Michael Jecks: City of Fiends

Sir Charles eyed it with satisfaction. ‘Come, my friends! It is time to visit terror on Devon!’

Rougemont Castle, Exeter

Adam Murimuth walked in at the red sandstone gate and peered about him.

He did not like this castle. As Precentor, he had had to come here on various occasions. The last had been in the spring, when there had been a fight in the High Street near the Guild Hall. Two servants of the Cathedral had been rightly infuriated to see a Dominican preaching to some folk, and had remonstrated. The friar loudly rejected their justified arguments, and a small crowd gathered.

As the dispute grew more heated, locals joined to take sides, and in the end it was necessary for some men-at-arms to come to cool tempers. Not that they had succeeded. The ensuing fracas had been ended only when a few sensible traders managed to calm the troubled folk.

And the cause of the escalating violence? The preacher and the servants were abusing each other in fluent Latin, the locals had interjected in their mixed languages, some in Celtic, some in English, while the castle’s men had reverted to Norman French when they lost their tempers. In the babel that ensued, it was only when three merchants fluent in a variety of languages had interposed, that peace was restored.

The castle was a symbol of the power of the Sheriff, and Adam resented the man and his authority. However, thankfully Sheriff de Cockington had no control over the Cathedral or its staff.

‘Sheriff,’ Adam began when at last he was permitted to enter the hall itself, ‘I fear that there has been a death in the city.’

‘Aye, a maid was murdered. What of it?’

‘I wished to know what the Coroner thinks of the matter.’

The Sheriff gazed at him. He was a pompous fellow, this James de Cockington, Murimuth thought. He remembered his pale eyes staring at him before, with that same look, when they were discussing the fight in the High Street. Even then, he had been certain that the man was searching for a way to request a bribe, rather than seek resolution.

‘What is a murder in the city to do with the Cathedral, Precentor?’ he asked smoothly.

‘Probably nothing. But it occurred near enough to the Close for us to hear it. When will the Coroner be here to review the matter?’

The Sheriff sucked at his teeth. ‘Perhaps the day after tomorrow – maybe not until Sunday. He has been away, down at Ashburton. A tin miner was found hanged down there, and the Coroner left yesterday. It is a full day’s ride to Ashburton, since the roads are appalling. I would think he would hold his inquest today or tomorrow, and return Saturday.’

‘Good, good,’ Murimuth said.

‘You will wish to send a witness to hear the evidence?’

‘Perhaps.’ Murimuth ducked his head, preparatory to making his exit. He disliked dissembling. There were situations in which he felt comfortable, but this was not one of them. The Sheriff never impressed him with his intellect, but the man was the King’s own representative.

‘It would almost seem as if you knew something about this murder, Precentor,’ the Sheriff said. ‘Do you know who was responsible?’

‘Certainly not!’ Murimuth said. ‘If I did, I would say so, to prevent another innocent being accused. Murder is a grave matter.’

That was the fact that absorbed him as he left the castle. Murder was indeed a serious affair, and if Janekyn was right, the murderer could have been one of the Cathedral’s inhabitants.

He stopped at the High Street. There were some people coming into the city from the East Gate, and he saw a watchman on the gate push a man leading a packhorse against the wall, while his companion began to search the panniers on the beast’s back.

Nothing there, thank the Lord, and the sumpterman was soon on his way again, but it was just another proof to Murimuth of the tensions all felt. The King had been forced from his own throne, replaced by his fifteen-year-old son, and gangs of men were now ravaging the land in the old King’s name. One such had breached the castle at Kenilworth, trying to free him, a few months ago. All the guards here, and elsewhere, were on tenterhooks, expecting a fresh upsurge of violence.

He made his way back to the Cathedral feeling depressed, convinced that there would be more bloodshed. There were too many men like the Sheriff who were out to seek personal advantage from the realm’s troubles.

Until the kingdom was stabilised, with the new King grown to maturity, there would be no peace for anyone, only increasing disorder.

Well, that may be so, he told himself. But the disorder would only increase if men felt they could get away with it. It was vital to uphold the law, and show that justice would swiftly follow a crime, be it large or small.

He must do all he could to bring justice to the felon who killed that poor young maid.

Paffards’ House

Benjamin, Henry Paffard’s apprentice, had been to the church that morning, offering prayers for Alice. He would miss her. She had been a part of the household.

When he first arrived at Exeter, the boy had thought himself fortunate to be apprenticed to Henry Paffard. The latter was known as the best decorator of pewter in the city, but the glorious engraving for which he had made his name was a thing of the past. The work he performed today was at best pedestrian – when he could be bothered to visit the workshops. Henry was living on the reputation he had forged years ago, and Benjamin was hard-pressed to recall a single day during which he had learned anything from his master.

In those early days, before disillusion set in, everything had seemed possible. Benjamin was sure that, once he was ready, he would soon be made a pewterer in his own right, that he would set up his own little business, and start to earn his fortune. And over time, when luck allowed, he would meet a woman to marry, and he would raise his own family. And when he did, he would remain loyal to his wife.

But he had not done any of those things, and while he got on well enough with the other apprentices, there was none he could call an especial friend. Most, he suspected, looked down on him.

Of course, they all knew about Henry Paffard’s nocturnal visits to Alice in her chamber, the trysts they held when they thought no one else was listening. Henry should not have insulted his poor wife by taking a maidservant as a lover. And when Claricia remonstrated with him, Henry had beaten her! That was not Christian. But nor was Alice’s behaviour, and the couple’s flagrant adultery brought disgrace to all in the house.

Henry Paffard’s unseemly behaviour meant that Benjamin would be forever remembered as the apprentice who lived with the reprobate – and not as the skilled artist of pewter which he hoped to become. His reputation was ruined before he could carve it out for himself.

For some weeks now, the pleasure he had once gained from working metal, the joy he had experienced at the sight of a perfectly rendered decoration cut into the metal, was lost to him. His disappointment gave him a bleak view of the future: he now was convinced he would never find a woman, never have children with her, never know the joy of a professional career.

In this bitter mood, he went to the buttery to fetch himself a strong ale, but the small cask there was low. He dared not empty it. Perhaps he could fetch a pot of ale from one of the barrels in John’s locked storage room at the rear of the house? The keys hung on the bottler’s belt usually, but today Benjamin had seen them resting on a protruding wooden peg. He hesitated, but then snatched them up. Pox on what the bottler might say!

Striding to the storage room, he unlocked the stiff door and tugged it wide. The cool interior always had a strange smell, like meat left drying for years, enhanced by the malty sweetness of the ales stored here after each brewing.