At the door to the hall, she turned and faced her eldest son. Her face was drawn into a rictus of pain and grief.
‘Leave me!’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Paffards’ House
Baldwin and Simon took hold of John’s arms and took him out through the house to the front door. In the hall, Simon saw the figure of Claricia sitting on a chair near the dead fire, Thomas still in her arms.
Closely followed by Sir Richard and the other members of their party, they went out, through the front door, and into the street.
It was early evening, and the scent of woodsmoke was all around. Simon snuffed the air, feeling as though a great weight had fallen from him. To be out of that house was a marvellous feeling. It was as though the walls themselves were permeated with misery.
‘Baldwin, I don’t ever want to go back there.’
‘I do not blame you for that.’
‘It is a good house,’ John said. He was walking resolutely, his head up, looking about him like a man who was at ease with himself and off for a walk on a pleasant evening, enjoying the sights and scents about his home.
‘It was,’ Sir Richard corrected him. ‘Until you decided to kill all the servants.’
‘I only sought to protect my mistress. I was always a most devoted servant.’
‘Aye. I believe devoted servants can be the most dangerous of all,’ Sir Richard said.
‘You make fun of me?’
‘No. There is nothing amusing about this situation. You have brought ruin upon your house, but no more than your master. Henry Paffard has done as much.’
‘He was a fool,’ John scoffed, ‘to think that he could forever get away with his behaviour. No man can own all the women in a city, but he seemed to think it was possible.’
They were already at the end of the street, and Baldwin pulled John with him down towards the church by the South Gate. Baldwin opened the door, and they all passed inside. Baldwin and Simon remained at the rear with their prisoner and the watchman, while Sir Reginald walked up the nave towards the figure of Father Paul kneeling at the altar. Sir Reginald clearly his throat gently, to indicate that the Father had company.
‘Yes? What can I do for you?’ Father Paul asked tiredly, breaking off from his prayers.
He was not feeling well, and now he was seized with a great emptiness and sorrow. The death of Father Laurence had quite shaken him. He had thought that God’s will should be visible all about, but the events of the last week had disturbed his equilibrium, and just now he was less sure of his faith than he had ever been.
‘Father, we need you to let this man put his hand on the Gospels and swear to tell us the truth.’
‘Why? Why do you need to know the truth? The truth is, good men have died!’ Father Paul said with great bitterness.
‘Father, you are unsettled,’ Baldwin said kindly. ‘We will leave you and find another priest. I am sorry to have troubled you.’
‘You haven’t troubled me. It’s my good friend Laurence. His death was so pointless.’
‘He tried to save Gregory Paffard’s life,’ Baldwin said.
‘For what? Why should God allow Laurence to die like that so that another may live? Who is to say that the saved man is more worthy than Father Laurence?’
‘Not I, Father – and yet God did. Who are we to assess His means or His plans?’
Father Paul stood. ‘You speak truth. But I don’t know that I can work towards His aims any more. I am too tired of this world and the endless battles.’
He took up a volume of rough-edged pages, and holding it carefully in both hands, walked up to them. ‘So, then, John,’ he said, and held out the book. ‘Put your hand on it.’
‘I swear I shall tell the whole truth,’ John said.
‘Begin,’ Sir Reginald commanded.
Cock Inn
Bydaud drank well in the Cock that night. He was feeling cheerful. More men had come and demanded his services, and whereas a week ago he had been close to bankruptcy, now he was being feted by many of the richer elements of the mercantile class in the city. There were risks, as he knew. A man’s reputation could be destroyed as swiftly as it could be built, usually more easily, too. And those who were even now keen to establish links with him because of the destruction of the House of Paffard, would be just as keen to discard him and go to a newer, fresher face. There was no loyalty in business. Only self-interest.
But he would not consider the possible pitfalls ahead. He was enjoying himself now, for the first time in many weeks, and he intended to make the most of it. He had seen the group of men bringing John from the Paffards’ house, and he was sure that it boded well for him. Paffard was over and done with.
Still, he must return to his wife and see what she had prepared for his meal. He finished his drink, slammed some coins down on the bar, and made his way homewards.
There was a crowd gathering outside, and he wandered through them all, beaming beatifically. The world, to him, had a roseate hue tonight after a half gallon of the Cock’s best ale. It was only a miracle that an alehouse of that nature could brew their ales so well. They had the same ingredients, so he imagined, as most others, and yet there was a sweetness and maltiness to theirs that quite outstripped all the others he had tasted in the last year.
As he went along the street towards his home, he gradually became aware of a shouting from behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that there were more and more men following along behind him. At least thirty, although his eyes were a little hazy. He wondered what they could be doing out here, before he realised that the leading men were the two whom he had seen the other night at the Paffards’ house. One still had his forearm bound with a piece of filthy cloth where John’s hatchet had opened it. Bydaud could see it quite clearly by the light of the flaming torch the man held in his good hand.
There was nothing in the way of firewood here for them to light, he thought to himself, so what could they be intending to do? And then he realised that they were set upon the destruction of Henry Paffard’s house!
With a squeak, he set off homewards as fast as his legs would take him. These men had tried to break into the Paffards’ house only two days before, and tonight they looked as though they intended to finish their job.
‘Oh, Christ Jesus!’ he muttered to himself, and was for a moment nonplussed. Should he go home, or fetch the Watch? Home, of course. He couldn’t leave Emma and the girls all alone with this mob. He hurried his steps, and then, as he ran up the alley, he saw William.
‘Quick, please, go to the Holy Trinity, fetch the Watch and those knights,’ he panted. ‘These fools may try to burn the house again, and we’ll lose the whole street!’
Church of the Holy Trinity
Baldwin and the others had already heard John’s confession regarding the two maids Clara and Evie, and how he had killed Alice and Juliana Marsille, but now he began to talk about Gregory and Agatha. Baldwin listened for only a short time, before deciding he needed hear no more.
‘Simon, I cannot listen to this,’ he muttered, and Simon nodded and left with him. Sir Richard and Edgar joined them.
‘A shameful business,’ Sir Richard said as they stood outside the church.
‘I am shocked to hear it,’ Simon said gruffly. ‘The idea of incest is not unknown in some of the farther distant valleys near Cornwall, but here, in a Christian city?’
Sir Richard eyed him with a benevolent smile. ‘Me dear fellow, there is nothing you can find happening in the most pagan of lands which ain’t goin’ on in the middle of the biggest cities in this kingdom. Wasn’t it you told me of the necromancer trying to kill the King by stabbing pins into a wax figure? At least incest doesn’t normally end a man’s life, eh?’