Ulric had been so shocked, his hand had shaken like the ague. ‘I drank too much last night,’ he said, but he was sure that the man had seen through his little fiction. The fellow’s eyes had been on him all the way along the street, he could sense it, even if he hadn’t followed him. But that meant nothing. He could have paid some urchin to trail after him, and perhaps even then was preparing a group of sturdy citizens to come and capture Ulric for his part in the murder of the Bishop . . . But no one had come, even though he had sat up in his room, waiting. At any time they might break down his door and crash in to capture him, but nothing happened.
It was this morning that he decided he must make the move and flee the city. He had wrapped up his spare shirt into a bundle, along with half a loaf of bread and a lump of blueish cheese, and as soon as the gates were open, he was on the road.
His way was easily chosen. He would go to Tiverton and see if he could find work. Or Crediton. Both were goodly-sized towns, so he’d heard. Perhaps he could start a new life there. Get employment in a shop. His skill with a pen would help him.
Tiverton or Crediton. He stood, frozen by indecision. Then, with a flash of simplicity, he chose north. At least with Tiverton he wouldn’t have to cross this river and get his feet soaked.
‘Hello.’
Turning, he saw a young woman. She was a pretty thing, with her hair straggling from beneath her wimple.
‘Hello,’ he said. She was familiar at once. ‘You used to work in Paffard’s house, didn’t you? I was apprenticed there. Ulric.’
‘Yes,’ she said with a wary politeness. A look of pain crossed her face. She didn’t want to remember that place. ‘Where are you going?’
He pulled a grimace. ‘North.’
‘Oh?’ She glanced at his meagre pack. ‘Me too. I’m going home. A friend died, and I don’t want to stay in the city.’
‘Where is home?’ he asked.
‘A farm,’ she smiled. ‘North. Can I walk with you?’
Ulric smiled back, and the two began their journey. It was a pleasant day, and Ulric had almost forgotten his fears when he heard horses approaching from Exeter.
‘What is it?’ she asked, seeing how he blanched.
The horses were on them, riding at an easy canter. Two men, one knight with a thin beard that travelled about his jaw, and his servant was the man who had caught Ulric on that fateful day. Ulric sighed. This was the capture he had feared. He felt a sob rise to choke him, and was about to drop his pack, when the two men rode on past, and off into the distance. But as they passed, Ulric was convinced that the servant had looked at him and winked.
‘Are you in trouble?’ Joan asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Perhaps if you wanted, I could go with you,’ she said. The thought of return to the farm was not appealing. Memories of her father’s strap lingered, even while she was determined to get away from Exeter.
‘I’d like that,’ he said.
It brought a glow to her face that he thought was exquisitely beautiful, and later, when they sat to share his food, they sat very close together.
Stepecoat Street
William Marsille entered the house for the first time that morning.
He weighed the key in his hand as he opened the door and stepped inside, looking about the room with a feeling of unutterable emptiness. It was good to know that he had a place to live, but that was scant compensation for the loss of home and family which Henry Paffard had caused.
There should be a mother in here with him, and Philip, too. They should have been able to join him here with happiness. If all the money which his father had left for them had been given to them, they would have been able to enjoy a glorious time here, but they were gone, and William was the sole survivor of his family.
Walking through the room, he peered out at the tiny yard area. Still, while small, there was space for a few vegetables. It would suffice.
Claricia had been determined to give him this place. At first he thought it was simple guilt which made her want to give it up, but then he began to wonder. If this had been intended as a love-nest for her husband’s young lover, it would scarcely hold pleasant associations for her.
Up a ladder, there was a bedchamber over the fire. He climbed up and stared at it, then clambered in and lay on his back. There was nothing here. All his belongings were lost. Cupboard, table, chairs, all had been broken up for a bonfire outside the Paffards’ house. But at least with a house he could start afresh.
There was one thing of which he was absolutely certain, and that was, no matter what, nothing in the world could ever make him copy Gregory and kill himself. No. To end a life was the greatest cowardice.
And he was no coward. He was son of Nicholas Marsille, and he would build a business to rival any in the city.
Paffards’ House
Without the servants it seemed loud. Thomas could hardly imagine why, because with fewer people about the house, it should have been quieter, but no matter.
Sal was still there, even though Joan had left, and she seemed to have cheered up considerably since the disappearance of both the younger maids. Thomas didn’t know why. But she was also nominated, or believed herself to be, his guardian, and she made his life cruel. Every time he played with his hoop in the road, he could count on her to shout to him just because a horse was coming, or a cart or some men and women. He could see them! He wasn’t a baby!
Today there was a curious feeling about the house. Ever since his mother had returned from the shops, there had been a kind of tension in the air. It didn’t bother him unduly – it wasn’t like the bad atmosphere in the old days. It was more a feeling of excitement, rather like a feast day. Except it wasn’t, he was sure.
When a knock came at the door, Thomas was worried. He still remembered the other knockings. Callers to let them know a maid was dead, others to try to barge in and burn the house down. Callers scared him. As soon as he heard this one, he ran to his mother in the hall.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked sternly. ‘Should you not answer the door, Thomas?’
He looked up at her, and as the knock came again, he buried his face in her lap. A mute appeal for protection.
‘Oh, very well, child,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
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.