Michael Jecks: City of Fiends

Sir Charles pulled his hand away, tugging the long-bladed dagger free, and Wat’s mouth moved without sound as he gaped at the knight. Then his body convulsed, his head snapping back, and he fell from the saddle, twitching and thrashing on the ground in his death-throes.

‘That, boy,’ Sir Charles called to Ulric, ‘is what happens to rude sons-of-whores who are disrespectful to their betters. Remember that. And also remember, I distrust those who are dishonourable and faithless.’

He smiled, and Ulric, who had been staring at the body lying on the ground, found that smile more terrifying than any outburst of rage.

It was like the smile of the devil.

Marsilles’ House, Exeter

William Marsille nodded to his neighbour Mistress Emma de Coyntes as he walked home up the alleyway from Combe Street, and was surprised when she ignored him.

Pretending not to notice her manner, he pushed his door open, saying to his brother as he entered, ‘Emma’s pissed off about something again.’

‘What is it this time?’

His brother Philip, two years older at eighteen, sounded grumpy. He spent half his life snapping at William now. Perhaps it was the hunger.

William reached the sideboard – which was one of the few items of furniture that they’d rescued from their old home – poured himself a cup of wine from the cracked earthenware jug, and drank. ‘No idea. She just ignored me. You know what she’s like. ’Er wouldn’t ’cknowledge me if I ’uz on vire,’ he added with a grin.

His attempt at humour failed.

‘Pathetic!’ Philip muttered with a viciousness that surprised William. ‘We spend our lives trying to soothe her ruffled feathers, but we always end up with the sharp end of her tongue, the stupid bitch!’ There was something alarming in his over-reaction.

‘She was all over us like a rash when we were rich,’ William agreed. ‘Now we are poor she can exercise her contempt for us while she tries to suck up to the next lot of fools. We can live without her sort of friendship, Phil.’

‘Yes, she was always hanging around like a wart when we had money,’ Philip ranted. ‘Why can’t she give some peace now? That’s all, just a bit of peace!’

‘I think I prefer her like this,’ William said. ‘Philip, are you all right?’

Philip nodded. His normally animated features were pale. ‘It’s nothing. Just . . . Oh, God’s teeth! Just leave me alone,’ he said, and wiped his hand over his face, as though remembering a disaster that pained him. Then, with a gesture of despair, he blundered from the room leaving William staring after him.

Petreshayes

Sir Charles could make out his men at the edge of the woods as the light faded. Shortly the fight would begin. He enjoyed the feeling of liquid fire in his belly. A sharp battle, the slaying of his enemies: he was looking forward to it!

He drew his sword, held it before him and bent his head a little to the cross, kissing it. He was doing God’s work today, upholding His will.

‘Ready!’ he roared, lifting his arm so the rest could see his sword. He heard the slither of metal being drawn from all around him, and was about to give the order to canter towards the manor, when Ulric gave a cry.

Sir Charles followed his pointing finger. There, on the road curving across from their right, was a raggle-taggle line of men. A great flag moved in the air above them; there was a strong contingent of men-at-arms, walking men, carts, a wagon – all in all at least fifty men.

He threw a look at the lad beside him. ‘Well?’

‘It’s them. They must have been delayed on their way here,’ Ulric said.

‘You are sure?’

‘I know the Bishop’s banner – gold chevron on a scarlet background with ten crosses. Anyway, look at the men there! Most are clerics.’

Sir Charles gave a wolfish grin. Thinly on the air he could hear the shouts and screams of peasants dying under the first flights of arrows. The manor’s peasants would be fully occupied in protecting themselves, and would pay no heed to the attack on travellers.

He stood in his stirrups and gestured with his sword. ‘There! There! To Bishop James of Exeter! Ride with me!’

Cooks’ Row, Exeter

The sun was sinking as Joan hurried back down Cooks’ Row into Bolehill with her loaf of bread, the limewashed buildings on the other side of the road drenched with an orange glow. The colour reminded her of bodies writhing in the firelight, and the thought made her shudder. She averted her head from the buildings, from the pictures in her head, her belly curdling.

There was a crunch from an alley, and she felt her heart pound like hooves at full gallop. She turned reluctantly, staring, only to see a baker’s boy breaking up staves from a broken box for firewood. He glanced at her without interest before returning to his task.

She hated the city, with its tiny, narrow alleys and reeking, clamorous streets. The rich lived well, the clergy better, but for the others who eked out an existence, it was horrible. She was fortunate that she at least had a place in a merchant’s house, but if for some reason she upset her master, she would be out on the streets in an instant, and probably forced to join the other women in the stews.

At first it had been exciting, being away from her bully of a father, with his cidery breath, and the sting of his belt, away from the cold, dismal hovel, but just lately, for Joan, Exeter had become a place of fear. Walking the streets was unsettling; the people were so brash, so threatening. Only last morning she had felt a man’s hand on her arse as she passed by an alehouse, saw his other hand reaching for her breast. He could have pulled her into an alleyway, like some common draggle-tail. She’d only escaped with difficulty.

But there was worse here than the streets. Here there was the terror of the soul.

If Joan could, she would return home. Apologise to her father. She had run away in a fit of pique after an argument, and wished she could go back, admit that her dreams of finding a husband, an easy life, in Exeter, had failed.

She couldn’t. Her father was an unforgiving man, who would never let her forget her failure. Her life would be made unbearable.

It had seemed such good fortune when she found a position in the home of Henry Paffard. Their last maid had run away, and she was lucky to be settled so quickly.

That’s how it had seemed, anyway.

Steps. She heard steps – a panicky, bolting sound – and she darted into a darkened corner, eyes wide in sudden fear. A man came hurtling around the corner, arms slamming back and forth in his mad rush, his robe flying high. A priest, then, and running away from the Paffards’ house. She watched as he pelted up into Southgate Street, then away, out of sight.

Petreshayes

Their surprise attack threw the weary men-at-arms into disorder. They had not expected an ambush here, so close to the manor.

Sir Charles bellowed with joy as he cantered into the guards about the Bishop. There was a man on his right, and he hacked at him with his sword, saw a gout of blood, and then he was at the next, a terrified-looking fellow with a heavy riding sword. Sir Charles knocked his blade aside and thrust his pommel into the man’s face, feeling the bones crunch, before spurring on to the Bishop.

Bishop Berkeley was no coward. He had a sword of his own, and was as experienced as any nobleman. His blade was up, and he rode on to aim at Sir Charles with a roar of anger.

Sir Charles turned as the edge flashed past his shoulder, rolling back to slash, then used the point.

It caught the Bishop in the throat, and Sir Charles felt his sword jerk in his grip. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his victim huddle as if to hide from the assailants, but then one of his archers slammed down with a war-hammer, and the Bishop was thrown off his horse. The hammer rose and fell – and Bishop Berkeley was dead.