Michael Jecks: City of Fiends

He stepped on the elm flooring, his feet echoing hollowly in the shed, and went to the nearer barrel, tapping it. There was a good, wholesome sound to it, and he fetched himself a mazer.

The bellow made him almost drop the cup. ‘What are you doing in here?’

‘John! Hell’s teeth, you could have killed me!’

‘I still may,’ John said, his hand dropping to his knife. ‘Why are you in here? Are you robbing our master?’

‘God’s honour, no! I was thirsty.’

‘Thirsty? That’s why you stole my keys? I put them down for a moment, and when I turn my back, you steal them and come to fleece my master! I trusted you, apprentice, and this is how you repay me?’

Ben was regretting his impulse now. ‘I was thirsty,’ he repeated, ‘and you weren’t there. I thought it was better to come and drink from here, rather than from the cask in the buttery. It’s almost empty.’

‘Oh,’ grunted the bottler. He seemed to accept the lad’s explanation and calmed down.

‘I am sorry, Benjamin,’ he said. ‘We’re all on edge, after what has happened. Just remember your duties, and all will sort itself out. Our lives are devoted to service, and that is how we shall be measured.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry I took your keys,’ Ben said contritely, passing them back. ‘I won’t do it again.’

‘I hope you won’t,’ John said. He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I didn’t mean to shout, boy. That young maid’s death has affected us all.’

‘Yes. Yes, it has.’

Precentor’s House

Adam Murimuth remained sitting at his desk when Janekyn Beyvyn entered with the vicar behind him.

‘Come in and stand before me, Father Laurence,’ the Precentor said. ‘I wish to hear what you have to say.’

He was a good-looking fellow, Murimuth thought. Father Laurence Coscumbe was tall and ruddy-complexioned, with powerful shoulders and arms. He had the sort of face that would have suited a knight more than a man of God: square, rugged, with strong brows over intent, green eyes – a face that could have snared many a maid’s heart. However, today there was a pained look about him.

‘Do you know why you are here?’

‘Janekyn saw me at the gate, Precentor. But that murder was nothing to do with me. I had been with Father Paul in his church, and when I realised how late was the hour, I hurried back. That is all.’

‘Did you go into the lane where this maid was killed?’

‘I didn’t kill her, Precentor. I happened to be passing by on my way back from the Church of Holy Trinity, that is all. I would never harm a maid.’

‘You didn’t go up the road there?’

‘Are you accusing me of kicking a maid to death?’ Father Laurence demanded with spirit. ‘Look at me! I am no felon, Precentor. I have never had an accusation of any kind against me. It is simple villeiny-saying to suggest I could have had anything to do with her injuries.’

Precentor Murimuth remained gazing at him for a long time, but the vicar stared back stolidly.

‘Very well,’ Murimuth said at last. ‘You may go for now, but I think it would be well, were you to remain within the Close for some days. At least until after the inquest.’

‘Yes, Precentor,’ Laurence said. ‘You may be right.’

Church of the Holy Trinity, South Gate

Father Paul watched as his little congregation drifted away from his church, and then made his own way from the nave into the small room at the north side.

He had a large chest here, and he pulled off his vestments and stored them carefully within it. The alb was showing its age, he thought, as he folded the long white linen tunic; and so were most of the other ceremonial items. His daily robes, too, he thought, glancing down. But it didn’t matter, not today. He had other things on his mind.

Last evening, he had seen Philip Marsille out in the road. He knew the Marsilles, and how desperate was their plight, so he went to speak to the lad.

‘Philip. Are you well?’ he asked gently.

Philip looked up at him with eyes raw from weeping. He was a tall, well-favoured lad with a shock of fair hair and blue eyes in a pale face. ‘You couldn’t understand, Father. It’s a matter of love between a man and a woman. Or not!’ His eyes filled again, and he bent his head to his hands. Through them, he choked, ‘She doesn’t love me.’

There was the sound of a door opening, and Father Paul saw that Henry Paffard and his family were emerging from their home. Henry’s son and daughter walked out, then his wife, all following after him like servants in a Canon’s familia , descending the short flight of steps one by one.

Philip stared at them, his face working. The eldest son, Gregory, glanced back at him without emotion, as if the poor boy was beneath his dignity. The master of the house peered briefly at him, but Philip was his tenant, and what interest would a man like him have in a fatherless son, after all?

The lad should pull himself together, Father Paul thought. It was ridiculous that he should be so, so . . . overwrought.

It was then that Philip had hissed the words that so alarmed Father Paul.

‘You bastard, Henry! You son of a pox-ridden whore! I’ll kill you!’

Hearing of a murder in Combe Street, Father Paul had immediately assumed that Philip had gone ahead with his stated purpose: to strike down Henry Paffard. He had knelt in front of the cross, hands clasped, knowing he could have done nothing to prevent the crime, but rocking with the guilt nonetheless.

This morning, he had heard it was a maidservant who’d been killed – some wench trying her luck as a tickle-tail no doubt, and the relief had been overwhelming. If it had been Paffard, he would never have forgiven himself.

There were many such women selling themselves, tempting men with their leering and lascivious teasing. Only two weeks ago, one outside the Cock Inn had bared her breasts at him, offering him a tumble with a wink and a wriggle of her hips. He had flushed in an instant, and had gone back to the church as fast as he could, to pray for himself, and for the whore.

They were all women who had fallen from the path of virtue – he must try to remember that. Kindness was more important than condemnation.

He drank a cup of wine while he set his pottage over the little fire, and sat on his stool stirring; he was still there when the knock came at the door.

Rising with an effort, he went to open it. Outside were two women from the stews. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘It’s not what we want, my lover,’ slurred one. It was plain that she had been in an alehouse for hours. Sarra was typical of her kind, Father Paul thought – blowsy, red-faced, and with a cap that had slipped sideways to show her thick, coarse hair.

‘No! We wanted to give you something,’ the other said. She was younger, with a slight cast in one eye and a lop-sided grin that exposed a pair of broken teeth. He didn’t know her name. Both were as thin as rakes.

Father Paul looked them up and down, and then sighed. ‘Come inside.’

Friday after the Feast of the Nativity of St John the Baptist 3

Combe Street

Juliana Marsille, a slim woman of almost forty, with greying hair and flesh drawn tight over a heart-shaped face, was walking back from the baker’s, a tiny loaf held carefully in her hands. It was all she could afford.

She was unhappy. Two days ago she had lost Emma as a friend, and nothing she could do or say would repair the damage.

It had been one of those days. Juliana had been trying to talk sense into Philip, her son, but he paid no attention. It was important ! She’d been talking about money, saying that he needed to find work, and when she saw him ignoring her, she had been infuriated: she slapped him, just to make him listen.