31 - City of Fiends (46 page)

‘Look, boys, you know and I know that Master Henry took your father’s money, business and house – everything. So let’s not beat about the bush for the deer. Send in the
hounds. You want to stay in your place? Gregory won’t let you.’

‘His mother said we were a reminder and an embarrassment.’

John gave a twisted grin. ‘She said that? It’s true: Gregory won’t want you hanging around because you’ll remind other people what his family did to you. You understand?
A man has to trade on the value of his own word here. You take away his word, and his business will fail. And right quickly, too. You are the constant reminder to any clients that he cannot be
trusted. They will think that Master Gregory doesn’t pay his debts even when under oath to the widow of his friends. So he will try to keep you as far from his door as he can – and if
that means he has to pay sailors or roughs to beat you up – or even kill you – he’ll do it.’

‘Would he pay us to go?’

John laughed. ‘He’s a rich man. Rich men don’t get to be rich by giving away money. Paying a man to beat you or kill you is one thing; paying you blackmail to go, that is a bad
investment. Henry taught his son well.’

‘Then there is nothing we may do,’ Philip said angrily. He rested his hand on his dagger’s hilt.

‘Aye, the world is a cruel, sad place,’ John agreed, ‘when a man can rob another and profit by it. But that is the way of the world now. There is nothing a man can own or enjoy
that another cannot take from him.’

He left them then, but didn’t offer them godspeed or good fortune. What was the point? They had lost everything.

Paffards’ House

Sir Charles stood in the alley beside Henry Paffard’s house and listened carefully. It was hard to hear anything over his own stertorous breathing, but Sir Charles was
never anything if not cautious.

Ulric he had told to run as fast as he could up to the North Gate, and escape. With his guilty look, he should soon be seen and caught, and since Sir Charles intended to be away from here in
short order, when Ulric was caught, his testimony would come too late to help the Watchmen to capture Sir Charles.

Speed was essential if he was to escape, however.

The front door had looked most appealing, but should there be any dispute about his right to enter, he would prefer by far that it should happen in a less public location than the front of the
house, where passers-by could all too easily be called upon to come and assist the family. So now he stood and waited a moment or two until his heart had stopped pounding quite so alarmingly, and
his ears could still detect no sounds, and only then did he set his hand upon the wooden latch of the gate and test it. The lever lifted, and he pushed ever so gently. Sometimes these rich
merchants would have dogs to guard their homes, and he had no desire to be mauled.

There were no hounds present. With relief he opened the gate until a short squeak alerted him to a rusted hinge. He slid through and closed the gate behind him. A small garden area was revealed,
with the house on his right. No one was visible there, nor at the outbuildings behind. He gripped the hilt of his dagger and strode towards the rear door, opening it and going inside. There was no
need for concealment now. If someone saw him he must silence them as swiftly as he could.

There was a brewery, then a large kitchen, and he hesitated there, hearing two voices.

He chose the route of arrogance. Sheathing his knife again, he stepped into the room, looking about him at the mess and smoke as though disgusted.

‘Who are you?’ the cook demanded.

‘I’m here to see your master,’ he said, ‘but no one is about. Do you know when he will return?’

‘You walked in without the master?’

‘Your bottler let me in, Cook. Do you know when your master is to be back, I said?’

‘No.’

‘Very well,’ he said, and passed through to the hall.

The room was empty, as he had hoped. He saw the chest at the wall, and pulled it away with a single yank on the handle. There was indeed a door set into the wall, sealed with a small padlock. He
tugged at the key about his neck, hoping as he did so that there were treasures in here, and not coin. It would be hard to escape with a chest full of heavy coin.

Still, this was not the time to worry about that. He pulled the key’s thong in two, and took the key to the lock. He thrust it in and turned it, and opened the door. It was dark inside,
but went back some distance. He reached in and felt about. There was nothing.

He sat back on his heels. The chamber was empty. If once there had been money or treasure or gold, it was gone. Probably because Paffard had been an incompetent businessman, he had frittered it
away, or perhaps he had lost the money at gambling. For whatever the reason, the money was gone. And Sir Charles was in trouble.

There came a sound from behind him, and Sir Charles whirled, rising to his feet as he did so and catching sight of a little boy’s startled face. The lad looked like a faun meeting a
hunter. They stared at each other for a split moment, and then the boy had turned and was gone, a flash of hosen and green shirt.

‘God’s cods!’ Sir Charles swore viciously, and took off in pursuit.

Southgate Street

Simon could not help but feel that he would be better off spending time with his daughter and grandson than traipsing about the city from gaol to merchant, to church and thence
to God knows where. The murder of the two women was sad, but it mainly served to remind him of the dangers of the city and the risks all took every day.

His musings were interrupted by a growing clamour from Carfoix.

‘What, in Christ’s pain, is that?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ Baldwin said, ‘but it sounds as though the Hue and Cry has someone.’

‘They’re coming down here,’ Sir Richard said. He was standing with his vast legs wide apart, thumbs in his belt. And then he stopped and peered ahead. ‘Can you see
who’s being chased?’

It was impossible to make out what was happening. There was a clot of humanity in the road, and carters and tranters were already shouting furiously at the men to clear the roadway.

‘No,’ Baldwin said helplessly, and then he saw a man break away from the crowd to remonstrate with a carter. ‘Hey, you!’ he called to him. ‘Who do you
hunt?’

The man with his long staff paused. ‘The man they’re calling Sir Charles of Lancaster. He was up at the East Gate. Punched a woman, and laid her senseless, and ran on down this way.
Been running after him ever since!’

‘You’re sure he came down here?’ Sir Richard demanded. ‘We haven’t seen him.’

‘He could have taken any of the alleys,’ the man panted.

‘Sir Baldwin, you carry on. I am keen to see that this bastard doesn’t lay a finger on another woman,’ Sir Richard bellowed. ‘I’ll go with this man.’

‘Very good,’ Baldwin said. ‘Edgar, you go with them and see if you can help capture Sir Charles. You should recognise him as fast as I would.’

Edgar nodded and was soon off with Sir Richard and the man, who was a bailiff. There was a roar as Sir Richard approached the gaggle of men milling near the Bear Gate entrance, and then some
order was restored.

‘Come, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let us go and speak with the priest.’

Simon nodded, and they continued down the street, but as they came to Combe Street, he spotted Father Laurence. ‘What’s
he
doing there?’ Simon asked.

Combe Street

There was no sense in protracted arguing. Both brothers sensed that this was the end of their road. There was nothing they could do to recoup their losses. They slowly made
their way back to the Paffards’ house, as if drawn by a magnet, and there they stood in the roadway.

Philip could never remember such a confusion of spirit. All his soul was baying for revenge upon Henry Paffard, but the merchant was out of reach in the gaol.

‘Where can we sleep tonight?’ he wondered aloud.

They had no money to pay for board and lodging, and tonight they must leave the streets before the Watch appeared and began to ask difficult questions of them.

William said nothing, but stared at the alley along which their hovel stood.

‘Will, it’s pointless. We cannot go back. It isn’t our home any more.’

‘Only a couple of years ago, we were rich, our parents were happy and content, and we had a future. Now Paffard’s stolen it all. Not just our money, Philip, he’s stolen our
lives.’

His brother was right, Philip thought. They had nothing remaining of that happiness. And as to what they could do now, he had no idea.

Just then, he heard a door open, and looking up, he saw Gregory Paffard in the doorway of his house.

It was as though the sight spurred him into action. Without conscious thought, Philip began to walk, his body filled with a total, all-consuming purpose. He could not have put it into words but
the intention was there.

Gregory had already run down the steps, and had set off in the direction of Southgate Street, Philip only a matter of paces behind him, when Gregory suddenly stopped with an audible gasp.

Philip took no notice. He drew his knife in one fluid movement, held it aloft for a moment, then grabbed Gregory’s shoulder, whirling him around.

There was a shout, an inarticulate cry, and Philip stood looking into Gregory’s frightened expression for a moment, and then his knife swooped down. And as it did, a man came, and thrust
Gregory aside.

He was in the way, and there was nothing Philip could do as he saw Father Laurence’s face appear before him. There was a second in which all time seemed to stop. Philip could see the
priest’s face in front of him, the eyes half-closed in anticipation – no fear, no terror, but an acceptance – while his knife appeared to be fixed in space.

But then it descended, slamming into the priest’s chest with a thud that could be heard in Father Laurence’s voice as a little grunt, and Philip felt his fist tug the blade free
again, and stared with horror at what he had done.

There was a scream, and when Philip looked, he saw Agatha at the door to the house, an expression of horror on her face. But her eyes were on her brother, not the priest.

Father Laurence smiled at him, a patient, forgiving smile, and then he turned and walked three paces before he stumbled, and then simply collapsed, like a falling tree. He was already dead
before any could reach him.

But Philip had heard him say those words. As he stood with Philip’s knife in his breast, he looked up at Agatha, and murmured, ‘I still love you.’

Carfoix

There was a rushing of men all about as they searched alleys and side streets to find Sir Charles. Sir Richard was used to this sort of work, but even he was growing despondent
as the sun crept around the sky. There was a moment when he thought he saw a man furtively creeping along, but when Edgar went and questioned the fellow, he was only a hunch-backed peasant on his
way home.

‘What d’ye think?’ he asked Edgar.

‘It would be a miracle to find him now, if he’s still here. He found a place to hide yesterday after he reached the city. He must have an ally here, or someone whom he can trust.
Without knowing who that is, we are searching for a single straw amongst many.’

Sir Richard nodded. Then he said, ‘Hold! If the fellow knows someone here in the city, perhaps it was one of the men who had joined him in his gang?’

Edgar nodded. He wore a supercilious expression, but Sir Richard didn’t care.

‘So, if the fellow was with him in his gang, it was someone who left here a few days ago when Sir Charles first approached this city – someone who disappeared and has recently
returned.’

‘Yes. That is possible.’

‘Aye, better than nothing, as you might say,’ the knight said with satisfaction. He turned and led the way to a watchman.

They were explaining Sir Richard’s reasoning when a boy hurried up. ‘The gaoler’s dead, sir,’ he said.

Sir Richard glowered at him. ‘What?’

‘Someone has killed the gaoler and the prisoner, sir. They’re both dead in there.’

‘That, friend Edgar, is why the man was at the East Gate – it’s near the gaol. Now, Watchman, is there a man of the sort I described – who left the city before the death
of the Bishop?’

‘There is one young feller. He left the city almost a fortnight ago,’ the man said. He had a healthy three-day growth of beard, and when he scratched his chin, it rasped. ‘We
can try him.’

‘Where?’

‘Down behind Smythen Lane.’

‘Take us there.’

Paffards’ House

Thomas ran. He pelted hell for leather through the house, through the kitchen and out past the brewery to the garden behind, but here he could not see anywhere to hide, and he
hesitated only a moment before thinking of the shed.

It took only a moment to rush to the broken slat, jerk with his hand, and wriggle inside the cold, dank interior – and only just in time.

He saw through the broken plank the man who ran out, closely pursued by Joan, who was shrieking at him to know what he was doing. He turned to her, and as Thomas watched, the big knight struck
her once on the side of her head, and she tumbled down to the ground, her wimple awry.