31 - City of Fiends (22 page)

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.

Church of the Holy Trinity

Father Paul had completed his last service of the day, and his vegetable garden was looking as good as it could after the depredations of pigeons and rats. Still, even a
feathered agent of destruction had its merits. He had loosed a stone at one, and broken its wing. It had tasted glorious. The flavour had distracted him from the pain where the door had ripped at
his toenail’s, and the bruising that still throbbed so in his belly and his back.

But no matter what he did, he could not remove the memory of the girl whom he had buried: the Paffards’ maidservant. Why had Henry Paffard come to his house and beaten him and threatened
him? It was ridiculous of him to think that he could remain incognito with a sack over his face when his cloak was so distinctive.

There was only one conclusion that the priest could reach: Paffard wanted him silent because of something he had seen on the night Alice was killed.

He recalled Alice now. A pretty little thing, all large, liquid eyes and a body that made even a priest think of earthly delights. He remembered that the first time he had seen her, he wondered
that the angels themselves didn’t get tempted to fall from the sky at her feet. But he was an older man who had been truly celibate for many years now, and he could look at a young woman,
daydream about her, imagine her kisses and caresses, and still not feel the need to try to bring the vision to reality. A consummation would inevitably bring disaster for him. And after so many
years of fidelity to his calling, he would not wish to throw it all away.

It was astonishing, Father Paul thought, that any man could have wished to destroy so pretty a woman. There must be a hideous urge at the centre of any man who could desire something so much
that he would break it into pieces, annihilate it, so that no other could possess it. Other priests, he knew, had seen men kill just so that the object of their own desires might be forever their
own, and it was surely the same when a man slew his wife because she had been taken by another. It was that sinful sense of pride and possession: once defiled by another, she was ruined forever. So
perhaps it was natural that a man might as easily seek to murder the focus of his affection, in order to save her from being sullied?

This was not a happy reflection.

It was a curious coincidence that the very day young Philip Marsille had threatened to commit murder, was the same day that poor Alice was slain. Perhaps the death of the girl had dissuaded
Philip from his evil plan, but somehow Father Paul doubted it.

The incident had occured in the road outside the Paffards’ house. Father Paul had seen Philip out in the lane, and both had witnessed Paffard walk through his door then stand a moment,
preening himself, as he waited for his daughter, son and wife to join him.

‘You bastard! You evil, raping bastard,’ Philip had breathed, adding, ‘I’ll kill you for stealing her from me!’

Father Paul had been appalled, and would have gone to the boy, had Philip not then blundered away to his home. Perhaps he should make the effort to find Philip now, take the time to speak with
him. It could not hurt, and it might serve to ease his anxiety about the lad’s apparent intent to kill Paffard. That would surely be better than to sit here worrying at the mystery of his
attack by Paffard last night. Besides, as he told himself, Sarra could have been mistaken. She spent much of her life looking at the world through a fug of strong ale or cider. She could have got
men confused, cloaks confused. After all, why should the merchant attack
him
?

He would go and see Philip. With that conclusion, he pulled on a cloak against the early evening chill and left his room. It was only a short walk, but with his injured toes and sore kidneys, it
was far enough.

The evening was fine, and the traffic was almost gone for the day. Soon the bells would ring for curfew and the gates would be slammed shut and locked, and another day would be ended. It was
comforting to reflect that all the people were snug here inside the protection of the great city walls, the thousands of souls wrapped up like children in a nursery.

He was almost at the Paffards’ house when he heard it. A shrill scream of horror and fear.

Combe Street

The priest stood stock-still, and he could feel the hairs on his scalp rising as the trembling scream faded on the cool evening air.

There was no power in his legs. He stood as though his boots were rooted in the muck of the street’s surface, a terrible dread gripping him, because he was convinced that whatever had
created that hideous sound was not human. It must be a creature from hell itself. And then his hand touched his cross, as though of its own volition, and with that first tingling sensation, his
body reacted. He grasped it firmly, and holding it aloft, hobbled to the nearest house. It was the Paffards’ dwelling. Father Paul pounded on the door like a man possessed. It was opened a
crack by a most reluctant Gregory, and only when he recognised the blanched features of the priest did he pull the door wider.

‘Father, get inside. What was that noise?’

‘I have no idea,’ Father Paul said as he stumbled after Gregory along the passageway to the hall.

‘You saw nothing in the street?’ Gregory said.

‘No. I was walking along, and it was quiet. Most of the traffic’s gone. It’s late, you see. Most are at home.’ He realised he was gabbling nonsense, and closed his mouth.
‘Please may I have some water, or wine – anything,’ he said thickly.

Claricia and Agatha entered, both pale, demanding to know what was happening, and though Paul gripped his mazer with both hands, still the wine almost spilled from the edge, his trembling was so
acute.

A door slammed, and he looked up fearfully. Then there were steps, and a few moments later he was relieved to see Henry Paffard, cloaked against the night’s chill. The cloak was above his
ankles, and Paul saw the stain and tear clearly. He felt his mouth drop open.

The master of the house strode in, dropping his grey cloak as he came, looking about him with disdain. ‘Well? What is all the fuss about?’

‘Did you not hear the screams?’ Gregory demanded as the old bottler bent and gathered up Henry’s cloak.