City of Fiends

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Near Clyst St Mary

It was a groggy Sir Charles who woke to the sunshine on his face. The warmth and beauty soothed his aches and pains when he opened his eyes. He was near a causeway over a little river with boggy banks, a village at the other side.

And then, all at once, a thundering pain exploded in the side of his skull, enough to make him close his eyes and give a hissed curse.

‘Awake, eh? Glad to see it, sir.’

That booming voice . . . Suddenly Sir Charles remembered the chase, the alarmed knight, the two men and woman, the stones flung at him, and then the crushing blow that felled him from his horse. He attempted to spring to his feet, but his hands had been bound, his legs were too enfeebled after the attack, and his sword and daggers were gone.

‘It would appear that you have me at your mercy, sir,’ he said. Sir Charles had the gift of apparent mildness to conceal simmering rage. It had been a useful asset in the past, and he kept his voice low and calm now as he studied the knight before him. ‘I am Sir Charles of Lancaster. I do not think I know you.’

‘No reason why you should, Sir Charles. I am Sir Richard de Welles, Coroner to the King at Lifton Hundred,’ Sir Richard responded with a smile. ‘I trust I didn’t break your head?’

‘You hit me hard.’

‘Aye, well, Sir Charles, it was necessary to slow you down a little. And now, since we have a few miles to ride, it’d be best for us to get under way.’

‘Oh?’

Aye, you will be glad to hear that you’re to be taken to Exeter. You and I will be talking to the Sheriff before long, I think. He’ll be keen to hear all you have to say on matters of interest. Such as the damage you’ve done to the Bishop’s lands.’

‘What damage have I done?’

Sir Richard looked at him, and the smile remained, but grew hard and cold. ‘Sir Charles, you may think me some vill’s fool, but I know about the rampage you and your followers have been set on for the last days. And with the death of the Bishop, I think there’s enough there for me to consider you a felon, along with your men. Especially if I learn you were up at the Bishop’s lands near Honiton when he was killed.’

‘Me?’

‘Luckily there were many witnesses of the attack, so we should soon know whether you were involved, eh? You will find that the men of Devon can be determined when they decide to punish those who’ve attacked their Bishop.’ Sir Richard narrowed his eyes as he peered back the way they had come. ‘But first you will be tested for the murder of this good woman’s family, and for her rape.’

‘Let us hurry back, then,’ Sir Charles yawned, glancing at Amflusia without interest.

‘Perhaps we should,’ Sir Richard said. ‘How many men were there with you?’

‘Back there? Five-and-thirty or so. There were some good fellows you killed, too. I don’t like to see good men slaughtered.’

‘Nor do I. So, there, we have something in common, eh?’ Sir Richard said equably. ‘Now, let’s get you on your beast so we can ride to Exeter.’

‘I doubt me I can ride yet,’ Sir Charles said. He winced as he looked up at Sir Richard, and rolled over to try to lift himself, but the effort made him gag and retch.

‘Ach,’ Sir Richard muttered. ‘Come, boys. Help the knight upon his horse. So, Sir Charles, tell me: you had so many men to raid the Bishop’s lands, but why would you wish to do so? Do you have an unreasoning dislike of Bishops generally, or just ours?’

‘Only yours. He was a member of the Berkeley family, the ones who kept my King prisoner.’

Sir Richard looked at him with a measuring eye. He was no fool, and just now he was wondering what sort of man Sir Charles was. There were plenty who deplored the capture of Sir Edward of Caernarfon, himself included, but to kill a Bishop, and then to ride about the land despoiling all those manors owned by the Bishop, were the actions of a simple felon rather than a knight. After all, once the Bishop was dead, there was no need to maintain a campaign against him. This knight could have returned to his home, but instead chose to launch a series of attacks – in the hope of making profit, or Sir Richard was a Moor.

‘So you killed the Bishop because his brother was a Berkeley? For that you were prepared to roam about the countryside stealing whatever took your fancy?’

‘It was laying waste the lands owned by the Bishop. We wanted to bring home to the people here how much damage the Bishop has caused by his betrayal of his King.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Sir Richard said happily. Many men were content to believe his buffoonery when he put on his show of being a rural knight of limited, even bovine intelligence, but in reality his mind was as sharp as any. And now he was calculating how many of the men Sir Charles had at his disposal would be competent to attack manors like Bishop’s Clyst and others. Of the men he had seen so far, at least thirty seemed capable of creating merry hell in even a large manor.

‘Would you help me to my horse?’ Sir Charles said thickly.

Sir Richard nodded to the two men with him, and then it was that the situation changed.

As the two went to Sir Charles and took his arms, Amflusia was standing a short way away, watching Sir Charles with terror in her eyes. Something had caught her attention. She goggled with horror, frozen to the spot, and then managed to scream.

A whoop, two blasts on a horn, and suddenly a mass of men and horses appeared at the farther end of the causeway, and thundered towards Sir Richard.

He saw Sir Charles’s hand dart down to one man’s belt, and suddenly there was a sharp scream, and the man clutched at his breast. Sir Charles had grabbed his dagger and stabbed him. The second man was only a farmer, and he leaped away from the path of the dagger’s blade. He had a long knife at his belt, but for a man like him to draw and fight a knight would take more courage than he possessed. Lunging for his horse, he grabbed the reins and threw himself into the saddle even as Sir Richard drew his own sword.

Yet even as he did so, he saw that the men from Sir Charles’s force were halfway to him already. He must fly, if he was to save himself.

Hastening to his mount, he saw Amflusia.

She stood gaping at the approaching men. Her mouth worked soundlessly, and her eyes were fixed with a terrible certainty. She was lost, if they were to catch her.

‘Woman? Mistress? Amflusia, come here!’ Sir Richard bellowed, and grabbed the second man’s horse. It was no racing thoroughbred, but it would suffice. He lifted the woman about the waist and flung her onto the horse. The latter, realising this was no time for delay, set his ears back and cantered off up the road. Sir Richard had bare moments. He took the reins of his own beast, threw his leg over the saddle, and then drew his sword, holding it carelessly in his hand as the men approached.

‘Sir Charles, I look forward to our next meeting,’ he said, before spurring his mount on, back towards Exeter.

Rougemont Castle

The Sheriff was irritable as he stamped his way along the corridor to his hall. He had plenty to do, what with the news of Sir Edward of Caernarfon’s escape and the death of Bishop Berkeley. The two matters, equally shocking and terrible, were cause for much thought. But as yet, Sir James had been granted little time for quiet reflection.

This evening the food had been late from the kitchen; his guests (a more tedious set of wastes of good skin he hoped never to have about his table again) were first boorish, then downright repugnant when drunk – which they were, right speedily; his tumblers, intended to lighten the mood after he had delivered some unpalatable home truths about the way the city of Exeter had been managed so far and how he, Sir James, was going to see it alter its way for the future, were also late, and it was very late when the guests began to filter from his hall, some blaring their disgust at the idea of the additional taxes, other meandering about, dazed from wine or from dismay, he didn’t care. All he knew was, he wanted them out.

The sudden appearance of the man in his doorway as he was ushering the last guests out of his home, was enough to make him groan. Not another damned fool who wanted to petition him for some favour or other.

‘Tell him to go away and come back tomorrow,’ he growled to his steward, but the man would not listen. Gabbling some garbage about finding a small force attacking the Bishop’s lands, he approached the Sheriff.

‘Shut up! No, I said shut up,’ the Sheriff repeated loudly. Sir James did not like having strangers in his hall at the best of times, and this man would not have looked out of place in a pigsty, with his filthy clothes and pink, anxious features. ‘Calm down, you fool, or I’ll have you thrown into the gaol for disrespect!’

‘Sir Sheriff, sir, it’s Sir Richard de Welles. He sent me on ahead to warn you.’

‘Warn me of what?’

‘There is a host outside the city walls, Sheriff. Sir Richard captured their leader, but when a large force came to fetch him back, we had to run. We only just got here with our lives,’ he added, as though worried that the tale was not sufficiently gripping.

‘Tell me all,’ the Sheriff sighed.

Cock Inn

Baldwin was glad to sit in the inn and rest his legs and mind.

Simon sat at his side, plucking at his sleeve. ‘I have had an idea, Baldwin.’

‘Speak!’

‘Think, Baldwin – and not like a noble knight, but like a felon. Imagine you are a killer. You kill to save yourself trouble, to protect your reputation, perhaps even for the joy of killing, women in particular. It would add a spark to your lovemaking, to know you are going to kill a maid later. You do not care a fig for how your actions may affect others. You do all you can to serve your own interests. It is more likely that you would “remember” suddenly that your apprentice had been there at the moment the girl died, or that your other maid had been jealous of her from the first, and that she had killed Alice. The last possible thought in your mind would be to announce to the world that the deaths were your responsibility, and to accept the charge against you.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘You can smile at me, old friend, but I think the merchant knows who committed the murders, and is determined to protect that person, rather than see him hanged.’

‘So you think it must have been his son?’

‘If I had to lay money, I’d place it on Gregory’s head. The maid in there was reticent about him, but she indicated that there was something evil in his past, too.’

‘And at last Henry Paffard has managed a decent, unselfish deed, whether he wanted to or not. Well, well.’ Baldwin stretched his aching body. ‘It is a good theory. I like the idea that Henry would put his name forward in that manner.’

‘But you doubt it?’

Baldwin considered. ‘It is not that I doubt it, it is that I doubt he will ever admit it. Whatever happens, he won’t retract his confession now, unless he knows that his son is safe. And if Gregory did commit the murders, he may yet be found out. So Gregory cannot be safe.’

‘Nor can anyone else!’ Simon pointed out. ‘But what if the boy is innocent? If the merchant was mistaken, then he will die and the true felon will walk free. That is an idea that sticks in my throat, Baldwin. And would in his too.’

‘What do you wish to do about it, then? The only safe remedy would be . . .’

‘ . . . to find the man actually responsible,’ Simon finished. ‘Henry must help us.’

He would have continued, but for the sudden arrival of Sir Richard. With a bellow that must surely have been audible from the Precentor’s house, he marched in. ‘Ale, a quart, over here! And bring me a capon and bread. I have a hunger that would be meet on a lion!’

‘Sir Richard, I hope you had a good day? Did you find the priest?’ Baldwin asked.

‘No. But I found a gaggle of murderers. Even caught one for a while.’

‘What?’

‘Aye.’ Sir Richard was looking towards the door as he spoke, and now his face grew sombre. ‘And I found a woman there. They were raping her in turn, with her man’s body beside her. I swear, if I find Sir Charles on the road, I will have his liver for that.’

‘Sir Charles?’ Simon repeated.

‘Sir Charles of Lancaster, aye,’ Sir Richard said, and then he became aware of the effect of his words upon his friends. ‘What? D’you know the man?’