31 - City of Fiends (19 page)

‘Well, if we’re to win it all back, we’ll need me to take charge. You heard Philip wants to leave and join the King in Scotland?’

‘No!’ Juliana cried, and threw a look up at the sleeping chamber.

A tousled head peered over. ‘Why not? I could win a ransom and—’

‘Are you that stupid? How many men are there in the King’s Host, and how many win a prize? Most of the men who find a knight will be killed by him! If not, they’ll have their
victim taken by their Sergeant or Lord. No, if you go to Scotland, all you will find is a grave, Philip. You mustn’t even think of such a thing!’ And how could you afford to go up
there? You would have to buy food and drink!

‘There is nothing for me here,’ he said bleakly. ‘I’ve managed to save a little.’

‘You didn’t think to share it with us, though?’ William asked, then blurted out, ‘Did you love her?’

Juliana was still. She had never dared to broach the subject with Philip, but she was keen to hear his answer. It even stopped her from beating him about saving money without sharing it.

‘Yes. I loved her. And she felt nothing for me. She told me so,’ Philip said. There was a dull gloom in his voice that tore at his mother’s heart.

William said sympathetically, ‘What did she say?’

‘She said she was happy.’ Philip sighed. He had rolled over, and now lay staring up at the rafters. ‘She had a strong man in her master, and she had no need of a callow youth
instead. What would she want with a whelp, when she had a sire already? That was what she said. I adored her, but she threw only scorn at me when I offered to marry her.’

‘You offered her marriage?’ William said, aghast. ‘You know she was only Henry Paffard’s bedwarmer!’

Juliana listened with her mouth falling open, thinking of Joan’s words earlier.

‘She was forced into it,’ Philip argued.

‘No, she wasn’t! She was a willing bedmate or she’d have left!’

‘It’s no matter now. She’s dead, and my life is over. Without her, I don’t know how I can live.’

‘It’s because of her you’re so languorous?’ William said with frustration flooding his voice. ‘Man, you should be glad you were rescued! She wasn’t worth your
time and love, if all she could think of was remaining with her master after you offered her an honourable marriage.’

‘You didn’t know her. You can’t understand.’

Juliana broke in. ‘Your brother’s right, Philip. If she turned you down, preferring to whore herself with her master, you are fortunate to be free of her. Think, if she had accepted
your hand, would you ever have been able to trust her? She was a tickle-tail, no more. If she was married, she would be waggling her arse at other men all the time. Your life would have been
miserable.’

‘I cannot live for thinking about her,’ Philip groaned.

‘You need new reasons for living, then,’ Juliana said gently. ‘Come, have some pottage. There is an egg in it. Eat, and the world will look better.’

She watched him descend the ladder, walking to the bowl and silently ladling a portion into a wooden cup. He sipped, sitting on the stool, while William watched him with kindly amusement, and
Juliana felt it best to leave them alone for a while. Perhaps William could persuade his brother to talk some more, and maybe then the two could come to some understanding. Then Philip must try to
find work. There was almost nothing left from his savings.

Meanwhile, her mind kept circling about this news of Henry Paffard. What sort of a man would make use of the maids in his house in that manner? Ach, it wasn’t unheard of, and Juliana was
no innocent, but for him to move straight from Alice to Joan spoke of a determined lust, without any affection. It spoke of his shame, too.

She had a job with a goldsmith’s today, which a kindly providence had bestowed upon her. A friend had suggested her to the smith, who was keen to have someone help keep his house. Not a
maidservant, but a manager of his household. It was a unique position: his wife had died some months before, and he felt the need of a woman’s hand about the house, but not the effort and
expense of a wife. Juliana hoped that a second stroke of good fortune could occur. Perhaps he would consider William as an assistant in his business. It was by no means an apprenticeship, but for
William it could provide food and a little money. That still left Philip without a means of supporting himself, but Juliana was optimistic.

A knock on the door made all three look up. Juliana was nearest, and she pulled the door wide to find that John, bottler to Henry Paffard, stood with a note in his hand. ‘Yes,
John?’

He looked from her to the young men behind her, and nodded at them in greeting. ‘Mistress, I’m sorry to bring this. I have been told to speak to you. My master has heard you’ve
caused a disturbance.’

‘He’s heard
what
?’

‘About your argument. News has come to him that others here are distressed by you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean . . . What, has Emma reported me to Henry?’ Juliana gasped. ‘She couldn’t have! Emma was a friend to us for such a long time, I
can’t believe she’d do such a thing!’

‘My master has instructed me to tell you: this breaking of the peace in the neighbourhood, on top of the rents you owe, means you must leave.’

Juliana was still in shock, her mouth gaping. ‘No, you can’t mean that, John! He’s warning us, isn’t he? He won’t throw us from the door. We depend upon him, you
know that. Where would we go if he kicks us out?’

‘I don’t know,’ John said. ‘Mistress, if I had a place, I’d offer it to you. I knew your husband, and he was a good man.’

‘
Henry
knew him, in Christ’s name!’ Juliana said. Tears welled, but refused to be shed. She stared at John, then at the room around her as though she had never seen it
before. ‘He was an associate of my husband’s. Nicholas helped him with his business many times. It was for that reason that Nicholas set him to aid us with our affairs. He named Henry
in his will. In God’s name, what will I do if we are evicted?’

‘I don’t know, mistress, but—’ John began, but already Juliana’s face had altered. She listened to no more, but instead thrust him from the doorway, and strode into
the alley. Emma’s door was only feet away, and Juliana beat her fist on the weak timbers. ‘Emma de Coyntes, come to your door! I must speak to you!’

There was a rattle and the door opened. Emma stood in her doorway, her features harsh, arms folded. ‘Well?’

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.