Michael Jecks: City of Fiends

Picking him up and resting him on her hip, she made her way to the door. Unbarring it, she pulled it wide, and Thomas saw a man with a sack. It wriggled alarmingly.

‘Here it is, mistress,’ the man said, lifting the sacking and passing it to her.

‘I thank you,’ she said, and the fellow was gone. ‘Thomas. This is for you.’ She set him down on the ground, and passed him the sack.

He didn’t want it. He stepped away from it, eyeing it suspiciously.

And then he heard a little sound, and his heart leaped.

Because the noise was a sharp whine. Like a puppy’s.

Furnshill

Baldwin cantered up the last part of the roadway with his heart lightening.

It was always the same when he came home. There was a vague sense of anticipation that bordered on fear, in case Jeanne or one of the children had fallen sick, perhaps died even, but that could not be drowned out by the feeling of utter joy he felt on seeing his house again, the long house with the great hall, the solars, the stables, the neat pastureland before, the trees behind. It was a scene of rural perfection. He knew that he was the luckiest man alive to possess this manor, and there was not a day when he woke here and didn’t think of that.

‘Home, Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar said.

‘And I am as glad as a king ever was to see his palace,’ Baldwin said. ‘I will never again willingly leave my house and family. There is no task, no function that could tempt me away from here. All I love is right here.’

Edgar looked at him with a grin. ‘So, until the next time you are called away, we can rest?’

‘Edgar, old friend, I shall relinquish my duties as Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said. ‘How can I continue in that role when I do not fully believe that the King is on his throne? This boy, Edward III, may be more callow and incompetent than his father. And if there is any steel in the committee of regency running the kingdom, it will be due to Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. And I trust neither. No, Edgar, it is time for me to accept that at my age, I am too old for this position.’

‘So we shall retire at last?’

‘Aye, my friend. We shall hide ourselves in obscurity here in Devon. And at last, perhaps, find peace.’

And so saying, he whipped his rounsey into a gallop.

Road to Bristol

It was a hard and weary ride to the King, Adam Murimuth knew. He had only just set off this morning, and already, some thirty miles from Exeter, he was regretting the impulse that had made him agree to be one of the delegates with the messages telling the King about the death of the Bishop and the Sheriff. There was no escaping the fact that the journey would take a long time.

But he did at least have some ideas that had been fermenting at the back of his mind, and now, on the road, he would have time to consider their implications.

For some years he had been maintaining his little journal, and the exercise had been rewarding. It was not in any way a great chronicle, but a series of notes and jottings. He had started when he was about thirty years old, as an exercise in memory, reminding himself of the things he had been doing on certain days and while it had been useful – and he could not deny it, enjoyable too – it was of such little meaning as to be irrelevant. If he stopped today, it would not be noticed.

Which was curious, in so many ways. Here he was, living through a momentous period in the history of the realm, and all someone looking at his journal would note would be the order of service at his Mass, the food he disliked at table, or the catty remarks he made about certain companions in the choir. This was no way to be dealing with the great matters of moment that were being played out all about the kingdom.

No, what he should be attempting was something on a grander scale entirely. Something that had sweep, and that would entrance and educate. Something that would show the world what a marvellous thing was this creation of God’s. Something people could refer to for information, perhaps. And in its pages, he would record the truth. No concealments like the latest sorry adventures in Combe Street. He would have the facts of Henry Paffard’s criminality, the horrible truth of his bottler, the sorry acts of his children. No, perhaps not. Little could be achieved by tales of ordinary men and women and their secrets. But to tell the story of the kingdom – that would be an undertaking of importance. As befitted a . . .

He smiled at his pride. A journal was surely all he could manage. But there were such attractions to attempting a chronicle. A book that would tell the tale of the history of the last years. Perhaps he could go back a short way, and speak of Edward II, and then tell of the shameful way in which he lost his crown and throne, that unhappy monarch. A chronicle that would certainly be of instructive use . . .

It was indeed a glorious idea.

And today was a day of wonderful inspiration. For it was as he settled beside the fire that evening, that he had another excellent idea.

He had been musing for some time about how to broach the death of Sheriff James de Cockington. It was sure to upset the King, for finding suitable souls to take on such positions was increasingly difficult. The Sheriffs were a difficult bunch. Some were honourable, but for the most part they were aggressive and corrupt. They took what they could from the people and extorted money from all those who were forced to go to them for justice. It was no way for the realm to administer the law.

But once in a while a knight proved himself honourable. A good, kindly man with a sense of fairness and integrity – that would be a man to make a rare Sheriff. If he could temper the loss of one Sheriff with a recommendation of a replacement, he would make himself popular.

And Sir Baldwin would, Adam felt sure, make a perfect officer for the King.