31 - City of Fiends (23 page)

‘If that is what they were, we should be sending someone to ensure that no one from our house was hurt,’ Henry stated. ‘Where is John?
John
? Oh, there you are. I want
you to take a stout staff and go out to see where that cry came from. Understand? Don’t put yourself in danger. Now, where is Thomas?’

Gregory muttered something about Thomas being in his bedchamber, and Henry told him to go and bring him down. Father Paul was almost past caring by now. The wine had warmed and soothed his
belly, and now he looked about him with his mind apparently clearer and calmer.

The sense of moderate well-being was short-lived, however, for Gregory returned in a hurry. ‘Father – Thomas is missing!’

Paffards’ House

Thomas had heard the scream, and at once his scalp crawled in terror.

He had never felt scared until the last week. Before that, he had been entirely secure and safe, especially in his home. His mother would always cosset him, the maids would indulge his every
whim and pamper him, and even John would unbend slightly at the sight of him.

All that changed last week, and now, with that scream, he was thrown back into the terror of that night. He remembered the bodies writhing before the fire. Too late he had moved back into the
shadows, but Gregory had seen him.

The look in his eyes terrified Thomas, and he would have fled, but Gregory hurried to him and held his shoulders, telling him to be calm, to be quiet, that he must never tell anyone, that this
secret was between them, and them alone, and he must go to his bed now, and never speak of what he had seen . . . and Gregory’s eyes had been as cold and dark as the water at the bottom of
the well in the garden. Joan was already gone, and so Gregory didn’t see her. He told Thomas once more to go back to his bed, to forget.

He hurried there, and when he was between the sheets, he firmly closed his eyes, trying to find rest and sleep, but he couldn’t; the memory was too upsetting. And since then, whenever he
knew Gregory was near, he could not help but duck away to avoid him.

Gregory scared him. He was scared of his own brother.

The scream cut into his thoughts like a sword stabbing butter. When he heard the horns, and shouting, it seemed to him that he had no choice. He must make his way to the hall, find Mother and
Father.

Quickly, he scurried down the passage, but as he reached the hall, he heard voices, and paused to peer in from the shadows. There was a hole in the screen that separated the passage from the
room, and by that he saw a man with his back to him. A man with a tonsure. A priest, he thought with relief.

Then he saw Gregory and the sight brought back his horror. His home wasn’t safe! No matter what he did, he couldn’t stay here.

All the thoughts tumbled though his mind in a moment, until he couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to escape. Running silently to the door, he opened it – and bolted out into the
night.

Cock Inn

Baldwin and Simon were talking to each other, for Sir Richard had engaged the serving wench in a conversation that had already progressed to the stage where she was giggling and
sitting on his lap. Even Edgar, Simon noticed, had a bemused look in his eyes, as though wondering why the girl would find the hoary old warrior of any interest whatsoever.

That ended when they heard the first blasts on the horn. For a split second Simon, Baldwin and all the other men in the room were still, listening. Then Sir Richard sprang to his feet, and the
squeal of dismay from his discarded wench was the signal for all to rush for the door. Simon and Baldwin were held up by the crush in the doorway itself, and then they were all running for Combe
Street, ales and cups forgotten in their urgency.

Simon was a little ahead of the others, Edgar just behind him, when he came to the alley. He set his hand to the hilt of his sword as he pelted down it, partly drawing his weapon as he went.

There were four or five men already there, all grouped about a boy and two hogs. The hogs themselves were almost as terrified as the boy, and were backed into the corner, where they snuffled and
grunted anxiously.

‘What’s the matter with the lad?’ Simon demanded, irritated to have rushed all this way for nothing. He slammed his sword back in the sheath, still panting. ‘Who is
he?’

A woman with a round, sweaty face glared at him. ‘The poor lad’s been scared out of his wits, and I don’t blame him. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been sent
moonstruck!’

‘Why?’ Simon said impatiently, then glanced behind her to where she pointed. ‘Christ’s pain!’

Waves of nausea rippled through his frame, and he had to stand back, breathing deeply, to let Baldwin and Sir Richard get past to Juliana’s body.

Paffards’ House

Gregory raced back through the house again, hurtling up the stairs while the others ran about below, calling for Thomas all the way. He went into the bedchamber he shared with
his brother, looking under the bed, behind the chest, inside the chest, but there was not a hair of the lad in there. His parents’ room was empty, as was the maids’ at the back of the
upper part of the house. He even went to the windows in case Thomas had tried to climb on the roof, but they were all closed and barred.

Down in the hall again, he found his mother sitting with a cup of wine. Father Paul was seated on a stool, his face ashen. Gregory set off again to the rear of the house, to the garden and the
outbuildings behind and opened the gate and peered out to where the body of Alice had lain.

‘What’s all the noise for?’ Ben asked.

The sudden appearance of his father’s apprentice made Gregory jump. He had forgotten that Ben slept out here at the back where the stock of tin and lead was stored, so that he could guard
the valuable metals.

‘It’s Tommy. He’s disappeared. Have you seen him?’

‘No – not for a long time.’

Gregory ran back into the house. Agatha was in the hall too, now. He told them that he thought Thomas must have fled through the house to the front, and set off once more after the boy. John was
with him this time, and the two ran into Combe Street, Gregory breathing fast as he stared about him anxiously.

‘Master Gregory, don’t worry,’ John said. ‘He’ll be fine.’

‘Where is he, though? If there is a murderer on the loose, Thomas could be killed too. You heard the Hue and Cry, didn’t you? Where could he be?’

‘I’ve not heard of many murderers having a need to kill little boys.’

Gregory would have snapped at him, but at that moment he saw the crush of people up ahead. He pointed, and John hurried with him along the stony roadway, both of them dreading what they might
find there.

Men and some women were staring into the alleyway, and as they reached it, Gregory spotted a small figure. ‘Thomas!’ And then, to his surprise, he saw his father standing a short way
away.

‘John, you take Thomas back to the house. He should be in his bed, not wandering the streets at this hour,’ Henry Paffard said, and cast a look at Gregory as if to challenge him.

Alley off Combe Street

Baldwin saw Simon stagger and reel, and the moment he did so, he caught sight of Juliana.

There was a lantern nearby, and caught in its baleful gleam, he saw the alley as a series of little scenes. There was the sobbing boy, being hugged close by a woman, two pigs behind him, a man
with a stick keeping them in their makeshift pen in the corner of the alley. There were two bailiffs, both ashen-faced, there were neighbours gathered to help as they might – and then there
was Juliana.

She lay on her back, and at her throat there was a gaping maw, where a knife or sword had slashed. Blood had splashed all down her breast and skirts, and made them slick and foul. But the worst
thing was her face. She had been rendered almost unrecognisable.

Baldwin approached her with a frown of concentration. Death held no fear for him. He had seen too many bodies in his life. As a young man he had joined the warrior pilgrims who set off for the
Kingdom of Jerusalem to try to protect the last city, Acre, from the enemy’s swords. There he had seen people slowly die from starvation and disease, or Mamluke weapons. Since returning to
England and becoming Keeper of the King’s Peace, he had viewed many corpses, and had witnessed judicial executions, as well as killing men himself. But even for him, this was a sight that
shocked.

Juliana’s murderer had hacked at her face as though in a frenzy. Her left eye was ruined with one stab, while another raked down her right cheek. But it was her mouth that made Baldwin
stop short. Both lips had been cut away. One was missing, probably lying in the alley’s mud and filth, while the lower lip hung, revolting, over her cheek. It was one of the worst cases of
mutilation he had ever seen.

Simon was leaning one hand against the wall, head low as though he was about to throw up. Baldwin motioned to Edgar to take him away. It was bad enough here without Simon adding to the stench.
When Simon had gone, Baldwin spoke to the man by the body.

‘Bailiff,’ he said, ‘ I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace.’

‘I know you, sir. I’m glad you’re here.’ The man was thick-necked and built like an ox, but at the sight of the body his voice had thickened, and there was a break in his
tone.

‘You must ensure that all the neighbours are collected. Has anybody sent in search of the killer?’

‘There are men all over the alleys here.’

‘The alley only has two entrances? Has no one seen a man about here?’

Sir Richard was staring down at the body. ‘This is Mistress Juliana, isn’t it?’ he interrupted. ‘I recognise her clothes.’

‘I believe so,’ Baldwin said.

‘This boy came up from the city wall,’ the woman comforting him said. ‘He said he was following his pigs when he heard her scream.’

‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Baldwin said, crouching before the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy was shivering, his face grey, but he swallowed and nodded. ‘I’m Rab. I was watching my master’s hogs, and she screamed. I didn’t want to come here, but the hogs
went off and found her. I couldn’t leave them—’

Baldwin held up a hand as the boy’s voice became higher and more strained. ‘Calm yourself. You were down by the wall then, and came up here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the killer must have headed back to Combe Street,’ Baldwin decided.

‘He may not have had much blood on him,’ Sir Richard observed. ‘If he got her in front of him, and slashed with a knife while pushing her away, the blood would have mostly
missed him. He might have walked the streets and no one realise.’

‘It all depends upon who was in the street at the time the first scream was heard,’ Baldwin said. He looked up, past Sir Richard, and saw William and Philip Marsille approaching.
Grabbing at Sir Richard, he said urgently, ‘Stop them! For God’s sake, don’t let them—’

But it was too late. Baldwin saw their faces freeze in horror. Philip’s expression became fixed and yellowish, until he looked like a corpse himself; William’s reddened until Baldwin
feared he might suffer an attack of choler and fall, but then the boy’s face went absolutely white, and he tottered. Edgar caught him before he could fall, but then, as the people around the
body and the bailiffs drew together to hide the remains of their mother from them, William happened to glance behind him.

‘
You
did this! You killed her, you murdering bastard!’ he bellowed at Paffard.

Baldwin ran to William before he could struggle free. Edgar had him by the shoulder, but before Baldwin could reach them, William had punched Edgar in the side of the face and was already
yanking his arm away. Behind him, the sight that had enraged him were Henry and Gregory Paffard, Father Paul at their side, and even as Baldwin caught sight of them, he realised William had drawn
his knife.

There was a short jerking motion from Edgar, a blow to the side of William’s head, just above his ear, and William crumpled to the ground. Edgar shot a look at Baldwin, then at Philip, as
though daring Philip to try a similar attack, but Philip took one look at the grimly smiling man-at-arms and decided against it.

‘Sir Baldwin, I think we should fetch Master William home,’ Edgar said calmly.

Baldwin nodded. Simon was up and recovered, his back to the body of Juliana, glowering at the Paffards himself. ‘You do that, Edgar. Hugh will help you. Simon, Sir Richard and I will speak
to the Paffards.’

Paffards’ House

It was good to stand near Henry’s fire after the chill of the alley and feel the warmth seeping into his hands, Baldwin thought. His skin was growing thinner as he aged.
He was falling apart, he told himself without bitterness.

It was natural. He was well into his fifties: his muscles ached after even moderate exercise, his right ear was grown deaf, and he could not stay awake through the night as once he had been able
to. His body was giving up its strength. Yes, it was natural that a man his age should begin to show signs of decrepitude. Father Paul stood near him, holding his hands to the fire, and Baldwin
eyed him curiously for a moment before turning to the master of the house.