31 - City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  He didn’t care. These two were despicable. That was clear to the meanest intelligence.

  At that moment, Laurence and Gregory moved away together, both of them striding quickly up the hill again. Philip hurried after them.

  City Gaol, East Gate

  Baldwin was reluctantly persuaded to join Sir Richard and Simon in a tavern. They chose a small wine shop called the Goose’s Flight on the High Street, but none of them was greatly cheered even by the good quality wine on sale. They all felt sombre after the funeral and their reflections afterwards.

  ‘Come along, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Richard said. ‘There’s little chance of finding Sir Charles in this city, even if we are very lucky. The Watch and bailiffs are looking for him. They know what they’re doing. We’ll have a bite, and then go and help them as we may.’

  Despite his cheery words, it was Sir Richard whose mood was most noticeably at odds with his usual good humour. He was angry that he and the others had all failed to kill Sir Charles when they had the opportunity, and the suspicion that Sir Charles had ridden into the city behind him left him simmering with anger. The man was making fools of them, or so Sir Richard felt.

  The acts of the gang were disgraceful. He felt no sympathy for those whom he had killed or captured, ready to be hanged at the next opportunity, any more than he would have had for a fox that got in amongst his chickens. But the knight – he was more dangerous as a symbol: he was prosecuting a hard war for the man whom many still considered to be the rightful King. Including himself, he confessed wryly.

  Baldwin, he could see, felt similar conflicts. They both had ties to Sir Edward of Caernarfon, after all. They had both given their oaths that they would do all in their power to support him, and at the last had failed.

  ‘It will soon be over, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin said, catching his eye. He tipped up his cup. ‘With luck Sir Edward will be recaptured soon, and all these difficult choices will be gone.’

  ‘Until then, I am left feeling like a knight who’s not fulfilled his purpose,’ Sir Richard said heavily. He gulped at his wine with a scowl. ‘Where’s that bastard Sir Charles now, I wonder?’

  ‘Well,’ Baldwin said, ‘there is one thing we could do which might distract you. Visit Henry Paffard.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘That he was forced to confess the crimes when he didn’t commit them?’

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘There was no compulsion that I saw. He freely admitted to them.’

  ‘Then what’re you saying?’ Sir Richard asked, frowning.

  ‘Only that I do not understand his motives.’

  ‘Oh, “motives”!’ Sir Richard rumbled. ‘I should have realised that word would rear its ugly head. You look for motives like a maid looks for raisins in her pudding, man! Little morsels to add sweetness to the tales of woe which you and I must hear. Perhaps it was sex, perhaps it was money? Who can tell what that diseased mind conceived of when he committed his deeds? No, believe me, old friend, when I say that you will win no accolades by seeking further truths about this man Paffard.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I would still know whether there was some reason why he should make love to Alice and then slay her, or why he would cut the lips from Juliana?’

  ‘Don’t forget that he stabbed Juliana in the eyes too,’ Simon reminded him. ‘Was this to indicate no talking and no looking? Or no talking about something she had seen?’

  ‘Perhaps. But so far as we know, the women were neither of them a threat to him. If they were to accuse him, he could conspire with lawyers to have them imprisoned for their defamations. He was a rich, powerful man.’

  ‘He felt guilt, perhaps?’ Simon tentatively suggested.

  ‘Guilt for killing the women?’ Sir Richard said. ‘Perhaps. Probably not though. His manner was perfectly composed. If I had my guess, I should say it was the certainty that his friends in the city would not hang him.’

  ‘So you think he admitted to crimes, knowing he would be safe?’ Baldwin said. ‘Surely if he intended not to suffer the punishment, he would also have attempted to evade the suffering that comes from confessing to a crime? What would be the point of admitting that he was a murderer, in the hope he would be later found innocent?’

  ‘Unless he thought he had no choice but to do so,’ Simon said. He was frowning as he considered the implications of this. ‘If he thought that someone else would be in danger . . .’

  Baldwin caught his breath. ‘Simon – that could be it! Perhaps he felt he was protecting his wife, or his sons, or daughter.’

  ‘What’s the reason for him doin’ that?’ Sir Richard mused.

  Simon said, ‘If someone had threatened his children unless he confessed, if he thought the threat were credible, that might make him admit to the crimes. But more likely it’s because he thinks the murderer was someone close to him. And he sought to protect them.’

  ‘And so the name Gregory comes to mind again,’ Baldwin said.

  Exeter Gaol at East Gate

  When the man unlocked the trapdoor in the cell’s ceiling, Henry Paffard had been dozing on his bench, trying not to think about the scurrying of rats’ paws overhead.

  In his home, Henry had rarely seen a rat. They were a nuisance when they managed to gain access to the grain store, or the flour, but they were not apparent most days except as a distant sound, as they tried to gnaw through a rafter, or when someone found a pile of droppings. Here, he had already discovered seven distinct creatures. Perhaps he should name them? He had the names of certain men in the Freedom of the City who merited being allied with rats.

  ‘Please come down,’ he said sarcastically as the gaoler stood peering in at the trapdoor. ‘If you wish for wine or food, you are welcome to all I have.’

  Baldwin pulled the trap wide and gazed down into the room. A repellent cell. It must be chill down there.’

  Beneath the gaoler’s chamber, the cell was little more than a pit with rock walls. Damp ran down into a channel that ran along one wall and away. It was a foul, repugnant little space.

  ‘I believe most gaols have a similar elegance and style,’ Henry said coldly. ‘I had not anticipated the bed of an inn of quality when I came here.’

  ‘You have enough food?’

  ‘There is some greyish slop which my gaoler appears to consider has the merits of ambrosia.’

  ‘Has your wife not brought you anything?’ Simon asked.

  Henry looked at him. ‘If she has, I haven’t seen it. I will ask her next time she visits. I will make sure of it!’

  ‘We wish to speak with you. Come outside,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I am honoured. But what could you wish with me?’ Henry asked warily.

  ‘We want to know why you lied to get yourself put into prison,’ Baldwin threw over his shoulder.

  Henry Paffard felt as though the walls of the gaol had collapsed about his ears.

  Marsille’ House

  William had been at the row of merchants’ shops in the High Street all morning, but there was no job going for an untrained youth. Since his mother’s death the goldsmith had found another woman to run his house and taken on an apprentice and had no need of William. The latter was back at the bottom of the pile, and he returned home demoralised with the conviction that the world was determined to serve him ill.

  He walked inside, his belly rumbling. Hunger was a terrible thing, and he had nothing to eat. He went to the cupboard where they had stored food before, but it was empty, and he stood staring at it with real desperation. He and Phil had lost everything. The only thing saving them was the generosity of the Paffards, Henry in particular, and with him in gaol after confessing to murdering their mother, that support was likely to end. No matter what Gregory must feel about William and Philip generally, the fact that his father was in gaol for their mother’s killing was bound to affect him.

  The hunger actually hurt – a sharp stabbing in his stomach. It seemed as though his entire belly was ca
ved in, and he wondered how much worse it would get as he began to die.

  Once he had been given a loaf by Claricia Paffard. The thought sprang into his head that he could perhaps go to her again now. Maybe she would show him some mercy. Perhaps once she would have. But now their two families were associated with the horror of murder. William’s family had provided the victim, while Claricia’s husband was in gaol because of the death. Still, Claricia would feel remorse for her husband’s crime, surely?

  Filled with a ravenous resolve, he walked the short distance to the Paffards’ house. Outside and staring up at it, he had a sinking feeling.

  It was so large and imposing. No matter how brave he was when talking to others about how he would fight to make his way in the world, make his way in this city of his, there were times when it seemed impossible that he would ever manage. How could he, when he was starting with no father to guide him, no business, no profession or trade?

  Slowly, he mounted the steps and made to knock on the door, but then his hand fell away without striking, and he stepped down again, kicking at stones in the street. His hands in his belt, he kicked again. He was a fool! Better that he and Phil should leave the town and go somewhere else, where they were not known. There were opportunities on the moors. They could both make their way to the rough lands, and eke out a living scraping tin from the ground. He had heard of men who had made vast sums in gold doing that. And as miners, they were servants of the Crown, so safer than other peasants.

  Idly, he followed the pebble. It had gone into the alley where Alice’s body had been found. He kicked the stone again, trailing after it disconsolately, past the place where Alice had lain. There was nothing for either of them here in Exeter. The city was unforgiving towards men like them.

  There came a rattle and squeak, and he saw that his stone had hit the gate that led to the Paffards’ garden. It was ajar, and William could not help but set an experimental hand against it. There was a muted protest from the metal hinges, and then the wood submitted, and he found himself peering around it.

  The garden was filled with small barrels and sacks, and his mouth watered to think of the food that must lie within. It was unfair that his belly was so empty when others had such plenty. He stepped in, warily looking about him. A second step, and his eyes were fixed on the barrels and sacks, thinking of the riches that lay inside. Surely those sacks held grain or flour, and the barrels contained pickled fish or salted meats, perhaps even almonds? The temptation was too profound. He could not help but submit.

  He took a couple of quick paces, and bent to a barrel, and at that moment he was struck with the consequences of a theft here. Not only would he run the risk of eviction, the final disaster for Philip and him, but there was the probability that Gregory Paffard would prosecute him in the Sheriff’s court and see him executed for the theft. No man could be permitted to rob another, and a fellow who stole from his neighbour’s home was always considered the worst of all thieves. No one was safe from a drawlatch; such men caused alarm throughout the city.

  No. He shouldn’t do it. He was about to release the barrel when he heard a gasp, and turning, he saw the figure of the maid, Joan, in the doorway. Just behind her was John the bottler.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ John demanded loudly.

  William shook his head, but guilt was in his steps as he walked backwards towards the gate. ‘I was only trying to see Gregory, your master.’

  ‘By walking in through the garden door? If you wanted the master, you should have called at the front door, like everyone else,’ John said, advancing threateningly.

  William backed away and took to his heels. He didn’t stop running until he was back in his own house. There, he stood staring about him, filled with utter despair as the hunger gnawed at his belly.

  Combe Street

  Sir Charles walked up Southgate Street with a deliberately dragging step. He knew that men like Sir Baldwin were capable of recognising a man by his gait, and he had no desire to hand himself over to the other knight so easily. He reached Combe Street, and Ulric tugged his sleeve.

  ‘This is it?’ Sir Charles asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s the street where Master Paffard lives.’

  Sir Charles gazed about him with that open, smiling demeanour that had so distracted his enemies over the years. This was a good street. There were some shabby little buildings, true one little more than a hovel in which he would not have kept his pigs, but there were some great places on the north side, and he felt sure that Paffard’s house would be one of these.

  Ulric’s arm came up to point out the house. Sir Charles placed his hand atop Ulric’s wrist and jerked it down. ‘No need to tell people what we do here,’ he murmured, still smiling.

  He told Ulric to wait, and made his way across the street, avoiding the pony and cart that threatened him as he went, and he glared at the beast, wondering if it was one of the carts that had been taken from him yesterday. He didn’t recognise it, however and on the board at the back was a pair of sacks that looked as though they were filled with flour. Not the gold and plate he was missing so grievously.

  To think that this time yesterday he had been rich, he thought as he climbed the stairs. Well, with luck soon he would be able to get his hands on some money and then got out of this damned city. That would be good. He knocked loudly.

  He would have liked to have exacted some form of revenge for the defeat inflicted upon him by Sir Baldwin and Sir Richard, but that would have to wait. Until Sir Edward was back on his throne perhaps.

  The door opened, and he found himself looking into the face of an older man. ‘Good day. I would like to speak with your master.’

  ‘Master Gregory?’

  ‘No, Henry Paffard,’ Sir Charles said. His smile was unaltered, but he was aware of a sinking sensation in his bowels. ‘Is he not here?’

  ‘Sir, I fear Master Henry is in gaol for murder. He’s waiting for his trial.’

  ‘Who is responsible for his business now?’ Sir Charles said, all trace of a smile eradicated.

  East Gate

  Simon had seen many men come from within a gaol, and generally such men looked unprepossessing and weary, all too often blinking in the flare of sunlight like blind men miraculously granted their sight again.

  Henry Paffard was not like them. He strode out with his head high, and while he had no means of keeping himself clean, he had somehow contrived to avoid soiling his clothes or face. And he looked as easy in his mind as he had two days ago, before he confessed.

  Either he was mad, Simon concluded, or he was a very extraordinary man indeed.

  ‘I don’t understand what you are saying,’ he said coolly as he looked from one to the other. He shot a quick, eager look up the hill to Rougemont as if hoping for rescue.

  Baldwin frowned at that. ‘It is not the day of your hanging yet, Master Paffard. Although that will be soon enough.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Henry said. He turned back to Baldwin with a slight puckering between his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

  ‘We wish to know why you say you killed those women.’

  ‘Oh, is that it?’ Henry said. He looked at them in turn again, a slight curl at his lip. ‘And what then? You will offer me my freedom? Or food?’

  ‘You said in there that you would be speaking to your wife about food,’ Sir Richard said. He had a broad smile on his face. ‘That is like a man saying that he’ll go to the butcher to complain about the chop he ate last night. Except you can’t, can you? If she won’t come to visit you, you won’t ever be able to chastise her again.’

  ‘I am sure I will.’

  ‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Why are you so certain that you will be able to escape your fate?’

  Henry said nothing. Why should he tell them that when Edward was throned King again, with the help of his loyal subjects, pardons would be granted to those who had helped him. These fools had no idea. Just as they couldn’t understand why he had taken it upon himself to accept responsi
bility.

  ‘You see, we may be as foolish as you think us,’ Baldwin said, ‘and that means we will be likely to make a silly assumption. For example, I may well believe that you confessed because you were intending to prevent another man from being accused. From all I have heard, you would be unlikely to do so unless the man at risk of being caught and punished were close to you. Man or woman, of course. It could be a wife or daughter – but it is more likely to be a son, I think.’

  ‘So you think, eh?’ Henry managed. The knight’s words had hit home hard, and he had to force himself to keep looking at Baldwin without displaying emotion.

  ‘It is clear enough that you don’t want to die, I think,’ Baldwin said, his head cocked to one side in appraisal. ‘You have not submitted to despair, as men will when they are to die. You look like a man who has determined to shame himself, but you don’t expect to die. I have no idea why.’

  ‘I am a man of integrity.’

  ‘No. You are a man of business,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘They are different men, from different worlds. And your life is to end soon, with you unremarked as a felon, who deserves no sympathy.’

  ‘I will be freed. You will see.’

  ‘Really?’ Sir Richard said. ‘By whom, eh? The world is busy with other matters, Master Paffard. Not many wish to exert themselves on behalf of a fellow who murdered women. I had to slay a man yesterday because he joined others to rape and kill on the Bishop’s manors. He helped to kill a woman too. No one raised a finger to help him either, so don’t think anybody will to save you.’

  Henry stared, and his mouth fell open a little. ‘What man did you kill?’

  ‘One of a gang of felons. Sir Charles of Lancaster led them. We destroyed them east of Exeter yesterday.’

  ‘It’s not true!’

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘If you were hoping for Sir Charles to come and save you, your hope is forlorn. Sir Charles fled. His carts are here at Rougemont, and he is a fugitive.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Paffard said, and in his eyes there was genuine horror. He turned and walked from them, back into the gaol, then down the ladder to his cell. ‘I have nothing more to say to you. Any of you!’ he roared. ‘Leave me to prepare myself for death.’