31 - City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  Juliana’s anger faded. The resolution on Emma’s face was too daunting. ‘Your complaint to Henry Paffard, Emma. You didn’t know, you couldn’t know, but he’s told us we must go. At once! Emma, come with me, tell him you didn’t mean it – that it was just the moment’s anger.’

  ‘It wasn’t. You upset Sabina, and you upset me. You should have thought of the consequences before you screamed at her. Poor Sabina! She was only singing, that’s all. I don’t know what right you think you have to insult people!’

  ‘That’s enough,’ William interrupted. He had followed his mother, and now he stood at Juliana’s side. ‘We have rights the same as any. Just because we’ve lost our wealth doesn’t mean we aren’t still people. We’re Exonians, same as you.’

  ‘But you’re not the same, are you? You have nothing. I’m sorry for you, Juliana. You have had a lot to contend with, but I won’t see my family hurt and upset because of you.’

  ‘So you’d see us thrown from our home?’ Juliana said, and now the tears did fall. She had trusted Emma: they had been friends. Emma had been the one person she felt she could rely upon when Nicholas had died.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said, and turned away so that she wasn’t looking directly at her any longer.

  ‘You bitch! Whoreson’s daughter! Strumpet!’ Juliana screamed suddenly, and sprang forward, her fingers clawed.

  ‘Get off me!’ Emma shouted, alarmed. She raised her arms, and Juliana’s nails raked down her forearm, bringing up three long welts in an instant.

  William was tempted to leave them to it. He was sure that his mother would soon have the better of the fight, but he knew that it wouldn’t help them, were she to cause an affray. ‘Come, Mother,’ he tried, and threw his arms about her when remonstrations failed.

  ‘You faithless wastrel! You have seen to our destruction!’ Juliana screeched. ‘See what damage you wreak with your lies! Dishonest wretch! You have seen us evicted!’

  With her son’s arms wrapped about her, she convulsed with deep, groaning sobs, and turned to him, hiding her face in her shame. Then she allowed herself to be led back to her room, leaving behind her an ashen-faced Emma clutching her sore forearm.

  Holy Trinity Church

  The first thing that came to him as he coughed and lurched on his palliasse, was that the pain in his back was as nothing compared to the throbbing in his head.

  Father Paul kept his eyes closed as he felt the terrible wounds that bruised his kidneys; there seemed little enough of him that was undamaged, and the coughing only made it all worse.

  ‘Are you all right now, Paulie, eh?’

  His eyes snapped open and he found himself looking up into the cider-sodden face of Sarra. ‘What are you doing here?’ he croaked.

  ‘We came by to see if you had a pot of wine for us. And you might have decided to have a free one on us,’ Sarra said with a wicked leer.

  ‘I never have before,’ Father Paul admonished, and tried to rise. Instantly he winced and groaned.

  ‘So, some priests can swear and fornicate and even kill, but you won’t even try one of them,’ Sarra said, laughing hoarsely as she put her hand under his armpit, her younger companion doing likewise at his other side. ‘Come on, Father, upsy-daisy.’

  He found himself on his feet, and looked down in surprise. ‘Have you made a habit of assisting priests to their feet?’

  ‘We help ’em up, sometimes,’ she winked.

  He reddened. ‘I didn’t . . .’

  ‘Allow me a laugh, Father, we’ve been up all night looking after you. Usually my nights are sleepless, but at least I get to lie down. And I am paid for it.’

  ‘You can have . . .’

  ‘No. You give us food. That’s enough for us.’

  ‘Well, I am very grateful.’

  ‘Who did it, Father?’ the younger woman asked. She was so young she had not lost the beauty that comes from innocence, he thought. That would soon be beaten or worn from her. Prostitutes always lost it, which was partly why he tried to help them from their lives of poverty and disease.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said truthfully. The hessian sacking had effectively covered the man’s face, and the assault had been so swift, it could have been from one who was five feet or six feet tall. Most of the painful encounter had seen Father Paul bent over in pain, after all. ‘He wore a grey cloak,’ he remembered.

  ‘Did it have a mark on it? Fur? Embroidery?’ Sarra demanded.

  ‘It had a stain at the bottom, on the man’s left side. A dark stain,’ he added, thinking it was like dried blood. ‘And a tear, no more than an inch long. As though he had caught it on something while walking along, and the material ripped.’

  ‘A tear, eh?’ Sarra said. ‘I don’t know about that. But there aren’t too many men with simple grey cloaks. Men like that Henry Paffard – he has one . . .’

  Edith’s House, St Pancras Lane

  It was quite late in the morning when Simon heard the commotion. He had been in the hall with his grandson, watching over the little boy dozing, and the noise at first did not register with him, he was so content.

  Many years ago, his firstborn son had caught a fever. The poor fellow would suckle, but all the milk passed through him or was vomited up, and he grew fretful, weeping and bawling all the while. Simon and Meg did all they could to tempt him with more food, but nothing prevailed, and Simon was actually glad when the noise finally ceased. A horrible, guilty relief, it was, but he was not so dishonest as to deny it. Perkin’s death was many years ago now, and yet the guilty reminder that he was not so good a father as he would have liked remained with him. This little boy reminded him of his first son, and he was resolved never to betray him in thought or deed.

  The row in the road grew, and Simon rose to peer through the front door.

  There was a short alley leading to Eastgate Street, and he could see many people flitting to and fro; the racket came from there as though the King’s own host was arriving in state. Setting his daughter’s maid Jane to look over the boy, he went out into the street to investigate.

  The milling people were not watching Eastgate Street, however, but were streaming down towards Carfoix, and Simon allowed the crowd to draw him down with it. There was an uncountable press of men and women at the crossroads, and Simon must wait with the others as the noise increased.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded of a man nearby.

  ‘They do say a man’s died, who wants to be buried here in the Cathedral, but I don’t know.’

  Simon wondered at that, and at the angry muttering. He saw a cart, on which three urchins and a maid were standing, watching the High Street, and pushed his way through the crowds towards them. Ignoring their complaints, he climbed up with them and stared ahead.

  Then he realised what the fuss was about.

  Bishop Berkeley had been brought home to rest.

  Paffards’ House

  Joan nodded as Sal shouted at her, and avoided the wooden spoon that lunged near her head, before grabbing the bowl and darting to the flour chest. There was only a small amount left in there, but enough to make the pastry for the coffins, and she scooped a couple of handfuls into the bowl, hurrying to add the butter and begin to mix it with her fingers.

  She shivered. It was still in her mind, last night. Her master’s face, red and sweating, eyes bulging. Her own soreness. The memory was so gut-churning, she tried to eradicate it by work, churning the pastry dough harshly.

  ‘Hoi! You stop that, silly strumpet, you’ll harden the pastry!’ Sal reprimanded her, shoving her aside and thrusting her own dumpy hands into the mess. ‘You have to treat a good dough with respect, gently, like, if you want your pies to be good and crisp and crumbly.’ She threw a look at Joan, and came to a quick conclusion. ‘You go outside and take Thomas with you. He needs the fresh air, and you do too.’

  Grateful for the sympathy, Joan nodded. The picture in her mind of Henry Paffard’s face was so vivid, she felt sick to the pit of her stomach. L
ast night she had tried to eradicate it by closing her eyes, but his weight, his stertorous breathing, his rancid odour, had all imposed themselves upon her mind so firmly that she was even now aware of him. Her groin was sore, her breasts bruised and tender, and she felt as if she could never be cleansed.

  She wiped her hands on the towel bound about her waist. Looking after Thomas was the last thing she wanted to do, for Thomas was a part of Henry. To look after him, she was looking after Henry Paffard’s second heir, the apple of his eye, his pride and joy. It was fortunate that she was fond of the lad. Otherwise she would take one of the flesh knives from the kitchen and cut his throat, just to repay Henry.

  It would not be only last night, either, she knew. Henry Paffard was a man of enormous appetites. She had seen that with poor Alice. She had been called to him almost every day, and then afterwards he would go back to his own bed with his wife. He had no shame about his behaviour. The servants in his house were his to do with as he pleased, he thought.

  She choked, a sob catching her unawares.

  This was her life, then: if she remained here, she must become Henry Paffard’s whore. Except no whore would rut without money. What did that make her? A slut. Perhaps she had given him to believe that she would appreciate his advances. It could not have been just that he was convinced of his own power over her, surely? He would not expect another man to treat his own daughter in this way, would he? Agatha must be safe from such a humiliation.

  Joan found herself leaning against the wall, face turned to the plaster, weeping uncontrollably. It was the first time she had ever felt so hopeless, so helpless. The abominable truth was, she was ruined now. Henry Paffard had taken something from her she could never replace. She was tempted to harm him in some similar way. But the one piece of information that would hurt him was so dangerous, she dared not share it.

  Thomas was standing watching her, and she turned to him with a kind of relief. His presence forced her to recover a little of her self-control, and she swiped at her eyes angrily.

  ‘Come, Tommy. Let’s go outside. The sun’s shining,’ she said, trying to sound contented, as though the events of the last days had not happened. ‘Shall we find your ball?’

  He shook his head, but turned and walked with her out into the garden, and there, while she sat on the bench, he stood staring at the wall. She should have gone to him to soothe him, but there was still an instinctive reluctance to touch the flesh of a boy that came from Henry Paffard. His face returned to her, and she flinched.

  Thomas noticed, and he shuffled over to her, looking up into her face. ‘Was it them?’ he asked.

  She could have cried to think it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t them.’

  ‘When I see the fire I see them,’ he said quietly, fearfully.

  ‘You mustn’t, Tommy,’ she said firmly, and at last a little of her self-possession returned to her. ‘Listen, Tommy: you must forget what you saw. It won’t help to keep thinking about it.’

  ‘He said to me that he’d—’

  ‘I know. But you mustn’t tell anyone. Especially your father,’ she pleaded. The thought that Henry Paffard could learn of the two bodies merging in the warmth of the fire that night was too appalling for words. He would want no one to repeat what they saw, after all. It would be disastrous for him, and for his business.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Nor do I, Tommy,’ she said, and drew him to her, her arms tight around his body as she sobbed, ‘Nor do I.’

  Combe Street

  There was nothing left for them to do.

  William was in the chamber, packing their few belongings in preparation for their departure. That was at least some consolation: Henry had not told them to be off instantly and sent rowdies to hurl them and their goods into the alley’s filth. He had shown them that courtesy at least.

  To Juliana, it was intolerable. She stood in the alley for a while, staring at the ruin of her hopes, and occasionally giving a distraught glance at Emma’s door, but it was too much. She couldn’t wait there. Instead she walked down to the street and stood there, looking about her wonderingly.

  Her mind could not cope with this sequence of disasters. She felt as numb as a naked woman in a snowstorm. How Emma could have so turned upon her was a mystery. A moment’s irrational anger against Juliana for telling her daughter Sabina to pipe down was no reason to see her thrown from her house. It was way out of proportion. And Henry, to send her away when all knew that the widow had nowhere else to turn – that was itself beyond cruel. It was not even fury that brought her here, to the front of the Paffard house, but more a sense of confusion, a desire to understand.

  Slowly she climbed the steps to the front door, and knocked.

  It felt an age before the door was unlocked and swung open. ‘Yes?’

  ‘John, I want to speak with your master.’

  ‘He said he wouldn’t talk to you. He knew you would come.’

  ‘Really?’ Juliana said, and barged past him.

  ‘Please! Please, mistress!’ John protested, trying to catch at her tunic as she hurried along the corridor, but it was no good, and before long Juliana had stormed into Henry’s hall.

  Seeing her, he gave John a look of annoyed contempt. ‘Juliana, I am very surprised to see you here.’

  ‘Send him away,’ she demanded, pointing to John.

  ‘Very well.’ Henry waved John away. Then he asked, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t throw us from our house, I beg.’

  ‘It is too late. I’m sorry,’ Henry said, and he did look genuinely uncomfortable. ‘If you had only left that woman alone, I could have done something, but with Emma de Coyntes muttering and complaining, my hands are tied. You should not have attacked her daughter.’

  ‘I didn’t, Henry! I merely chastised her for making a noise. You are supposed to be serving us, my friend. You know that. It’s why Nicholas had you nominated to look after our business.’

  ‘But there was so little left,’ Henry said sadly. ‘You have cost me much treasure, and there is no means of receiving compensation for all I have done. I would do more, truly, if there were means available to me. But you make it impossible for me.’

  ‘You cannot send me away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what I know!’ she hissed. Joan had told her in confidence, but Joan couldn’t use it. However, it could save Juliana and her sons.

  ‘There is nothing you could say about me that would surprise anyone about here,’ he said smugly, unmoved.

  ‘No, not about you. About your son.’

  ‘Shock me.’

  His coolness was a spur to her anger, but she swallowed it down and was about to answer when Gregory himself entered with his sister Agatha.

  Juliana looked round at them, and then a twisted smile crossed her face. ‘You really want me to talk about it in front of them?’ she said, and then leaned forward. ‘I doubt that very much.’

  And as Henry saw her glance back at Gregory, he suddenly felt a chill like a block of ice in his gut. He had suspected for a long time . . . ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Meet me,’ she said, her mouth close to his ear, so his children wouldn’t hear. ‘Tonight, at dusk.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Tell John to let us stay in our house tonight.’

  ‘I will see you in the alley that runs to the city wall from Combe Street,’ he said.

  ‘At dusk. And bring your purse,’ she said, and ignoring the others, walked from the room.

  Road east of Exeter

  They were moving again.

  Ulric rode along like a man with too much wine in his belly. Twice he nearly overbalanced from his saddle, and once he had to jerk himself upright quickly before he fell.

  In his mind’s eye he saw the villagers again in that hideous charnelhouse that had been their sanctuary, their church. And he wondered how he might bring retribution to the men here, to Sir Charles and his band of de
vils.

  He could see no means of betraying the men without being associated with them, however, and dying at their side.

  How had he come to this? He was an apprentice to Henry Paffard, and all he knew was that he was to help inform Sir Charles when the Bishop was intended to arrive at his manor. But now he was an accessory to this band of murderers.

  Escape was impossible, but there was still the possibility that he could make his way back to Henry Paffard. Master Paffard could not have realised what Sir Charles and his men intended to do. Surely the merchant would be as horrified as Ulric when he heard about the attack on the Bishop.

  But why then had he instructed Ulric to come here to direct Sir Charles to the Bishop?

  That was his greatest fear: that his master was in this up to the hilt. That he was a knowing confederate of Sir Charles. He was the only man who might save Ulric, but if he was an ally of the murderers of Bishop James, Ulric was lost.

  Then another thought struck him.

  What if Henry Paffard were to disassociate himself from Sir Charles? What then could Ulric do?

  Exeter Cathedral

  Adam Murimuth stood in the Cathedral Close, his head bent, praying for his dead Bishop.

  He had a terrible feeling of loss. It was as if he had not yet come to realise that the death of Bishop James was genuine, as if there could be a vague hope still that he would return to surprise the congregation, that wry smile on his face that showed he had enjoyed the joke.

  Not now. The procession that had made its way to the Guild Hall was utterly convincing. The grief of the people of the city was unfeigned, and the Sheriff himself had come to pay his respects, along with all the prominent men of the Freedom. All stood solemnly as the cart bearing the body stopped, and the people could see the sad, grey face of the man who had been their spiritual leader for such a cruelly short time.

  ‘Only three months,’ Adam murmured.

  The man had been so good a Christian, and Adam had enjoyed working with him. To lose him so swiftly was terribly sad, but at least he was in God’s care now.

  Adam had gone to meet the body at the Guild Hall, and soon he and the procession were making their way along the High Street, past suddenly silent men and women, and thence into Broad Gate, and from there, down to the West Door of the Cathedral.