City of Fiends

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Marsilles’ House

Philip Marsille was convinced he was right about Laurence and Gregory. There must be some way of proving his point, and he stood in the street, at the corner of the alley, for much of the morning, his eyes on the Paffards’ door, in the hope of seeing Gregory.

It was almost the hour of the midday meal that he saw the fellow at last.

Gregory came from the house looking like a boy who had seen his favourite puppy killed, rather than a grown man. His father was in gaol, that was all – it was better than being orphaned, and Philip felt little sympathy as he levered himself upright and set off in pursuit.

In his mind, he saw Gregory beaten and bruised, kneeling at his feet, begging for forgiveness, pleading, offering money and treasure, perhaps houses too. The vision was delicious. And completely unrealistic, Philip knew. He had no idea what he intended to do. All he knew was, he needed revenge against the family which had killed his mother. He deserved justice, and if there was no other justice to be had, he would have to find it for himself.

Poor Juliana. Dying like that, alone, but so close to home in a shit-filled alley. The guilt of being absent when his mother needed him was a torch burning in his breast, consuming his soul.

It was clear Gregory was not thinking about being followed. He walked up Southgate Street to a small shop where there was a smith expert in making locks for doors. Soon Philip heard him shouting, demanding to know why his money was not as good as any other man’s, but the locksmith’s responses were too quiet for Philip to hear. When Gregory came out, he stared about him wildly, as if expecting a fresh disaster to strike him even now. He held his hands up to the heavens, and strode towards a tavern, diving inside like a man who needed a drink badly, and Philip was sorely tempted to enter with him, but rather than be observed, he waited outside.

He did not have to wait long. Soon, Gregory reappeared with a fresh determination. He strode up to Carfoix, and thence down along Southgate Street. But instead of heading to his home along Combe Street, he continued towards the massive gate itself. The inner face of the gate was ancient, much patched with fresh stone, but Gregory ignored it. Instead he went to the side, to Father Paul’s church.

Gregory knocked on the door, and Philip threw himself to the other side of the road before he was seen. There were so many men and women streaming into the city along this road that concealment was easy enough. He saw the door open, and a moment later Father Laurence came out, pulling a hood over his head. He remonstrated with Gregory, apparently, but Gregory was obviously past caring, from the way he reached out to the vicar – but Laurence drew away, as though in revulsion, and Gregory’s hand fell to his side. He looked crushed.

That was the moment, just a moment, when Philip felt a sharp sympathy flare. These two unfortunate men loved each other but could never be happy. On their faces he saw the same misery he had felt last Saturday, when Alice had rejected him . . . Then the moment passed, and instead he saw two men – unnatural, horrible men – whose lives were condemned. He had heard enough of priests, after all. He knew that they were often perverted. It was what came from having so many men living together in unnatural proximity, without women on whom to work their natural desires.

He didn’t care. These two were despicable. That was clear to the meanest intelligence.

At that moment, Laurence and Gregory moved away together, both of them striding quickly up the hill again. Philip hurried after them.

City Gaol, East Gate

Baldwin was reluctantly persuaded to join Sir Richard and Simon in a tavern. They chose a small wine shop called the Goose’s Flight on the High Street, but none of them was greatly cheered even by the good quality wine on sale. They all felt sombre after the funeral and their reflections afterwards.

‘Come along, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Richard said. ‘There’s little chance of finding Sir Charles in this city, even if we are very lucky. The Watch and bailiffs are looking for him. They know what they’re doing. We’ll have a bite, and then go and help them as we may.’

Despite his cheery words, it was Sir Richard whose mood was most noticeably at odds with his usual good humour. He was angry that he and the others had all failed to kill Sir Charles when they had the opportunity, and the suspicion that Sir Charles had ridden into the city behind him left him simmering with anger. The man was making fools of them, or so Sir Richard felt.

The acts of the gang were disgraceful. He felt no sympathy for those whom he had killed or captured, ready to be hanged at the next opportunity, any more than he would have had for a fox that got in amongst his chickens. But the knight – he was more dangerous as a symbol: he was prosecuting a hard war for the man whom many still considered to be the rightful King. Including himself, he confessed wryly.

Baldwin, he could see, felt similar conflicts. They both had ties to Sir Edward of Caernarfon, after all. They had both given their oaths that they would do all in their power to support him, and at the last had failed.

‘It will soon be over, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin said, catching his eye. He tipped up his cup. ‘With luck Sir Edward will be recaptured soon, and all these difficult choices will be gone.’

‘Until then, I am left feeling like a knight who’s not fulfilled his purpose,’ Sir Richard said heavily. He gulped at his wine with a scowl. ‘Where’s that bastard Sir Charles now, I wonder?’

‘Well,’ Baldwin said, ‘there is one thing we could do which might distract you. Visit Henry Paffard.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘That he was forced to confess the crimes when he didn’t commit them?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘There was no compulsion that I saw. He freely admitted to them.’

‘Then what’re you saying?’ Sir Richard asked, frowning.

‘Only that I do not understand his motives.’

‘Oh, “motives”!’ Sir Richard rumbled. ‘I should have realised that word would rear its ugly head. You look for motives like a maid looks for raisins in her pudding, man! Little morsels to add sweetness to the tales of woe which you and I must hear. Perhaps it was sex, perhaps it was money? Who can tell what that diseased mind conceived of when he committed his deeds? No, believe me, old friend, when I say that you will win no accolades by seeking further truths about this man Paffard.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I would still know whether there was some reason why he should make love to Alice and then slay her, or why he would cut the lips from Juliana?’

‘Don’t forget that he stabbed Juliana in the eyes too,’ Simon reminded him. ‘Was this to indicate no talking and no looking? Or no talking about something she had seen?’

‘Perhaps. But so far as we know, the women were neither of them a threat to him. If they were to accuse him, he could conspire with lawyers to have them imprisoned for their defamations. He was a rich, powerful man.’

‘He felt guilt, perhaps?’ Simon tentatively suggested.

‘Guilt for killing the women?’ Sir Richard said. ‘Perhaps. Probably not though. His manner was perfectly composed. If I had my guess, I should say it was the certainty that his friends in the city would not hang him.’

‘So you think he admitted to crimes, knowing he would be safe?’ Baldwin said. ‘Surely if he intended not to suffer the punishment, he would also have attempted to evade the suffering that comes from confessing to a crime? What would be the point of admitting that he was a murderer, in the hope he would be later found innocent?’

‘Unless he thought he had no choice but to do so,’ Simon said. He was frowning as he considered the implications of this. ‘If he thought that someone else would be in danger . . .’

Baldwin caught his breath. ‘Simon – that could be it! Perhaps he felt he was protecting his wife, or his sons, or daughter.’

‘What’s the reason for him doin’ that?’ Sir Richard mused.

Simon said, ‘If someone had threatened his children unless he confessed, if he thought the threat were credible, that might make him admit to the crimes. But more likely it’s because he thinks the murderer was someone close to him. And he sought to protect them.’

‘And so the name Gregory comes to mind again,’ Baldwin said.

Exeter Gaol at East Gate

When the man unlocked the trapdoor in the cell’s ceiling, Henry Paffard had been dozing on his bench, trying not to think about the scurrying of rats’ paws overhead.

In his home, Henry had rarely seen a rat. They were a nuisance when they managed to gain access to the grain store, or the flour, but they were not apparent most days except as a distant sound, as they tried to gnaw through a rafter, or when someone found a pile of droppings. Here, he had already discovered seven distinct creatures. Perhaps he should name them? He had the names of certain men in the Freedom of the City who merited being allied with rats.

‘Please come down,’ he said sarcastically as the gaoler stood peering in at the trapdoor. ‘If you wish for wine or food, you are welcome to all I have.’

Baldwin pulled the trap wide and gazed down into the room. A repellent cell. It must be chill down there.’

Beneath the gaoler’s chamber, the cell was little more than a pit with rock walls. Damp ran down into a channel that ran along one wall and away. It was a foul, repugnant little space.

‘I believe most gaols have a similar elegance and style,’ Henry said coldly. ‘I had not anticipated the bed of an inn of quality when I came here.’

‘You have enough food?’

‘There is some greyish slop which my gaoler appears to consider has the merits of ambrosia.’

‘Has your wife not brought you anything?’ Simon asked.

Henry looked at him. ‘If she has, I haven’t seen it. I will ask her next time she visits. I will make sure of it!’

‘We wish to speak with you. Come outside,’ Baldwin said.

‘I am honoured. But what could you wish with me?’ Henry asked warily.

‘We want to know why you lied to get yourself put into prison,’ Baldwin threw over his shoulder.

Henry Paffard felt as though the walls of the gaol had collapsed about his ears.

Marsille’ House

William had been at the row of merchants’ shops in the High Street all morning, but there was no job going for an untrained youth. Since his mother’s death the goldsmith had found another woman to run his house and taken on an apprentice and had no need of William. The latter was back at the bottom of the pile, and he returned home demoralised with the conviction that the world was determined to serve him ill.

He walked inside, his belly rumbling. Hunger was a terrible thing, and he had nothing to eat. He went to the cupboard where they had stored food before, but it was empty, and he stood staring at it with real desperation. He and Phil had lost everything. The only thing saving them was the generosity of the Paffards, Henry in particular, and with him in gaol after confessing to murdering their mother, that support was likely to end. No matter what Gregory must feel about William and Philip generally, the fact that his father was in gaol for their mother’s killing was bound to affect him.

The hunger actually hurt – a sharp stabbing in his stomach. It seemed as though his entire belly was caved in, and he wondered how much worse it would get as he began to die.

Once he had been given a loaf by Claricia Paffard. The thought sprang into his head that he could perhaps go to her again now. Maybe she would show him some mercy. Perhaps once she would have. But now their two families were associated with the horror of murder. William’s family had provided the victim, while Claricia’s husband was in gaol because of the death. Still, Claricia would feel remorse for her husband’s crime, surely?

Filled with a ravenous resolve, he walked the short distance to the Paffards’ house. Outside and staring up at it, he had a sinking feeling.

It was so large and imposing. No matter how brave he was when talking to others about how he would fight to make his way in the world, make his way in this city of his, there were times when it seemed impossible that he would ever manage. How could he, when he was starting with no father to guide him, no business, no profession or trade?

Slowly, he mounted the steps and made to knock on the door, but then his hand fell away without striking, and he stepped down again, kicking at stones in the street. His hands in his belt, he kicked again. He was a fool! Better that he and Phil should leave the town and go somewhere else, where they were not known. There were opportunities on the moors. They could both make their way to the rough lands, and eke out a living scraping tin from the ground. He had heard of men who had made vast sums in gold doing that. And as miners, they were servants of the Crown, so safer than other peasants.

Idly, he followed the pebble. It had gone into the alley where Alice’s body had been found. He kicked the stone again, trailing after it disconsolately, past the place where Alice had lain. There was nothing for either of them here in Exeter. The city was unforgiving towards men like them.

There came a rattle and squeak, and he saw that his stone had hit the gate that led to the Paffards’ garden. It was ajar, and William could not help but set an experimental hand against it. There was a muted protest from the metal hinges, and then the wood submitted, and he found himself peering around it.

The garden was filled with small barrels and sacks, and his mouth watered to think of the food that must lie within. It was unfair that his belly was so empty when others had such plenty. He stepped in, warily looking about him. A second step, and his eyes were fixed on the barrels and sacks, thinking of the riches that lay inside. Surely those sacks held grain or flour, and the barrels contained pickled fish or salted meats, perhaps even almonds? The temptation was too profound. He could not help but submit.

He took a couple of quick paces, and bent to a barrel, and at that moment he was struck with the consequences of a theft here. Not only would he run the risk of eviction, the final disaster for Philip and him, but there was the probability that Gregory Paffard would prosecute him in the Sheriff’s court and see him executed for the theft. No man could be permitted to rob another, and a fellow who stole from his neighbour’s home was always considered the worst of all thieves. No one was safe from a drawlatch; such men caused alarm throughout the city.

No. He shouldn’t do it. He was about to release the barrel when he heard a gasp, and turning, he saw the figure of the maid, Joan, in the doorway. Just behind her was John the bottler.

‘What are you doing here?’ John demanded loudly.

William shook his head, but guilt was in his steps as he walked backwards towards the gate. ‘I was only trying to see Gregory, your master.’

‘By walking in through the garden door? If you wanted the master, you should have called at the front door, like everyone else,’ John said, advancing threateningly.

William backed away and took to his heels. He didn’t stop running until he was back in his own house. There, he stood staring about him, filled with utter despair as the hunger gnawed at his belly.