City of Fiends

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Rougemont Castle

Sheriff James de Cockington was silent as he walked into his hall. He took the proffered goblet of wine, and went to his chair on the dais without speaking. Sitting, he took a long pull of the wine, eyeing the group without expression.

In truth, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Henry Paffard stood with his head bared, his hands free, while two sturdy men guarded him. The priest stood, resolute and determined, and there was Sir Baldwin and his companion, and Simon Puttock.

‘Sir Baldwin, I would be grateful if you would keep your hound at your side,’ he remonstrated, seeing Wolf licking at his table.

Baldwin nodded to Edgar, who took Wolf outside. ‘My apologies, Sheriff.’

James de Cockington paid him no heed. ‘Coroner, speak, please. I am fascinated as to how this well-known and respected merchant comes to be in my hall.’

‘He has confessed before the jury to the murder of the two women near Combe Street.’

‘He has?’ De Cockington looked at Paffard. ‘So? Why did you do this?’

‘I feel remorse, but I think my actions must have been caused by my arrogance and greed.’

‘Arrogance I can believe – greed?’

Paffard shrugged. ‘I did what I did. I will pay the price.’

‘I fail to understand this. Can you not explain your reasons? No? Well, if you are determined to suffer the penalty, there is little I can do. You will be held in the castle gaol until such time as the next court, and then you will be hanged by the neck until dead.’

Paffard paled on hearing those words, but he did not demur, and obediently walked out with his two guards when motioned to leave.

‘So, Sir Baldwin, it would appear the matter is resolved.’

‘So it would seem.’

‘And all because of this bold priest?’

‘The merchant tried to silence me with threats,’ Father Paul said. ‘I would not permit that.’

‘I congratulate you,’ the Sheriff said. ‘When there were so many clever minds set to learning what had happened and why, it took only a simple man in a tonsure to discover the truth. Is that not a lesson to us all, eh, Sir Baldwin?’

‘It is fortunate that the fellow has admitted his guilt, is it not?’ Baldwin said mildly.

‘Why – do you think that makes him more or less guilty?’ The Sheriff laughed. ‘Perhaps, Sir Baldwin, it is time for you to surrender your warrant. A man of your age should not be struggling on with work of this nature. It is enough that you have had so many successes . . . in the past. Now you are so aged, perhaps you should return to your hall, retire, and enjoy the few years that remain.’

De Cockington smiled pointedly at the knight. He had never liked Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and it was good to be able to score a point over him. Especially since he had seen to the exile of his own brother. Poor young Paul. He had liked the women a little too much, but that was hardly a crime, and he had been hounded from the city and the country, thanks to this scruffy Keeper of the King’s Peace. No, he didn’t like Sir Baldwin. Any embarrassment he could bring upon him would be worth the effort.

And Sir Baldwin’s tight expression gratified him. He only wished he could see it grow into one of genuine pain.

Near Clyst St George

Sir Richard de Welles had been in many fights in his long life, and the prospect of another held no concerns for him. He had a sword at his side, and although his mail was back in his travelling chest at the inn, his padded jack was adequate for most blades, so he trotted forward to the bodies without fear.

All had died badly. Slashed and cut about, one with what looked like a nasty gash from a sword or axe blow, they had clearly been attacked by a strong force. Sir Richard saw a column of smoke to the south.

‘These men are dead, there’s nothing we can do for them,’ he said, and beckoned his two companions to join him. ‘Down there, looks like a building on fire. I’d guess there’s a small band about here which has attacked these men and others. We need to ride and see what sort of number of men there are. You two with me?’

Both were locals, and the idea of felons wandering about lands this close to their homes was enough to stiffen their sinews. Soon the three were riding at a rapid trot towards the plume of smoke.

They had dropped down from Heavitree, and now the land lay flat before them, with dangerous stands of trees and small woods, from which ambushes could be launched all too easily. Sir Richard kept a wary eye upon them, looking for the sudden movement that could betray a bowman or a group of men-at-arms preparing to pull them from their horses.

There was no roadway, only dirt tracks, most half-smothered in mud after the last week’s rains, and Sir Richard and the two riders made their way swiftly down to a farmstead that stood behind a small copse. Here, Sir Richard and his men stopped and stared ahead.

It was clear now that the men who were responsible for these attacks had military experience. It was plain from the way that one man stood outside the house, supervising the others in their tasks. Some were rolling barrels of ale along the track to carts, others carried sacks of produce. A man lay dead on the ground, his throat cut, while men took their pleasure with a woman, most probably his wife, nearby. Her moans could be heard from here.

Sir Richard’s wife had been taken from him by the man who had been his steward. This man had raped and then murdered her, and Sir Richard had many times regretted his loss. No other woman would he marry, because no other could match her. To see this poor female sprawled in that undignified manner while men violated her, was insufferable. Sir Richard could no more tolerate leaving her to her fate than he could stop breathing.

He studied the men in the area with care, then said under his breath: ‘You two get the woman and take her back to Exeter.’ He encouraged his horse forward quietly until he was near the edge of the copse, then he raked his spurs along his beast’s flanks and bellowed his loudest war-cry.

Drawing his sword, he burst through the trees in an explosion of mud and branches, only a matter of feet from the first of the men. The latter died before he could draw his sword, Sir Richard’s blade hacking down through his shoulder. The group at the woman froze, the man on her gaping. Then there was a mad scrabbling as all of them bolted, trying to grab their weapons. Sir Richard spitted the man at the woman, before cantering to the rest of them. One had a sword: Sir Richard knocked it aside and slashed his neck. He fell, hands clawing at the blood as though he could stem the flow, but already Sir Richard was searching for his next target. The carter sat up on his board. Beyond was the fellow who had been directing the men.

With his horse prancing and wheeling at the smell of blood and the men’s screams, Sir Richard had to fight to control the brute, but at last pulled his head about, aiming at the leader. He had taken advantage of Sir Richard’s battles with his mount to run towards the farmhouse. Clapping spurs once more, Sir Richard hurtled after him. On the way he swept his sword round at the carter, trying to take his head off. He missed the man’s throat, but his blade met the man’s pate and he tumbled from the cart with his lifeblood spraying.

There were shouts from behind the house now, and Sir Richard rode round at the gallop. The leader had darted behind there, but Sir Richard wanted him. If he could capture the fellow, he would. If not, he would see him dead.

He slapped his rein end on the horse’s rump, urging him on. The house was on his left, a small shaw to the right, and he pelted between them, out behind the house. There, he suddenly stood up in the stirrups and reined in, hauling on the leather until his horse’s head was dragged back, chin to chest, before dragging the beast around and riding out of there as quickly as he could.

Behind the house were at least thirty men-at-arms, and some were already mounting to pursue him.

Gatehouse to Rougemont Castle

‘The atmosphere in there was suffocating me,’ Baldwin said to Simon, exhaling in a long breath as they came into the open air.

‘The man does not like you,’ Simon said.

‘Our antagonism is mutual,’ Baldwin replied. ‘I detest the fellow. Hold! There’s the Father. I would speak with him for a moment or two.’

The man he referred to was already under the narrow way of the castle entrance, and he and Simon hurried to reach the limping priest before he had descended the path that led to the High Street.

‘Wait, Father, could we speak with you?’

Father Paul turned reluctantly. Baldwin was surprised by this: he had expected to find the man happier to speak. After all, he had succeeded in making the murderer admit his crimes.

‘Father, I would be grateful to speak with you, if I may.’

‘I have much to do, Sir Baldwin – including a congregation to prepare a Mass for. I trust you can be swift.’

‘I would merely appreciate your view as to why the man should have thrown his life away.’

Simon and Baldwin fell in alongside the priest as he hobbled along, Edgar and Wolf following after.

‘It was clear to me, when he threatened to expose me as a womaniser, that he was fearful of exposure himself,’ Father Paul said. ‘He thought he would be able to destroy me. What he did not realise was that I was less anxious about my reputation being harmed than he was of being discovered as a murderer.’

‘But he broke in upon you, beat you . . . Did he say anything else?’

‘Only that I was to forget everything I saw that night.’

Baldwin frowned. ‘Why conceal his face when he wanted you to forget him?’

‘To kill is so repugnant, he must be lunatic. Don’t look for logic.’

Simon too was puzzled. ‘Tell me, Father, when you were in his house, did it seem as though he was tortured with guilt, or that he was teasing you? He must have known you would recognise him somehow.’

‘No, he just walked into the house and effectually ignored me. Paid me no heed.’

‘That is curious,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve never known a man behave in such a manner. I could understand his boasting to you about the fact that it was him, if he thought he had you fully in his power, and I could understand his being ashamed – contrite, even – but to ignore it altogether is most peculiar.’

‘You must ask him about it,’ Father Paul shrugged.

‘When did you decide to come and accuse him?’ Sir Baldwin enquired. ‘You did not appear to feel so strongly last night.’

‘I had a long think about it last night, and prayed before going to the inquest. It seemed plain to me that the matter was too important to be left. How could I live with myself, were another murder to be committed and a third woman die?’

‘Very true,’ Baldwin agreed thoughtfully. ‘You think he could have killed again?’

‘Of course. Murderers are like wolves. They find attack difficult the first time, but once they have a taste for meat, they kill again and again. Henry Paffard was surely a man of that nature.’

‘It is incomprehensible to me,’ Baldwin said slowly, ‘that a man with so much money, with his position and status, should either commit such crimes himself and not pay another, or that he would willingly confess, rather than deny everything and rely on allies and friends in the city to protect him. What was he thinking of?’

‘He is perhaps a more honest man than others you have met,’ the priest responded shortly.

‘More than that,’ Simon put in, ‘is why he should have killed the women. The first, we heard, was his lover. There is no evidence that confirms she was in any manner a threat to him. Nor the second, this widow Juliana – so why kill them?’

‘I don’t know. But when a man has confessed to the murders, it seems pointless to question his motives.’ At that, the priest hurried off along the High Street, clearly glad to be away from them and their questions.

‘There is more to this,’ Baldwin said. ‘I should like to speak to some of the others along Combe Street. In particular, the rest of Paffard’s household. There must be some explanation for his bizarre behaviour.’

‘What bizarre behaviour?’

‘Well, confessing to a crime he didn’t commit – I should have thought that was strange enough, wouldn’t you?’

Near Clyst St George

Sir Charles of Lancaster had been sitting by a fire chewing at a piece of meat so hard and leathery, it made his teeth ache. Hearing the commotion and screams from the front of the farm, he had sprung to his feet, and then, when young Aumery ran around the side of the house, he had thought at first that they were being pursued by the whole posse of the county. He roared orders, shouting for his horse, and shoved the last of the dried meat into his mouth as he ran to the horse-lines.

It took a moment only to leap into the saddle, and he was drawing his sword free even as Sir Richard turned and rode away.

‘To me! To me! Ulric, you too!’ Sir Charles bawled, and then was spurring his beast onwards, scattering stones and clods of grass as he galloped past the house, noting those of his men who had died with rising anger. There was a man there, Nick the Bakere, who did not deserve to die in the dirt. He was a good, loyal servant of Sir Edward of Caernarfon, and should have seen his old age. Instead this bastard intruder had killed him.

Sir Charles could see the large figure up ahead now. He bent lower over his mount’s neck, and used the flat of the blade to urge his beast to greater efforts. The man in front was clearly a knight, but Sir Charles’s horse was fleet, and he had a feeling that he would soon catch the fellow. Then, if he wanted to live, the man would have to surrender. Sir Charles had no intention of leaving someone wandering around to spread the news of him and his men.

Pursuer and pursued rode under a stand of trees, and out to a coppice behind, and then they were thundering along a road in a small vill. Looking about him, Sir Charles recalled this place – it was Clyst St Mary, a small community he had bypassed yesterday. There looked to be too many men about the place, and in any case, he had wanted to head straight down to Bishop’s Clyst. Those who supported the new Bishop deserved to pay for their lack of integrity.

He jabbed his spurs again as they drew out of the vill, and then they were riding along the little causeway that headed almost due west, pointing like a lance at Exeter. He could imagine the place already. First there was Heavitree with its old hanging tree, where a gibbet stood to prove to all travellers that this city was a place where the law ruled. It was always good to see a man hanged from a tree. It showed that others were safe.

They wouldn’t have to ride that far now. Before they were halfway over the causeway, Sir Charles saw the man ahead glance over his shoulder to check on his whereabouts. If he had been less of a threat, Sir Charles would have left him, but the safety of his men lay in the balance. He had to catch him.

The other man’s horse looked as though it was slowing. Sir Charles allowed himself a smile of glee as he began to draw up to the rump of Sir Richard’s horse, wondering whether he should prick the beast’s backside, to make it jump and throw its rider, or whether he should simply kill the man and take his horse. It looked a good, sturdy brute. It would have to be, to carry this fat bustard so far, so swiftly. ‘Halt, man, halt! Yield!’

He was so engrossed in his thoughts, he did not notice that they were almost over the causeway, and that ahead were two more men with a woman. It was Sir Richard’s men with the woman they had rescued. Only at the last moment did he realise his danger. He slowed, but it was already too late, and a hail of stones was flung at him. One struck his shoulder, and he cursed aloud at the pain, and then a second hit his horse’s head over the eye, making the beast stumble, rearing and whinnying in anger. Sir Charles fought to control it, but had to lean forward to save himself from toppling, and then the horse was on the ground again, and as he looked up, he felt Sir Richard’s sword-pommel bludgeon him about the head.

As he hit the ground, a wash of silence flooded over him, and it felt as if the roadway had swallowed him.