City of Fiends

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Paffards’ House

Sir Charles saw the little gegge take off again, and he gave chase with a grim determination. If the bratchet got to the road, young as he was, he could call the Hue and Cry, and Sir Charles had had enough of running. He sprang over the body of the maid he had struck, and ran into the house again, past the rooms and into the kitchen, where the cook stood at the far end, a heavy knife in one hand, a cleaver in the other. She looked pale and slightly waxen as she stared at him with determination, but said nothing.

He was frozen for a moment. Then, ‘If you try to leave the house I will kill you, woman,’ he snarled, and carried on along the passageway. There was a wailing sound; it came from upstairs. With a smile fitted to his face, he went to the stairs and climbed as silently as possible. The steps were of wood, great square sections cut diagonally and pegged to a pair of flat sheets behind. They were immense and solid, and there was no squeak or creak to give him away as he ascended cautiously to the upper passage. There he stood a moment, listening. There was a scuffling sound at the front of the house, and he made his way there, stepping slowly and carefully. A board moved under his foot, and he heard a piercing screech as it rubbed against a wooden peg, and at the same time, all noise in front of him ceased.

There came the sound of a shutter sliding down its runners, and Sir Charles ran on into the room. At the far side, he saw Thomas, standing at the open window in the bedroom, the large bed against the wall on the left.

‘Away from the window, boy,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to shout, because I’ll throw you out if you do. I won’t have that.’

Thomas clung to the string that held the shutter in its place, and stared wide-eyed at the man who approached him, step by careful step.

The little fool must have been soft-minded, Sir Charles thought to himself.

‘Now, little man, you need to tell me something. Your father was looking after money for me. I have to have it to take it to some friends. Can you tell me where he kept his money? He told me it was in the hall downstairs, but the cupboard is empty. I don’t know where else it might have been moved.’

Thomas shook his head.

‘It is all right, boy. It is my money. Your father was looking after it for me.’

He was almost at the boy now, and he made a quick lunge, but even as he did so there came a red-hot searing pain in his right flank.

‘God’s cods!’ he roared. He darted away and turned, expecting to see a man with a sword. Instead it was a woman. ‘You stupid bitch!’ he snarled, and drew his sword.

He knew her. It was the pathetic lurdan of a wife of Henry Paffard. She had got her husband’s sword from somewhere . . . Sweet mother of God, but she’d struck well, just as he was bending over – and the thrust had slipped up above his hip and into his guts. He knew from experience that wounds in the belly would often go rotten and lead to an agonising death. She would pay for this!

The boy was shrieking and squealing. It was not to be borne! He aimed a blow at the boy’s head, but missed, and he knew in that moment that he had only a short time. Glancing down, he saw that blood had already stained the whole of his side and thigh, and he could hear a rushing sound in his ears. ‘Damn your noise, boy!’ he rasped, and as she stabbed at him, he knocked her blade away, thrusting forward at her. But his strength was leaving him, he knew. He caught something, but it may have been just her gown, untied as it was. He felt his blade catch, and then he saw her move away again, and he was left standing, panting, while she moved to the door, the sword in both hands, pointing at his belly.

He couldn’t run. Not now. But he wouldn’t surrender.

She called to the boy, and Sir Charles found his head was falling as Thomas edged around him, eyes fixed and terrified. He felt tired. Must have been that run here from East Gate, he thought to himself. And then his eye caught sight of the blood on his leg, and he remembered he had been stabbed.

Looking up, the woman was at the door, holding out her hand to the boy.

With a last effort, Sir Charles grabbed for Thomas and pulled him to his side. He held the sword’s point to Thomas’s throat. ‘You have killed me, woman,’ he hissed. ‘Now I shall kill your boy.’

Combe Street

Baldwin and Simon pushed John away from the bodies of Father Laurence and Philip. Both were dead.

William crouched in the dirt, tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at his brother. He would have fallen on his brother’s breast, but the sightless eyes made him pause. There was something that was not of his brother in them, as though his brother’s body had been emptied of all Philip’s soul and was now filled with a demon instead. It was Philip no more. Even his corpse had been stolen from him.

With an inarticulate bellow, he sprang up and ran barehanded at Gregory.

He was arrested in his onward rush. An arm went about his chest and swung him backwards off his feet. He could only lie on the ground next to his brother, retching as he tried desperately to catch his breath.

Before him, when he managed to gather his courage and his spirits, he saw Gregory sniggering. William tried to clamber to his feet, to leap at him again, but a boot was placed on his chest and pushed him back.

‘Get off me!’

‘Speak respectfully, boy,’ Baldwin said. ‘You are captured. Calm yourself, because I will not allow you to rise until you are calm.’

‘I will avenge my brother!’ William said, trying to shove the boot away, but he stopped at the sight and feel of the peacock-blue blade that rested so lightly upon his Adam’s apple. He swallowed, and felt the steel prick his skin.

‘You will stay there, William, until I have decided what to do with you. Master Paffard, would you object to asking one of your servants or an apprentice to go and seek the Coroner? With luck he will not be far away.’

‘With all my heart,’ Gregory said, and strode towards his house.

‘Now, Master William, you may rise. Don’t roll that way, the last horse left evidence of his passing. There, that’s better. Now – up, please, and clean yourself.’

His calm manner, both respectful and magisterial, was enough to make William nod and obey. ‘I won’t try to kill him now.’

‘Nor at any other time, I hope,’ Baldwin said. He still held his sword, but less threateningly. ‘What was this about?’

‘We learned today that the Paffards had stolen our inheritance. That’s why we’ve had to scrimp and save as best we could. Our house had to go, not because of debts, but because we were robbed. Those people in there have taken everything we had, and now they have even taken my mother and Philip.’

His eyes filled with tears as he looked at his brother’s body.

‘What do you have to say, bottler?’

John looked at him and said truculently, ‘I saw a man trying to attack my mistress’s son. What else should I do, sir? I stopped him.’

‘With an axe,’ Baldwin noted. He glanced at John’s belt. ‘You never wear a knife, do you?’

‘I have little need. All my knives are in the house. Who would try to attack me, or rob me?’ he sneered. ‘Now, can I go?’

‘You just killed a man,’ Baldwin said.

‘In protecting another. You saw that. Philip Marsille was attacking Master Gregory. You saw him move forwards and try to slay Master Gregory.’

‘Yes. I would have used the back of the axe to hit him and stop him, however,’ Baldwin said. ‘There was no need to kill him.’

‘Perhaps you are more experienced in such affairs.’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin agreed.

‘It’s not fair,’ William said. ‘Philip was only trying to avenge us. They robbed us of everything. All we had, they took from us. It’s not justice that Philip was killed.’

‘It’s not justice?’ Simon shouted. ‘There’s a dead priest there, boy, that is not justice! Your brother behaved like a felon, and he paid the price here on earth. You have to pray that a priest will perform the last rites over him and save his soul, because otherwise he’s beyond salvation!’

‘God wouldn’t punish him for an accident. And Laurence died happily. He was miserable.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, Philip thought he was a sodomite with Gregory, but Laurence loved Agatha. He said so as he died. It was the last thing he said. And Gregory couldn’t even leave that. He had to taunt Philip even with that.’

‘I heard,’ Simon said. He looked over to where Gregory had returned and stood contemplating the two bodies in the roadway. ‘You! Paffard! Come here.’

‘Why? Do you wish to take my words already? Shouldn’t we wait for the Coroner?’

Baldwin said, ‘We shall hear your testimony as soon as the Coroner arrives, but there’s no point in standing out here. William, and you, Gregory, come into the house now.’

The bottler looked as though he was about to refuse entry to William, but all were startled by the sound of Thomas’s voice, overhead, screaming high and shrill.

Paffards’ House

The room was whirling slowly. It was just as Sir Charles remembered when he was young, and very drunk. In those days, to shut his eyes had been hazardous, and now the same sensations were assailing him. And he was so very tired.

‘Move. Out of the way, woman,’ he said, his words slurred.

She stood with her sword ready, but in her eyes there was only terror for her son. ‘Leave him – take me,’ she entreated. ‘He’s so little.’

‘He’s more valuable than you,’ Sir Charles said. He moved around her, so his back was to the door, and then made his way, step by halting step, along the corridor. ‘Don’t forget, I can stab quick as a snake, and he’s dead. You can do nothing to stop me. One mistaken move, woman, and you lose your son.’

He was almost at the stairs, when he heard the running boots below, and he felt a small thrill to know that this was finally his end. They wouldn’t let him leave. Casting about him at the hall, he noted the woodwork. It was good workmanship, he thought dreamily. Perhaps if he had been trained as a carpenter, he would have been happier: with a skill that did not involve fighting, with a livelihood that did not depend upon killing.

He stood with his back to the wall as Baldwin came rushing up the stairs. Mistress Paffard was still to his right. ‘Mistress, please have your son back,’ he rasped. The pain in his side was growing. It was as if the whole of his right side had been seared in a forge, and it felt worse inside than out. He was dying, he knew, but he also knew it could take hours of agony.

‘Sir Charles, please submit,’ Baldwin said.

‘Sir Baldwin, I have known happy times with you,’ Sir Charles said. ‘From Galicia, to the Isle of Ennor, to Cornwall, we were companions for many miles. I think you know me well enough to know I will not throw down my weapon. It’s not my way.’

‘Nevertheless, as Keeper of the King’s Peace, I demand that you yield.’

‘Damn you!’ Sir Charles managed, and smiled. It was easier to do that than to lift his sword. He used both hands, and charged at Sir Baldwin.

Baldwin stepped to the side and as Sir Charles ran on, Baldwin thrust his sword forwards and up, so that the point entered Sir Charles’s neck just above the collar of his tunic, and the blow pierced his spine. His body clattered to the ground at Baldwin’s feet.

Paffards’ House

They congregated in the hall while the jury arrived to view the bodies. There was a subdued atmosphere, and Baldwin was as aware of it as any. He had another man’s blood on his hands now. There had been many times in the past when he had been forced to kill a man, but rarely had he been so aware of the shame that came with a killing. Sir Charles had not been a threat to anyone, he was sure. The man was already more than half-dead.

‘Are you all right?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin glanced up. He had been staring at his sword, which was wiped clean of Sir Charles’s blood, but which he had not resheathed since the short fight. ‘Yes. Only regretful that another man had to die.’

‘There have been too many already,’ Simon said. ‘Still, I think Sir Charles was glad it was you. He knew you wouldn’t miss.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘He certainly did not try to protect himself. Even a child could have done more to parry my effort.’

‘He didn’t want to,’ Simon said.

Baldwin had not considered that. It was some sort of relief to think that the man had been willing to see Baldwin as the agent of his death. And a responsibility, too.

A knocking at the door caused him to look up. The familiar bellowing voice could not be mistaken, and a short while later Sir Richard was in the hall with them.

‘Well, Sir Baldwin, I think we are closer to the truth about Paffard now,’ he said when he heard that Sir Charles was dead. ‘This feller went to the gaol, and there he managed to murder Henry Paffard. Aye, I am sorry, Mistress Paffard, but he had to silence your man. Paffard himself was giving information to Sir Charles. It was his messages told Sir Charles where the Bishop was goin’ to be. That’s how he knew to kill him. From what we heard, it was their plan to liberate the Bishop’s treasure and gold to help the Dunheved brothers and Sir Edward of Caernarfon. That much money would buy them a lot of support.’

Baldwin nodded. It was a simple enough plan, but could have been strikingly effective. If the money had been successfully brought to the Dunheveds, it would have purchased them many more men.

‘What now?’ Simon said.

Baldwin sighed. ‘It will take time to document all that has happened today.’

Sir Richard sucked on his teeth. ‘I think you should be cautious before writing anything down. If news of Paffard and Sir Charles’s plan was to become common currency, there could be repercussions. With a new Sheriff needed, we could have a hard man placed here, charged with cowing the city to ensure that no similar plots could be entertained. I would think it’d be safer to forget much of what has happened.’

‘If the Coroner is in agreement,’ Baldwin said. ‘I shall ask him.’

Sir Richard nodded and then, his expression softening, he gestured towards Wolf. ‘You ought to be careful there, Baldwin. Before long, you will lose your hound, at this rate.’

‘I think that boy is desperate for a dog of his own,’ Baldwin agreed.

In the corner of the room, Wolf was sitting very upright, Thomas before him, and Wolf’s paw on Thomas’s shoulder. As Baldwin watched, his dog very gently bent his head and rested it on the boy’s shoulder, his mouth working quietly.

‘That’s his sign of highest affection,’ Baldwin noted. ‘He can give no higher praise.’

‘I’m sure that the boy will be most grateful,’ Simon said drily.

Baldwin grinned, and then walked over to the boy. Wolf looked up, and would have gone to Baldwin, but he held up a hand and frowned briefly, which was enough to make Wolf remain where he was. ‘You like my dog?’

Thomas shot him a look very quickly, then hid his face in Wolf’s neck.

‘He’s a good fellow. Brave, but kind. It’s what I always look for in a dog, whatever the type. Have you never had a dog?’

‘No.’ Claricia walked over and lifted her child. ‘My family hasn’t had dogs. Henry didn’t care for them.’

Thomas was silent. He was still remembering the man who had caught him, who had held him so tightly. And then, he also remembered that horrible skeletal smile under the shed.

‘There’s a dead man under the shed,’ he said. ‘I thought it was trying to hold me there with it, Mother. I was so scared!’ And he burst into tears.

‘What?’ Claricia asked. She tried to pull him away, but he clung on tightly. ‘What did you say?’

‘Out at the yard, where the shed is – a skeleton. I was hiding there, and I felt this hand on my leg, Mother, and I was scared, really scared!’

She stared at the men in the room. There was a silence, and Baldwin sheathed his sword. ‘Master Thomas, could you show us where this was, if we come with you?’