31 - City of Fiends (18 page)

The man leaned forward and hissed viciously in his ear, ‘You have no idea what this is about. This is nothing to do with you, little man. You worry about others who need your help.
Because,’ he added, punching to punctuate each word, ‘I . . . need . . . none of it.’

He let Father Paul drop to the floor, then kicked him in the belly, making the elderly cleric curl up like a hedgehog, moaning and sobbing with the pain, coughing as the dust clogged his lungs
once more. He closed his eyes, then opened them again when he was kicked a second time, only to see a black stain at the corner of the cloak, and a small tear.

‘You forget what and who you saw, or I’ll tell all about you and the whores, and I will see the church burned down – with you inside it, little priest! Think on
that!’

Father Paul rolled over, away from the man, but he kicked again, this time in the priest’s kidneys, and then he was gone, and Father Paul sobbed as he tried to raise himself to sit, and
stayed there, his back against the wall, whimpering, unable to stand as his foot throbbed and his back pulsed. The wind gusted through his open doorway, bringing leaves and shreds and tatters of
rubbish with it. It made his room look as desolate as he felt, he thought, and gradually sensed himself topple sideways; somehow he didn’t hit the floor, but fell into a deep, deep pit of
pain.

Paffards’ House

Joan was asleep when she heard the noise. It took some little while to become aware of what was happening, and then she suddenly snapped wide awake in an instant.

The door was open, and she saw her master standing there in the doorway.

He had been drinking. She could smell his breath even from here, and she knew immediately what he wanted with her.

‘No, please, no,’ she muttered, shaking her head and pulling her blankets to her chin, but it was impossible to stop him.

He walked in, kicked the door shut, and pulled the bedclothes from her bed, standing and staring at her nudity with a cold rapacity that made her blood turn to water even as she struggled to
cover her nakedness.

‘You know what I want, wench. It’s why you’re still here in the house. If you wish, I can throw you from the place right now. Out on the street. You want that?’

She knew he could. He was rich. He was her master.

But all through it, and later, she could not stop her tears.

In his chamber downstairs, John heard his master rise and walk unsteadily up the steep stairs to his solar. Overhead the floorboards creaked as he made his way along the
passageway, and then John heard the complaint of the rusty hinges as a door was opened at the back of the house. The master’s bedroom was at the front of the house, and John knew that the
mistress slept in that, while her children had the two chambers at either side. But the master had not gone to his own chamber. He had walked to the back of the house, where the maidservants’
room lay.

Silently, the bottler rose from his bedroll and stood in the doorway. He could hear the sounds from upstairs, the weeping and pleading as Henry forced himself on the girl, and finally the
man’s footsteps from Joan’s room to the front of the house. Then the door to the master’s bedroom was closed, and John returned to his buttery.

In a flagon he had a pint of burned wine that he had bought from St Nicholas’s Priory. He poured a measure into a cup, sealed the flagon and took the cup up the stairs.

She was sitting up, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders, eyes wide and terrified as a rabbit’s. John sat on her bed, as far from her as possible, and held out the drink. She made no move
towards it, but stared at him as though fearing that he too would attack her in his turn.

‘Drink, maid,’ he said with gruff kindness. ‘It’s good for a hurt heart.’

She did as he bid, and pulled a face at the flavour.

‘I know what he did,’ John said. ‘You have to be brave, maid. He will come to you as often as he likes. You can’t stop him. You can’t do anything. Only stay or
leave. But if you go, you will lose all.’

‘Why?’ she asked in a tiny voice. ‘He has his wife, why do this to me?’

But John couldn’t answer her. He waited until she had finished the cup, and then he pulled the blankets back over her, and patted her head before leaving.

Later, lying back with his head on his hands, staring up at the ceiling, he could hear her sobbing late into the night, and he wished he could understand. Joan had never given any signs that she
wanted the master’s attention, he was sure of that.

She was only a poor, terrified little maid.

Tuesday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist
⁷

Cock Inn

On Sir Richard’s advice, Baldwin had agreed to take a room at the inn. It had been much as he had feared, however. As soon as Simon fled, pleading the lateness of the hour
and the need to see his daughter, Sir Richard had begun to bellow for food and drink, and although Baldwin tried to avoid consuming too much, inevitably politeness forced him to imbibe more than he
usually would. Edgar remained with them, watching with an amused look in his eyes which Baldwin found intensely irritating, but since they were all sharing a communal bedchamber, there was no
earthly point in going to their bed before Sir Richard.

This morning, unrefreshed after a night kept awake by Sir Richard’s snoring, Baldwin went to the inn’s main room and called for a watered wine and some bread to break his fast.
Usually he would not eat until later in the day, but this morning the woolliness in his head and a mild ache were demanding attention. He sat by the fire and stared into it as a maid unhurriedly
scuffed her way about the place, eventually bringing him what he required. He didn’t even have the energy to complain about her slowness.

Edgar appeared a short while later and sat at Baldwin’s side. He eyed the girl and asked for the same breakfast, and when the wench lazily strolled towards the pantry, he frowned. Edgar
was unused to being treated so discourteously, especially by women.

‘What did you think of the boy Algar last night?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Sir? The stable boy? He was honest enough, I think, for a ragamuffin. Why?’

Baldwin kept his attention on the flames at the hearth, considering. True, the lad had seemed to be telling the truth. Algar must have lusted after Alice, it was only natural. She had looks that
would tempt the statue of a saint; even in death she was lovely.

‘I think he was, too,’ he said at last. ‘And if that’s the case, and he saw Alice using the front door, I have to wonder how often she did so. For all she knew, her
master might hear of it, or even see her himself. Either she was a fool, or she had a special dispensation that other servants didn’t at the Paffard house. Which begs the question
“why”?’

‘If she enjoyed the luxury of the front door and pretending she was no ordinary servant, perhaps Gregory lied when he said he wouldn’t have lain with her.’

‘Yes . . . but perhaps there was another reason,’ Baldwin said.

‘If he did lie, could it have a bearing on the girl’s murder?’ Edgar suggested.

Baldwin shook his head slowly. ‘There is no indication that young Paffard had a motive to hurt her. Others could have been jealous, of course – servants, perhaps, if Henry
demonstrated favouritism. There is another point that niggles at me: why the girl was in the alley. Why should she go there, if she was used to using the front door? Or did she only use the front
door occasionally, and tried to maintain a sham respect for conventions at other times?’

‘Or she died somewhere else and was placed there,’ Edgar said.

‘True.’ Baldwin was thinking of all the people in the house. Suddenly he recalled Claricia Paffard.

There was something about the expression in Claricia Paffard’s eyes that had been oddly familiar. And now he remembered where he had seen it before. It was some years before, when his wife
had guessed that he had committed adultery.

With a pang of guilt, he realized that it was the expression he had recognised in Claricia’s face: the despair of the betrayed.

Combe Street

Juliana Marsille left the house early to walk up to Cooks’ Row in the hope of getting a bargain for their meals. A vendor did give her a couple of day-old crusts as she
passed, and another traded an egg, for which she was very grateful. She was holding her prizes carefully in her apron as she entered Combe Street, and then she saw Joan, and gave her a wave.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, when the girl drew closer.

Joan was pale and tear-stained, quite unlike her usual self.

‘Maid, please, I’d offer you some wine, but we have none,’ Juliana said gently. ‘Tell me, what’s the matter?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ Joan said, her lips trembling. And then a tear ran from her eye.

‘Right! Come with me to my house,’ Juliana decided. ‘You will tell me all.’

‘I cannot.’

But her protestations were weak. Soon Juliana had her sitting with her on a step near the alleyway. Joan could not bring herself to talk about what troubled her for a long time. But then, as
Juliana kindly chatted on, she felt her barriers tumble.

There was no one near to hear them as Joan gradually began to unburden herself.

‘He came to my chamber. Oh, it was horrible! It didn’t matter what I said, he wouldn’t stop. You do believe me? I couldn’t think what to do, and . . .’

There was more, much more, and Juliana nodded and agreed, and on occasion she wept with Joan, and the two sobbed together and hugged, and then wept some more for the misery that was
womanhood.

‘I am so sorry. You should leave that house,’ Juliana said.

‘How can I? Where would I go?’

‘It is no place for you, Joan. You deserve better.’

‘It’s a hateful household. You wouldn’t believe what else I saw . . . But I have to go. It’s late.’ She looked frightened.

‘Come on – you can tell me.’

‘No, no, I can’t!’ Joan cried.

But her protestations were in vain. She had to share it with someone. She couldn’t keep it only to herself and poor little traumatised Tommy.

Precentor’s House, Exeter Cathedral

Adam Murimuth set aside his journal and rubbed at his eyes. That was all the enjoyment he was permitted today, he thought. Now for the ledgers – and work.

Any cathedral was a serious enterprise, with estates to administer, courts of law, business ventures and ecclesiastic interests, both great and trivial. There were farms, and issues to mediate
between tenants and peasants; there were marital disputes to be decided, up to and including divorce; and then there were the rebuilding works: the purchase of stone and timber, lead and copper,
for the fabric of the Cathedral. Not to mention the responsibility for maintaining cordial relations with the Dominicans, and the Franciscans in their new friary outside the city walls.

That was usually the hardest matter, since Cathedral staff would often come to blows with the friars when they met in the city; professional jealousy inevitably caused friction.

For this reason, he was not overly surprised when he heard that the vicar of Holy Trinity had been beaten up. It was probably a friar who had taken offence at some remark made by the priest, he
told himself.

The man who brought the news was one of the secular staff: a lay brother from the Palace Gate, Adam recalled.

‘Bruised and battered and left in the street?’

‘No, he was attacked in his rooms in the church.’

That was different. Adam’s brows furrowed. ‘No one would dare to assault a priest in his church, surely?’

‘It does happen, sir.’

‘Did he say who perpetrated this vile act?’

‘No, sir. He won’t talk of it at all.’ The man was visibly nervous.

‘Spit it out!’ Adam said firmly. ‘Is there something else I should know?’

‘Sir, only that it’s rumoured he had been seeing whores. Perhaps a whore’s bully deprecated his attentions?’

Adam wiped a hand over his face. He didn’t need this kind of additional problem. Not just now.

Marsilles’ House

Juliana had already lighted the fire and set the pot over it. She had a little pottage left from the previous evening, and some oats and barley to bulk it out along with the
crusts, but her prize this morning was the egg she had managed to exchange for some old strips of material. The woman who supplied the egg had been happy with the trade, and so was Juliana. It was
the first egg she had handled in weeks, and she treated it with reverence, breaking it carefully into the pot, and stirring, watching the orange yolk break into strings of yellow with a hungry
devotion, like a priest preparing holy wine for Mass.

‘Morning, Mother,’ William called and descended the ladder from their sleeping chamber. He stood scratching his head, complaining, ‘My head has more life in it than most farms.
I’ve been bitten to pieces during the night.’

‘One day when we have some fortune come to us again, we will have a big house with our own bath-tub in the brewery,’ Juliana said. There was a strong wistfulness for those
long-passed days. Happiness with her Nicholas, the comfort of their lovely house just behind the High Street, the little garden with all her vegetables set out in the plots. She had been so
contented there.