City of Fiends

CHAPTER TWENTY

Paffards’ House

Claricia was startled as the door opened, but it was only Gregory with Agatha. The two had taken to walking about the house together, and Claricia thought it was good to see them getting on so well. They were very close.

‘Mother, are you all right?’ Agatha asked.

‘Yes, of course I am. What a silly question!’

‘You looked so anxious just then.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all,’ she said with a firmness she didn’t feel. It was impossible to share her concerns with her children. She could never confide in them. Not ever. ‘Where is Thomas?’

‘You know what he’s like these days,’ Gregory said shortly. ‘Probably skulking in his room.’

Claricia felt her brow furrow. The little boy was so unhappy now.

It had started pretty much the day that Alice had died, and he had remained in the depths of misery ever since. Alice had been his favourite among the servants because she always played with him, no matter what. It was easy for them both. Thomas could take time from his tutor when he wanted, and Alice could play because she knew full well that no one would dare tell her off. Not while Henry was sharing her bed. ‘You should try to talk to him,’ she said. ‘He needs someone to take an interest in him.’

‘Like Father’s next wench?’ Agatha said cynically. She walked into the hall and perched on the table. ‘We all know what Father’s doing, Mother. We heard him last night going to Joan’s room. I’ll bet she never thought that when Alice was gone, she’d have to take over Alice’s extra duties, did she? Poor chit, there she was, probably jealous of Alice’s easy chores during the day, and all the time not realising that she’d be called upon to perform herself, were Alice to disappear.’

‘You mustn’t talk like that about your father!’ Claricia said, scandalised.

‘Why ever not, Mother?’ Gregory was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, eyeing his fingernails. He put a finger in his mouth, running the nail over a tooth to clean it. ‘Hmm? We all know that our blessed father is fornicating with the maids. He exercises his droit de seigneur as he wishes. And there is nothing you or we can do to stop him, but that doesn’t mean we have to pretend it doesn’t happen. Did you hear Joan weeping late last night? We did.’

‘You should tell him he must stop, Mother,’ Agatha said angrily. ‘You cannot let him keep insulting you in this way. It’s demeaning to us as well as you.’

‘What can I do? This is his house. I am his, you are his. We have no rights.’

‘What of Joan?’ Agatha demanded.

‘She can leave if she wishes. But while she remains within the house, she is under the patronage of your father. He can treat her as he sees fit.’

‘He doesn’t have the right to rape her, Mother. Not under the law. If he were denounced to the Church, he would be-’

‘Don’t even think of such a thing!’ Claricia said. She closed her eyes in terror.

The first time she had raised the subject with Henry was also the last time. He had been drunk, and it had been days before she could walk without pain.

Continuing, her voice scarcely more than a whisper, she said, ‘You know how he treats me when I displease him. If you were to speak to the priest, he would blame me and beat me again. Please, don’t do anything that could tempt him to do that again.’

‘Mother, I don’t want to, but nor do I wish to see you suffering like this,’ Agatha said. She was a resolute young woman, and there was a light in her eye that Claricia recognised: determination.

‘For God’s sake, Agatha, don’t antagonise him,’ she pleaded.

‘He destroys all he touches,’ Gregory said. He eyed her dispassionately. ‘How many other people do you want him to hurt?’

‘He is your father. You must not disgrace the family.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Gregory suddenly burst out, and to her shock, there were tears in his eyes. He was always quite emotional, but this was somehow more alarming than his usual little tirades.

He stood stock-still for a moment, his entire being focused on her, and then he seemed to sag, and he turned away from her.

‘This is what he’s doing to us, Mother,’ Agatha hissed. She walked to Gregory’s side, put her arm about his neck, pulling his head to her shoulder. ‘This is what he’s doing: he’s destroying us all with his moods and his despotism. This isn’t normal. He isn’t normal. One day, if we aren’t careful, he’ll kill us. And I don’t want to die like that.’

Marsilles’ House

William looked up as his mother came in. ‘Well? Did you get yourself thrown from his door?’

‘William, don’t be so silly.’

She had a fretful look in her eyes, and William tried to sound reassuring. ‘Don’t worry, Mother. We will find somewhere else to live. It won’t be impossible. We must pack and-’

‘No. We don’t pack. We aren’t leaving here.’

‘But John said-’

‘I’ve spoken to Henry. He will see me tonight. Until then, he won’t evict us – and he won’t afterwards, either.’

‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘I have secret information that will make him want to keep us here,’ she said. And although she was worried, she was convincing.

‘What do you know?’

‘Something about his boy. His son. And he won’t want it bruited about the city,’ she said grimly.

Precentor’s House

Simon was glad to leave the atmosphere of the house. Coming out, he saw that the Close was already filling with men and women from the city.

‘It’s started, then,’ he commented.

‘Eh?’ Sir Richard eyed the crowds with mild interest.

All these people are here to view the Bishop’s body. The clergy will have to get it ready as soon as possible,’ Simon said. Some would be coming to pay their respects, some so they could say that they had seen his body, while others were coming out of simple loyalty to their lord. James of Berkeley had been a kindly, popular Bishop in the short time he had been here at Exeter. People appeared to have developed a genuine affection for him that was unusual for a man in such a remote position.

‘Look at them all,’ Simon said. ‘They’re queuing all the way to the Broad Gate, and with that lot up there, you can bet St Petrock’s will be impassable too.’

‘Let us go out by the Bear Gate,’ Baldwin suggested.

There was a rumble as Sir Richard cleared his throat. ‘I would think the Palace Gate would be well enough for us. And we could call in at the Cock on the way for an ale.’

Baldwin winced, and the sight brought a smirk to Simon’s face. He had often been forced to accompany Sir Richard on his forays into alehouses and taverns, and Baldwin had routinely found Simon’s suffering the following mornings to be hilarious. It was, Simon felt, a joy and a justice to see that Baldwin himself was at last paying the price of Sir Richard’s friendship.

‘Yes!’ Simon said. ‘Let’s go and see the inn. I have a happy memory of the place.’

‘Should we not go to your daughter’s to let her know what is happening here?’ Baldwin said hopefully.

‘Ah, if you wish you may send Edgar to let her know,’ Simon said with a mischievous grin. ‘After all, we ought to speak to others at the inn to see if they too heard anything on Saturday night, or if they have any more information about the girl who died.’

‘I would have thought we spoke to all of them before,’ Baldwin grumbled, but he gave in with a bad grace, and walked with them to the Cock.

It was less packed than on their last visit, and as they entered, the maid Poll who had served them last night came to them, wiping her hands on her towel. It was bound about her waist with a cord to serve as an apron, but it was so discoloured by spills of food and ale that its original colour could only be guessed at.

‘What can I fetch you, gentles?’

Sir Richard gave her his most dazzling smile. ‘Maid, I think we should have a quart jug each of your best strong ale.’

Combe Street

Juliana disliked doing this, but she had no other option open to her, since Henry Paffard had threatened her with eviction.

Poor Nicholas. She missed her husband every single day. They had been that rare thing, a couple who were actually in love. It warmed her heart to see him smile. It was a slow smile, a lazy smile . . . she had never been able to resist him when he smiled at her.

At least she had been lucky enough to know Nicholas and enjoy him. He had given her Philip and William, and that alone was a comfort in those terrible days after his death.

Philip tried to be strong, but he was not the man his father had been. Nicholas had built his business from nothing, and Philip didn’t have the wits to do that. His plans were hopeless. If they had to rely on Philip, disaster would surely follow.

No. It was better that she took charge. She would do anything for the protection of her family.

Even blackmail.

She turned down the alley off Combe Street; he had agreed to meet her before curfew.

It was dark, with tall houses shadowing the pathway. Ahead rose the great mass of the wall, while overhead she could glimpse the sky between the houses, occasionally concealed by wafts of greyish-black smoke from a seacoal fire nearby. A ringing of hammers came to her ears from the blacksmith further up Combe Street. At houses all about, women and cooks were preparing food, and the odour of stews and pottages nipped like pincers at her nose, she was so hungry.

There was a snort, and along the alley she saw a snotty little churl aged nine or ten with scruffy chemise and hosen that were more holes than material. He gave her a disinterested glance, then returned to stare at his charges, two hogs, each of which was considerably larger than himself.

She wanted time to marshal her thoughts, and the presence of this little tatterdemalion was distracting. What’s more, his pigs were blocking the way.

She squeezed past. One snuffled at her leg and Juliana pushed it away. Hogs had been known to carry off babies, and she wasn’t going to have it bite her. She glared at the boy, but he was too cold and hungry to care.

Master Paffard wouldn’t be long, she hoped, and then he would hear what she had to say about his oh-so-perfect son.

It had not been warm all day, and she was chilled to the marrow as she waited. It was a strange area, this, at the foot of the wall. Men used the wall as their toilet, and it reeked of urine – but it was the coolness she noticed more than the smell. There was a special kind of chill at the base of the walls. Even in the depths of summer the sun did not reach in here. Nor did the paths ever dry, for several gutters ran here, and ordure accumulated until the rain washed it away.

She turned, hearing a slight slap, like a man’s boot striking the mud of the alley. She peered through the murk. Above, it was still daylight, but down here, it was hard to see. She heard another sound – and the idea that she was being hunted suddenly sprang into her mind and wouldn’t leave. She became aware that this was a good place for a trap. There was no one to help her even if she were to scream; someone seeking to hurt her could do so with impunity.

Memories of stories of ghosts walking the streets came back to her. Tales of the dead – of men who had been buried, but who retuned to terrorise their neighbours, making the dogs howl, rendering the very air putrid, drinking the blood of the living . . . And with a sudden horror, she thought she saw something there in the alley before her.

Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and her heart beat fast like a lark’s. And then she saw the bloated, ugly face of the hog as it turned to her, snuffling, and she almost collapsed from relief.

And then her relief turned to anger. Henry Paffard had not come. Why, did he think she was tugging his cloak when she threatened to tell all she knew about his son? Did he think she was joking? The man would learn that a woman with nothing to lose could still bite!

Setting off, she tried to put all thoughts of phantasms and vampires from her, and strode along resolutely, back to the safety of Combe Street.

Until she came to the corner, and the figure appeared before her.