Michael Jecks - City of Fiends

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.

Sir Charles threw a harried look about the yard, and then began to trot to the workrooms at the rear. It was when he was almost there that Thomas squirmed about a little to look, and his foot caught on something. It was sharp, and scratched at his leg, and he instantly thought of rats.

Rats. Their sharp teeth that would gnaw through a wooden beam, that would score even a metal plate, rats were everywhere, and the memory of John’s words about rats eating through a boy’s leg in a moment, that was enough to make him whimper to himself. He dare not squeal, he dare not kick and scream for help, because the man he had seen robbing his father’s hall would come and find him. He must lie still, even if the rats ate through his leg. Better to be eaten alive than found by that horrible man.