City of Fiends

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Paffards’ House

Baldwin and Simon took hold of John’s arms and took him out through the house to the front door. In the hall, Simon saw the figure of Claricia sitting on a chair near the dead fire, Thomas still in her arms.

Closely followed by Sir Richard and the other members of their party, they went out, through the front door, and into the street.

It was early evening, and the scent of woodsmoke was all around. Simon snuffed the air, feeling as though a great weight had fallen from him. To be out of that house was a marvellous feeling. It was as though the walls themselves were permeated with misery.

‘Baldwin, I don’t ever want to go back there.’

‘I do not blame you for that.’

‘It is a good house,’ John said. He was walking resolutely, his head up, looking about him like a man who was at ease with himself and off for a walk on a pleasant evening, enjoying the sights and scents about his home.

‘It was,’ Sir Richard corrected him. ‘Until you decided to kill all the servants.’

‘I only sought to protect my mistress. I was always a most devoted servant.’

‘Aye. I believe devoted servants can be the most dangerous of all,’ Sir Richard said.

‘You make fun of me?’

‘No. There is nothing amusing about this situation. You have brought ruin upon your house, but no more than your master. Henry Paffard has done as much.’

‘He was a fool,’ John scoffed, ‘to think that he could forever get away with his behaviour. No man can own all the women in a city, but he seemed to think it was possible.’

They were already at the end of the street, and Baldwin pulled John with him down towards the church by the South Gate. Baldwin opened the door, and they all passed inside. Baldwin and Simon remained at the rear with their prisoner and the watchman, while Sir Reginald walked up the nave towards the figure of Father Paul kneeling at the altar. Sir Reginald clearly his throat gently, to indicate that the Father had company.

‘Yes? What can I do for you?’ Father Paul asked tiredly, breaking off from his prayers.

He was not feeling well, and now he was seized with a great emptiness and sorrow. The death of Father Laurence had quite shaken him. He had thought that God’s will should be visible all about, but the events of the last week had disturbed his equilibrium, and just now he was less sure of his faith than he had ever been.

‘Father, we need you to let this man put his hand on the Gospels and swear to tell us the truth.’

‘Why? Why do you need to know the truth? The truth is, good men have died!’ Father Paul said with great bitterness.

‘Father, you are unsettled,’ Baldwin said kindly. ‘We will leave you and find another priest. I am sorry to have troubled you.’

‘You haven’t troubled me. It’s my good friend Laurence. His death was so pointless.’

‘He tried to save Gregory Paffard’s life,’ Baldwin said.

‘For what? Why should God allow Laurence to die like that so that another may live? Who is to say that the saved man is more worthy than Father Laurence?’

‘Not I, Father – and yet God did. Who are we to assess His means or His plans?’

Father Paul stood. ‘You speak truth. But I don’t know that I can work towards His aims any more. I am too tired of this world and the endless battles.’

He took up a volume of rough-edged pages, and holding it carefully in both hands, walked up to them. ‘So, then, John,’ he said, and held out the book. ‘Put your hand on it.’

‘I swear I shall tell the whole truth,’ John said.

‘Begin,’ Sir Reginald commanded.

Cock Inn

Bydaud drank well in the Cock that night. He was feeling cheerful. More men had come and demanded his services, and whereas a week ago he had been close to bankruptcy, now he was being feted by many of the richer elements of the mercantile class in the city. There were risks, as he knew. A man’s reputation could be destroyed as swiftly as it could be built, usually more easily, too. And those who were even now keen to establish links with him because of the destruction of the House of Paffard, would be just as keen to discard him and go to a newer, fresher face. There was no loyalty in business. Only self-interest.

But he would not consider the possible pitfalls ahead. He was enjoying himself now, for the first time in many weeks, and he intended to make the most of it. He had seen the group of men bringing John from the Paffards’ house, and he was sure that it boded well for him. Paffard was over and done with.

Still, he must return to his wife and see what she had prepared for his meal. He finished his drink, slammed some coins down on the bar, and made his way homewards.

There was a crowd gathering outside, and he wandered through them all, beaming beatifically. The world, to him, had a roseate hue tonight after a half gallon of the Cock’s best ale. It was only a miracle that an alehouse of that nature could brew their ales so well. They had the same ingredients, so he imagined, as most others, and yet there was a sweetness and maltiness to theirs that quite outstripped all the others he had tasted in the last year.

As he went along the street towards his home, he gradually became aware of a shouting from behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that there were more and more men following along behind him. At least thirty, although his eyes were a little hazy. He wondered what they could be doing out here, before he realised that the leading men were the two whom he had seen the other night at the Paffards’ house. One still had his forearm bound with a piece of filthy cloth where John’s hatchet had opened it. Bydaud could see it quite clearly by the light of the flaming torch the man held in his good hand.

There was nothing in the way of firewood here for them to light, he thought to himself, so what could they be intending to do? And then he realised that they were set upon the destruction of Henry Paffard’s house!

With a squeak, he set off homewards as fast as his legs would take him. These men had tried to break into the Paffards’ house only two days before, and tonight they looked as though they intended to finish their job.

‘Oh, Christ Jesus!’ he muttered to himself, and was for a moment nonplussed. Should he go home, or fetch the Watch? Home, of course. He couldn’t leave Emma and the girls all alone with this mob. He hurried his steps, and then, as he ran up the alley, he saw William.

‘Quick, please, go to the Holy Trinity, fetch the Watch and those knights,’ he panted. ‘These fools may try to burn the house again, and we’ll lose the whole street!’

Church of the Holy Trinity

Baldwin and the others had already heard John’s confession regarding the two maids Clara and Evie, and how he had killed Alice and Juliana Marsille, but now he began to talk about Gregory and Agatha. Baldwin listened for only a short time, before deciding he needed hear no more.

‘Simon, I cannot listen to this,’ he muttered, and Simon nodded and left with him. Sir Richard and Edgar joined them.

‘A shameful business,’ Sir Richard said as they stood outside the church.

‘I am shocked to hear it,’ Simon said gruffly. ‘The idea of incest is not unknown in some of the farther distant valleys near Cornwall, but here, in a Christian city?’

Sir Richard eyed him with a benevolent smile. ‘Me dear fellow, there is nothing you can find happening in the most pagan of lands which ain’t goin’ on in the middle of the biggest cities in this kingdom. Wasn’t it you told me of the necromancer trying to kill the King by stabbing pins into a wax figure? At least incest doesn’t normally end a man’s life, eh?’

‘Clearly the boy Thomas has seen something of it, from the way he hid from his brother and sister,’ Baldwin hazarded. ‘It is sad to think that his own innocence has been shattered in this way.’

‘Aye,’ Sir Richard said, and would have continued, had not Simon pointed up the road. ‘What is that up there? It looks like the boy William.’

William ran up and drew to a stop, pointing back the way he had come. ‘Please! There is an angry mob outside the house again. They look as if they’re going to set fire to it!’

They could all hear the sound of chanting and singing, and a sudden bellowing. ‘Come!’ shouted Baldwin.

The street was already in an uproar by the time they reached it.

Simon found himself looking at the men and women of the mob. ‘Baldwin, I don’t like this. It is too much like London last year. And Bristol when the city was under siege.’

‘There are only forty or fifty men,’ Baldwin noted.

‘Forty or fifty swords could make me lose a lot of weight,’ Sir Richard considered. A man walked near him with a torch, and Sir Richard took it from his hand. He gave the stunned reveller a beaming smile and walked on, leaving the man bemused. ‘Come along, then, before they get rowdy.’

‘Rowdy?’ Simon repeated, gazing about him at the men.

The two men at the front of the crowd were rousing the worst elements into a frenzy of hatred towards the Paffard family.

‘Look what they did to me!’

The ragged slashes inflicted by John were displayed to increasing anger amongst the people there.

‘Come along, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Richard boomed fussily. He pushed his way onwards, and the others followed in his wake like small boats trailing behind a ship. The people parted for them, until they were in the front. And Sir Richard did not hesitate, but carried on up the steps to the door. ‘You fellows know who lives here? Aye, I thought you did. He is dead. He was killed this afternoon. All there are in here are the womenfolk of the house, and the children. Are you all bold enough to make war on women and children? Come, now. Disperse before the Watch is called to you.’

‘We want them out, and then we’ll fire their house!’ the man with the cut arm yelled.

Sir Richard cast an eye over him. ‘Edgar, do you think you could silence him?’

Edgar nodded and moved off while the man continued haranguing the crowds. Simon watched him uneasily, while the two knights moved together slightly. Wolf was with Baldwin, his hackles rising.

There was a roar from the people, and the man before them raised his injured arm again with a fierce yell. He pointed at the house. ‘So, let’s get at them!’ he screamed, but as he turned to rush the house, he found himself staring into Edgar’s smiling face.

The man raised his fist to punch Edgar, but Edgar was a trained fighter. The punch he landed on the man’s chin hurled him backwards a yard. He looked bewildered at the force of the blow, and shook his head like a drunk trying to clear the wool from his wits, while two others supported him, and then he was about to lunge at Edgar when there was a sudden lull.

Simon turned to see that the front door had opened. In it stood Claricia Paffard. She was clad in a white linen tunic that made her look otherworldly in the light of the torches, almost like an angel. At her side was Thomas. Her head was encased in a tight cowl, and she looked at the people filling the street with a kind of wonder. ‘What do you want with me?’

There was a stillness. The man Edgar had hit was feeling his chin with a look of bewilderment, and others were shamefaced. It was one thing to attack a building, but quite another to hurt women and small boys. At the back, Simon saw two men look at each other and turn away. Hopefully more would soon disperse, and the matter could be forgotten. It was only fortunate that they had come out of the church in time to prevent a serious attack, he thought.

And then Gregory appeared. ‘What do you want with us?’ he demanded imperiously. ‘Do you think you can attack us because my father has died? I will have my place in the Freedom before long, and when I do, I’ll see to it that each and every one of you here tonight is punished.’

Simon could have cursed the fool. His words were inciting the crowd to violence even more efficiently than the rabble-rouser in front of Edgar. Shooting a look at Baldwin, Simon could see that he too recognised the danger, and was urgently indicating to Sir Richard that they should push the boy inside.

There was a stone flung, which crashed into the wall near Gregory’s head. All at once, Gregory’s face changed, as though he suddenly realised his danger. Another stone was thrown, and it smashed into his shoulder, making him lurch backwards. He gave a cry, and Claricia turned to reach for him. Before she could do so, however, Edgar had swept her off her feet, and drew her away with Thomas.

And that was when the crowd surged forward. Baldwin and Sir Richard were thrust aside, Baldwin knocked from his feet before he could draw steel, and Sir Richard took up his position above him, his own sword in his fist, saving Baldwin from being trampled. Simon managed to push his way to the side of Sir Richard, and clasped Baldwin’s forearm, lifting him from the ground. Then all three, with their weapons ready, tried to make their way to the doorway, but could not beat their way through the press.

Gregory had disappeared. Simon hoped he had made his way inside, but could not be sure. There was the sound of breaking wood, and then hammering as the mob tried to break into the house. Simon saw a section of the wall to the side of the door gave way under the efforts of six men with hammers and picks.

Uppermost in Simon’s mind was Agatha. She was only a young woman, and with a drunken throng like this, she would certainly be in danger. It was unthinkable that a girl so much younger than his own dear daughter Edith could be left to fend for herself against so many, and he shoved his way towards the hole in the house wall.

Someone had clambered inside and removed the door’s bar, and now it was thrust wide, and there was a shout of victory as men tumbled in. Simon was among them, and he ran ahead hoping that he might reach the girl before the crowd. He was the seventh man to hurtle along the passageway, but then, when he reached the hall, he saw it was too late.

Agatha and Gregory lay on the floor, entwined in a pool of their own mingled blood.