City of Fiends

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Venn Ottery

Sir Charles lay with his chin in the dirt, staring through the stems of a blackthorn hedge at the men who slowly approached. This was not how he wanted to finish his ride. It was a great shame that Sir Baldwin and Simon should have been sent after him, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Two former travelling companions were now his enemies, and that was an end to it.

‘Stop there,’ he shouted when the men were near the road. ‘Throw your weapons into the roadway. All of them.’

He had over twenty men still. Five were injured and out of the fight, two were scratched and keen to kill those who had hurt them, and three lay in the road. In compensation, there were eight of the men from Sir Baldwin’s column lying dead, and the Sheriff was here with him, sitting quietly with a knife’s point resting under his chin. He was not moving, but watched the posse approach with a terrible certainty. He knew that Sir Charles could not allow any of them to escape.

Sir Charles waited until the men were almost at the hedge, and then turned to issue the command to kill them.

At the same time, the Sheriff knocked his hand away and sprang up. ‘Sir Baldwin, beware! It’s a trap – they will kill you too!’

‘Get down!’ Sir Charles roared, and would have opened him from gut to gizzard, but before he could, two arrows were loosed into Sir James de Cockington’s back, and exploded through his chest and belly. He coughed, and blood dribbled from his chin as he fell to his knees, staring at the two barbed points, before toppling to the ground. Sir Charles clenched his fist, striking Sir James’s body three times in impotent rage, and then swore viciously and continually as the arrows and quarrels flew over his head, but it was all to no use. The men with Sir Baldwin were in the road, concealed behind the carts that still littered the place.

There had never been a situation in which Sir Charles had felt at such a loss. Even while abroad he had always known where his escape could be effected. Today, no such avenue occurred to him. His horses were at the rear of the pasture with Ulric, while down there in the roadway with the carts were his winnings. The treasures he had accumulated from the episcopal manors were packed upon them. He could escape, perhaps, but only at the cost of losing all he had gained.

He had no choice. Giving an incoherent roar, he leaped down into the road himself, bellowing to his men to follow him. There was a man before him, and he swung his sword, only to have it clash with Sir Richard’s, then it was knocked away, and he and Sir Richard circled warily. He could hear crashing and shouting, screams of agony, and a terrified man’s last shrill scream, before he concentrated utterly on Sir Richard. There was a moment of serenity, almost, and then he drew his sword up and into the St George guard, and waited, watching.

Sir Richard launched himself forward, and Sir Charles could have laughed at the clumsy attempt. This fight would be quick, then, with so old and portly an opponent. He turned fluidly and knocked the sword aside with ease, only to find that it wasn’t there. Sir Richard had reversed his manoeuvre at the last moment, and Sir Charles almost spitted himself on the up-turned point.

It was a caution. A knight as old as Sir Richard must surely have had the expertise to survive many dangerous encounters. Sir Charles warily tested his parrying with his point, without exposing himself too greatly, and then lunged. His blade was almost at Sir Richard’s belly, when his sword was effortlessly flicked from its path, and Sir Richard’s point came straight for his throat.

He withdrew again. This opponent was surprisingly competent, he thought, and as he did so, he heard a sound that sent a shaft of ice into his bowels. A horn, and he could feel the ground rumble beneath his feet. Glancing up the lane, he saw seven more horsemen pounding towards him and his men.

‘’Ware the men!’ he bawled, but his men were not trained warriors. They were competent in a mêlée, or against peasants, when armed with war hammers and axes, but they had not been trained to stand in line with lances fixed against a foe this deadly. One dropped his weapon, and was instantly slain by his opponent, a second wailed, turned, and fled. He was cut down by Sir Richard as he passed, and then the horses slammed into the men remaining, their breasts used as rams to batter at the men, while blows were rained down upon them. Men were crushed against each other, had their skulls broken by axes, were stabbed and hacked at with swords and knives, and in only a few moments, ten were dead, another seven wounded, and being forced back while the horses herded them into the edge of the roadway.

‘Surrender!’ Sir Richard thundered.

‘Go swyve a sow,’ Sir Charles responded. ‘Your father did.’

Baldwin approached, his sword bloody, a great rent across the front of his tunic. ‘Sir Charles, surrender or we will have to kill you. I would not do that, for memory of the times we enjoyed in your company.’

‘I will not surrender. What, give up now so I can hang from a tree like a common churl?’

‘The city of Exeter will give you a good hearing. You need not die here.’

‘I will not submit to a pair of rural knights with the dregs of Exeter to back them.’

‘Then guard yourself,’ Baldwin said.

Sir Richard interrupted him as he raised his sword. ‘Sir Baldwin, he is mine. I would not have you kill a friend. Leave him to me.’

‘Sir Richard, you have a most dangerous opponent.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I watched this man’s fellows rape a poor woman yesterday. My wife was killed by a faithless, dishonoured coward and as I killed him, so shall I kill this. Without aid.’

Baldwin hesitated, but the cold rage in Sir Richard’s eye was impossible to ignore. ‘Very well,’ he conceded, and withdrew.

De Coyntes’ House

It was already beginning to edge towards twilight when Bydaud de Coyntes made his way along the street towards the alley and his home.

He had a strange feeling as he approached them. A kind of reluctance he had never known before. It was almost as though he was fearful that there might be another body outside the house when he reached it. Nonsense, of course, but even so, he could hardly help himself from looking about him, his eyes going straight to the piles of rubbish that lay against the wall of the houses in the street, hoping not to see any limbs or a face staring back at him.

He was tired today. Perhaps it was the effect of two broken nights’ sleep in the last few days, but he thought it was more than just that. There was a new nervousness about him at work. The excitement of new opportunities.

It was yesterday that the first of the merchants had come to him, a shifty-looking man in his late fifties with a shock of unruly white hair beneath his cap, and narrow, keen eyes that moved about the tiny shop like a bird’s looking for a morsel on which to pounce.

‘We have been reconsidering some of the city investments and other works,’ the man had said without preamble.

‘Yes, sir?’ Bydaud had replied.

This was no ordinary merchant entering to have a word; it was a senior man from the city, one of the four stewards, and with his patronage a poor merchant like Bydaud could hope to make a much better living.

‘We do not like what we have heard about Henry Paffard. There is no place in the city for a man who has confessed to murdering women, and no place for him to share in decisions about the future direction of the city. If you were to be asked, it may be possible that you could join the Freedom of the City in his place.’

‘I would be honoured.’

‘I hope so. Not many cities would consider bringing in foreigners, but we are a more progressive city, I like to think.’

He had continued to outline some projects already underway, and Bydaud was keen to help with each. He had the contacts with France and the Low Countries which the city needed, and in a short time all was agreed. The steward left him and said he would be back as soon as he had discussed the matter with his companions in the council.

As good as his word, he had arrived this very afternoon, and in a short while, Bydaud and he had agreed their contract. Bydaud knew he would make a little less money on these voyages than he would usually, but he was also convinced that the prestige would be worth it.

‘What of Henry?’ he asked at one point.

The steward looked at him appraisingly. ‘You prefer us to take this business back to him?’

‘No!’

‘Good. Then that is all.’

For the first time, Bydaud thought his decision to come here to Exeter was about to pay off. The money which this deal would bring in would help, but it was the idea of additional business that attracted his attention. There was potential to make much more in the longer term. Especially just now. The city was going through a period of expansion, with the new cathedral building and renovations to the city walls, and these men were offering him a percentage of all that effort. With luck, in a year or two he would be a member of the Freedom himself, every bit as important as Paffard ever had been.

It was a glorious future.

Venn Ottery

‘Sir Richard, for a fat man you can move swiftly,’ Sir Charles panted. His eyes were fixed on Sir Richard’s. To fight a man, it was usually necessary to watch his movements. Sir Richard’s legs hardly appeared to move at all, but his arms could dart about with blinding speed, and the sword’s point moved fastest of all, as Sir Charles knew. It was the eyes of the opponent that betrayed the assault.

There! The blade slid towards him, and Sir Charles had seen the tiny narrowing of Sir Richard’s eye just before. To make certain, he waited a little, and then saw the eyes narrow again in the same way. That was his mark. That was Sir Richard’s giveaway sign. And that would be his doom.

Sir Charles slid backwards, avoiding a cart’s wheel on his way and a dead man’s arm, allowing a hint of anxiety to tweak his eyes and brow. He retreated before that swift-moving blade, the cold, angry face of his opponent, until the little telltale narrowing came again, and this time Sir Charles whirled, wrenching his sword-hand up, blade pointing at the ground, knocking Sir Richard’s sword away, and then while Sir Richard’s belly and breast were exposed, he completed the manoeuvre, his blade arcing up to Sir Richard’s throat.

An easy feint, that, he thought, as his blade was thrust up, but again it was blocked, and Sir Charles had an icy conviction that this man would kill him. He was far superior in swordsmanship.

There was a scream, and then suddenly, four horses were thundering towards them all. Sir Charles stared as Ulric rode straight at him, leading a spare horse by the reins, keeping his own between Sir Charles and the others, while other horses ran wild amongst the men, distracting them all.

‘Good man!’ Sir Charles managed as he slammed his sword into the sheath and hurled himself into the saddle. It took him only a moment. He had been riding and training with horses since he was seven years old. Now he snatched the reins, bending low over the horse’s neck, and raked his prick spurs along the brute’s flanks, feeling the surge of power beneath him. The huge beast seemed to take flight like the bolt from a crossbow, galloping straight off along the lane away from the men. There was one man who stood in their path, but a blow from a hoof sent him crashing into a cart, a great bloody welt on his face. And then the road was clear.

He spurred and slapped reins to the horse, and saw that there was a corner ahead. He leaned into it with the mount, and at the other side the mud was thrown up in great gouts; splashes hurled at his face, on his lips, and he must wipe them away, concentrating all the while on the surface ahead, avoiding any potholes or branches that could turn his beast’s leg.

A glance behind. Three men approaching. All riding well, low and eager. Good. They would be easily ambushed, then.

Ulric was white-faced. He must know that if he was caught by the posse, he would be killed, Sir Charles thought. But it could be that he was scared of the ride. Sir Charles didn’t know how many times Ulric had ridden at full gallop. This might be his first time. A whistle, and he saw a clothyard arrow drop into the road’s hedge. So they had almost the distance, then. Soon he’d be out of their range and their line of sight. A hedge, and he crouched lower, and took it in one explosive leap that felt as though a tub of black powder had gone off beneath them both, and then there was a massive, jarring crash as they hit the ground again, and Sir Charles was turning, wheeling his mount with him, then riding back.

The first man was over a moment early, and as his beast’s forelegs hit the ground, Sir Charles’s sword was out, and he skewered the rider, his blade ripping through the fellow’s belly; a second man was over, and Sir Charles had little time to recover. He slammed the guard into that man’s face, and he went down, unconscious, thrown to the ground while his horse careered away.

Then it was the third. This one was a youngster, and in his eyes was the terror of death as he came over the hedge. Sir Charles took hold of his arm as he landed, and ripped him from his saddle, hurling him to the ground. He stabbed the boy in the throat, still holding his arm. He let go as the life left the fellow. He noticed a large red birth mark on the back of his hand. ‘Marked, eh?’ he said with a grin. ‘You were cursed from birth!’

His horse was prancing about, and Sir Charles had to get it under control.

‘Ulric?’ he called.

The boy was sitting in his saddle still, stunned at the sudden battle, panting, his eyes as wild and anxious as his beast’s. ‘Yes?’

‘Get that man’s shirt and jack off,’ Sir Charles snapped as an idea came to him.

It was bold and dangerous, both of which made it appealing, and he smiled as Ulric set to work.