City of Fiends

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Venn Ottery

Sir Charles had been up before dawn, preparing the ground.

The land about here was clear, and while he had made a decision not to upset the farmers in the vill, he would not allow any of them to escape the place in case they might run to warn any approaching force that he was here.

His dispositions were simple. The vill was held overnight by him with twelve of his men. The peasants here would see only that small group, and as soon as he left the place, he would ride eastwards, along the straight lane until he reached Sog’s Lane. This small track led between two high hedges until it passed down a slight dip and through between a shaw. On either side the bushes and trees rose high. And that was where the bulk of his men would be waiting.

In the north, Sir Charles had often been forced to ride with Earl Thomas of Lancaster to pursue the Scottish raiders, and he intended to use their own tactics if he could. He had seen how devastating their attacks had been.

For now, he would enjoy a leisurely breakfast. There were eggs and bacon, cold capon and pottage along with good bread, and he sat down with a wooden trencher on his lap to watch the distant horizon. From here there was a good view of the land to the west if a man was up high, and he had a fellow stationed in an elm not far from the farm. With him, Sir Charles was confident he would receive good warning.

It was possible that he would remain here for a day or more and see nothing. But if he had to bet, he would think that the fat knight who had caught him would not be prepared to give him up so easily. No, Sir Richard would want his head.

Sir Charles chewed his bread and ignored the weeping and complaints of the women from the farm while his men enjoyed their rest.

Clyst St Mary

Sir James de Cockington rode up to the causeway with a sense of nervous anticipation. There were places here where a force could possibly attack a man, he thought.

He beckoned his squire. ‘Men could be set to hide beneath the low walls here, and then spring up to shoot arrows into us when we ride along the causeway. Or they could be waiting, hidden in the trees all about here, and as soon as our men are on the causeway, they might block both ends and attack us like that. Should we send a small force out first to see whether the passage is safe, do you think?’

Edgar had been trotting off on the right flank with Sir Richard, and now both rode up at the canter.

‘Sir James, this was where I caught him and sadly lost him again,’ Sir Richard said, glowering at the roadway as though it had itself betrayed him.

‘I was just deliberating as to whether to send some men to ensure we were safe in the vill up there,’ Sir James said.

Edgar shook his head. ‘He will not have remained here after his capture. He will have moved further away, hoping to avoid capture or to find a better location for an ambush.’

‘Where?’ Sir James asked.

‘East of here. Nearer the hills.’

Sir James eyed Edgar. ‘You are very sure of yourself.’

Edgar smiled. ‘I am experienced in war.’

‘A knight, are you?’ Sir James asked with a sneer in his tone. ‘I am a knight, you see, and yet you, I believe, are a mere man-at-arms.’

‘That is correct,’ Edgar said, and his smile broadened. ‘I am sure you have more experience than me. So, Sir James, please, you go in front of all of us and test the safety of the causeway.’

‘It would be a mistake for me to go,’ Sir James said quickly. ‘The captain of a host doesn’t risk himself unnecessarily.’

‘Then I shall go, Sir James. If I die, pass on my best wishes to Sir Baldwin.’

He jabbed his heels at his rounsey’s flanks and was off in an instant, the beast cantering along the causeway, kicking up the dust.

‘Arrogant puppy,’ Sir James muttered, ignoring the fact that he was younger than Edgar by almost ten years. ‘He needs some of that assurance knocked out of him.’

Sir Richard snorted. ‘I don’t think you understand his skills, Sir James.’

‘Such as?’

‘He was crusading in the Holy Land while you were still being told which end of a lance to hold.’

‘Really?’ Sir James eyed Edgar’s disappearing figure. A shame he never learned manners while there.’ Or you either, fat man, he added silently to himself.

Combe Street

Philip Marsille walked along the road carrying a small bundle. In it was a loaf of bread, two eggs and a piece of ham that was going off. It was all he could afford.

His rejection by the posse that morning felt like the final disaster. He could not even discover whether he was suited to fighting. It seemed as if nothing could leaven his gloom.

The sight of Father Laurence ahead in the road made him grunt a greeting, but he would have passed straight on if he could.

‘My son, I am sorry about your mother,’ Father Laurence said haltingly.

The priest looked at him as though he needed Philip to ease his own distress, the boy thought. Well, he had no time to bandy words with those who wanted comfort from him; no one would give him any.

‘Why? You didn’t kill her,’ he said roughly.

‘There were enough would have been happy to think I had,’ Father Laurence said. ‘There were many thought I killed Alice.’

‘What would you expect them to think?’ Philip snapped. ‘You found her and didn’t tell anyone. It made you look guilty. And then you ran away, too.’

‘No. I was always here.’

‘But hiding. You should be at the Cathedral. Why aren’t you there now?’

‘I will return soon. I behaved foolishly, and I will have to accept my punishment,’ Father Laurence said sadly.

Philip looked at him. He had no sympathy left for others after the murder of his mother, but he did at least sense a kindred misery about Father Laurence. ‘What will they do?’

‘I have missed many services at which I should have been present. That is a serious crime. So, I have no doubt that my food for some weeks will be of the plainest, and I will have to undergo a some form of contrition. It is the way of the Church.’

‘Don’t you feel you deserve it?’ Philip said. He couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice, but when he saw Laurence’s face, he was sorry. The man looked so ground down.

‘Oh yes, I deserve it,’ the vicar said hoarsely. ‘And much more than the Church will even impose on me. You can have no idea.’

Philip shrugged. ‘Well, take the punishment and be glad it’s not worse, then.’

‘Perhaps I should.’

‘What do you want, Vicar? Absolution? I can’t give you that. Go to the Cathedral.’

‘I know. I am sorry.’

They were just passing the Paffards’ house, and the bonfire from last night was still smoking. A scorch-mark ran up the limewashed wall of the nearby De Coyntes’ property, and it struck Philip how close those flames had been to his own bed. Fortunate, it was, that someone had moved the bonfire further away from the houses.

Then Philip sensed something else. It was the vicar. He was staring at the Paffards’ house with a kind of longing that Philip understood only too well. And suddenly he realised what the priest was so guilty about, and why he had to come back here. Philip had loved Alice, and Father Laurence was also in love, but it was with someone who could not return it, perhaps.

‘Was it Alice?’

‘Eh?’ Father Laurence asked distractedly.

‘You loved her too, did you? I asked her if-’

‘God, no!’ Father Laurence said, and lifted his hand in the sign of the cross. ‘Me? Never her, no.’

‘But you looked, just then, as if you were missing someone, as I miss her.’

Father Laurence was already moving away from him, and in his eyes was a haunted expression, as if he had been accused of the murders again. Philip opened his mouth to speak, but the vicar suddenly turned and fled without saying anything more.

Philip watched him go with bemusement. There had been no reason for him to react in that manner, he thought.

He turned to go back to his house, and saw Gregory and Agatha at their door.

It was only when he was in his alley that he realised that in Gregory’s eyes he had seen a similar misery to that in Father Laurence’s. And the implications of that made his belly lurch.

Venn Ottery

In the middle morning’s sun, Sir Charles remained sitting out in the yard, his eyes closed, making the most of this period of inaction. He knew, as a warrior, that such moments were all too fleeting.

‘Sir Charles! Sir Charles!’

The sudden cry had his eyes wide in an instant. ‘Ulric – what do you see?’

Up in the top of the elm the lad was leaning out dangerously, his head jutting out towards the west. ‘At least fifty men, all on horseback. I can see their dust.’

Sir Charles trusted Ulric’s eyes. If the lad said there were fifty men out there, he was almost certainly right. There was no need for Sir Charles to try to climb the tree as well.

He rose, stretched, and began to issue his commands. ‘Ulric, get down, fetch your mount. You men: douse the fires! You two: leave her alone and fetch your arms.’

Gradually he gathered his men together, two still tying their hosen after their rape of the woman from the farm. There was a little boy, who had been used as their servant for all the last night while his mother was spread out for the men to enjoy, and Sir Charles leaned down to him now. ‘Boy, I want you to run away. Do you understand? Run.’

The child stared back with his eyes wide in terror. He daren’t move, and Sir Charles rolled his eyes.

‘Kill his mother, and perhaps he’ll run. Go on!’ Sir Charles called to his men, then: ‘Torch the house.’

There was a flash of steel, and a gasp as the woman was stabbed through the heart. Her son gave a whimper, and as one of the men booted him, he began to stumble away. Sir Charles irritably jerked his head, and the man drew his sword. Only then, at last, did the boy start to run, almost tripping, and then pelting faster and faster along the roadway.

‘Good,’ Sir Charles said with satisfaction. ‘Now, load all you need, and let’s be off.’

He lazily climbed onto his horse, and with a glance behind, set off at a walk. They made their way along the easterly route, and soon came to Sog’s Lane. There, at the top of the lane Sir Charles halted his men again. There was a solitary oak in the side of the road, and Ulric climbed again to the top.

‘Wait until they have seen us,’ Sir Charles said. ‘We want them to chase us.’

De Coyntes’ House

Emma had completed the majority of her morning duties and with her maid Peg, had carried the washing tub out to the alley and up-ended it.

There was a narrow channel in the middle of the alley that took the waste away, and the tub’s water was adequate to clear most of the ordure left in the alley overnight. Someone had emptied their chamber pot into it. Probably the boys next door, she thought, glancing at the hovel where the Marsilles lived. They had no idea of decency. Most people would walk a few yards from their door to empty their pots, but like all young men, these two lived only to please themselves.

She walked down the alley now, and stood staring at the still-warm embers of the bonfire from the night before. It made her shudder to think that any stray sparks could have set the entire block ablaze. She, Bydaud, Anastasia and Sabina could all have died in that, had it taken hold. No one who had ever seen a fire in a city would ever forget the horror of the flames licking at the walls, the way that the roofs caught light, thatch or shingles, it didn’t matter which.

Helewisia had not spoken to her since the inquest. Fine, if that was how she felt. Juliana had insulted Sabina, and that was all there was to it. If Helewisia wanted to be offended on a dead woman’s behalf, that was fine.

What really interested Emma was why Henry had cut Juliana’s lips off. To stop her talking, of course – that was the inference – but that was intriguing, because it implied that there was someone to whom he wanted to impart the message.

Emma looked up and down the street, and when she saw Claricia Paffard on her steps, in a sudden burst of compassion, she walked along to speak to her.

‘Madame Paffard? I was very sorry to hear about your husband.’

‘My husband is lost to me. He is no more.’

‘But you must know that nobody blames you or your family. It is not your responsibility if your husband takes to such a course.’

‘You think so?’ Claricia said. There was anger in her eyes, and Emma could only think that she was still trying to come to terms with the shock of learning that her husband was a killer. It must have been very difficult for her.

But there was no shame or humility in her eyes. All Emma could see was a raging anger, as if she thought her husband had merely let her down, and the obloquy of his crimes was nothing whatever to do with her.

It left Emma feeling chilled to the bone.