Free 31 - City of Fiends by Michael Jecks

will that His order be renewed. The removal of a King is His responsibility, and His alone.’
    ‘But to kill a Bishop, and a priest, too.’
    ‘The Bishop of Exeter was the brother of the man who captured and held the King, brother to the man who told the King he must surrender his throne, against all the laws of man and God.
Berkeley must be forced to realise his error in setting his face against God.’
    ‘You cannot succeed with this,’ Ulric said with miserable certainty. He looked at the altar once more and felt like weeping. ‘God will punish us for this.’
    ‘Oh?’ Sir Charles said. There was a shout from outside, but neither paid it any heed. ‘Ulric, for once and for all, get it into your head that the men who caused this are the
men who took the stern decision to forswear themselves. They were servants to the King, and broke their oaths. There is nothing for them when they die but the pits of hell. We are serving God by
our—’
    There was a fresh cry from outside the church, and Sir Charles muttered a curse before bellowing, ‘What is it?’
    ‘Men coming here!’
    Sir Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Of course there are,’ he said with a long-suffering sigh. ‘This is their church.’
    Exeter Cathedral
    Adam Murimuth felt a vague disquiet. It was the expression on the face of Philip Marsille. The poor fellow was plainly upset by the murder, as a man should be – and yet
there was something more than sorrow in his expression.
    He squirmed as unobtrusively as possible, his legs already aching. For his part, he had spent much time considering whether he should take matters further with Father Laurence. The fact that the
vicar had denied absolutely any part in the girl’s murder should have reassured him, but Murimuth felt that there was something shifty at best about his behaviour. Perhaps he himself had not
been involved, but had seen someone else in the road who could have been?
    From here in the choir, Murimuth faced the altar, looking along the heads of the choristers towards the newly-built eastern half of the Cathedral. It was warm, and there was a fug of humanity
that incense could not subdue. Murimuth himself could feel the itching of sweat at his beard and the stubble of his tonsure. It had been some days since his last visit to the barber, and he felt
slightly unclean as a result.
    Father Laurence himself was always clean and fresh. He belonged to that category of men who were always washing themselves, as though it was some form of ritual in its own right.
    Murimuth suddenly had a vision of a man washing away blood from his hands, as though he could as easily wash away his guilt. Cleanliness as proof of a crime? No, that was nonsense! At least the
Coroner should soon be able to open his inquest. Murimuth rested his backside on the little carved misericord behind him and tried to ease his legs. It would be a good thing to rescue that
poor child’s body from the alleyway in which she still lay, and see to her burial. There was no excuse for leaving her out there any longer than necessary.
    He would make some notes later. Perhaps that would help clear the fog in his mind. Because for now, he felt such a heaviness of spirit.
    It was as though his soul was telling him that Father Laurence did know something of the maid’s murder.
    Church near Broadclyst
    Sir Charles was on his feet and halfway to the door before Ulric had registered the call. There, Sir Charles motioned to a pair of his men. They were rugged-looking fellows, who
wore leather bracers like archers, and had the appearance of experienced fighters in the way that they stared through the open doorway with calm concentration, showing no anxiety.
    ‘Are they Bishop’s men?’ one of the men asked as Ulric reached their side.
    ‘No. Looks like the congregation is on its way to the church for Sunday worship,’ Sir Charles said with a chuckle. ‘Get the men ready to greet them.’
    One of the archers hastened away to the side