly without attacking anyone else in the vicinity, so that there should be no warning of their arrival. He had led his men at a trot, smiling and nodding to the lay brothers on all sides, before drawing steel and charging at the last moment. All the men had been killed.
‘Go and check the undercrofts. See what there is to eat and drink in this place,’ he ordered as he entered the yard before the hall. There was a collection of farm buildings over at the far side, and the fish ponds looked as though they would be full. A net had been discarded at the side of the water. ‘Some men have escaped, so keep your eyes open for someone who may seek to challenge our right to be here!’
He dismounted with relief. They had spent much time in the saddle in the past two days, but their sweep across the country had been successful. He had added three carts of booty to the ones he had taken from the Bishop’s party, and gold and silver rattled merrily wherever they rode.
‘Ulric, come with me,’ he said.
Later, he would wonder if there had been some divine interference in that. He did not know why he called to Ulric to join him, it was a mere whim. But Sir Charles of Lancaster was nothing if not religious, and later events would make him wonder why the fancy had struck him.
Ulric walked along behind him. He still did not look like a warrior, but there was a sullen pugnacity about him that Sir Charles rather liked. Like a cur, whipped, but still loyal and ever hoping for a display of affection.
‘You have never killed a man, have you?’ Sir Charles asked.
‘No.’
‘The first time, it is quite hard. I was fifteen when I had to kill my first – a Scot who was riding into my Lord’s lands to steal cattle. I remember him still, a foul-faced man with a black beard. I struck first because I knew if I didn’t, he would kill me. So I drew, and with God’s aid, I managed to stab him. He died. It took me some time to stop shaking. The next time, I was in a line with companions, and that was easier. It was a cruel war, that, but we won over. The Scottish are always ferocious fighters, boy. If you meet with them, you strike first.’
‘Will I live long enough?’ Ulric said directly.
Sir Charles had not expected him to be so forthright. The fellow’s manner had led him to anticipate an unwilling obedience, as from a serf forced to work an extra week on his demesne lands.
After a moment’s reflection, he said, ‘If I learn you are seeking to harm us, I will destroy you without compunction. But if you are true to me, I will deal with you honourably, and you will share in my largesse. I am an old-fashioned man: I believe that those who are loyal should be cherished by me. If you are faithful, so too shall I be.’
Ulric nodded, and Sir Charles walked in front as they crossed the threshold into the hall.
It was a large room, with a tall ceiling, and a fire ready-made on the hearth. A dais at the far end of the hall held a large table and chairs, while benches and trestle tables sat at the walls. Sir Charles wandered about, looking at the room with a twisted smile on his face.
‘The tapestry will be taken,’ he said. ‘I like hunting scenes, and the colours here are superb. The hart held at bay – it will look splendid in my own hall.’
‘Where is your hall?’ Ulric asked.
‘I have none yet. I used to have a manor in Lancaster, and served my lord at the Scottish March, but I trust that when the King is returned to his throne, he will allow me a manor of my own. A small place near Bexley, that would be good. Close to London, but in the country. He has many little manors about there. And then I could live out my days in peace. You could join me, Ulric, hey? You and some few of the men here. I have always intended to set my lance in a rest and take up the sport of politics at some point. Perhaps when the King is returned, that would be my cue?’
He laughed then, an easy chuckle as he walked along the dais, his hand brushing the tapestry – and it was as he was past the scene of the hart that Ulric saw it.
There, at the point where the tapestry ended, he spotted the tip of steel, and he shouted as he flung himself at the weapon.
For a long time afterwards he asked himself why. Sir Charles was a fierce creature who would slay any man without remorse, wild and untameable as a boar, and yet Ulric threw himself forward and wrested the arm away from the knight’s back before the blow could fall.
It was a servant of the manor, a young lad, scarcely old enough to shave, and he fought with despair rather than skill, flailing with his hands and a dagger, and Ulric felt its edge mark his forearm before he grabbed the fellow’s wrist and clung to it with grim determination, while his face was buffeted by the other fist.
Sir Charles turned with a stunned expression to see Ulric rolling on the floor, grappling with the boy. Then he drew his sword and thrust quickly.
‘Ulric, give me your hand,’ he said, and helped him up. Then he grinned, holding Ulric’s hand in his fist so that it was raised before both their faces. ‘From hereon, you are mine. I will protect you as you have protected me. We are handfast, my friend.’
Saturday after the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist4
Paffards’ House
Old John the bottler tested the cask and found that it was quite empty. Lifting it from its chocks, he rolled it along to the passageway and thence out past the kitchen, the dairy and the brewing room to the yard behind, where he left it, rocking gently on the paving stones by his storage room, while he fumbled for his keys.
The door opened to a dark, cool chamber. Underfoot, the floor was planks of wood, and up ahead were the two large barrels of ale. Both had the expensive metal bands about them, while the smaller casks of wine were like his little one here, bound with woven willow to hold the wooden staves together, and watertight. He brought the empty cask inside and set it beneath the tap on the left-most barrel, opening the tap to fill it. It held a pair of gallons or so, and he stood there for a few moments, watching the ale drool into the cask. It was a wonderful sound, a lovely sight and smell. He turned off the tap and pressed the bung back into place, slamming it home with the heel of his hand, thinking how useful this little room had been to him. Then, rolling the cask away, he noticed a small pool of ale that had stained the floor beneath the barrel, and he tutted. He didn’t want it to seep below the floor and make the chamber stink. That was a sure way to attract rats.
Rolling the cask out, he shut and locked the door, reminding himself that he must be more careful in future.
Taunton, Somerset
At the castle gates, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stood a moment, pulling on his gloves and adjusting his sword-belt before preparing to mount his horse.
‘Feeling stiff, Baldwin?’
‘I’m not
so old as that,’ the knight growled. He set his foot in the stirrup and heaved himself up with a grunt. ‘But I confess, the thought of my own bed is most attractive.’
Sir Baldwin was a tall man. His chest was broad, and while his eyes were kindly and brown, there was a scar on his cheek that spoke of his youth when he had been a warrior-pilgrim defending the city of Acre in the last days of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He wore an unfashionable, neatly trimmed beard that followed the line of his jaw, but where once it had been black, now that he was in his middle fifties it was liberally salted, like his hair. Although he looked most unlike a modern knight, with his faded green tunic and tatty cloak, he was comfortable in himself. He had never had much patience with fads and fashion.
His friend, Simon Puttock was a tall, lean man of forty years, with dark hair and a rugged face. His grey eyes had always looked out on the world with confidence, but the last years had hit him hard.
Puttock had recently returned to his old family home near Crediton, and was coming to terms with his newly straitened circumstances. His skin was leathery from hours in the open air and on horseback, but the lines of anxiety Baldwin had noticed earlier in the year were steadily being replaced with those of laughter. It was good to see that.
‘HAH! YOU READY, THEN?’
Both Baldwin and Simon winced at the booming voice of Sir Richard de Welles, a jovial companion, built like a bear, with appetites and voice to match. The man had the appalling habit of telling lewd jokes at full volume, no matter what the company, and it was all but impossible to embarrass him.
Taller even than Simon, his belly, however, was huge – protruding before him over the top of his black sword-belt. His grey beard was long and straggly, framing a heavy face, but the eyes hidden in among the creases were shrewd, and while he always smiled, his mind was as sharp as any. Coroner to the King’s Manor at Lifton, he was an important local official who had lately been with Baldwin and Simon at Berkeley Castle, where the three had been instructed to guard the King’s father, now known as Sir Edward of Caernarfon. But rebels led by the Dunheved brothers had attacked and gained the castle, riding off with Sir Edward.
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