Michael Jecks - City of Fiends

He had snapped. Catching her hands, he stared at her as though he didn’t know her. For a moment, she had seen utter wildness in his eyes and knew he could have broken her neck without regret.

It was a shocking revelation, but she was not stupid enough to deny it. Philip was a man, not her darling little boy any more, and if she were to push him, he might strike back.

He was weak, that was the problem. He had no idea that for the family to survive, each must do their part. He was the head of the house now her poor, beloved Nicholas was dead.

She missed him so.

A pig’s bladder skittered by, and the figure of Thomas Paffard darted past in pursuit, a thick-set little boy of six with a thatch of tallow hair above a face moulded into a frown of determination. With that fixed concentration on his features, he could be mistaken for a serious-minded child, but Juliana knew him better than that. His face was more usually broken almost in half by his broad grin. His blue eyes were seemingly designed for joy and for inspiring it in others. He was the sort of boy who could make any mother wish for a child again, just to enjoy those years of merriment and laughter.

‘Hello, Thomas,’ she called as he ran behind her to fetch his bladder.

He looked and gave her a shy smile that quickly faded, before returning at full pelt to his companions.

It was enough to make the breath catch in her throat, to make the sob begin deep in her breast, when she thought of her own older boy and what he had become.

Cock Inn, South Gate

The tavern was full of noxious fumes from the poor quality logs. The hearth was a small pit filled with ashes in the packed soil of the floor, and every now and again there was a loud crack from a splitting log, and a spark would be hurled over onto the rushes that lay all about. No one bothered to stamp it out, for with the amount of spilled ale, spittle, and urine from the host’s dogs, there was little likelihood that the sodden flooring could catch light.

Philip Marsille walked in, feeling resentfully that everyone was staring at him as he made his way to the far side where the barrels were stacked.

They didn’t understand what it was like. No one did. He had loved Alice with the honest conviction that she was the only woman he would ever love. All he needed to do was to rescue her from her life of servitude, and she would have adored him with an equal passion. That was all. He had planned his campaign, he had set his charm to work upon her, and he had been sure that she had begun to reciprocate his feelings . . . and then she threw it all back in his face.

She had laughed at him; she laughed at his endearments and promises of undying affection, she was scathing when he told her of the house he would have when he had made his fortune.

‘Where is this house, Master Philip? Is it in the High Street near the Guild Hall, or behind it, where the goldsmiths work? Or is it in a small alley off Combe Street, here, where there’re more rats than men, where cockroaches wander over the tables, and the walls are rotten and flimsy? You’ll marry me and make me rich, you say? You don’t know what “rich” is!’

‘I love you, Alice. I can make you hap-,’ he had begun, but she cut him off.

‘I don’t want your love. I am happy without you, so thank you, master, but I think I’ll carry on alone.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he attempted patiently.

‘No, you don’t understand. I am well off where I am. I get food, I get my bed, and I’m content.’

‘But a life without love is a poor one.’

‘What makes you think I live without love?’ she retorted. ‘But I will not be content with a poor fish like you! What do you have? You rent a foul hovel from Henry Paffard with your mother and brother, and you want me to join you there?’

Her contempt made him recoil, but still he had to try – he felt sure that if she only realised how deeply he felt for her, she must reconsider.

‘Alice, if you would only . . .’ he mumbled, and reached out to touch her hand.

She pulled it back with an expression of disgust. ‘Keep away from me! If you touch me again, I’ll tell my master about this. A word from me, and the whole pack of you will be out on the street. You want that? No? Then leave me alone!’

Even now, the memory of her words and the scorn in her eyes was enough to bring the hot blood to his face.

Combe Street

Juliana was almost back at the alley when she caught sight of Helewisia Avice.

‘He’s a pet, isn’t he?’ Helewisia said with a wistfulness in her tone as she eyed Thomas.

Juliana shot a look at the woman. Helewisia was tall, heavy in build, with large breasts and a well-padded backside. In her youth she had been much sought-after for her looks, but they had flown when she and Roger lost their son, Piers. He had fallen into a well in a silly accident. Helewisia had watched other boys with jealous longing ever since.

‘He is.’

‘Hard to imagine such a lovely fellow born to that bastard Henry!’

Juliana was not surprised by the venom in her voice. ‘Even the most miserable old sinner can father a saint.’

‘You believe that? Well, I say a man’s blood runs in his son’s veins. Perhaps the boy is not his.’

‘That is a dreadful thing to say,’ Juliana gasped. ‘Such villeiny-saying could get you into trouble, Helewisia.’

‘Perhaps.’

Juliana was unsettled by her comments. Still, it was better than dwelling on Emma, the friend she had lost.

The event that had ended their friendship occurred soon after Philip had threatened her. She had been outside, and Sabina, Emma’s young daughter, had been singing the same tune, over and over again, until Juliana had snapped. A combination of anxiety about money, and then Philip gripping her like that, which had shaken her badly, made her screech at Sabina to just shut up. The girl had fled, and now Emma ignored her. There was nothing she could do to put things right. Emma was the sort who would put up with anything, but not unkindness to her children. She would never talk to Juliana again.

Helewisia was staring at Thomas still. Juliana said, ‘Is there any more news of the poor girl?’

‘Alice? No. Nobody knows what happened.’

‘The Coroner has been summoned?’

‘Of course. But he’s not in town. He’ll come when he may.’

‘It’s horrible to have her left out there like garbage.’

‘Aye, well. She was only a maid without honour.’

‘Helewisia!’ Juliana remonstrated, crossing herself. ‘Don’t speak ill of the poor thing.’

At that moment Claricia Paffard opened her door, a basket crooked in her arm. Seeing the two women, she joined them. She was of middle height, with hazel eyes in a sharp face that reminded Juliana of a ferret. On the surface, she was easy to dislike, with her money, her easy life, her affectations of superiority – but in fact she aroused sympathy in the hearts of many women in the neighbourhood. All of them knew of her husband’s womanising. Today her whey-coloured features filled Juliana with compassion. To have had her maid murdered, and so near to their home at that, must have been horrible.

‘Good morning, Gossips,’ Claricia said.

The two nodded and muttered greetings, both wary in the face of their landlord’s wife. She continued along the road towards Southgate Street while Juliana and Helewisia watched.

Neither noticed Emma approaching.

‘So: have you worked out who killed her yet?’ Emma asked when she was closer. She stood nearer Helewisia, and might have been unaware of Juliana’s presence for all the notice she paid her.

‘Us?’ Helewisia burst out with surprise.