31 - City of Fiends (9 page)

With a flare of anger, she kicked the door shut, walked to the table and dumped the loaf down.

Yes, if he could have taken Katherine, they would have been secure for life, but oh no. Instead, he had fixed his eyes upon the Pafford’s maid – that silly little tart Alice. Even
though the girl had made it clear that she had no interest in him, he had continued to plague her, until she had been forced to demonstrate, in no uncertain terms that she had no feelings for
him.

Which was why Juliana had feared that he could have been responsible for the maid’s death.

It was such a relief to hear that the killer was from the Cathedral, and therefore could not be her son.

Road south of Wellington

Simon looked at Baldwin. They had all dismounted, and the messengers were happy to break their journey and share some crusts of bread with cheese.

‘How did it happen?’ Baldwin asked.

The two messengers exchanged a glance, then one admitted, ‘I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t there. But I was told to ride to Bath to let the Bishop know, and to stop in Taunton and
pass it on there, too.’

‘I see.’ It was natural enough that there should be messengers sent hither and thither on the death of a Bishop, but he was surprised that the man did not know how the Bishop had
died. What Baldwin did know was that the Bishop would be sorely missed. He had taken on the Bishopric only four months before, a popular choice amongst the Canons of the Cathedral who elected him,
and to lose him so soon, only a matter of months since the murder of Bishop Walter II, would be devastating to the Cathedral.

‘What is happening to the good Bishop’s body?’ Sir Richard asked mildly. ‘He’ll be taken back to Exeter, no doubt?’

‘Yes, but the progress will be slow, naturally, out of respect.’

The messengers could add little more. Soon they had remounted and were riding away again.

‘It seems a terrible coincidence for the Bishop to die just when Sir Edward has been released from his brother’s castle,’ Baldwin said as he climbed on to his own horse.
‘Almost as if one was punishment for the other.’

Sir Richard cocked an eye. ‘You believe that sort of twaddle?’

‘What, a divine intervention? No, I think God has more important matters to interest Him,’ Baldwin said lightly.

Simon was frowning. ‘I suppose that those messengers would have had companions leave for Exeter at the same time as them?’

‘Yes, so they ought to arrive in Exeter before long,’ Baldwin said.

‘I was only thinking’, Simon said, ‘that while we have to ride to Exeter and give news of the King’s escape, it would be easy enough to let the Dean know what we’ve
heard. We may arrive before the messengers.’

‘Good idea!’ Sir Richard declared, a beatific smile spreading over his features. ‘I would be pleased to test the hospitality of the Cathedral for an evening.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘It would be more to my taste than the castle’s gaol, in any case,’ he muttered. ‘So long as we can return home soon.’

Sunday after the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist
⁵

Church near Broadclyst

Ulric shivered as he walked into the church, looking about him at the devastation.

The body of the priest who had stood at the door to refuse them entry had been dragged outside now, only a smear of blood showing where he had been cut down. Inside, the simple altar had been
sent flying, and the cross and rich hangings from behind had been taken away and packed in a cart, while men ransacked the small chamber beneath the tower.

It was sacrilege, and Ulric was all too keenly aware that he was now a part of this band of desperate felons. He had saved their leader, and was now viewed as Sir Charles’s personal
squire. If he could, he would have fled, but to where? He knew he was miles from Exeter, but he had no idea of the land about here. He would be caught before he had ridden a mile.

That was his difficulty. He was no trained outlaw, he was a merchant’s assistant from Exeter. God, the memories he had of Paffard’s house. He ought to be there now, helping measure
the white tin and lead, melting them to make the pewter, working it – not here, wallowing in blood.

However, there was a thrill to being one of this band, he couldn’t deny it. Being one of a group for whom the usual rules and laws did not apply was scary but intoxicating too. He had
begun to feel as though there was nothing he could not do.

But in here, in this little church, he felt all the old doubts. He did not want to die on a felon’s tree, his body spinning in the wind as the hemp tightened about his throat, and then be
sent to hell to suffer torments at the hands of the devil. Surely for aiding those who killed the priest, he would one day pay.

‘Come, Ulric,’ Sir Charles called. He was sitting on a bench near the altar. ‘You see this little church, and you think you have been brought to the brink of ruin, eh?’
he continued when Ulric was standing before him. ‘No, my friend. We are doing God’s work here.’

‘It is not God’s will that we should kill innocent priests and rob their churches!’

‘It is God’s will that His order be renewed. The removal of a King is His responsibility, and His alone.’

‘But to kill a Bishop, and a priest, too.’

‘The Bishop of Exeter was the brother of the man who captured and held the King, brother to the man who told the King he must surrender his throne, against all the laws of man and God.
Berkeley must be forced to realise his error in setting his face against God.’

‘You cannot succeed with this,’ Ulric said with miserable certainty. He looked at the altar once more and felt like weeping. ‘God will punish us for this.’

‘Oh?’ Sir Charles said. There was a shout from outside, but neither paid it any heed. ‘Ulric, for once and for all, get it into your head that the men who caused this are the
men who took the stern decision to forswear themselves. They were servants to the King, and broke their oaths. There is nothing for them when they die but the pits of hell. We are serving God by
our—’

There was a fresh cry from outside the church, and Sir Charles muttered a curse before bellowing, ‘What is it?’

‘Men coming here!’

Sir Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Of course there are,’ he said with a long-suffering sigh. ‘This is their church.’

Exeter Cathedral

Adam Murimuth felt a vague disquiet. It was the expression on the face of Philip Marsille. The poor fellow was plainly upset by the murder, as a man should be – and yet
there was something more than sorrow in his expression.

He squirmed as unobtrusively as possible, his legs already aching. For his part, he had spent much time considering whether he should take matters further with Father Laurence. The fact that the
vicar had denied absolutely any part in the girl’s murder should have reassured him, but Murimuth felt that there was something shifty at best about his behaviour. Perhaps he himself had not
been involved, but had seen someone else in the road who could have been?

From here in the choir, Murimuth faced the altar, looking along the heads of the choristers towards the newly-built eastern half of the Cathedral. It was warm, and there was a fug of humanity
that incense could not subdue. Murimuth himself could feel the itching of sweat at his beard and the stubble of his tonsure. It had been some days since his last visit to the barber, and he felt
slightly unclean as a result.

Father Laurence himself was always clean and fresh. He belonged to that category of men who were always washing themselves, as though it was some form of ritual in its own right.

Murimuth suddenly had a vision of a man washing away blood from his hands, as though he could as easily wash away his guilt. Cleanliness as proof of a crime? No, that was nonsense! At least the
Coroner should soon be able to open his inquest. Murimuth rested his backside on the little carved
misericord
behind him and tried to ease his legs. It would be a good thing to rescue that
poor child’s body from the alleyway in which she still lay, and see to her burial. There was no excuse for leaving her out there any longer than necessary.

He would make some notes later. Perhaps that would help clear the fog in his mind. Because for now, he felt such a heaviness of spirit.

It was as though his soul was telling him that Father Laurence
did
know something of the maid’s murder.

Church near Broadclyst

Sir Charles was on his feet and halfway to the door before Ulric had registered the call. There, Sir Charles motioned to a pair of his men. They were rugged-looking fellows, who
wore leather bracers like archers, and had the appearance of experienced fighters in the way that they stared through the open doorway with calm concentration, showing no anxiety.

‘Are they Bishop’s men?’ one of the men asked as Ulric reached their side.

‘No. Looks like the congregation is on its way to the church for Sunday worship,’ Sir Charles said with a chuckle. ‘Get the men ready to greet them.’

One of the archers hastened away to the side of the church where the rest of the band were waiting with the carts and horses. There was a muttering of quiet orders, a slithering hiss of steel,
and then nothing more.

Ulric looked at Sir Charles and the other archer. There were another six men in the church, and Sir Charles nodded his head to them. ‘The people are coming. Make haste!’

In the blink of an eye, the men concealed themselves about the church, while Sir Charles and the archer took their positions at either side of the door. Ulric was motioned away, impatiently, and
he darted to the wall behind Sir Charles.

There was a chattering of voices, and then the door opened, and a tall, grizzled man entered. He was clad in good scarlet, and Ulric instantly thought he must be the vill’s bailiff. Behind
him was a short, buxom woman, and a couple of young fellows who looked like their sons, and Ulric saw more people behind them, thronging the little entranceway.

Whoever he was, the man was no fool. In an instant he took in the sight of the altar thrown against the wall, the blood on the floor, and he roared a warning, setting his hand to his hilt, but
even as he made to draw steel, Sir Charles had rested his blade on the man’s shoulder, the steel against his throat. ‘You’ll wait, man.’

Outside there was a sudden commotion as the congregation was herded inside, the archer and two others grabbing any weapons from the unresisting peasants as they came.

It was all so easy. Ulric gazed in wonder to see the people brought in and forced to kneel on the ground, while Sir Charles’s men moved amongst them, cutting away purses and pulling rings
from fingers. Some rich, most poorer, men with sullen eyes, women with fear in their faces, holding children to them, terrified of what might happen, all pushed to the rear of the building while
Sir Charles’s men took up positions around them.

And only then, when Ulric glanced at the grim faces of the men from Sir Charles’s party, did he feel a leaden fear in his belly.

Exeter North Gate

It was already late when they finally reached the gates to the city, and Simon knew that they must hurry if they were to get to the Cathedral before the Close was shut.

‘Simon,’ Baldwin said as they rode under the city gates, ‘there is no need for you to come as well. If you join us at the Cathedral, you will be held up there and may not
escape this night. Do you go to your daughter’s house instead, and we shall come to meet you tomorrow morning as soon as we are free. We can visit the Sheriff tomorrow, and then head for our
homes.’

It was a welcome plan. Simon grasped Baldwin’s hand, waved to Sir Richard and Edgar, then called to his servant Hugh, and trotted off in the direction of Edith’s house.

Baldwin watched him, then grunted to himself as he and the others carried on down the street to Carfoix, and along the High Street to the Fissand Gate.

‘Sirs, the gates will be closing soon,’ Janekyn Beyvyn called from his stool just inside. He was eating a husk of bread, and Wolf, Baldwin’s great tricoloured mastiff, went and
sat in front of him, his eyes fixed earnestly upon the crust as his jowls drooled. Janekyn glowered at him.

‘Aye,’ Sir Richard agreed. ‘But we have urgent business with the Dean.’

‘I’m afraid Dean Alfred is not well,’ Janekyn said. ‘He has been bled, and is away resting. I think the barber took too much blood. He’s not a young man, but the
surgeon wouldn’t listen to anyone.’

‘Well, the Precentor will do,’ Baldwin said. ‘Porter, could you send a boy to tell him that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Richard de Welles regret interrupting him at this
sorry time, but we have some grievous news to impart.’

‘Sorry time, sir?’

Baldwin gave a quick frown. ‘Have you not heard?’

‘Simon was right, then,’ Sir Richard said. ‘Please send to the good Precentor, porter. We have bad news for him.’

Monday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist
⁶