City of Fiends

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cock Inn, Southgate Street

Peter left them as they walked from the Paffards’ house. He looked troubled after their meeting with Henry Paffard, and Simon felt a fleeting guilt in case it could cause problems for his son-in-law, but then he reflected that the merchant had been rude and hectoring. He probably wasn’t used to being questioned in such a manner. It was enough to make him angry when confronted by a trio such as Baldwin, Sir Richard and Simon. In any case, the man had probably forgotten all about them by now, Simon reckoned. He would be sitting at his great table with a silver goblet, thinking about his business no doubt.

And now he looked up with a feeling of impending doom as Sir Richard stopped outside a rough-looking inn with a great sigh of contentment. Simon recognised his expression. Usually it portended a bad headache for him on the morrow.

‘You know, it was in here that I was told the jest about the cleanest leaf. Did I tell you that one? Eh? What is the cleanest leaf in the world? Eh? Can’t get it? The Holly, because no one would wipe his arse with one! Eh?’ He laughed uproariously, and Simon chuckled for his benefit. Sir Richard was a kind man, and while his jokes sometimes missed the mark, to offend him would be like upsetting Baldwin’s Wolf. Easily achieved, but mean-minded.

Sir Richard de Welles strode into the inn, narrowly missing the low beam near the door, and stood looking approvingly all about him. It was a large establishment. There were stables behind, which were reached by an alley between the wall and the inn itself, and at the rear of the hall were three large rooms with palliasses liberally scattered for those guests who needs must spend the night here. For those who could not afford a palliasse in the communal sleeping quarters, there was a lean-to with straw spread on the ground.

‘I’ve used this inn on several occasions, and while the bedding charges are usurous, I am very content with the quality of the ale,’ Sir Richard boomed happily as he advanced on the host. ‘Your best ale, Keeper, and bring it quickly!’

The owner of the inn glanced from Sir Richard to Baldwin, Simon and Edgar with a grimace. ‘Can you keep his voice down? He drowns out all my other clients put together.’

‘We shall do our best,’ Baldwin assured him. ‘Although it may not be good enough.’

‘Aye. It’d take a charge of chivalry to silence him,’ the innkeeper said sourly as he walked to his barrels.

The place was full of merchants and traders who were finished for the day. There was a group of five at the farther end of the room where the innkeeper had his bar, all talking in that loud manner that denoted a good quarter-gallon of strong ale each. A pair of apprentices were playing at merrils nearer the doorway, and in a great huddle stood porters and leather-aproned smiths with cooks and a pair of priests, all chatting animatedly. It was, Simon thought, a gathering that summed up the city itself. There were the men who made money, those learning how to, and the people who moved goods around the city from seller to buyer, and all overlooked by the priests. And there were the women, of course, going from man to man in the hope of winning a few pennies. Wolf looked around once without interest, and lay on the rushes near the fire.

‘Could she have come here, do you think?’ Simon asked the others, nodding at the women.

Sir Richard looked at the nearest. He smiled broadly and winked, and she gave him an arch grin, making her way over to him.

She was the better-looking of the wenches here, he thought. A cuddly figure, and pretty face, with a tip-tilted nose and freckles.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘I don’t think I know you. What’s your name?’ Sir Richard said.

‘You can call me Poll.’

He eyed her affably. ‘Well, Poll, I am glad to meet you. You haven’t been here very long, have you?’

‘I’ve been here two months.’

‘You are a most welcome addition to the inn,’ Sir Richard said.

She giggled and tried to climb into his lap.

‘No, Poll. You see, I’m a King’s Coroner, and these gentlemen and I are looking into a murder for the Precentor of the Cathedral. Did you know the girl who died on Saturday?’

‘Alice?’ Poll’s grin faded. ‘No. Not me.’

‘Did she ever come into the inn?’

‘No.’

‘But you knew her, didn’t you?’

‘I said no.’

‘I know you did. But you’re a young lass, and she was, too. Much the same age as you, I’d think. Don’t you meet with the girls about here?’

‘No, I don’t. They don’t want to mix with my sort in case they get thought to be in my business.’

‘I see.’ Sir Richard remained silent, staring at her.

Poll reddened and began to look about her. ‘Look, I can’t stay here all night.’

‘No, of course.’

‘I didn’t know her.’

‘But?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You didn’t know her, but you certainly know someone who did.’

Poll threw him an indignant look. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Who is it, Poll?’

She grumbled to herself, then, ‘Algar, the stableman’s boy. He was very keen on her.’

‘I see,’ Sir Richard said.

She went away, and he turned to the others about the table. ‘I knew it was a good idea to come here.’

The innkeeper returned with their ales and as he was distributing the drinks, Sir Richard leaned back on his seat, which creaked dangerously. ‘So, my host, where is this stable-helper Algar? We would speak with him.’

Paffards’ House

Claricia Paffard heard the men leave with a mixture of relief and anxiety. Relief that they were going without causing any arguments, and anxiety about her husband’s mood after being interrogated.

She had heard much of their conversation, and the tone of Baldwin’s voice had shocked her. It was so rude to speak like that to her husband, especially in his own hall! Henry was too important in the city for someone to come and hector him as though he was some pimply lurdan suspected of brawling.

‘Mistress? Are you all right?’

She spun around to see that Ben, her husband’s apprentice, was staring at her sympathetically.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ she said huskily, averting her face in shame. He was only being kind, she knew, but the fact remained that he was Henry’s apprentice, and she couldn’t discuss her troubles with him. It just wouldn’t do. ‘I am fine.’

‘You know if I can help, mistress, I would be glad to,’ Ben went on.

She could not look at him: she knew that his eyes would be full of compassion. He hated to see her sad, ever since the day he had found her cowering in the little room off the dairy after Henry had thrashed her with his belt. Ben had covered her back with a blanket and helped her to the kitchen, where Joan and Alice had been working.

Not that it aided her much. To have that whore minister to her had been so demeaning. The bitch had been sniggering at her, she was sure. All the time that Joan mixed the poultice, Alice must have been enjoying Claricia’s discomfort.

‘Once I was able to help,’ he said.

‘No,’ she burst out. ‘Leave me!’

‘Call me if you need anything,’ he said, and would have left the room, but then John entered.

Claricia saw how John’s suspicious little eyes went straight to the apprentice. ‘Thank you, Ben. That will be all,’ she said. Ben nodded to her and sidled past the steward in a hurry, but John kept his eyes on Ben until he was out of the room.

‘You need to watch that boy,’ he said.

‘I know you don’t trust him. But he is harmless.’

‘You think so?’ John snorted. ‘He is your husband’s apprentice. Devious and dangerous, he is. What if he stores up conversations with you to share with your husband?’

‘There is no harm in him,’ Claricia said with quiet certainty, and gestured for the old bottler to leave her. Alone, she stood staring at herself in a mirror on the wall. Her eyes were haunted, remembering. Once she had been young and beautiful, the spoiled child of a rich knight. That was why Henry wanted her, for her noble position. Sad to say, after her father died in that inconsequential little battle in Roslin, his lands were sequestered. Without a son, there was little possibility that the family would be renewed, and it was then that she realised she must marry. And she found Henry a good husband. At first, he loved her. It was only in the last thirteen years or so that he stopped giving her that affection that a wife craves. Instead he paid his attentions to others.

Especially that strumpet Alice.

Claricia was not sorry she had died.

She was glad.