City of Fiends

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Combe Street

Sir Charles walked up Southgate Street with a deliberately dragging step. He knew that men like Sir Baldwin were capable of recognising a man by his gait, and he had no desire to hand himself over to the other knight so easily. He reached Combe Street, and Ulric tugged his sleeve.

‘This is it?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘Yes, sir. It’s the street where Master Paffard lives.’

Sir Charles gazed about him with that open, smiling demeanour that had so distracted his enemies over the years. This was a good street. There were some shabby little buildings, true one little more than a hovel in which he would not have kept his pigs, but there were some great places on the north side, and he felt sure that Paffard’s house would be one of these.

Ulric’s arm came up to point out the house. Sir Charles placed his hand atop Ulric’s wrist and jerked it down. ‘No need to tell people what we do here,’ he murmured, still smiling.

He told Ulric to wait, and made his way across the street, avoiding the pony and cart that threatened him as he went, and he glared at the beast, wondering if it was one of the carts that had been taken from him yesterday. He didn’t recognise it, however and on the board at the back was a pair of sacks that looked as though they were filled with flour. Not the gold and plate he was missing so grievously.

To think that this time yesterday he had been rich, he thought as he climbed the stairs. Well, with luck soon he would be able to get his hands on some money and then got out of this damned city. That would be good. He knocked loudly.

He would have liked to have exacted some form of revenge for the defeat inflicted upon him by Sir Baldwin and Sir Richard, but that would have to wait. Until Sir Edward was back on his throne perhaps.

The door opened, and he found himself looking into the face of an older man. ‘Good day. I would like to speak with your master.’

‘Master Gregory?’

‘No, Henry Paffard,’ Sir Charles said. His smile was unaltered, but he was aware of a sinking sensation in his bowels. ‘Is he not here?’

‘Sir, I fear Master Henry is in gaol for murder. He’s waiting for his trial.’

‘Who is responsible for his business now?’ Sir Charles said, all trace of a smile eradicated.

East Gate

Simon had seen many men come from within a gaol, and generally such men looked unprepossessing and weary, all too often blinking in the flare of sunlight like blind men miraculously granted their sight again.

Henry Paffard was not like them. He strode out with his head high, and while he had no means of keeping himself clean, he had somehow contrived to avoid soiling his clothes or face. And he looked as easy in his mind as he had two days ago, before he confessed.

Either he was mad, Simon concluded, or he was a very extraordinary man indeed.

‘I don’t understand what you are saying,’ he said coolly as he looked from one to the other. He shot a quick, eager look up the hill to Rougemont as if hoping for rescue.

Baldwin frowned at that. ‘It is not the day of your hanging yet, Master Paffard. Although that will be soon enough.’

‘Perhaps,’ Henry said. He turned back to Baldwin with a slight puckering between his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

‘We wish to know why you say you killed those women.’

‘Oh, is that it?’ Henry said. He looked at them in turn again, a slight curl at his lip. ‘And what then? You will offer me my freedom? Or food?’

‘You said in there that you would be speaking to your wife about food,’ Sir Richard said. He had a broad smile on his face. ‘That is like a man saying that he’ll go to the butcher to complain about the chop he ate last night. Except you can’t, can you? If she won’t come to visit you, you won’t ever be able to chastise her again.’

‘I am sure I will.’

‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Why are you so certain that you will be able to escape your fate?’

Henry said nothing. Why should he tell them that when Edward was throned King again, with the help of his loyal subjects, pardons would be granted to those who had helped him. These fools had no idea. Just as they couldn’t understand why he had taken it upon himself to accept responsibility.

‘You see, we may be as foolish as you think us,’ Baldwin said, ‘and that means we will be likely to make a silly assumption. For example, I may well believe that you confessed because you were intending to prevent another man from being accused. From all I have heard, you would be unlikely to do so unless the man at risk of being caught and punished were close to you. Man or woman, of course. It could be a wife or daughter – but it is more likely to be a son, I think.’

‘So you think, eh?’ Henry managed. The knight’s words had hit home hard, and he had to force himself to keep looking at Baldwin without displaying emotion.

‘It is clear enough that you don’t want to die, I think,’ Baldwin said, his head cocked to one side in appraisal. ‘You have not submitted to despair, as men will when they are to die. You look like a man who has determined to shame himself, but you don’t expect to die. I have no idea why.’

‘I am a man of integrity.’

‘No. You are a man of business,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘They are different men, from different worlds. And your life is to end soon, with you unremarked as a felon, who deserves no sympathy.’

‘I will be freed. You will see.’

‘Really?’ Sir Richard said. ‘By whom, eh? The world is busy with other matters, Master Paffard. Not many wish to exert themselves on behalf of a fellow who murdered women. I had to slay a man yesterday because he joined others to rape and kill on the Bishop’s manors. He helped to kill a woman too. No one raised a finger to help him either, so don’t think anybody will to save you.’

Henry stared, and his mouth fell open a little. ‘What man did you kill?’

‘One of a gang of felons. Sir Charles of Lancaster led them. We destroyed them east of Exeter yesterday.’

‘It’s not true!’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘If you were hoping for Sir Charles to come and save you, your hope is forlorn. Sir Charles fled. His carts are here at Rougemont, and he is a fugitive.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Paffard said, and in his eyes there was genuine horror. He turned and walked from them, back into the gaol, then down the ladder to his cell. ‘I have nothing more to say to you. Any of you!’ he roared. ‘Leave me to prepare myself for death.’

Paffards’ House

Sir Charles was led through to the hall. Claricia and Agatha were there, Claricia sitting, Agatha standing at her back.

‘You are Madame Paffard? Henry Paffard’s wife?’ Sir Charles asked.

He was aware of the old man behind him, but was unconcerned. John wore no knife. If need be, he could have the elderly bottler dead before he could turn and run to the door. Sir Charles knew his abilities only too well, even after his mistake with Sir Richard. ‘I am. Who are you?’

‘I am a friend of his. Sir Charles of Lancaster.’

‘I do not know you. If we owe you money, sir, I-’

‘More than mere money, my lady, but it will do for now.’

‘Then you will be disappointed. There is none.’

‘Your husband promised me and my companions plenty, if we were to-’

‘He could have promised you the sun and the moon and all the stars in the heavens, but it wouldn’t change the fact that we have nothing. His business has failed in recent months, and while he was hoping for something to rescue him,’ Claricia said, ‘it too failed.’

‘I was the rescue,’ Sir Charles said. ‘It was my business that was to have helped. And there is still time.’

He was unsure how far to unburden himself. This woman looked frail and agitated, while her daughter was a hard-faced harpy, from the look of her.

‘My husband is in prison for murdering two women. He will never be released.’

‘He may be proved innocent in court.’

‘He has already confessed.’

Sir Charles shrugged. He had known others walk free after being found at the scene with the blade dripping blood still gripped in their hands.

‘Where is he being kept?’ he asked.

Marsilles’ House

William was still standing in the chamber when there came a loud knock on his door. With a sigh of annoyance, he opened it wide. ‘Well?’

There were three men outside, all rough, hardy-looking types. One pushed past William and snorted as he looked about him. ‘Come on!’

‘Who are you? What are you doing?’ William demanded.

‘You’re being thrown out. Don’t piss us about or it’ll be painful.’

‘No, Master Paffard told us we could stay. You’ve made a mistake. We’re allowed to stay!’ William said with desperation.

‘Well, we’ve been told to get you out. We were told today. Now, out of my path, boy.’

‘It’s a mistake. Come with me now and speak with Master Gregory. Leave my things and come with me!’

William had grabbed the man’s wrist, where he had taken hold of a chair. This man must surely see it was a mistake! The Paffards wouldn’t throw them from here, not really.

The man turned lazily and swung his other fist into the side of William’s head.

It was as if he’d been hit with a club. A dull thud set his teeth rattling, and his legs wobbled as though their muscles were turned to blancmange. He collapsed to his knees, gripping the table, eyes wide.

‘You don’t listen, do you? We were called to Paffards’ place and told to get you out. You’re not wanted any more, boy, so like I said, piss me about and you’ll regret it. Now, out of my way!’

Talbot’s Inn

Gregory Paffard had remained in the tavern for an age after Father Laurence left him, but he didn’t touch the ale before him. It tasted sour, just as did everything that touched his tongue today.

Until only a short while ago, he had been a contented, successful young man. What, was it a year, or more, since he had realised? Perhaps longer, but it was not until he and Agatha had met with Father Laurence that he truly understood the horror of his situation. He could never be happy. Laurence had told him. The bastard didn’t even shed a tear, showed no sympathy. Nothing. Just a blank face that concealed his true feelings.

Gregory groaned. He was cursed! All his life he had craved love, and now he had found it, now he had learned how glorious and fulfilling it could be, he was to be deprived of it. That was what Laurence said: Gregory must part from his lover forever. They must be separated, Laurence told him, for the sake of their eternal souls. Perhaps a life of penance could save them.

He was himself God’s finest joke. A man with free will who willingly chose a path of heretical crime.

Leaving the ale, he rose and staggered from the room. The coolness of the air outside acted upon him and he felt as though he was a little mad. People looked at him differently, he was sure, with a kind of horror, as if he wore the leper’s cloak. There was nothing for him. Better to go and hang himself. Suicide was a sin, true, but no worse than the one he had already committed.

Standing at the corner of the High Street and Cooks’ Row, he had to clutch hold of the nearest wall to support himself. A wave of nausea washed through his body and he wanted to spew. It was only the looks of curious passers-by that stopped him. He forced himself upright, and was about to walk off, when Benjamin hurried up to him.

‘Master Henry wants you to go and visit him, sir. He said it’s very important you go right away.’

Paffards’ House

Thomas kicked the ball again.

There was nothing he liked as much as this. A sunshiny day, with a ball and a wall to kick it against. He booted it hard, and it catapulted behind him, narrowly missing his head, which made him laugh in exhilaration as he chased the ball, and kicked it again. It went high, hit the wall and fell in among the herbs. He looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure Sal hadn’t seen it, but there was nobody there in the doorway, and he scuttled over to it, his quick pang of guilt soon forgotten.

He played a while longer before the ball soared high, and then landed again beside the bottler’s store-shed.

Thomas walked to it, and knelt again. That broken board was so tempting.

Joan said, ‘So, still trying that piece of wood?’ She had come out quietly with an armful of clothes, which she was soaking in water from the well, and she chuckled to see his look of comical alarm. Both were recovering from their fears of the last few days.

He sprang up and clutched his ball to his breast as though it was a shield against any adult recrimination.

‘Don’t worry, Tommy. I won’t tell him. I don’t think it’s as dangerous as he says anyway.’

Gradually the hunted look left his face, and he wiped at his cheeks, aware that they felt very hot after his exertions. He returned to kicking the ball, but every so often his eyes went to that appealing gap in the timbers, and at last he couldn’t resist another look.

He went and peered inside. There was something gleaming dully in the gloom. Perhaps if he just got his arm in . . . But no, it didn’t reach.

With a look at Joan, he began to squirm his legs in first, to get in there and find out what it was that lay beneath.

And then he screamed.