31 - City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  Philip Marsille walked along the road carrying a small bundle. In it was a loaf of bread, two eggs and a piece of ham that was going off. It was all he could afford.

  His rejection by the posse that morning felt like the final disaster. He could not even discover whether he was suited to fighting. It seemed as if nothing could leaven his gloom.

  The sight of Father Laurence ahead in the road made him grunt a greeting, but he would have passed straight on if he could.

  ‘My son, I am sorry about your mother,’ Father Laurence said haltingly.

  The priest looked at him as though he needed Philip to ease his own distress, the boy thought. Well, he had no time to bandy words with those who wanted comfort from him; no one would give him any.

  ‘Why? You didn’t kill her,’ he said roughly.

  ‘There were enough would have been happy to think I had,’ Father Laurence said. ‘There were many thought I killed Alice.’

  ‘What would you expect them to think?’ Philip snapped. ‘You found her and didn’t tell anyone. It made you look guilty. And then you ran away, too.’

  ‘No. I was always here.’

  ‘But hiding. You should be at the Cathedral. Why aren’t you there now?’

  ‘I will return soon. I behaved foolishly, and I will have to accept my punishment,’ Father Laurence said sadly.

  Philip looked at him. He had no sympathy left for others after the murder of his mother, but he did at least sense a kindred misery about Father Laurence. ‘What will they do?’

  ‘I have missed many services at which I should have been present. That is a serious crime. So, I have no doubt that my food for some weeks will be of the plainest, and I will have to undergo a some form of contrition. It is the way of the Church.’

  ‘Don’t you feel you deserve it?’ Philip said. He couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice, but when he saw Laurence’s face, he was sorry. The man looked so ground down.

  ‘Oh yes, I deserve it,’ the vicar said hoarsely. ‘And much more than the Church will even impose on me. You can have no idea.’

  Philip shrugged. ‘Well, take the punishment and be glad it’s not worse, then.’

  ‘Perhaps I should.’

  ‘What do you want, Vicar? Absolution? I can’t give you that. Go to the Cathedral.’

  ‘I know. I am sorry.’

  They were just passing the Paffards’ house, and the bonfire from last night was still smoking. A scorch-mark ran up the limewashed wall of the nearby De Coyntes’ property, and it struck Philip how close those flames had been to his own bed. Fortunate, it was, that someone had moved the bonfire further away from the houses.

  Then Philip sensed something else. It was the vicar. He was staring at the Paffards’ house with a kind of longing that Philip understood only too well. And suddenly he realised what the priest was so guilty about, and why he had to come back here. Philip had loved Alice, and Father Laurence was also in love, but it was with someone who could not return it, perhaps.

  ‘Was it Alice?’

  ‘Eh?’ Father Laurence asked distractedly.

  ‘You loved her too, did you? I asked her if—’

  ‘God, no!’ Father Laurence said, and lifted his hand in the sign of the cross. ‘Me? Never her, no.’

  ‘But you looked, just then, as if you were missing someone, as I miss her.’

  Father Laurence was already moving away from him, and in his eyes was a haunted expression, as if he had been accused of the murders again. Philip opened his mouth to speak, but the vicar suddenly turned and fled without saying anything more.

  Philip watched him go with bemusement. There had been no reason for him to react in that manner, he thought.

  He turned to go back to his house, and saw Gregory and Agatha at their door.

  It was only when he was in his alley that he realised that in Gregory’s eyes he had seen a similar misery to that in Father Laurence’s. And the implications of that made his belly lurch.

  Venn Ottery

  In the middle morning’s sun, Sir Charles remained sitting out in the yard, his eyes closed, making the most of this period of inaction. He knew, as a warrior, that such moments were all too fleeting.

  ‘Sir Charles! Sir Charles!’

  The sudden cry had his eyes wide in an instant. ‘Ulric – what do you see?’

  Up in the top of the elm the lad was leaning out dangerously, his head jutting out towards the west. ‘At least fifty men, all on horseback. I can see their dust.’

  Sir Charles trusted Ulric’s eyes. If the lad said there were fifty men out there, he was almost certainly right. There was no need for Sir Charles to try to climb the tree as well.

  He rose, stretched, and began to issue his commands. ‘Ulric, get down, fetch your mount. You men: douse the fires! You two: leave her alone and fetch your arms.’

  Gradually he gathered his men together, two still tying their hosen after their rape of the woman from the farm. There was a little boy, who had been used as their servant for all the last night while his mother was spread out for the men to enjoy, and Sir Charles leaned down to him now. ‘Boy, I want you to run away. Do you understand? Run.’

  The child stared back with his eyes wide in terror. He daren’t move, and Sir Charles rolled his eyes.

  ‘Kill his mother, and perhaps he’ll run. Go on!’ Sir Charles called to his men, then: ‘Torch the house.’

  There was a flash of steel, and a gasp as the woman was stabbed through the heart. Her son gave a whimper, and as one of the men booted him, he began to stumble away. Sir Charles irritably jerked his head, and the man drew his sword. Only then, at last, did the boy start to run, almost tripping, and then pelting faster and faster along the roadway.

  ‘Good,’ Sir Charles said with satisfaction. ‘Now, load all you need, and let’s be off.’

  He lazily climbed onto his horse, and with a glance behind, set off at a walk. They made their way along the easterly route, and soon came to Sog’s Lane. There, at the top of the lane Sir Charles halted his men again. There was a solitary oak in the side of the road, and Ulric climbed again to the top.

  ‘Wait until they have seen us,’ Sir Charles said. ‘We want them to chase us.’

  De Coyntes’ House

  Emma had completed the majority of her morning duties and with her maid Peg, had carried the washing tub out to the alley and up-ended it.

  There was a narrow channel in the middle of the alley that took the waste away, and the tub’s water was adequate to clear most of the ordure left in the alley overnight. Someone had emptied their chamber pot into it. Probably the boys next door, she thought, glancing at the hovel where the Marsilles lived. They had no idea of decency. Most people would walk a few yards from their door to empty their pots, but like all young men, these two lived only to please themselves.

  She walked down the alley now, and stood staring at the still-warm embers of the bonfire from the night before. It made her shudder to think that any stray sparks could have set the entire block ablaze. She, Bydaud, Anastasia and Sabina could all have died in that, had it taken hold. No one who had ever seen a fire in a city would ever forget the horror of the flames licking at the walls, the way that the roofs caught light, thatch or shingles, it didn’t matter which.

  Helewisia had not spoken to her since the inquest. Fine, if that was how she felt. Juliana had insulted Sabina, and that was all there was to it. If Helewisia wanted to be offended on a dead woman’s behalf, that was fine.

  What really interested Emma was why Henry had cut Juliana’s lips off. To stop her talking, of course – that was the inference – but that was intriguing, because it implied that there was someone to whom he wanted to impart the message.

  Emma looked up and down the street, and when she saw Claricia Paffard on her steps, in a sudden burst of compassion, she walked along to speak to her.

  ‘Madame Paffard? I was very sorry to hear about your husband.’

  ‘My husband is lost to me. He is no more.’


  ‘But you must know that nobody blames you or your family. It is not your responsibility if your husband takes to such a course.’

  ‘You think so?’ Claricia said. There was anger in her eyes, and Emma could only think that she was still trying to come to terms with the shock of learning that her husband was a killer. It must have been very difficult for her.

  But there was no shame or humility in her eyes. All Emma could see was a raging anger, as if she thought her husband had merely let her down, and the obloquy of his crimes was nothing whatever to do with her.

  It left Emma feeling chilled to the bone.

  Venn Ottery

  The column had already found two other bodies by the side of the road, much as Sir Richard had the day before, and Baldwin looked down at the two youths with a horrible sadness in his heart. Both had been captured in the fields and slain where they were. Baldwin had seen them because of the rooks which had congregated, the foul carrion. They rose in a black mist when he clattered nearer.

  They had ridden quickly enough from the River Clyst, and now were almost at Venn Ottery, a modest manor with three small houses and a reeve’s hall. A chapel finished the complement of properties, and while there were some columns of smoke rising from between the houses, unusually there was no one about. Apart from one tiny figure running straight at the column itself. Baldwin left the bodies and rode with Simon towards the head of the column, his eyes all the while on the road ahead to ensure that Sir Charles did not have an ambush ready.

  When he reached the Sheriff, the child’s interview was already complete.

  ‘The men have just left. This little fellow saw them packing,’ Sir James said, his voice raised so that all could hear him. ‘They must be just the other side of the vill, not far. They have carts, so will be impeded. We shall ride hard to them, and when we reach them we shall destroy them all. Good. Prepare to ride. We shall be moving at a swift pace.’

  ‘Sheriff, that is good news,’ Baldwin put in, ‘but we must be aware of their movements in case of an ambush.’

  ‘There is a scant baker’s dozen of men,’ the Sheriff said carelessly. ‘This lad was able to count them.’

  ‘Where are the others which Sir Richard saw yesterday?’ Baldwin demanded.

  ‘Ridden off, I daresay, or gone on ahead. No matter. We have a third of them here and will wipe them out,’ the Sheriff said. ‘Why, Sir Baldwin, you don’t fear them, do you? This will only be a short action, I promise you!’ He laughed and set off.

  Baldwin clenched his jaw against the insult, but he did not have time to protest further. The column was already moving off along the lane, and more than a couple of men glanced at him with grins, as though they were enjoying the Sheriff’s joke at his expense.

  ‘Simon, when we are past this vill, keep close to me,’ Baldwin said and waved to Edgar. In the Holy Land Edgar had been his Sergeant, and now he returned to Baldwin’s side and took up his post to protect Baldwin’s flank, Sir Richard with him, and he nodded in the direction of the houses. ‘They’re burning the place.’

  ‘I know. They are doing everything they could to tell us they’re here,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is like the men who used to prey on travellers in the Holy Land. They would sometimes set a trap such as this. Allow one or two victims to escape, burn what they left . . .’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Let us see,’ Baldwin said grimly. They were all riding at a steady pace now. ‘Sir Richard, stay with us. We shall form a guard. If there is an ambush, we must charge their flank and force them to run.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sir Richard said, and his hand went to his sword-hilt, testing the blade’s pull from the scabbard. He suddenly bellowed to two men in the posse. ‘You, and you. Come here. You will remain with us, and if we charge, you come with us. Clear?’

  It had been a pretty little hamlet once, Baldwin thought to himself as they rode into the yard area in front of the larger of the houses. What remained of the Reeve lay before his door, butchered. Wolf wandered over and nudged and sniffed at a dog that also lay nearby, his back hideously bent where a savage blow had cut through his spine. Baldwin called Wolf away, and he came with a last reluctant prod, as if unwilling to believe the other was dead.

  More bodies lay scattered about. Baldwin counted five, including the poor naked woman beside her door. The boy had gone to her, and crouched at her side, wailing. Three of the houses were already smoking, and one had thick, greenish-yellow smoke pouring from the roof where the thatch was ablaze. In the warm air, the smoke rose quickly, but then drifted away southwards. It was a relief that they would not be riding into it.

  ‘They’re ahead! Less than a quarter-mile!’

  The shout from in front made Baldwin look up with alarm. He saw Sir Richard give a wolfish grin. ‘There’s a trap, then,’ the big knight said, nodding happily. ‘As you thought, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘Why? What makes you think it’s a trap?’ Simon asked.

  ‘They will have seen us coming,’ Baldwin said through gritted teeth. ‘They saw us and yet waited until we were certain to see them. And now they can persuade the Sheriff to give chase until he is inside their trap and cannot escape.’

  ‘Christ’s cods! So what can we do?’

  ‘Follow me!’ Baldwin said.

  Venn Ottery

  Sir James de Cockington rode ahead with anticipation thrilling in his blood. The bastards were just up at the corner of a little lane, couldn’t possibly escape, not with the posse so close behind them. And it was good odds, with four or five men to every one of theirs.

  ‘Keep up! Come on, charge the devils! These whorecops won’t live to murder another farmer!’

  He was at the lane’s turn, and leaned into the corner, raking his spurs along his horse’s flanks, and now he saw them all again. Slightly fewer, as though some had slipped to the hedge at the side, but their wagons were up there in front, at the far side of a small wood. He drew his sword. ‘Take their carts, then kill them all!’ he bellowed, and hurtled down the incline at the gallop.

  A snap and whicker, and a whistling noise – and he was sure that he heard a man’s cry – but as he had the thought, a rider was overtaking him, a short man, bent almost double, on a grey rounsey. Sir James was about to feel irritation when he saw the man rise from his saddle and drop, a foot caught in his stirrup, and Sir James saw the wicked crossbow bolt in his forehead.

  Then he saw that behind him and the rest of the posse, a pair of carts had been pushed into the road. Their escape was blocked, as was the road before them. And on either side archers were standing, picking targets with lazy precision.

  He crouched lower, eyes wide with sudden terror, as the bolts and arrows began to fly, and over the rushing roar of the wind in his ears, he could hear the high whinnies and screams of men and beasts as the missiles slammed into them.

  Simon and Baldwin were at the rear of the group as the main column began to gallop, and at the first shriek of pain, Baldwin bellowed and pointed to a thinner part of the hedge at the side. He cantered to it, and leaped through, Simon close behind him, Edgar and Sir Richard side-by-side behind, and found himself in a pasture. There, ahead, he saw the trees, and in the midst of them were a number of men.

  ‘Quick!’ he roared, and thundered straight at them. Somehow three others had joined them in their diversion, and now they all spread out into a loose line as they crossed the field, hurling clods of earth and grass into the air as they went.

  For Baldwin, any nerves had fled as soon as the first arrow was loosed. After that he knew only rage that felons, no matter whom, should dare to attack him and his companions. He felt the wind in his hair, the tug and snatch of the cloak at his throat, the reckless abandon of his horse, the weight of the sword in his fist, and let the savage glee of warfare take him. Bent low over his horse’s neck, sword held high, he raced towards the nearest man.

  The ambushers were concentrating too hard on their victims in the lane to notice him, and when they did, it
was already too late. Baldwin’s first blow hit an archer in the middle of his breast, and as he fell from Baldwin’s sword, he saw Simon had killed another, while Sir Richard was bellowing and cursing, whirling with his beast as a man tried to flee his fury. Then Baldwin and Edgar were in the trees and for a moment it was a close thing. Baldwin’s blade seemed to be alight with a cold blue flame as he stabbed a man, then hacked at another. An arrow thrummed past his ear, too close, but then Edgar had the bowman with a slash to the throat, and he fell in a spray of blood. Another was about to fire at Simon with his crossbow, but Wolf seemed taken with the same frenzy as his master, and ran in low, biting his legs. The man fell, and Wolf towered over him, his snarling mouth at the man’s throat, and he squealed in terror until Simon came and slew him.

  It had been a quick action, but already the men from the road were pouring into the woods, and of the twelve or more of those who had lain in wait, only two were still living. The other side of the woods was not so secure. The enemy was in there, and arrows whistled and thumped into the trees about them as they rallied.

  Baldwin and Edgar rode on until they could see a break in the trees, and there they halted. A few arrows whacked into the trees nearby, but there were too many twigs for an archer to aim with accuracy. A twig could throw a clothyard off by feet even at short range.

  ‘Where is the Sheriff?’ Baldwin bellowed, trying to bring some order to the madness about him. ‘To me! Where is the Sheriff?’

  There was no sign of him in the road. A few men were still struggling together, but even as Baldwin stared, he saw Sir Charles’s men running up with knives, and soon all the members of the posse which had charged into the ambush with Sir James were dead. Farther back down the lane, Baldwin saw the remains of the column the Sheriff had led from Exeter so light-heartedly earlier that day. They had retreated, and now streamed back away from the fight. A few, perhaps five or six, stood watching from the top of the road at the corner. Apart from them, and Baldwin’s small team, the Sheriff’s entire column was dead or had fled.

  ‘He is here, enjoying my hospitality, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles called, and Baldwin peered through the trees. ‘Would you like to join him?’