31 - City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  With his horse prancing and wheeling at the smell of blood and the men’s screams, Sir Richard had to fight to control the brute, but at last pulled his head about, aiming at the leader. He had taken advantage of Sir Richard’s battles with his mount to run towards the farmhouse. Clapping spurs once more, Sir Richard hurtled after him. On the way he swept his sword round at the carter, trying to take his head off. He missed the man’s throat, but his blade met the man’s pate and he tumbled from the cart with his lifeblood spraying.

  There were shouts from behind the house now, and Sir Richard rode round at the gallop. The leader had darted behind there, but Sir Richard wanted him. If he could capture the fellow, he would. If not, he would see him dead.

  He slapped his rein end on the horse’s rump, urging him on. The house was on his left, a small shaw to the right, and he pelted between them, out behind the house. There, he suddenly stood up in the stirrups and reined in, hauling on the leather until his horse’s head was dragged back, chin to chest, before dragging the beast around and riding out of there as quickly as he could.

  Behind the house were at least thirty men-at-arms, and some were already mounting to pursue him.

  Gatehouse to Rougemont Castle

  ‘The atmosphere in there was suffocating me,’ Baldwin said to Simon, exhaling in a long breath as they came into the open air.

  ‘The man does not like you,’ Simon said.

  ‘Our antagonism is mutual,’ Baldwin replied. ‘I detest the fellow. Hold! There’s the Father. I would speak with him for a moment or two.’

  The man he referred to was already under the narrow way of the castle entrance, and he and Simon hurried to reach the limping priest before he had descended the path that led to the High Street.

  ‘Wait, Father, could we speak with you?’

  Father Paul turned reluctantly. Baldwin was surprised by this: he had expected to find the man happier to speak. After all, he had succeeded in making the murderer admit his crimes.

  ‘Father, I would be grateful to speak with you, if I may.’

  ‘I have much to do, Sir Baldwin – including a congregation to prepare a Mass for. I trust you can be swift.’

  ‘I would merely appreciate your view as to why the man should have thrown his life away.’

  Simon and Baldwin fell in alongside the priest as he hobbled along, Edgar and Wolf following after.

  ‘It was clear to me, when he threatened to expose me as a womaniser, that he was fearful of exposure himself,’ Father Paul said. ‘He thought he would be able to destroy me. What he did not realise was that I was less anxious about my reputation being harmed than he was of being discovered as a murderer.’

  ‘But he broke in upon you, beat you . . . Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Only that I was to forget everything I saw that night.’

  Baldwin frowned. ‘Why conceal his face when he wanted you to forget him?’

  ‘To kill is so repugnant, he must be lunatic. Don’t look for logic.’

  Simon too was puzzled. ‘Tell me, Father, when you were in his house, did it seem as though he was tortured with guilt, or that he was teasing you? He must have known you would recognise him somehow.’

  ‘No, he just walked into the house and effectually ignored me. Paid me no heed.’

  ‘That is curious,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve never known a man behave in such a manner. I could understand his boasting to you about the fact that it was him, if he thought he had you fully in his power, and I could understand his being ashamed – contrite, even – but to ignore it altogether is most peculiar.’

  ‘You must ask him about it,’ Father Paul shrugged.

  ‘When did you decide to come and accuse him?’ Sir Baldwin enquired. ‘You did not appear to feel so strongly last night.’

  ‘I had a long think about it last night, and prayed before going to the inquest. It seemed plain to me that the matter was too important to be left. How could I live with myself, were another murder to be committed and a third woman die?’

  ‘Very true,’ Baldwin agreed thoughtfully. ‘You think he could have killed again?’

  ‘Of course. Murderers are like wolves. They find attack difficult the first time, but once they have a taste for meat, they kill again and again. Henry Paffard was surely a man of that nature.’

  ‘It is incomprehensible to me,’ Baldwin said slowly, ‘that a man with so much money, with his position and status, should either commit such crimes himself and not pay another, or that he would willingly confess, rather than deny everything and rely on allies and friends in the city to protect him. What was he thinking of?’

  ‘He is perhaps a more honest man than others you have met,’ the priest responded shortly.

  ‘More than that,’ Simon put in, ‘is why he should have killed the women. The first, we heard, was his lover. There is no evidence that confirms she was in any manner a threat to him. Nor the second, this widow Juliana – so why kill them?’

  ‘I don’t know. But when a man has confessed to the murders, it seems pointless to question his motives.’ At that, the priest hurried off along the High Street, clearly glad to be away from them and their questions.

  ‘There is more to this,’ Baldwin said. ‘I should like to speak to some of the others along Combe Street. In particular, the rest of Paffard’s household. There must be some explanation for his bizarre behaviour.’

  ‘What bizarre behaviour?’

  ‘Well, confessing to a crime he didn’t commit – I should have thought that was strange enough, wouldn’t you?’

  Near Clyst St George

  Sir Charles of Lancaster had been sitting by a fire chewing at a piece of meat so hard and leathery, it made his teeth ache. Hearing the commotion and screams from the front of the farm, he had sprung to his feet, and then, when young Aumery ran around the side of the house, he had thought at first that they were being pursued by the whole posse of the county. He roared orders, shouting for his horse, and shoved the last of the dried meat into his mouth as he ran to the horse-lines.

  It took a moment only to leap into the saddle, and he was drawing his sword free even as Sir Richard turned and rode away.

  ‘To me! To me! Ulric, you too!’ Sir Charles bawled, and then was spurring his beast onwards, scattering stones and clods of grass as he galloped past the house, noting those of his men who had died with rising anger. There was a man there, Nick the Bakere, who did not deserve to die in the dirt. He was a good, loyal servant of Sir Edward of Caernarfon, and should have seen his old age. Instead this bastard intruder had killed him.

  Sir Charles could see the large figure up ahead now. He bent lower over his mount’s neck, and used the flat of the blade to urge his beast to greater efforts. The man in front was clearly a knight, but Sir Charles’s horse was fleet, and he had a feeling that he would soon catch the fellow. Then, if he wanted to live, the man would have to surrender. Sir Charles had no intention of leaving someone wandering around to spread the news of him and his men.

  Pursuer and pursued rode under a stand of trees, and out to a coppice behind, and then they were thundering along a road in a small vill. Looking about him, Sir Charles recalled this place – it was Clyst St Mary, a small community he had bypassed yesterday. There looked to be too many men about the place, and in any case, he had wanted to head straight down to Bishop’s Clyst. Those who supported the new Bishop deserved to pay for their lack of integrity.

  He jabbed his spurs again as they drew out of the vill, and then they were riding along the little causeway that headed almost due west, pointing like a lance at Exeter. He could imagine the place already. First there was Heavitree with its old hanging tree, where a gibbet stood to prove to all travellers that this city was a place where the law ruled. It was always good to see a man hanged from a tree. It showed that others were safe.

  They wouldn’t have to ride that far now. Before they were halfway over the causeway, Sir Charles saw the man ahead glance over his shoulder to check on his
whereabouts. If he had been less of a threat, Sir Charles would have left him, but the safety of his men lay in the balance. He had to catch him.

  The other man’s horse looked as though it was slowing. Sir Charles allowed himself a smile of glee as he began to draw up to the rump of Sir Richard’s horse, wondering whether he should prick the beast’s backside, to make it jump and throw its rider, or whether he should simply kill the man and take his horse. It looked a good, sturdy brute. It would have to be, to carry this fat bustard so far, so swiftly. ‘Halt, man, halt! Yield!’

  He was so engrossed in his thoughts, he did not notice that they were almost over the causeway, and that ahead were two more men with a woman. It was Sir Richard’s men with the woman they had rescued. Only at the last moment did he realise his danger. He slowed, but it was already too late, and a hail of stones was flung at him. One struck his shoulder, and he cursed aloud at the pain, and then a second hit his horse’s head over the eye, making the beast stumble, rearing and whinnying in anger. Sir Charles fought to control it, but had to lean forward to save himself from toppling, and then the horse was on the ground again, and as he looked up, he felt Sir Richard’s sword-pommel bludgeon him about the head.

  As he hit the ground, a wash of silence flooded over him, and it felt as if the roadway had swallowed him.

  Paffards’ House

  Gregory was in the hall when his mother appeared in the doorway.

  ‘You look at your ease there,’ she said. She traced a finger along the door’s jamb, essaying a smile. It made her pale face look ghastly.

  ‘I am,’ Gregory lied. There was a dull ache in his heart, if he was honest. He had no desire to see his father executed. After all, the same blood flowed in their veins. Henry was a member of the Freedom of the City – surely there was something his friends could do to have him released into Gregory’s own custody? But even as he had the thought, the boy rejected it. The court would have to come to judgement on the matter, and there was not a man in the city who would consider releasing a self-confessed murderer.

  Gregory could do nothing to help.

  ‘Why did he kill Juliana?’ Claricia asked.

  Gregory frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What could she have said that would justify his murdering her? I suppose the maid had become tedious for him. Your father always liked variety. That was why he stopped coming to my bed, I think. He thought me boring after so many years. So instead, he began to use the whores at places like the Cock, and then he seduced Alice and other maids.’

  ‘He is a lusty man, Mother,’ Gregory said wearily.

  ‘Yes. Much more so than you. You have no desire for a wife?’

  Gregory felt a flash of alarm in his breast. ‘Me? Now? I have so much to do, I don’t need to worry about women as well. Please, you must leave me. I have a lot to think about.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, and fixed him with a sad, understanding look as she withdrew from the doorway.

  Only a short time later Agatha walked in. She smiled, wandering around the room, finally approaching him from behind, and he felt her fingers on his back with a tingle. ‘You are tense, brother. Is it me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said harshly. ‘It has nothing to do with Father’s position, nor the way Alice and Juliana have died. What do you think?’

  She chuckled, the bitch. ‘Aren’t you glad? You’re master here now, brother dear.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’m just the caretaker until he comes back.’

  ‘Comes back?’ she repeated with a kind of wondering amusement.

  Just then, they heard knocking on the front door, and Gregory motioned Agatha to leave. She waved at him, smiling, and hurried out of the hall. Gregory had felt his face ease at the sight of her, but then he heard John talking, and his face resumed its previous expression of anxiety.

  Near Clyst St George

  Sir Richard ensured that Sir Charles was disarmed, taking two daggers and his sword, before going over to the white-faced woman.

  She had lost her wimple when the men were raping her, and now her dark hair was wild, clinging to her tear-stricken face like a veil. She had bright blue eyes set in a narrow face.

  ‘Mistress, I am sorry we didn’t get to you sooner. What’s your name?’

  ‘I am Amflusia. My husband was Cenred. They killed him. And my boys, my little . . .’

  She surrendered to her tears, shoulders shaking with her sobs, and Sir Richard turned to glower at Sir Charles’s prostrate body.

  ‘Mistress, he will pay for his crimes. Believe me.’

  Paffards’ House

  A short while later John came into the hall, and Gregory saw that Sir Baldwin and his friend Puttock were with him.

  ‘Can you not leave me alone?’ he groaned. ‘You have taken my father, what more do you want?’

  ‘I am sorry, Master Paffard,’ Baldwin said, ‘very sorry about your father. It must be most distressing to see him surrender in such an undignified manner.’

  ‘It was a shock, yes,’ Gregory said. He was remarkably still. ‘I don’t know what to think. I’d had no idea he could have been responsible for such terrible crimes. It is difficult to know what I should do for the best at present.’

  He heard another knock at the front door, and motioned to John to answer it before rising with an ill grace and offering his guests a cup each of wine. He didn’t want to be here. It was just his sense of propriety and loyalty that made him remain. Someone had to keep an eye on the business while his father was in gaol, until he could be released.

  Released! What a ridiculous notion! His father was in gaol because he had confessed to killing two women. There wasn’t the remotest likelihood that he was ever going to be set free! He’d be held there until he was thrown before the Sheriff’s court and given the only sentence he could truly expect. Like any felon, he would be taken out to Heavitree and the public gallows, and there he’d be held while the rope was tied at his throat, and then he’d be pulled up, kicking, to dangle for however long it took to die. And Gregory would have to pay men to grab his legs and pull, to try to minimise his father’s suffering.

  But then he thought that perhaps local people would see his father’s crimes as so heinous that no one would want to ease his pain. Gregory might be forced to help kill his father himself.

  Baldwin was talking, and he had to push all thoughts of his father’s execution to the back of his mind. ‘I am sorry, Sir Baldwin,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I was wool-gathering. What did you say?’

  ‘I was only saying, that if you have need of a pleader, I know some experienced men.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, but I think it would be to little advantage. After all, he has confessed, and in any case, the accused man is always denied a lawyer. You know that. The innocent have no need of a man versed in the law.’

  He spoke with sarcasm. It always seemed to him that if a man denied his crimes he should also be granted the benefits of a pleader to make his case as best as he could. It was surely unreasonable that only the prosecuter should have the services of men trained in the law.

  ‘It seems curious he should have been responsible for these murders,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully, as though the idea had only at that moment occurred to him. ‘After all, there was little threat to him from either woman, surely?’

  ‘You need to ask him that,’ Gregory said. He had returned the jug to the sideboard, and now walked to his chair again. He sat just as John entered the room again. He held a message in a scroll.

  Gregory took the scroll and glanced at the seal. It was from Master Luke the Goldsmith, and Gregory frowned at it for an instant before breaking it and reading the letter.

  ‘The rats have begun to leave us,’ he said without mirth. ‘The first merchant who finds that he is now unable to assist us in our business. Well, so much the better. I wouldn’t want to see him making money with us.’

  ‘The first?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘He won’t be the
last. All those who now feel distaste for any dealings with my father will be sending similar letters, although I hope others will couch their phrases more inoffensively. This tarse Luke tells me that his house will do no business with mine until my father has paid for his “gross and obscene crimes”. And what then? I suppose I should be grateful that he will deign to work with us again!’

  He screwed the note up and hurled it at the fire. It caught almost immediately, as it rolled away and sat at the edge of the hearth, a ball of yellow flames. Gregory could have wept for the ruin of his father’s reputation almost more than for his impending death. Henry Paffard had never been a man to inspire great friendship. He was too arrogant and too aloof. But he had founded this house on firm respect for himself and his acumen. Since that was lost, there would inevitably be a lessening of the family’s status. They might even lose much of their money.

  ‘Master?’ Baldwin said. ‘Can I help? You are deeply troubled, I see.’

  ‘It is going to be a hard time for me and my family,’ Gregory said. He remained staring at the fire. The ball had turned into a sphere of glowing embers, and he thought how apposite that was: like his family, it had flared briefly, and now was no more.

  Strange how things turned out. Only a few days ago he would have welcomed the idea of the closure of the family’s business; it would have left him free to make his own life without the baleful presence of his father watching over everything he did. But in reality, what else could he do, but continue with the business he had been taught, the craft that he had learned from the age of seven? He was a pewterer, and his father’s mercantile ventures had created a thriving business for him to drive forward. Yes, it would have been better if Agatha had been born a boy and older than he, so that she could lead the business, but she had not.

  He would do all he could to run things as his father would wish, Gregory decided. Which meant he must go and see him. There must be a number of things that Henry would wish to discuss with him.