31 - City of Fiends (52 page)

‘Are you in trouble?’ Joan asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Perhaps if you wanted, I could go with you,’ she said. The thought of return to the farm was not appealing. Memories of her father’s strap lingered, even while she was
determined to get away from Exeter.

‘I’d like that,’ he said.

It brought a glow to her face that he thought was exquisitely beautiful, and later, when they sat to share his food, they sat very close together.

Stepecoat Street

William Marsille entered the house for the first time that morning.

He weighed the key in his hand as he opened the door and stepped inside, looking about the room with a feeling of unutterable emptiness. It was good to know that he had a place to live, but that
was scant compensation for the loss of home and family which Henry Paffard had caused.

There should be a mother in here with him, and Philip, too. They should have been able to join him here with happiness. If all the money which his father had left for them had been given to
them, they would have been able to enjoy a glorious time here, but they were gone, and William was the sole survivor of his family.

Walking through the room, he peered out at the tiny yard area. Still, while small, there was space for a few vegetables. It would suffice.

Claricia had been determined to give him this place. At first he thought it was simple guilt which made her want to give it up, but then he began to wonder. If this had been intended as a
love-nest for her husband’s young lover, it would scarcely hold pleasant associations for her.

Up a ladder, there was a bedchamber over the fire. He climbed up and stared at it, then clambered in and lay on his back. There was nothing here. All his belongings were lost. Cupboard, table,
chairs, all had been broken up for a bonfire outside the Paffards’ house. But at least with a house he could start afresh.

There was one thing of which he was absolutely certain, and that was, no matter what, nothing in the world could ever make him copy Gregory and kill himself. No. To end a life was the greatest
cowardice.

And he was no coward. He was son of Nicholas Marsille, and he would build a business to rival any in the city.

Paffards’ House

Without the servants it seemed loud. Thomas could hardly imagine why, because with fewer people about the house, it should have been quieter, but no matter.

Sal was still there, even though Joan had left, and she seemed to have cheered up considerably since the disappearance of both the younger maids. Thomas didn’t know why. But she was also
nominated, or believed herself to be, his guardian, and she made his life cruel. Every time he played with his hoop in the road, he could count on her to shout to him just because a horse was
coming, or a cart or some men and women. He could see them! He wasn’t a baby!

Today there was a curious feeling about the house. Ever since his mother had returned from the shops, there had been a kind of tension in the air. It didn’t bother him unduly – it
wasn’t like the bad atmosphere in the old days. It was more a feeling of excitement, rather like a feast day. Except it wasn’t, he was sure.

When a knock came at the door, Thomas was worried. He still remembered the other knockings. Callers to let them know a maid was dead, others to try to barge in and burn the house down. Callers
scared him. As soon as he heard this one, he ran to his mother in the hall.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked sternly. ‘Should you not answer the door, Thomas?’

He looked up at her, and as the knock came again, he buried his face in her lap. A mute appeal for protection.

‘Oh, very well, child,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’

Picking him up and resting him on her hip, she made her way to the door. Unbarring it, she pulled it wide, and Thomas saw a man with a sack. It wriggled alarmingly.

‘Here it is, mistress,’ the man said, lifting the sacking and passing it to her.

‘I thank you,’ she said, and the fellow was gone. ‘Thomas. This is for you.’ She set him down on the ground, and passed him the sack.

He didn’t want it. He stepped away from it, eyeing it suspiciously.

And then he heard a little sound, and his heart leaped.

Because the noise was a sharp whine. Like a puppy’s.

Furnshill

Baldwin cantered up the last part of the roadway with his heart lightening.

It was always the same when he came home. There was a vague sense of anticipation that bordered on fear, in case Jeanne or one of the children had fallen sick, perhaps died even, but that could
not be drowned out by the feeling of utter joy he felt on seeing his house again, the long house with the great hall, the solars, the stables, the neat pastureland before, the trees behind. It was
a scene of rural perfection. He knew that he was the luckiest man alive to possess this manor, and there was not a day when he woke here and didn’t think of that.

‘Home, Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar said.

‘And I am as glad as a king ever was to see his palace,’ Baldwin said. ‘I will never again willingly leave my house and family. There is no task, no function that could tempt
me away from here. All I love is right here.’

Edgar looked at him with a grin. ‘So, until the next time you are called away, we can rest?’

‘Edgar, old friend, I shall relinquish my duties as Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said. ‘How can I continue in that role when I do not fully believe that the King
is on his throne? This boy, Edward III, may be more callow and incompetent than his father. And if there is any steel in the committee of regency running the kingdom, it will be due to Queen
Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. And I trust neither. No, Edgar, it is time for me to accept that at my age, I am too old for this position.’

‘So we shall retire at last?’

‘Aye, my friend. We shall hide ourselves in obscurity here in Devon. And at last, perhaps, find peace.’

And so saying, he whipped his rounsey into a gallop.

Road to Bristol

It was a hard and weary ride to the King, Adam Murimuth knew. He had only just set off this morning, and already, some thirty miles from Exeter, he was regretting the impulse
that had made him agree to be one of the delegates with the messages telling the King about the death of the Bishop and the Sheriff. There was no escaping the fact that the journey would take a
long time.

But he did at least have some ideas that had been fermenting at the back of his mind, and now, on the road, he would have time to consider their implications.

For some years he had been maintaining his little journal, and the exercise had been rewarding. It was not in any way a great chronicle, but a series of notes and jottings. He had started when
he was about thirty years old, as an exercise in memory, reminding himself of the things he had been doing on certain days and while it had been useful – and he could not deny it, enjoyable
too – it was of such little meaning as to be irrelevant. If he stopped today, it would not be noticed.

Which was curious, in so many ways. Here he was, living through a momentous period in the history of the realm, and all someone looking at his journal would note would be the order of service at
his Mass, the food he disliked at table, or the catty remarks he made about certain companions in the choir. This was no way to be dealing with the great matters of moment that were being played
out all about the kingdom.

No, what he should be attempting was something on a grander scale entirely. Something that had sweep, and that would entrance and educate. Something that would show the world what a marvellous
thing was this creation of God’s. Something people could refer to for information, perhaps. And in its pages, he would record the truth. No concealments like the latest sorry adventures in
Combe Street. He would have the facts of Henry Paffard’s criminality, the horrible truth of his bottler, the sorry acts of his children. No, perhaps not. Little could be achieved by tales of
ordinary men and women and their secrets. But to tell the story of the kingdom – that would be an undertaking of importance. As befitted a . . .

He smiled at his pride. A journal was surely all he could manage. But there were such attractions to attempting a chronicle. A book that would tell the tale of the history of the last years.
Perhaps he could go back a short way, and speak of Edward II, and then tell of the shameful way in which he lost his crown and throne, that unhappy monarch. A chronicle that would certainly be of
instructive use . . .

It was indeed a glorious idea.

And today was a day of wonderful inspiration. For it was as he settled beside the fire that evening, that he had another excellent idea.

He had been musing for some time about how to broach the death of Sheriff James de Cockington. It was sure to upset the King, for finding suitable souls to take on such positions was
increasingly difficult. The Sheriffs were a difficult bunch. Some were honourable, but for the most part they were aggressive and corrupt. They took what they could from the people and extorted
money from all those who were forced to go to them for justice. It was no way for the realm to administer the law.

But once in a while a knight proved himself honourable. A good, kindly man with a sense of fairness and integrity – that would be a man to make a rare Sheriff. If he could temper the loss
of one Sheriff with a recommendation of a replacement, he would make himself popular.

And Sir Baldwin would, Adam felt sure, make a perfect officer for the King.

1
Wednesday, 24 June 1327

2
Thursday, 25 June 1327

3
26 June 1327

4
27 June 1327

5
28 June 1327

6
29 June 1327

7
30 June 1327

8
1 July 1327

9
2 July 1327

10
3 July 1327

11
4 July 1327

12
7 July 1327