31 - City of Fiends (8 page)

It was a servant of the manor, a young lad, scarcely old enough to shave, and he fought with despair rather than skill, flailing with his hands and a dagger, and Ulric felt its edge mark his
forearm before he grabbed the fellow’s wrist and clung to it with grim determination, while his face was buffeted by the other fist.

Sir Charles turned with a stunned expression to see Ulric rolling on the floor, grappling with the boy. Then he drew his sword and thrust quickly.

‘Ulric, give me your hand,’ he said, and helped him up. Then he grinned, holding Ulric’s hand in his fist so that it was raised before both their faces. ‘From hereon, you
are mine. I will protect you as you have protected me. We are handfast, my friend.’

Saturday after the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist
⁴

Paffards’ House

Old John the bottler tested the cask and found that it was quite empty. Lifting it from its chocks, he rolled it along to the passageway and thence out past the kitchen, the
dairy and the brewing room to the yard behind, where he left it, rocking gently on the paving stones by his storage room, while he fumbled for his keys.

The door opened to a dark, cool chamber. Underfoot, the floor was planks of wood, and up ahead were the two large barrels of ale. Both had the expensive metal bands about them, while the smaller
casks of wine were like his little one here, bound with woven willow to hold the wooden staves together, and watertight. He brought the empty cask inside and set it beneath the tap on the left-most
barrel, opening the tap to fill it. It held a pair of gallons or so, and he stood there for a few moments, watching the ale drool into the cask. It was a wonderful sound, a lovely sight and smell.
He turned off the tap and pressed the bung back into place, slamming it home with the heel of his hand, thinking how useful this little room had been to him. Then, rolling the cask away, he noticed
a small pool of ale that had stained the floor beneath the barrel, and he tutted. He didn’t want it to seep below the floor and make the chamber stink. That was a sure way to attract
rats.

Rolling the cask out, he shut and locked the door, reminding himself that he must be more careful in future.

Taunton, Somerset

At the castle gates, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill stood a moment, pulling on his gloves and adjusting his sword-belt before preparing to mount his horse.

‘Feeling stiff, Baldwin?’

‘I’m not so old as that,’ the knight growled. He set his foot in the stirrup and heaved himself up with a grunt. ‘But I confess, the thought of my own bed is most
attractive.’

Sir Baldwin was a tall man. His chest was broad, and while his eyes were kindly and brown, there was a scar on his cheek that spoke of his youth when he had been a warrior-pilgrim defending the
city of Acre in the last days of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He wore an unfashionable, neatly trimmed beard that followed the line of his jaw, but where once it had been black, now that he was in his
middle fifties it was liberally salted, like his hair. Although he looked most unlike a modern knight, with his faded green tunic and tatty cloak, he was comfortable in himself. He had never had
much patience with fads and fashion.

His friend, Simon Puttock was a tall, lean man of forty years, with dark hair and a rugged face. His grey eyes had always looked out on the world with confidence, but the last years had hit him
hard.

Puttock had recently returned to his old family home near Crediton, and was coming to terms with his newly straitened circumstances. His skin was leathery from hours in the open air and on
horseback, but the lines of anxiety Baldwin had noticed earlier in the year were steadily being replaced with those of laughter. It was good to see that.

‘HAH! YOU READY, THEN?’

Both Baldwin and Simon winced at the booming voice of Sir Richard de Welles, a jovial companion, built like a bear, with appetites and voice to match. The man had the appalling habit of telling
lewd jokes at full volume, no matter what the company, and it was all but impossible to embarrass him.

Taller even than Simon, his belly, however, was huge – protruding before him over the top of his black sword-belt. His grey beard was long and straggly, framing a heavy face, but the eyes
hidden in among the creases were shrewd, and while he always smiled, his mind was as sharp as any. Coroner to the King’s Manor at Lifton, he was an important local official who had lately
been with Baldwin and Simon at Berkeley Castle, where the three had been instructed to guard the King’s father, now known as Sir Edward of Caernarfon. But rebels led by the Dunheved brothers
had attacked and gained the castle, riding off with Sir Edward.

It was a tragedy. Sir Edward had reigned as Edward II, but his rule had proved a disaster for the realm, and many were relieved when he was forced to surrender his crown to his son. The endless
round of fighting between barons, the lawless thefts and bribery, the wanton destruction and corruption at every level of government had at last ceased – or so Simon hoped. He himself had
suffered badly at the hands of the King’s friends, the Despenser family, and for his part he was glad to see an end to the reign that had brought such misery.

Baldwin was ambivalent. His oath had been given to the King anointed by God, and he was reluctant to be forsworn. Once he had been a warrior monk, a
Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the
Temple of Solomon
, a Knight Templar, and he detested the idea of casting aside an oath. If Sir Baldwin gave his word, he held to it. Yet Sir Edward had voluntarily abdicated, and Baldwin felt
that absolved him from the responsibility of protecting his King.

In any case, the escape of Sir Edward while in their care was a disaster, since his supporters might now, at any time, launch an attack on the young King Edward III. The latter might even have
to defend his throne against his own father, which was not a prospect Simon or Baldwin wished to contemplate. The young King ruled under a council of regents, who advised him at every step, but
Baldwin felt sure that news of the release of his father must inevitably lead to recriminations against those considered responsible – himself and Simon – since their failure could lead
to a renewal of civil strife.

Many, like Simon, did not understand how anyone could seek to release the old King. Others believed that past crimes could be pardoned, or perhaps they acted for their own financial gain, by
removing Edward III and replacing him with his father. Some thought that removing God’s anointed King was an atrocious crime, and could lead to the realm being placed under anathema, as had
happened in Scotland when the Bruce rebelled; Baldwin himself had some sympathy with this view.

All he did know for sure was this: if Sir Edward of Caernarfon were to attempt to regain his kingdom, there would be bloody civil conflict. And he did not wish for that.

They had reached Taunton the previous day after riding hard, and now, breakfasted, and having attended Mass in the castle’s chapel, they were ready to continue. They must ride to Exeter to
inform the Sheriff of the escape of the King; so far, with God’s grace, news of Sir Edward’s escape had not become widely bruited about. And then they could at last return to their
homes. Baldwin had gained a strong dislike for travelling, and he knew his wife must be anxious to see him again, just as he was to return to her.

Having travelled for many leagues together already, the three companions had used up their stock of conversation. Being men of action, all preferred to tend to their thoughts rather than airing
inconsequential comments. Simon jogged along with a smile on his face, thinking of his wife. Sir Richard peered ahead, as if seeking out a memory of a joke in the views between the trees. For his
part, Baldwin was glad of the time to consider his position. This should have been a delightful journey. The sun was shining, and with his mastiff, Wolf, trotting on ahead, his friends nearby and
his servant Edgar close to hand, he should have been able to relax. But he could not.

‘You look weary, Baldwin,’ Simon remarked.

‘I am, Simon. I have been Keeper of the King’s Peace for more than ten years now, and I have had enough of it.’

Like other Keepers, he held a warrant to chase felons ‘from hundred to hundred, shire to shire’, with the posse. It was a basic premise that people must see justice in operation, if
they were to maintain any faith in the King’s laws, and that meant bringing men to the courts where their guilt could be proved.

‘You would give up the job?’

‘Possibly. I took on the role in gratitude to others: to you, and to Dean Peter of Crediton. I carried on, really, for Bishop Walter.’

‘He was a good man.’

‘I revered him. Since his death I have lost much of my motivation.’

It was not only the Bishop’s death. If Baldwin were honest, it had been a gradual realisation that he was too aged. His body was old, even if his mind was unchanged. His right ear had lost
all hearing, his hips ached when he spent too long in the saddle, and there was a stiffness in his back that was often painful. Hurtling over the countryside in search of malefactors was work for
younger men. As for his other duties: sitting in judgement on others had never held much appeal for him, and seeing men convicted and taken to their deaths gave him no pleasure.

They had passed by Wellington and were continuing southwards when they saw two men on horseback riding towards them at a gallop. Baldwin and Simon glanced at each other. There was no reason to
suspect danger, but since the escape of Sir Edward, both had been extra vigilant. Sir Richard trotted up to their side with Edgar, and the four waited together.

‘You ride in a hurry,’ Baldwin said as the two came into earshot. ‘What speeds your journey?’

‘We’re from Dunkeswell Abbey, sir. We have urgent messages to take to Taunton.’

‘Urgent?’ Sir Richard said. ‘How so?’

‘I fear the Bishop of Exeter is dead.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Sir Richard muttered.

Marsilles’ House

Juliana Marsille entered her home and stood in the doorway, staring about her with a feeling of weariness.

It had been here, sitting at her table over there, that Philip had caught her hands and left her convinced that he could kill her. She had been too harsh, perhaps. But he
must
grow used
to the fact that he was their breadwinner now. He must snap out of this ridiculous melancholy!

Nicholas had died but two years since. Two years, and yet in that time she and her boys had lost everything. Oh, God, she wanted him back so badly!

Nicholas Marsille had been a kindly soul. He’d never managed to join the higher ranks of the city, because he was not born into the sort of position that conferred ready acceptance into
the Freedom; it was a particularly exclusive club within Exeter. But Nicholas had been a genial soul, and his generosity and reliability had made him popular with his peers. He had made Juliana
very happy all their married life, and his ventures had been generally successful. Until that last one.

He died in a silly accident, and that was the worst thing he ever did to her. Walking along the High Street, he saw a mother stumble and fall, and her baby tumble from her arms into the path of
a cart. Nicholas darted out to rescue the child but, unsettled by his sudden lunge into the roadway, the carthorse kicked out. A hoof stove in his skull, and her lovely Nick was gone.

Other families in such circumstances would have been able to call on friends or relatives, but when friends tried to help, Juliana proudly refused them. She would not take alms, she said. Her
parents were peasants on Lord de Courtenay’s lands down at Topsham, and had no money. She couldn’t turn to them. And without any other means of supporting herself or the boys, she was
forced to sell their house. Henry Paffard had helped, yet even so the price she received for the place with all their belongings had been pathetic. As Henry explained, Nicholas had owed
considerable sums. Now, with the proceeds mostly gone to creditors, there was only a paltry sum left, and they must all live on that. Her only hope was that one of her sons might make his fortune.
It was too much to hope that either could marry into wealth – those with money would not wish to wed their daughters to the impoverished.

Which was a shame because Juliana was sure that Katherine Avice would have appreciated Philip’s advances. Her eldest son had been pining for a woman, she knew. At first she had dared to
hope that the object of his affection was Katherine. Only sixteen, and perhaps a slightly froward young vixen, but if Philip could marry her, all their problems would be over. As it was, the fool
seemed to have lost the desire to find his own way in the world. How he hoped to win a woman without the means of supporting himself, let alone her as well, baffled Juliana.

She’d be better than Anastasia de Coyntes. Juliana wouldn’t want anything to do with Emma’s family, not after the way Emma had behaved towards her. Well, Juliana didn’t
need her friendship.