City of Fiends

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Marsilles’ House

Philip had given up. He had followed Gregory and Laurence up the street to Bolehill Lane, but there he lost them among the milling crowds. Giving up, he walked into an alehouse and drank a quart of strong ale, then bought a meat coffin from a cookshop and ate it on his way back down the road. That was the last of his money, so carefully saved.

On entering the alley to his house, he stopped, aghast. ‘Whatever’s happening?’ he cried.

All their furniture – the chairs, table, cupboard, everything – was sitting out there in the filth. ‘Will! Where are you? What on earth is going on?’

There was a rattle at a door, and he saw Emma de Coyntes peering at him.

‘Philip, I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I had nothing to do with this, you have to believe that. They have ordered that you be evicted. You haven’t paid them rent for a long time, and they are demanding that you leave.’

‘Who is this “they”? The Paffards wouldn’t do this to us. No! Is it Gregory?’

It made no sense. Had Gregory ordered their eviction before he left his house, before Philip started to follow him down the road?

‘I don’t know. William was here, but he’s run off, I don’t know where he’s gone.’

‘Will’s gone?’ Philip was staring at her. He could not understand what was happening, and then it was as if a hammer had struck inside his brain, and he was filled with a righteous fury. ‘Who said they could do this? Isn’t it enough that they have already seen us ruined?’

‘It wasn’t their fault, Philip,’ Emma argued. ‘Look, come inside with us for a little while. There’s nothing out here for you. You know that Henry-’

‘Not their fault? No, but they haven’t helped as much as they could have,’ Philip snarled. The anger was making his heart feel hot, like steel at the forge. It seemed to him that it must burst from his chest at any moment. ‘My father was a good friend to Henry Paffard, and where does it leave us? Deserted, left in the street, our belongings all gone. What sort of a friend would treat his friend’s family in such a way? My father thought he was leaving us in the care of someone who would protect us. Now my mother’s dead, my brother’s fled, and look at me! No future, no trade, no chances of making a life for myself, let alone for any other. Not that there is another, now Alice has died.’ His voice broke with grief.

‘Come in here,’ she said again. ‘Please, calm yourself before the bailiffs hear you and have you taken for breaking the peace.’

‘Go with you? It was you who complained to Paffard about us in the first place. It was you telling tales about my mother that us caused to be threatened with eviction, wasn’t it?’

Emma flinched.

‘Well, I congratulate you, Mistress de Coyntes. You’ve succeeded! You are rid of us at last.’

She bridled, her own rage ignited in the face of his attitude. ‘You want me to apologise? When your mother was so rude to my little Sabina that she cried for an hour afterwards? You expect everyone else about here to run after you – to dish out money and food and gifts – but when your friends try to have a quiet time of things, what do you do? You insult us and annoy us, and think you can just get away with it, don’t you? Well, you can’t.’

‘That’s it, is it? You asked me in because you were feeling guilty about us, nothing more. No sympathy or genuine Christian charity, just scared for your own soul. Well, I hope you can live with yourself after this, woman, because you’ll get no sympathy from me when your life is altered.’

‘Our life altered?’ she jeered. ‘My husband is a good provider for us.’

‘What does that mean?’ Then he gasped. ‘Do you insult my father now? Have you no shame, mistress? You would insult a dead man to his son?’

‘Oh, in God’s name, boy, take a look at yourself. Listen to yourself! A beardless boy with no means of earning a living, and all you can do is snarl and make a show. If you were half a man, you’d go out and achieve something without others constantly having to do it all for you!’

‘Do what for me? Forcing me to lose my home by complaining to my landlord?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, get out of here, boy! Go on! Take your rubbish and clear off. This isn’t your home, not any more,’ she spat, pointing down the alley.

He turned from her and strode away, ire lending wings to his feet, but as he reached the road, the tears were already stinging. There was no way Philip would allow them to fall. He was too proud for that. It was little enough, perhaps, but his pride was all he possessed now, and he would not give it up.

There was a cart rolling past the entrance to the alley, and he waited until it had gone, and then marched on resolutely to the Paffards’ house, where he ascended the steps and knocked loudly on the door.

John the bottler appeared in the doorway after a long wait, and Philip swallowed and asked to see Gregory.

‘He’s not here just now, master. He went out this hour past.’

‘Then may I speak to Claricia?’

John nodded thoughtfully, and shut the door. After another wait, he returned and jerked his head inside, down the passageway.

Philip followed him along the flagged way until they came to the hall. Inside Philip saw Claricia sitting huddled.

‘John said you wanted me,’ she said without looking up.

‘Mistress, all our belongings are in the alley. Your son had men throw us from our house . . .’

‘Not Gregory, no. It was me,’ Claricia said. There was no emotion in her tone.

‘But why? We cannot survive without a home, mistress.’

‘Remember the old friary up beyond Saint Nicholas’s Priory? Since the friars moved out beyond the walls, there are places to sleep there.’

He knew that area. The friars had taken down the stones to move them to their new friary. What was left was a miserable collection of rough chambers constructed of old boards and planks, with sometimes a waxed cloak thrown over the top. The poorest of the city lived there, the beggars and drunks who could find no other place to rest their heads.

‘You would leave us there? What have we done to you?’ he pleaded.

‘You have done nothing,’ Claricia said. She lifted her faded eyes to him, and he saw that they were red from weeping. Her cheeks were sunken, and she looked as though she had become an ancient crone in the last two days. ‘It is not you, master, it is us. My husband. He has ruined you. When your father died, Henry took the money left for you, and invested it for his own advantage. I know it has happened before, and it will again, but today it means you have nothing because my husband took it all. And I cannot repay you. That would impoverish my son. It would take my daughter’s dowry and leave her without a husband. So, for my family to survive, yours must be utterly ruined.’

He stared, uncomprehending, wondering how she could be inventing all this. And then he saw the papers on the table behind her. ‘You mean this? He stole all our money? What of the house? Our gold?’

‘It is gone, Philip. All gone. Henry took it all and lost it.’

Exeter Gaol

Gregory paid the gaoler to let him see his father, and was soon inside, wincing at the stench, but then he burped as some of the ale returned. He reeled a little passing down the ladder, but his father didn’t notice.

‘Father?’

Henry Paffard looked at him and said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘I have been told that Sir Charles of Lancaster’s men were killed and that he’s gone on the run. Is this true?’

‘Yes. They were caught over east and mostly killed, from all I’ve heard,’ Gregory said.

He could hardly believe the change in his father. Henry was grey about the face, and whereas in the past he had always been a strong, resolute man with the suave manner of a lord – because in many ways he was a lord to the people of Exeter – now he looked like a common churl from the streets. His was the first family among those of the rich men who ruled the city, and his assurance and patrician manner had served to add to that aura. And all now was gone.

‘Then we are ruined, Gregory. My money was invested in Sir Charles and the others. God’s ballocks, I was so stupid!’

‘I don’t understand.’ Gregory was close to hiccuping, and had to put a hand over his mouth as another wave of ale washed up through his system. The atmosphere in the cell made him feel as though he might choke.

‘You understand nothing, do you?’ his father groaned. ‘I promised to help the men who have released Sir Edward of Caernarfon from his prison. I was going to be repaid handsomely, and you would have gained a knighthood when he returned to the throne. Think of that, my son! The first of our family to be raised to the chivalry! And now Sir Charles – the man I thought would come here and save me – is dead, and that means all I paid to him is also gone. We are lost, Gregory.’

‘You have been a traitor to our King?’ Gregory said disbelievingly.

‘We only have the one King. This boy on the throne is no more our King than you are,’ Henry growled. ‘He deposed his own father, at the behest of that bitch his mother and her lover. They have no right to say the boy is King. Only God has that authority.’

Gregory passed a hand over his brow. He was sweating. ‘Why are you here, Father? Why did you confess?’

Henry looked up at the ceiling of the chamber. Like him, it was old, worn, on the verge of collapse. ‘It seemed the best thing to do.’ Then: ‘Gregory, I know it was you – you who killed Alice. Why did you do that, son? She wasn’t hurting you, was she? I suppose you heard she wanted a house of her own. She would not have damaged our family. I thought if you were captured for the crime, you might be slain too quickly, but that if I confessed, I could count on the men of the Freedom to protect me, especially since I knew that Sir Charles was on his way. That was what I thought,’ he said bitterly.

‘You knew Sir Charles was here?’

‘Of course I did! I sent him messages with Ulric. How else do you think he would know when the Bishop was on his way to the manor at Petreshayes?’

‘But . . . you were going to set him upon the Bishop? Why?’ Gregory’s eyes were stretched wide.

‘Can you imagine how much money there would be in that? I was going to win back all I had paid with good interest.’ For one second, Henry looked animated.

‘But . . . a Bishop!’

‘Oh, I would have been pardoned on my deathbed. It was all arranged. The new Bishop would be approved by our King, once he had regained his throne and removed his son, and the new Bishop would be more amenable to my part in the overthrow of his predecessor.’

Gregory could only stare. He had never realised that his father was so ruthless.

‘But I still don’t understand. Why did you confess in the first place, Father? Why not just deny it all?’

‘Because I couldn’t see you in gaol, Gregory. Dear Christ, don’t you realise? I know all about you, you’re my son. My son! I knew you killed them both. I couldn’t see why, but you were obviously guilty. If they’d arrested you instead of me, you would be dead by now!’

‘But I had nothing to do with any of it, Father. Please believe me: I didn’t kill them.’

Henry stared at him, and in his eyes Gregory saw his own despair mirrored perfectly.

‘You mean I did all this for nothing?’ he said brokenly. ‘Sweet Jesus!’

Paffards’ House

John was in his buttery, but he could not settle.

It was most curious. Since the deaths of Alice and Juliana he had felt a kind of heightened tension, as though his life was edging towards its climax. A not unpleasant feeling. He had lived a good life, after all. A life of service and duty, which meant much. There were so many who sought only their own self-advancement, through corruption or theft. He was proud to be different.

The air was warm, and he took off his heavy robe, setting it on his hook. As he did so, his keys were pulled from his belt, and he took them up, placing them on the protruding peg in the wall. He often rested them here – it was a convenient place so he wouldn’t forget them.

Then he eased himself down on his stool, back against the wall, legs on a small cask, and closed his eyes. He did feel enormously tired today. A rest would not hurt . . .

High Street

‘Why are we here?’ Simon asked as Baldwin and he walked to the Guild Hall and entered, Sir Richard following.

‘There must be some reason for Henry Paffard to have confessed to two murders that he did not commit,’ Baldwin said. ‘If we can find out why he would do such a thing, that motive may itself help us with resolving these matters.’

‘Go on,’ Sir Richard boomed, gazing about him with approval.

‘If he was protecting his son, for example,’ Baldwin said. ‘If his son were to confess, that would lead to a speedy resolution.’

‘Seems unlikely to me,’ Sir Richard decided. ‘The man is typical of a newly rich merchant – a nasty piece of work and dishonest too: little better than a picklock. The sort of churl who will only speak when his clerk’s beside him counting the number of words so they can charge later.’

Baldwin grinned, then: ‘You don’t think he would be loyal to his son? Paternal love is a force in its own right, after all.’

‘From the look of him, no,’ Sir Richard said bluntly. ‘He struck me more the type who’d stab his own son if he thought he could sell the skin to a tanner for tuppence.’

‘I wonder . . .’ Baldwin said. ‘I have known men like this before, and while they show little affection in public, in private they can be as devoted as any.’

‘Even men as stiff and unbending as that prick Henry? You saw how he was just now.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said simply. A clerk in a corner of the main hall directed the three to a house a few doors along the High Street. At one side of it was a shop – clearly successful from the number of men standing at the wares. Beside this broad front was a dark door, where Baldwin knocked; a maid ushered them into a large room.

This was a modern house filled with all the trappings of wealth. The timbers were new, the oak a shining gold, the daub all limewashed until it sparkled, while on one wall a series of paintings showed the religious sensitivities of the owner. A large sideboard was filled with silver and pewter, and the glass in the window showed how the owner could afford the best. Not for him mere waxed sheets. He had paid a plumber to fit the glass together to stop the draughts.

When he entered, it was to this panel of bright glass that he walked, as though to ensure that they all noticed how splendid his house was.

He was a short man, but very lithe and taut as a bowstring, Simon thought. With his rich tunic and coat with fur at throat and hem, he could have been a lord, especially with the jewelled rings at his fingers. He had a narrow, contemplative face, under grey hair, with kindly eyes set deeply, and he looked like someone who would be hard to shock or even surprise. His complexion was slightly pale, as though he was recovering from a malady, but there was no shaking or tension in him.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ he said with a short bow.

‘Master Chepman. I hope I find you well?’

‘As well as can be hoped with the state of the kingdom,’ the merchant replied. ‘How may I help you?’

Simon remembered meeting this man some years before, during the Christmas celebrations, but it was clear that life had been kind to him since then. When Simon met him last, Luke Chepman had been setting out as a new member of the Freedom. Now, he gathered, Chepman was one of the four stewards. As such he was one of the most powerful businessmen in the city. There were few who wielded as much authority.

‘We are here about Henry Paffard, Master Chepman.’

‘Oh, yes. An unpleasant character. Did he really kill those women?’

‘He says he did.’

‘I know. That wasn’t what I asked,’ Chepman said with a thin smile.

He went on to tell them all he knew. ‘I have never liked Henry. He is one of those men who tempts you to count your fingers after shaking hands. Exceedingly ruthless, even for a merchant used to dealing overseas. Such men have to be used to negotiate with some of our most difficult clients – but in his case, he would always appear to strive to get the better of a man for no other reason, I believe, than to demonstrate his own superiority. How often would a merchant ask to be reimbursed for the cost of candles while tallying his cargo! Henry did that to me once. Only once, mind,’ Chepman said with a small smile. ‘Besides, I am fortunate in that I am rich enough now to be able to ignore men like him. But he is clearly in real trouble this time. Murder is a serious business.’

‘He confessed.’

‘Which did surprise me. The Freedom would have done all it could to protect him.’

‘Would it still?’

Chepman smiled again, but there was a depth of cynicism in his eyes. ‘Sir Baldwin, would you defend a man who told you that he had killed your wife? No. Juliana, whom he claims to have killed, was the widow of a friend of Paffard’s. Nicholas Marsille was not so very competent at his trades, but he was a man of his word, and respected. Their family was popular, and it was a shock when Marsille died suddenly.’

‘How did he die?’

‘There was no foul play, if that is what you mean! He saw a woman drop a babe into the road, and being Nicholas, he wanted to help. A horse was coming close, and Nicholas leaped into the brute’s path to save the child. As a result, he was himself killed. It was just an unfortunate accident.’

‘But little remained of his estate to pass on?’

‘There were many who were prepared to help the family, naturally. But Nicholas had long worked with Henry Paffard, and when he died, Henry volunteered to help. He said that he would see to all their debts. And he did. He arranged for all Nicholas’s debts and outstanding payments to be paid. Some, no doubt, tried to take more money than they were entitled to. I know that Henry tried to protect Juliana and the others from that. I saw men who were prevented.’

‘But you had suspicions, from what you say?’

‘Nothing firm. But the family seemed to lose all their treasure. And now they are living on the charity of the Paffards. To me, it seems curious.’

‘So you believe that Henry Paffard took their money deliberately to rob them.’

Chepman shrugged. ‘Sir Baldwin, this is the purest speculation, of course.’

‘And let me speculate further. You think that he might have admitted he killed the women because he was ashamed and felt his guilt?’

‘No – I doubt he was at all worried about them. I don’t believe he feels any guilt about the fate of the Marsilles,’ Chepman said, and coldness had crept into his voice. ‘I think that the whole idea of guilt is hard for him to comprehend. No, he confessed because he felt it was just another deal and he expected to escape. He never thought the great Henry Paffard would remain in prison.’

‘But he would have to!’ Simon expostulated. ‘How could he think he would get away with this?’

Chepman looked at him. ‘An example would be Sir Hugh le Despenser: he was guilty of stealing from people for many years, Master Puttock, and he carried on doing so, without concealing his thefts, and without any punishment. I do not doubt that Henry Paffard believed he could get away with it too.’