31 - City of Fiends (37 page)

It was a glorious future.

Venn Ottery

‘Sir Richard, for a fat man you can move swiftly,’ Sir Charles panted. His eyes were fixed on Sir Richard’s. To fight a man, it was usually necessary to watch
his movements. Sir Richard’s legs hardly appeared to move at all, but his arms could dart about with blinding speed, and the sword’s point moved fastest of all, as Sir Charles knew. It
was the eyes of the opponent that betrayed the assault.

There! The blade slid towards him, and Sir Charles had seen the tiny narrowing of Sir Richard’s eye just before. To make certain, he waited a little, and then saw the eyes narrow again in
the same way. That was his mark. That was Sir Richard’s giveaway sign. And that would be his doom.

Sir Charles slid backwards, avoiding a cart’s wheel on his way and a dead man’s arm, allowing a hint of anxiety to tweak his eyes and brow. He retreated before that swift-moving
blade, the cold, angry face of his opponent, until the little telltale narrowing came again, and this time Sir Charles whirled, wrenching his sword-hand up, blade pointing at the ground, knocking
Sir Richard’s sword away, and then while Sir Richard’s belly and breast were exposed, he completed the manoeuvre, his blade arcing up to Sir Richard’s throat.

An easy feint, that, he thought, as his blade was thrust up, but again it was blocked, and Sir Charles had an icy conviction that this man would kill him. He was far superior in
swordsmanship.

There was a scream, and then suddenly, four horses were thundering towards them all. Sir Charles stared as Ulric rode straight at him, leading a spare horse by the reins, keeping his own between
Sir Charles and the others, while other horses ran wild amongst the men, distracting them all.

‘Good man!’ Sir Charles managed as he slammed his sword into the sheath and hurled himself into the saddle. It took him only a moment. He had been riding and training with horses
since he was seven years old. Now he snatched the reins, bending low over the horse’s neck, and raked his prick spurs along the brute’s flanks, feeling the surge of power beneath him.
The huge beast seemed to take flight like the bolt from a crossbow, galloping straight off along the lane away from the men. There was one man who stood in their path, but a blow from a hoof sent
him crashing into a cart, a great bloody welt on his face. And then the road was clear.

He spurred and slapped reins to the horse, and saw that there was a corner ahead. He leaned into it with the mount, and at the other side the mud was thrown up in great gouts; splashes hurled at
his face, on his lips, and he must wipe them away, concentrating all the while on the surface ahead, avoiding any potholes or branches that could turn his beast’s leg.

A glance behind. Three men approaching. All riding well, low and eager. Good. They would be easily ambushed, then.

Ulric was white-faced. He must know that if he was caught by the posse, he would be killed, Sir Charles thought. But it could be that he was scared of the ride. Sir Charles didn’t know how
many times Ulric had ridden at full gallop. This might be his first time. A whistle, and he saw a clothyard arrow drop into the road’s hedge. So they had almost the distance, then. Soon
he’d be out of their range and their line of sight. A hedge, and he crouched lower, and took it in one explosive leap that felt as though a tub of black powder had gone off beneath them both,
and then there was a massive, jarring crash as they hit the ground again, and Sir Charles was turning, wheeling his mount with him, then riding back.

The first man was over a moment early, and as his beast’s forelegs hit the ground, Sir Charles’s sword was out, and he skewered the rider, his blade ripping through the
fellow’s belly; a second man was over, and Sir Charles had little time to recover. He slammed the guard into that man’s face, and he went down, unconscious, thrown to the ground while
his horse careered away.

Then it was the third. This one was a youngster, and in his eyes was the terror of death as he came over the hedge. Sir Charles took hold of his arm as he landed, and ripped him from his saddle,
hurling him to the ground. He stabbed the boy in the throat, still holding his arm. He let go as the life left the fellow. He noticed a large red birth mark on the back of his hand. ‘Marked,
eh?’ he said with a grin. ‘You were cursed from birth!’

His horse was prancing about, and Sir Charles had to get it under control.

‘Ulric?’ he called.

The boy was sitting in his saddle still, stunned at the sudden battle, panting, his eyes as wild and anxious as his beast’s. ‘Yes?’

‘Get that man’s shirt and jack off,’ Sir Charles snapped as an idea came to him.

It was bold and dangerous, both of which made it appealing, and he smiled as Ulric set to work.

Paffards’ House

Claricia Paffard watched her youngest son, little Thomas, as he entered the hall. Gregory was in the passageway and, on seeing him, the boy ran over to her and hid behind
her.

‘Gregory!’ Claricia called. ‘What on earth have you done to upset him?’

‘Me? Nothing. It must be Father,’ Gregory said. ‘What is it, Thomas? Are you worried?’

Thomas said nothing, but clung to Claricia; she could feel him trembling. She looked from one to the other.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ Gregory said. Then he burst out: ‘Mother, we must plan for the worst. I still do not understand what Father thought he was doing when he
confessed, but the business is already suffering. I’ve had several notes from other merchants telling me that they don’t want to have any more trade with us. I fear that
the—’

‘Gregory! You are the head of the house now. It is your part to resolve these problems,’ she said sternly.

‘Mother, I—’

‘You have never enjoyed the work. Well, that is your fault and your shame. Your father created this business from nothing. He has a reputation of being the best pewterer this side of
Bristol, but you never tried to emulate him. Now you can at least try to win back a little of the respect of the people of this city.’

‘How should I set about it?’

‘If you are so feeble-witted, speak with your sister. She at least has a good mind for the business,’ Claricia snapped.

Gregory stared at her for a short while before spinning on his heel and storming from the room. She could hear him as he stamped up the stairs.

‘And what of you, little man?’ she sighed, turning to Thomas. ‘Are you so upset because your father is in prison, or because your brother now holds all our lives in his hands?
It is a fearsome thing, is it not?’

She could weep, if it were not for the jubilation that would keep leaping through her frame at the thought that Henry was in prison. He could no longer shame her or hurt her, while he was safely
shut up there.

Thomas gave her a great hug, his small arms about her shoulders, and then he hurried from the room, and Claricia heard the front door slam behind him.

There were steps a moment or two later, and John appeared.

‘John, wait. It was only Thomas. He has gone into the street to play.’

‘Will he be safe?’

‘At this time of day, I think even I would be safe out there,’ Claricia sighed.

John went to the sideboard and poured her a little watered wine, which he passed to her, but she did not sip. Instead she sat staring reflectively into the fire.

‘Mistress? Do you want some food?’

‘I am not hungry. I am just tired. So very tired.’

‘He has not been a good master to you,’ John muttered.

‘He was a foul womaniser and I do not regret his imprisonment,’ she said with venom.

‘It was his lack of respect I found so troubling.’

‘He had none for me. Not even when I was with child.’ She wept.

‘I know,’ John said quietly.

When she was young, she had been so pretty. Much like her daughter Agatha now. John had been steward to her father, Sir Geoffrey of Uplyme, and when the master’s wife died soon after the
birth of their second daughter, John had been given the care of both children. He had hired the wetnurse and drynurse, as well as having charge of the hall itself, and some responsibility for the
lands about.

It had been a marvellous time. John had enjoyed all his years there. His master was often away, and that meant that John had the pleasure of the children and could manage the estates as he saw
fit without interference or interruption. Being in such constant control did lead to some friction when Sir Geoffrey returned, of course. John almost resented the way that the master would look
through all his decisions and question some of them. But the feeling soon left him as he returned to the girls.

Claricia’s sister died, sadly, when quite young, falling from a horse. The brute broke his leg in a rabbit-hole, and she was thrown, landing on her head. Death was instant. John, who had
been there on her first day, carried her home on her last. He had mourned her deeply, and even Sir Geoffrey had commented on his devotion, but to John it had felt as if he had lost his own
daughter.

When Sir Geoffrey had died during the battle at Roslin, it was natural that Claricia should marry. And Henry Paffard had then appeared a good, solid foundation for a family. Not too old, an
apprentice with a good trade, and there was a certain thrill about marrying a man who was not a member of the knightly class. She knew no one else who had done so. But then she knew so few others
who had no money, no parents, no brother to help look after her.

‘Thomas is troubled,’ she said now.

‘Mistress, there are some things you may not be aware of,’ John said.

‘About Thomas?’

‘No, about your husband,’ John said. ‘You see, he had been sponsoring rebels.’

Venn Ottery

The men who trotted up a short while later were peasants from Sir Baldwin’s posse, Sir Charles saw with pleasure. They had a cart, on which one body already reposed, and
now they were looking for others.

‘Go on, boy,’ he urged.

He and Ulric had stripped the man whom Sir Charles had clubbed, and the loose-fitting chemise and hosen were a good fit. On his head he wore a cowl and hood to conceal his features. His own
clothes they had draped over the moaning body, and then Sir Charles took a rock from the hedge and beat at the head until the dying man was unrecognisable. It took some while, and Ulric had stood
away while Sir Charles worked, his face drawn with distaste.

‘Get them,’ Sir Charles said, pushing the lad on.

‘Over here!’ Ulric said, waving.

The two men from the posse clambered from their horses and thrust themselves through the ruined hedge. ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ one said.

‘They lay in wait for us,’ Sir Charles said.

This was the moment he had feared. A posse was formed usually of those from a near vicinity, and usually could know each other well, but he was hoping that such a large group as this would
contain men from all over Exeter. He and Ulric were wearing other men’s clothes, and he hoped that all the posse members would be so tired after their day that they wouldn’t care to
notice who else was with them. It was still a risk though, and he held his hand on his belt, near his dagger, while the two men glanced at the bodies.

‘Ah, well, best get them loaded,’ one said.

Sir Charles glanced back at the men further up the lane. ‘Why don’t you go back and tell them to get started?’ he said to the other. ‘There’s no point them waiting
for us. We’ll soon be done here, anyway.’

‘Very well,’ he said. He pushed back through the hedge and was soon mounted and trotting back to the rest of the posse.

Sir Charles breathed a sigh of relief. That meant that they could dawdle along behind the others, and with luck escape detection. He bent and helped the other man carry the bodies to the cart.
There they hefted them up on the back, Ulric standing on the cart itself to receive them and to heave them into position.

‘For a knight, he did a lot of work,’ the posse man noted, glancing at the fingers of the man clad in Sir Charles’s tunic. They were black and grimy, horny as a dog’s
pad.

Sir Charles said nothing, but when he had a moment, he thrust his own hands into a muddy pool to simulate a peasant’s.

When all was done, they gathered up the horses and set off after the rest of the posse. They were none of them in a hurry. Sir Charles pulled the hood over his face and rode with his head down,
like a man exhausted after his labours.

They would follow the others into Exeter, and speak with the merchant Paffard about money for Sir Edward. And then he would find out what he could about Sir Baldwin and that fat fool Sir
Richard. He had a burning urge to see them both suffer for their theft of his treasure.

Marsilles’ House

William was at home, sipping cold pottage left over from the day before when Philip entered that evening.

‘Where have
you
been?’ William asked grumpily.

‘Watching the murderer of the girl Alice,’ Philip said with cold passion. And probably the killer of our mother.’