31 - City of Fiends (38 page)

William put his bowl down on the table. ‘What are you talking about? They were killed by Paffard – we know that already – and he’s held in the gaol.’

‘What if he isn’t guilty?’ Philip said.

William eyed his older brother with a wary disdain. ‘You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Have you spent what little money you had?’

‘Some of it.’

‘When you know I have nothing?’ William grated.

Philip gave a gasp of exasperation. Reaching into his purse, he brought out four pennies. ‘Here’s half for you, if you’re so desperate!’

William took them and stared at them. With one or two of these, their mother’s final days would have been easier.

‘I was going to join the posse this morning. They refused me.’

William asked pointedly, ‘You’ve done something stupid, haven’t you?’

‘I met with Father Laurence and spoke with him.’

‘The vicar who ran away? Where was he?’

‘Out in the street here. And you know what I learned?’ Philip ran a hand through his hair. ‘I think he is a guilty of the “old sin”.’

‘You do realise I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about?’

‘I think he is a sodomite. And so is our neighbour Gregory.’

‘
What?
’

‘Don’t you understand anything, Will?’ Philip said, disdain rasping his voice. ‘You know the penalty for a sodomite: death. So in order to protect his son, Henry Paffard
was prepared to do anything. Perhaps that’s why he killed Mother – to keep her silent so Gregory would be safe.’

‘In that case our mother’s killer is in gaol and will pay for it. Thank God for that.’

And meanwhile his son will run our lives and can throw us from our home at any time.’

William looked about him at their meagre possessions. ‘We can find another place, Phil.’

And the man who now has power over our lives is a sodomite, Will. Think of it! A sodomite who was responsible for our mother’s death and who could destroy us as well! Are you really
prepared to allow him to ruin us?’

‘Look at us, Phil: we’re already ruined. There is little enough he can do to us, is there? Let’s just get out of here.’

Philip sat down in a seat, and said no more. But inwardly, he seethed. If William thought he was going to lie down, roll over and forget that their neighbour and landlord had ruined their lives,
he couldn’t be more wrong. Philip would find some way to bring justice to that shit Gregory Paffard
and
the priest.

Exeter

It was a mournful group that rode back to Exeter that evening. The carts with the belongings of the Bishop would no doubt be gratefully received at the Cathedral, but the mood
of the crowds at the East Gate was sombre when the bodies on the carts became visible. There were so many!

Baldwin and Simon had gathered together all their own wounded, and these were arranged in the carts, the dead tied to any available horses. Sir James’s body itself was at the head of the
column as it reached the city, led by his herald, and as they passed under the gate, there was a shocked silence. Even hawkers and beggars were stilled as they turned up the castle street towards
Rougemont.

Baldwin and Sir Richard rode up the narrow way, but as Baldwin saw Simon, he told him, ‘You go to Edith, old friend. One of us at least should try to have a pleasant evening. Our time will
be taken up with seeing to all these men.’

‘I’ll find a barber for you, and send him to the castle for the wounded,’ Simon said immediately. With all the arrow-wounds, they would have need of a good surgeon.

‘A good idea,’ Sir Richard said, his usual strident tones quite muted.

‘Are you quite well, Sir Richard?’ Baldwin asked, not for the first time on their ride homeward.

‘Yes. I think so,’ he replied. It had been a hard day. He had killed two men in the fighting, and it was a sobering experience, as always, to take life. But there was more to it than
that. ‘You know, I had an intense rage against that fellow,’ he said. ‘It was as though he was the man who killed my wife, and that today I had a chance again to visit punishment
upon him.’

‘Perhaps this will allow
you
to rest, and to leave
her
to rest,’ Baldwin said.

‘I think not. The memory of my wife will always be with me, I hope,’ Sir Richard said quietly, pain apparent in his voice.

Baldwin nodded, but he could not understand. This strange, complicated man, with his enormous appetites for drink and food, was yet still so devoted to the memory of his wife. And it only added
to Baldwin’s affection for him. After all, as he told himself, he was scarcely less complex himself.

‘Open the gates. Your Sheriff is here!’ he bellowed at the castle. And slowly the great gate began to creak wide.

Baldwin rode inside, the line of carts following him, their wheels thundering over the drawbridge. He dismounted, watching the last of them entering the East Gate, and the last few members of
the posse, plainly nothing loath, broke away at the bottom there, and trotted off along the High Street.

Inside, he remained on his rounsey with Wolf, and he noticed that Sir Richard had dropped from his horse and gone over to a woman in tatty clothing, her dark hair matted. That, Baldwin assumed,
must be Amflusia, the woman he rescued from Sir Charles yesterday.

There were many carts. Those holding chests and trinkets that Sir Charles’s band had stolen from the Bishop and others, were segregated in a corner nearer the gate, and as soon as they all
were parked, there began the foul task of unloading all the dead and arraying them on the ground, in order that they might be identified. There would need to be an inquest over all these poor
souls, he told himself, even as his eyes took in the sight of Sir Charles’s body.

‘Dear God, what happened to his face?’ he breathed horrified. The man had been beaten so violently that his nose was crushed, his jaw smashed. Even his own brother would not
recognise him in that state.

The carter was helping two others to haul the bodies from the cart. ‘Him? He was their leader. I think the men who caught him made sure he was dead. Must have hit him with a
rock.’

‘A rock?’ Baldwin said. He was about to leave and had in fact opened his mouth to speak to Sir Richard, when one of the other riders peered, frowning at the line of men.

‘What is it?’ Baldwin said. There was a strange quickening in his blood. He knew that something was wrong.

‘This is Perkin. I recognise the birth mark on the back of his hand, look! But these were his clothes,’ the man said, bewildered.

Baldwin glanced down. The fellow was pointing at a man in an ancient cotte and hosen. ‘Are you sure?’

Sir Richard had joined him. ‘Those are the clothes of the man who rode at us and saved Sir Charles.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, and walked to the body in Sir Charles’s clothes. ‘And I don’t think this is Sir Charles, either!’

Second Friday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist
¹⁰

Exeter Cathedral

Simon could not help but look up at the soaring columns and arches high overhead with a feeling of apprehension.

It was true that a man had to die some time, and equally true that the best place in which to die was undoubtedly a church, best of all a cathedral – but somehow that reflection was of
little consolation when the next moment could bring a large rock tumbling onto his head. Simon knew, of course, that masons were magicians with their tools and their knowledge of balancing stones
one atop another. However, he had seen magicians in the street who had signally failed to achieve their little deceptions, and he did not wish to learn that one of the masons involved on this
project had similarly much to learn.

He had felt safer yesterday riding against Sir Charles.

There were so many stories of cathedrals whose spires and towers had collapsed. Ely and Salisbury, for example . . .

‘Simon, concentrate!’ Baldwin said.

He returned his gaze to the vicars presiding over the service.

It had been a sad little gathering that had met last night after their return. As soon as Baldwin had told the city’s guards about Sir Charles, he and Sir Richard had hurried to the
Cathedral. Adam Murimuth and the chaplain to the castle had discussed the funeral, and had agreed on the terms for the service to honour the Sheriff. Baldwin had heard that on top of the costs of
the wax for the candles and other expenses there were to be payments of eight pence to each canon present, four to each vicar, a penny to each of the annuellars and a halfpenny to each boy. But
first there must be the service for the dead Bishop, and they were all in here now to witness that.

‘So, you are sure?’ Simon said.

‘There can be no doubt,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sir Charles escaped. I believe he is here in the city.’

Simon grunted. ‘Why?’

‘Hush, Simon.’

The body of Bishop James was up near the altar, that of Sir James de Cockington a few yards behind. Both had been carried in with great ceremony, with canons and vicars in their solemn black
gowns and caps all holding candles. Baldwin, in a moment’s cynicism, wondered who would be paying the bill for all the wax: the Cathedral for the Bishop, the estate for Sir James. It was
quite likely, he decided, that the estate of the Sheriff would end up paying twice, because the Cathedral was still desperate to make sure that they earned enough money from every activity.

As Sir James was brought in, his face exposed so that all could see him, his herald led his procession. More vicars, and annuellars were with him, although no canons. The funeral of the Sheriff
was a glorious moment for the Cathedral, but his must not overshadow the Bishop’s, and so it had been agreed that the Sheriff could come to the church and lie here for a day, but that the
Bishop’s funeral would go ahead as planned.

The herald, carrying Sir James’s sword upside down, point at the ground, was one of the few in the room who appeared genuinely affected by the death of his master. He had tears flowing
down both cheeks. A man losing his master was always in a terrible position, as Baldwin knew. There was no son in Sir James’s family to take over a loyal servant, and whoever was promoted to
the Shrievalty was unlikely to want a servant from his predecessor. He would bring his own men with him.

It was a poignant thought.

‘What is it, Baldwin?’ Sir Richard said.

‘I was thinking. When I was in the Holy Land, I heard of monarchs from the past who had their slaves buried with them in their heathen pride, and it strikes me that our English lords leave
their own retainers in perhaps a more troubled position. It was the reason for Sir Charles of Lancaster’s original descent from grace, after all. Once, he was a loyal servant of his lord,
Earl Thomas of Lancaster, but when Earl Thomas lost his head after Boroughbridge, and his lands were sequestered by the King, Sir Charles was one of many knights who found that he had lost all. His
home, his hearth, his food and his duty. All a knight possesses, when his service is taken away, is his horse and his sword, and these Sir Charles took with him to France to find a new
life.’

Aye, well, the man will be found and hanged. You can ask him about it then.’

‘There are others worse than Sir Charles.’

But it was astonishing that he should have dared kill a Bishop. Even with his fearless attitude to the world, that was stunning to Baldwin.

Paffards’ House

Agatha Paffard rose late that day. When she entered the hall, it was empty, and it seemed so much a metaphor for her own existence that she felt a sob tear at her breast. It was
only with an effort that she could swallow it down. She would not show the world how utterly meaningless her life was.

Because her life was a sham. All through her childhood she had dreamed of marrying and being ‘happy ever after’. It was the way that girls were brought up. The idea that one day they
might be married to a cruel man who would be happier finding women on the streets, and who would beat his wife for complaining was not totally strange, however, for all women knew a man like that.
Agatha herself because she saw it every day in her father. She hated him.

Yet she hated her mother more. Claricia was scared of her own shadow! She deserved the contempt in which she was held. She should have been more firm, not only for her own sake, but for that of
her children too.

Agatha knew her brain was better than most men’s. It was an enduring sadness that she could never take over the family business. And stupid, too, because while she adored her brother,
Gregory was not suited for matters of finance and organisation, whilst Thomas would never be academic or capable with figures. And a good manager of a business, a good merchant, needed those skills
in spades. Here she was, the one member of the family who had the competence to take over from father, and she was the one who was exluded by the mere chance of sex.

She knew she was intolerant, argumentative, and she gloried in it. Her dread was that one day she might grow to be like her mother. Better that she should never marry, than that! Perhaps
Claricia had not been that way when she was younger, but it was no good to look at her and think how she might once have been. It was how a person developed and grew that mattered, not how much
promise they had exhibited long ago. Many could show promise: it was how they lived up to their potential that signified. Well, Agatha had more promise than any in her family, and her mother was
drained of all purpose.