31 - City of Fiends (5 page)

He had hoped that sheer determination and persistence would persuade a mason or carpenter to hire him, but they only laughed at him.

‘Come here, boy,’ one had called, a heavy-set man a clear six inches shorter than William. He’d been to a barber recently, so his beard and head were well shaven as he pinched
and prodded William’s arms. ‘Did you ever have a muscle on them, boy?’ he laughed.

Another man was behind him, and he squeezed the flesh of William’s thighs and buttocks hard enough to hurt. ‘He couldn’t carry a hod, and those spindleshank legs of his
won’t drive the treadmill.’

The first was eyeing him up and down. ‘Give me your hands . . . thought so. You’ve never done a day’s real work, have you, boy?’

‘I can add, write and read, and I’m used to accounting.’

‘Then go and speak to someone who has need of such skills. We don’t. We need carpenters, masons, plumbers and all the others who can help build a cathedral, not parchment-scratchers.
Well?’ he said, standing back, arms akimbo. ‘Go on, get up there.’

‘Where?’

The mason pointed to the nearest ladder. ‘There. That one’ll do.’

William stared at it. The thing was immensely long, reaching up to the third level. The larch poles of the scaffolding had some kind of rope that bound the cross members to each other, and while
William had heard that sailors tended to be used for lashing the poles to each other, he could see clearly that the ladder had nothing to hold it steady.

‘What ails you?’ the mason said, and the others all laughed.

He walked to the ladder, set his hands on the rough rung, and began to climb. He did so with a steady carefulness, and a rising panic as, after ten or twelve feet, the whole contraption began to
bounce. It felt as though he must be catapulted from it, and his speed slowed as he approached the middle. Here it was terrifying. He clung with knuckles whitened, as the ladder sprang in and out,
towards the new cathedral walls, and away again. His thighs turned to water. He could no more climb than jump, and he must set his entire body flat against the madly bouncing contraption, his eyes
shut. Surely it would fly away from the wall at any moment.

Looking down, he saw that all the masons had left. He was alone, desolate in his failure. Slowly, he let himself down to solid ground once more.

Thrusting his thumbs in his belt, he walked down the Close and went out by the Bear Gate. While there, he saw the old beggar woman who had her post there. Reaching into his purse, he was about
to throw her a penny, when he realised he had nothing. She had more money than he. With a mumbled apology, shame firing his face a dull beetroot, he scurried past her, and out to Southgate
Street.

Here he almost bumped into someone. William tried to apologise, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.

The man was his height, with pale, waxen features, and a long, straggling beard that reached to his middle-breast. His clothing was a mixture of tattered shreds: there was a once-good tunic that
was sorely worn, a fustian cloak, and hessian sacking covered his legs. In a bundle he clutched to his chest were all his worldly belongings. But it was his eyes that caught William’s
attention. They were wild, terrified. The eyes of a man who had lost everything, and knew that life would never improve. He must walk, and hope to find food. That was his entire life.

William stared after him. That sight, he felt, was a revelation. An appalling picture of how he might look in a short time, if he and Philip could find no work and money: a desperate vagrant
dependent upon the alms of the Church just to exist.

Petreshayes

Sir Charles stood at the gateway and donned his worn riding gloves as he watched the three men. They were gathering with their torches about a brazier. The two survivors of the
manor were in the doorway, hands bound, and Sir Charles nodded to the two guards with them.

He turned and took his horse’s reins from Ulric. ‘Watch,’ he said, slipping his boot into the stirrup and springing up into his saddle.

The lad was still looking very pale. Sir Charles had almost expected him to fly from the place in the dead of night, and it was with a vague sense of pride that he had beheld Ulric’s
earnest features this morning.

Sir Charles knew what was happening without watching. The two men took their daggers and stabbed, one quickly thrusting in his victim’s back, the other sweeping his blade about the
man’s throat.

Ulric winced, and tottered as though he was going to fall, but then threw a look at Sir Charles. ‘What, are you telling me you will do that to me in a moment?’ he said hoarsely.

‘No, my fellow. I am merely showing you what will be happening all over here soon. The King will be fighting for his kingdom, and all those who stand in his path will die, like them. It is
the way of war, the way of the
chevauchée.
When there is war, men-at-arms will ride all about the country, creating fear and panic in the hearts of those who stand against them. We
must do this now. And while we do, others will take up arms against us, and they will terrorise our friends and family. If you want, you can go back to the city, and live there.’

Ulric looked down. The man with the slashed throat was squirming ever more slowly, his blood staining the ground. At his side, the other man was already dead, an expression of surprise on his
face.

‘Choose, then. Are you with us, with your lawful King, the man anointed by God, or not?’

‘I am with you,’ Ulric said dully.

‘Good! Mount your beast, boy,’ Sir Charles said with a smile. He glanced at the three with the torches and jerked his head. In a moment, all three had lighted their torches and then
flung them in through the open doorway. There was a
whump
as the oils drizzled over the floor and beams caught fire, and almost immediately a thick, black smoke roiled from the door and open
window.

Sir Charles eyed it with satisfaction. ‘Come, my friends! It is time to visit terror on Devon!’

Rougemont Castle, Exeter

Adam Murimuth walked in at the red sandstone gate and peered about him.

He did not like this castle. As Precentor, he had had to come here on various occasions. The last had been in the spring, when there had been a fight in the High Street near the Guild Hall. Two
servants of the Cathedral had been rightly infuriated to see a Dominican preaching to some folk, and had remonstrated. The friar loudly rejected their justified arguments, and a small crowd
gathered.

As the dispute grew more heated, locals joined to take sides, and in the end it was necessary for some men-at-arms to come to cool tempers. Not that they had succeeded. The ensuing fracas had
been ended only when a few sensible traders managed to calm the troubled folk.

And the cause of the escalating violence? The preacher and the servants were abusing each other in fluent Latin, the locals had interjected in their mixed languages, some in Celtic, some in
English, while the castle’s men had reverted to Norman French when they lost their tempers. In the babel that ensued, it was only when three merchants fluent in a variety of languages had
interposed, that peace was restored.

The castle was a symbol of the power of the Sheriff, and Adam resented the man and his authority. However, thankfully Sheriff de Cockington had no control over the Cathedral or its staff.

‘Sheriff,’ Adam began when at last he was permitted to enter the hall itself, ‘I fear that there has been a death in the city.’

‘Aye, a maid was murdered. What of it?’

‘I wished to know what the Coroner thinks of the matter.’

The Sheriff gazed at him. He was a pompous fellow, this James de Cockington, Murimuth thought. He remembered his pale eyes staring at him before, with that same look, when they were discussing
the fight in the High Street. Even then, he had been certain that the man was searching for a way to request a bribe, rather than seek resolution.

‘What is a murder in the city to do with the Cathedral, Precentor?’ he asked smoothly.

‘Probably nothing. But it occurred near enough to the Close for us to hear it. When will the Coroner be here to review the matter?’

The Sheriff sucked at his teeth. ‘Perhaps the day after tomorrow – maybe not until Sunday. He has been away, down at Ashburton. A tin miner was found hanged down there, and the
Coroner left yesterday. It is a full day’s ride to Ashburton, since the roads are appalling. I would think he would hold his inquest today or tomorrow, and return Saturday.’

‘Good, good,’ Murimuth said.

‘You will wish to send a witness to hear the evidence?’

‘Perhaps.’ Murimuth ducked his head, preparatory to making his exit. He disliked dissembling. There were situations in which he felt comfortable, but this was not one of them. The
Sheriff never impressed him with his intellect, but the man was the King’s own representative.

‘It would almost seem as if you knew something about this murder, Precentor,’ the Sheriff said. ‘Do you know who was responsible?’

‘Certainly not!’ Murimuth said. ‘If I did, I would say so, to prevent another innocent being accused. Murder is a grave matter.’

That was the fact that absorbed him as he left the castle. Murder was indeed a serious affair, and if Janekyn was right, the murderer could have been one of the Cathedral’s
inhabitants.

He stopped at the High Street. There were some people coming into the city from the East Gate, and he saw a watchman on the gate push a man leading a packhorse against the wall, while his
companion began to search the panniers on the beast’s back.

Nothing there, thank the Lord, and the sumpterman was soon on his way again, but it was just another proof to Murimuth of the tensions all felt. The King had been forced from his own throne,
replaced by his fifteen-year-old son, and gangs of men were now ravaging the land in the old King’s name. One such had breached the castle at Kenilworth, trying to free him, a few months ago.
All the guards here, and elsewhere, were on tenterhooks, expecting a fresh upsurge of violence.

He made his way back to the Cathedral feeling depressed, convinced that there would be more bloodshed. There were too many men like the Sheriff who were out to seek personal advantage from the
realm’s troubles.

Until the kingdom was stabilised, with the new King grown to maturity, there would be no peace for anyone, only increasing disorder.

Well, that may be so, he told himself. But the disorder would only increase if men felt they could get away with it. It was vital to uphold the law, and show that justice would swiftly follow a
crime, be it large or small.

He must do all he could to bring justice to the felon who killed that poor young maid.

Paffards’ House

Benjamin, Henry Paffard’s apprentice, had been to the church that morning, offering prayers for Alice. He would miss her. She had been a part of the household.

When he first arrived at Exeter, the boy had thought himself fortunate to be apprenticed to Henry Paffard. The latter was known as the best decorator of pewter in the city, but the glorious
engraving for which he had made his name was a thing of the past. The work he performed today was at best pedestrian – when he could be bothered to visit the workshops. Henry was living on
the reputation he had forged years ago, and Benjamin was hard-pressed to recall a single day during which he had learned anything from his master.

In those early days, before disillusion set in, everything had seemed possible. Benjamin was sure that, once he was ready, he would soon be made a pewterer in his own right, that he would set up
his own little business, and start to earn his fortune. And over time, when luck allowed, he would meet a woman to marry, and he would raise his own family. And when he did, he would remain loyal
to his wife.

But he had not done any of those things, and while he got on well enough with the other apprentices, there was none he could call an especial friend. Most, he suspected, looked down on him.

Of course, they all knew about Henry Paffard’s nocturnal visits to Alice in her chamber, the trysts they held when they thought no one else was listening. Henry should not have insulted
his poor wife by taking a maidservant as a lover. And when Claricia remonstrated with him, Henry had beaten her! That was not Christian. But nor was Alice’s behaviour, and the couple’s
flagrant adultery brought disgrace to all in the house.

Henry Paffard’s unseemly behaviour meant that Benjamin would be forever remembered as the apprentice who lived with the reprobate – and
not
as the skilled artist of pewter
which he hoped to become. His reputation was ruined before he could carve it out for himself.

For some weeks now, the pleasure he had once gained from working metal, the joy he had experienced at the sight of a perfectly rendered decoration cut into the metal, was lost to him. His
disappointment gave him a bleak view of the future: he now was convinced he would never find a woman, never have children with her, never know the joy of a professional career.

In this bitter mood, he went to the buttery to fetch himself a strong ale, but the small cask there was low. He dared not empty it. Perhaps he could fetch a pot of ale from one of the barrels in
John’s locked storage room at the rear of the house? The keys hung on the bottler’s belt usually, but today Benjamin had seen them resting on a protruding wooden peg. He hesitated, but
then snatched them up. Pox on what the bottler might say!

Striding to the storage room, he unlocked the stiff door and tugged it wide. The cool interior always had a strange smell, like meat left drying for years, enhanced by the malty sweetness of the
ales stored here after each brewing.

He stepped on the elm flooring, his feet echoing hollowly in the shed, and went to the nearer barrel, tapping it. There was a good, wholesome sound to it, and he fetched himself a mazer.

The bellow made him almost drop the cup. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘John! Hell’s teeth, you could have killed me!’