City of Fiends

CHAPTER ONE

Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, first year of the reign of King Edward III

Petreshayes Manor, Yarcombe, East Devon

The smoke could be seen clearly from half a mile away. In the still air of the summer’s evening, the columns rose from the manor’s fires like pillars supporting the sky.

‘Hold!’ commanded Sir Charles of Lancaster, peering ahead. There was no sign of alarm. A wood on their left offered some protection, while to the right there were some fields, pasture, common land. All ideal for pursuing their victims, should they escape.

‘Here we are, boys,’ he breathed.

His men stared. There was a heightened tension, the awareness of an imminent fight. Breath rasped, and he heard the soft hiss of a blade being drawn, the jangle of bit, the squeak of leather, the hollow clop of a hoof.

‘That’s the manor,’ his guide said. Wat Bakere was a rotund, smiling man, but he wore a scowl today. ‘You’ll find it easy to overrun. Kill them all.’ He was pointing at the church and manorial buildings over at the other side of the dirt road. It curled about the line of the manor, which was a prominent landmark.

‘You’re sure they are there?’

‘Ulric told you, didn’t he? He said they would be,’ Bakere said, jerking a thumb at the lad behind him.

Sir Charles nodded.

He was a tall man, fair and handsome as a Viking, and ruthless as a berserker. During the last civil war he had fought against the King for his lord, Thomas of Lancaster, and when Earl Lancaster was executed, Sir Charles had been exiled. That was five years ago, and when he begged for a pardon for his offences, his King had been gracious. He was rewarded with positions of trust, and given a living once more.

He asked for no more; he had given his word and his hand to his King, so when Edward II was captured by his enemies, Sir Charles became a recusant knight. He would not renege on the new oaths he had given his King. Instead he left the comfortable billet in the King’s manor at Eltham where he had lived for the last months, and rode into the twilight to take up arms on the King’s behalf.

Now the King’s son had taken the throne, Sir Charles was a renegade. A felon. Because he would hold to his vow.

Today, with his band of warriors committed to the King, he would begin the fight to return Sir Edward of Caernarfon, as he was now labelled, to his natural place on the throne of England.

Sir Charles looked at Ulric of Exeter. He was more trustworthy than Wat Bakere. Bakere had been given to him by Stephen Dunheved, a man who appreciated the value of good information, but it was Ulric, the merchant’s fellow, who had brought the details. Returning his gaze to Bakere, he nodded.

‘You were the baker at this manor?’

Bakere rolled his eyes impatiently. ‘Yes. I told you – I’d been here two years when I left a fortnight ago.’

‘But even then you heard that the Bishop and his entourage were to come here?’

‘Yes.’ Wat looked up at him, his eyes creased in sardonic amusement. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. They hear their lord’s coming to visit, and all hell is let loose! Rooms must be cleaned, beasts must be slaughtered, money must be counted and recounted, food stores checked so the master can see nothing’s been lost or stolen . . . there’s no peace for anyone. As soon as his visit was announced, the villeins were driven lunatic by the steward’s demands. So was I. I needed more flour for their food, and the steward was never willing to-’

‘What makes a man like you become disloyal to his master, I wonder?’

‘I owe them nothing!’

‘I see,’ Sir Charles said languidly. He suspected that Wat had been found with his hand in the food bin. Bakers were notorious for making undersized loaves, keeping back the excess flour to sell, or making their own loaves larger than those for others. A greedy little man, this Wat.

He turned his attention back to Ulric. The scrawny wretch was looking miserable. It was he who had brought confirmation that Bishop James Berkeley was heading this way, and now he knew the consequences of his report, he was regretting it. The lad was too young; he needed his spine stiffened.

Sir Charles studied the road ahead and soon made his dispositions. The men for the woods dismounted, the youngest boys taking the reins while the older men shifted their weapons on their belts, bound quivers to their hips or backs, laced their bracers, and strung their bows. There was little sound from any. All knew their part.

Those on foot were to work their way to the north of the manor and drive the terrified workers south, to where the horsemen could cut them to pieces. After that they would head for the manor itself. Easy prey, these, although it was best not to be complacent. Sir Charles had once been all but bested by a pathetic-looking chaplain who had displayed a ferocity in fighting that was more suited to a Teutonic Knight.

The men were disappearing into the trees already. When the last was gone, Sir Charles nodded to himself. He would wait until he saw the first signs of panic in the fields, then race down and destroy the peasants.

Wat’s eyes were fixed on the scene ahead. ‘They don’t realise what’s going to hit them,’ he said with glee.

‘Few ever do,’ Sir Charles smiled.

Wat was about to speak again when the knight’s fist caught him in the chest. He jerked with the slamming shock, then hunched to save himself being thrown over the cantle, and glared at Sir Charles.

‘What’s that for?’ he gasped, but even as he spoke, his eyes fell to the mailed fist at his breast.

Sir Charles pulled his hand away, tugging the long-bladed dagger free, and Wat’s mouth moved without sound as he gaped at the knight. Then his body convulsed, his head snapping back, and he fell from the saddle, twitching and thrashing on the ground in his death-throes.

‘That, boy,’ Sir Charles called to Ulric, ‘is what happens to rude sons-of-whores who are disrespectful to their betters. Remember that. And also remember, I distrust those who are dishonourable and faithless.’

He smiled, and Ulric, who had been staring at the body lying on the ground, found that smile more terrifying than any outburst of rage.

It was like the smile of the devil.

Marsilles’ House, Exeter

William Marsille nodded to his neighbour Mistress Emma de Coyntes as he walked home up the alleyway from Combe Street, and was surprised when she ignored him.

Pretending not to notice her manner, he pushed his door open, saying to his brother as he entered, ‘Emma’s pissed off about something again.’

‘What is it this time?’

His brother Philip, two years older at eighteen, sounded grumpy. He spent half his life snapping at William now. Perhaps it was the hunger.

William reached the sideboard – which was one of the few items of furniture that they’d rescued from their old home – poured himself a cup of wine from the cracked earthenware jug, and drank. ‘No idea. She just ignored me. You know what she’s like. ’Er wouldn’t ’cknowledge me if I ’uz on vire,’ he added with a grin.

His attempt at humour failed.

‘Pathetic!’ Philip muttered with a viciousness that surprised William. ‘We spend our lives trying to soothe her ruffled feathers, but we always end up with the sharp end of her tongue, the stupid bitch!’ There was something alarming in his over-reaction.

‘She was all over us like a rash when we were rich,’ William agreed. ‘Now we are poor she can exercise her contempt for us while she tries to suck up to the next lot of fools. We can live without her sort of friendship, Phil.’

‘Yes, she was always hanging around like a wart when we had money,’ Philip ranted. ‘Why can’t she give some peace now? That’s all, just a bit of peace!’

‘I think I prefer her like this,’ William said. ‘Philip, are you all right?’

Philip nodded. His normally animated features were pale. ‘It’s nothing. Just . . . Oh, God’s teeth! Just leave me alone,’ he said, and wiped his hand over his face, as though remembering a disaster that pained him. Then, with a gesture of despair, he blundered from the room leaving William staring after him.

Petreshayes

Sir Charles could make out his men at the edge of the woods as the light faded. Shortly the fight would begin. He enjoyed the feeling of liquid fire in his belly. A sharp battle, the slaying of his enemies: he was looking forward to it!

He drew his sword, held it before him and bent his head a little to the cross, kissing it. He was doing God’s work today, upholding His will.

‘Ready!’ he roared, lifting his arm so the rest could see his sword. He heard the slither of metal being drawn from all around him, and was about to give the order to canter towards the manor, when Ulric gave a cry.

Sir Charles followed his pointing finger. There, on the road curving across from their right, was a raggle-taggle line of men. A great flag moved in the air above them; there was a strong contingent of men-at-arms, walking men, carts, a wagon – all in all at least fifty men.

He threw a look at the lad beside him. ‘Well?’

‘It’s them. They must have been delayed on their way here,’ Ulric said.

‘You are sure?’

‘I know the Bishop’s banner – gold chevron on a scarlet background with ten crosses. Anyway, look at the men there! Most are clerics.’

Sir Charles gave a wolfish grin. Thinly on the air he could hear the shouts and screams of peasants dying under the first flights of arrows. The manor’s peasants would be fully occupied in protecting themselves, and would pay no heed to the attack on travellers.

He stood in his stirrups and gestured with his sword. ‘There! There! To Bishop James of Exeter! Ride with me!’

Cooks’ Row, Exeter

The sun was sinking as Joan hurried back down Cooks’ Row into Bolehill with her loaf of bread, the limewashed buildings on the other side of the road drenched with an orange glow. The colour reminded her of bodies writhing in the firelight, and the thought made her shudder. She averted her head from the buildings, from the pictures in her head, her belly curdling.

There was a crunch from an alley, and she felt her heart pound like hooves at full gallop. She turned reluctantly, staring, only to see a baker’s boy breaking up staves from a broken box for firewood. He glanced at her without interest before returning to his task.

She hated the city, with its tiny, narrow alleys and reeking, clamorous streets. The rich lived well, the clergy better, but for the others who eked out an existence, it was horrible. She was fortunate that she at least had a place in a merchant’s house, but if for some reason she upset her master, she would be out on the streets in an instant, and probably forced to join the other women in the stews.

At first it had been exciting, being away from her bully of a father, with his cidery breath, and the sting of his belt, away from the cold, dismal hovel, but just lately, for Joan, Exeter had become a place of fear. Walking the streets was unsettling; the people were so brash, so threatening. Only last morning she had felt a man’s hand on her arse as she passed by an alehouse, saw his other hand reaching for her breast. He could have pulled her into an alleyway, like some common draggle-tail. She’d only escaped with difficulty.

But there was worse here than the streets. Here there was the terror of the soul.

If Joan could, she would return home. Apologise to her father. She had run away in a fit of pique after an argument, and wished she could go back, admit that her dreams of finding a husband, an easy life, in Exeter, had failed.

She couldn’t. Her father was an unforgiving man, who would never let her forget her failure. Her life would be made unbearable.

It had seemed such good fortune when she found a position in the home of Henry Paffard. Their last maid had run away, and she was lucky to be settled so quickly.

That’s how it had seemed, anyway.

Steps. She heard steps – a panicky, bolting sound – and she darted into a darkened corner, eyes wide in sudden fear. A man came hurtling around the corner, arms slamming back and forth in his mad rush, his robe flying high. A priest, then, and running away from the Paffards’ house. She watched as he pelted up into Southgate Street, then away, out of sight.

Petreshayes

Their surprise attack threw the weary men-at-arms into disorder. They had not expected an ambush here, so close to the manor.

Sir Charles bellowed with joy as he cantered into the guards about the Bishop. There was a man on his right, and he hacked at him with his sword, saw a gout of blood, and then he was at the next, a terrified-looking fellow with a heavy riding sword. Sir Charles knocked his blade aside and thrust his pommel into the man’s face, feeling the bones crunch, before spurring on to the Bishop.

Bishop Berkeley was no coward. He had a sword of his own, and was as experienced as any nobleman. His blade was up, and he rode on to aim at Sir Charles with a roar of anger.

Sir Charles turned as the edge flashed past his shoulder, rolling back to slash, then used the point.

It caught the Bishop in the throat, and Sir Charles felt his sword jerk in his grip. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his victim huddle as if to hide from the assailants, but then one of his archers slammed down with a war-hammer, and the Bishop was thrown off his horse. The hammer rose and fell – and Bishop Berkeley was dead.

His banner was already trampled on the ground, and as Sir Charles turned, he spotted the remains of the Bishop’s guard galloping off towards the manor.

‘With me, with me!’ he roared, and hared off after them, his soul singing with the joy of the encounter.

Yes. Today, he was doing God’s work.

Alley beside Paffards’ house

She was panting. The sight of that priest’s terror was enough to bring back all her own terrors. Thank the Holy Mother she was close to the house now. The mass of the South Gate was in front of her, and she turned right, along Combe Street. Only a very little way to go now.

The house was imposing, with its great height on three levels, yet narrow. Steps were cut in stone before it, bridging the filth of the gutter. Today the area stank even more than usual. Someone had left the corpse of a dog in the road, and now, trampled and squashed by cartwheels and hooves, it rotted half-hidden beneath the bridge where it had been kicked.

To the right lay one door, which opened onto the place of work. Here the merchant plied his trade, while the other, to the left, was where he would invite his guests, clients and friends. They would enter to his welcome, drawn along the passageway to the hall behind where his fire would cheer any visitor.

These doors were not for her. She was only a maid: the lowliest servant in his employ, not even the equal of Alice. She must use the alley on the farther side. This led to the rear of the house, where servants and apprentices were expected to gain entrance, but from here, it looked like the entrance to hell. She hesitated. She always did. It was like the little copse of trees back at home, where it was said a woman once hanged herself. All the children knew that place, and all avoided it. This had a similar brooding menace.

There was little light here, between the buildings, and she kept her eyes ahead as she hurried down the alley. If she looked about her, she might see something, and it was better not to dwell on that. There was a skittering of claws, and she imagined rats scurrying.

She had to keep away from the wall’s edge on the left here, she remembered. A dead cat’s corpse lay there, and she didn’t want to carry the reek of carrion on her shoes.

At last she saw a lighter patch a few yards away, and grunted with relief. This was the little door in the wall that gave into the garden behind the kitchen – sanctuary. Without conscious thought she increased her pace but, just as she was about to reach the gate, her foot caught on something and she tumbled to the ground, dropping her package and breaking her fall with her hands, grazing both on the stones and dirt of the alley floor.

‘Oh, what . . . ?’

She clambered to her feet, and saw the head she had tripped over. She took in the fixed gaze from those dimmed blue eyes, the bright, red lips with the small trickle of blood, the golden hair surrounding the young woman’s face, and began to scream and scream as she desperately scrabbled for the door handle, to get her away from that hideous stare.