The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Twelve

The German should be with them some time soon. Mabilla took a deep breath and rubbed her temples.

‘Mother, this is the right thing to do,’ Julia said once more.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Mabilla responded testily. She looked at her daughter again and gave her a weak smile. ‘I am sorry — I know you are as sad as I am today, but it is so hard …’ She could feel the tears welling again on seeing her daughter: so tall, so elegant, and so terribly distraught, her eyes red from weeping. It was a testament to her beauty that the desperation and grief which so ravaged her features did not devour her attractiveness. In many eyes her terrible anguish only added to her appeal.

They had both sat up late discussing their plight since the sudden shock of Henry’s murder. Their situation was doleful. Mabilla had gone through the ledgers with an experienced clerk whom Henry had oftentimes used before, and the result was not reassuring. Henry was owed a considerable sum from other members of the Freedom of Exeter, and Mabilla knew that she’d have to start implementing court proceedings to gather even a small part from most of these fellows.

In the meantime, the house was their sole real asset, and the two women must shift for themselves in any way they might.

‘It’s the only way, Mother.’

Mabilla closed her eyes. The shock of Henry’s death, followed so soon afterwards by the veiled threat in Will’s words, was almost more than she could bear. Will had been so malevolent in his manner and speech: that alone had convinced her that she and her daughter both urgently needed a protector.

Seeing William had forced her to face the truth about the man. Will had been her lover many years ago, and even as she had accused him she had been aware of his masculinity — not because she wanted a lover straightaway, but because old attractions died hard. If she was honest, her accusation was not intended to provoke a confession — it was an invitation for him to deny his guilt.

But his manner, his coarseness and brutal disinterest, revealed his true character. He was more than capable of murder; he had very likely killed her Henry.

Julia saw the need for protection as clearly as she, and it only served to make her determined to win Udo as a husband before it was too late and he found another woman to his liking.

When her daughter was born, Mabilla had dreamed of the day when Julia would marry. She had thought of the dress, the gathering crowds at the church door, the admiring faces, the jealous mothers and daughters who bitterly saw that they had missed out on this splendid match because their daughters were not so beautiful as Julia. She had expected Henry to be there, with his wealth exhibited on every side; and now, here she was, plotting with her child to install Julia in the first available man’s house, in a financial arrangement to guarantee both of their futures. And such a short time, such a very short time, after poor Henry’s death, too. It was enough to start the tears springing again.

‘I am sure he will make me happy,’ Julia said confidently. At least Udo would save the two of them from ruination. ‘We must find a husband for me so that we can be safe.’

Aye, her mother thought, and so that I can be safe from the man who said he used to love me and now threatens to murder me. And again her mind turned to Will, and to wondering whether he really had murdered her husband.

‘Oh, God! My poor Henry!’ she wailed suddenly, and fell to her knees, her face hidden in her hands.

What should she do? What else could she do, other than sell her daughter?

Sara was getting over it. She must: she had another son to think of. The bodies had been taken away to the church, and all waited there now for the Coroner’s arrival so that he could comment on the deaths, and when that had been done, her Elias could be buried.

It was only three days ago, and yet it felt like a year of suffering. She’d hardly got used to the idea that she would never see Saul again, and now she must wait for the Coroner once more. Her poor Elias! Her darling little boy! All he did was try to find some food from the Priory, and he had paid for it with his life.

She might have died too, had it not been for the kind mason. The man Thomas had appeared as though from nowhere again, and grabbed her from the dark sea which was gradually carrying her out on the tide towards death. At that moment, it had been a welcome journey, and his intervention unwelcome, but as soon as she began to breathe and could think, and realised that her son was in there somewhere too, needing to be rescued, the will to live had flooded her body. Then she had seen her little Elias’s ruined frame being picked from the mound of corpses, his eyes open but unfocused, his mouth slack, head dangling, his body crushed. It took one glance to see that he was dead.

She had sunk to the ground with Elias in her lap, weeping and wailing, pulling her hair, mixing dust and ash from the ground in her long tresses, utterly bereft. It was only the feel of the hand on her shoulder that helped her to come to her senses. That and the words Thomas muttered: ‘Be strong, girl. It’s terrible, but you must be strong for your other boy. Think of him.’

That gruff, sad voice had hauled her back from the edge of despair like a rope. She still had Dan. And he deserved to have her alive and whole to protect him as best she might. It would avail nothing, were she to die of misery and leave him alone in this cruel world.

And so she had remained sitting there while the men about her, Thomas included, pulled bodies from the pile, gave them a cursory glance, and then either set them gently at the wall’s side to rest until they could be helped, or joined the larger pile ready for the Coroner to view before they might be interred.

Like many of the men there, Thomas was crying as he joined in this terrible task. Those who were helped to the wall to sit upright were all in the topmost layers of bodies. As the men released them from the press, they began to find fewer and fewer who were still breathing. So many were dead, that they had to start a second pile for all the corpses. The crowd had shoved forwards on a wide front, and when people began to fall, they collapsed from the front, up to six deep in places, where those behind had tried to clamber over the bodies in front in order to escape the terror, only to fall and be smothered in their turn by others. Now this long line of three-and-forty people was being broken into a series of smaller piles.

Thomas couldn’t remain until the finish. When he was sure that there were no more people living in that hideous mound, he walked to Sara and helped her up. They took Elias back along the roadway which she had entered all those hours before, buoyed with the hope of a filled belly at last, and Thomas led the way to the Church of St John Bow, where he asked the shocked-looking priest whether they could carry her child into the church. The priest nodded his head, his own eyes full of tears. They carried Elias into the church and set him down gently before the altar. Elias was the first body there.

Recalling those moments, Sara wiped her eyes. He had been a rock to her, this Thomas. She was sure that he must be a kind man. Since the disaster, he had appeared with food and drink for her each day, and she had forced herself to eat under his sternly compassionate eye, reminding herself that she had to remain strong to protect Dan.

The older boy had taken the news of his brother’s death badly. He had sworn aloud to hear that Elias was dead, and his anger had not been assuaged when Thomas tried to calm him. His words were directed at Thomas, but Sara knew that his true rage was targeted at himself. He was the master of the family, and he had failed his brother; it should have been him, Danny, in that queue, not his mother and his feeble sibling.

She was expecting the tentative knock when the light was starting to fade. The masons and labourers worked longer hours in the summer, but when the sun dipped earlier, they were allowed to have a shorter day, although the Cathedral reduced their pay accordingly. Thomas always came here as soon as he stopped work, and usually brought either food he had saved from the Cathedral’s contribution — because all the workers were entitled to their own supply of ale and bread at the Cathedral’s expense — or, if that wasn’t available, he’d buy more food for her and Dan on his way to them.

He was a generous-hearted man, she thought. When she was at her lowest ebb, he was there to collect her and renew her spirits. He had certainly saved her life that day outside the Priory, and since then he had kept her and Dan fed.

Yes, it was him. He stood in the doorway when she pulled it open, his bearded face smiling apprehensively, as though he half-expected her to launch herself at him and tear him to pieces. She had the impression that if she were to attack him, he would do nothing to protect himself.

It was a weird idea. She was nothing to him, just as he should be nothing to her — but she could feel a tie between them. Just as he must have accepted responsibility for her in some way for saving her life, likewise, she was ready to accept his presents. Perhaps it was nothing more than the kindness of a co-labourer and mason for the widow of another. She knew that there were little clubs which allocated a sum of money to cover the funeral expenses of the less fortunate workers who died at the Cathedral so that their families shouldn’t have to suffer that expense just as they were coming to terms with their grief; but sadly she also knew that Saul had never invested in such a fund. If the other masons knew of her plight, maybe they had thrown some money into a cap to help her, and since Thomas knew her slightly, after bringing her the news of her darling Saul’s death, perhaps they thought his face would be more acceptable to her.

Looking up at him now, she reckoned that if that was their thinking, they were right. She liked his rough, untended beard with the grey flecks and sandyish hairs about his bottom lip. It was a perfect frame for his kind eyes, which watched her always with that faint hint of anxiety, as though he was convinced she’d show him the door the instant he began to speak to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said as she took in the sight of the food he held in his arms. He smiled as though relieved to note her welcoming tone, and then she gestured him inside, taking the items from his arms and setting them on the table.

‘Dan not here?’ he asked as she almost pushed him down into a seat.

‘No, he’s gone out. A friend called for him.’

Sara was fascinated by Thomas’s changing expressions. It was hard to read any emotion in his face. His mouth could smile without affecting his eyes, yet sometimes she saw that his eyes were laughing, although his mouth was set in a firm, pursed line. Although she had no intention of dishonouring her husband’s memory, she found herself attracted to this powerful, big-hearted man.

‘You are too kind to me,’ she breathed as she discovered a slab of meat, dripping with blood. It was only very rarely that she and her husband had been able to afford meat, and the sight of this made her belly rumble alarmingly.

He looked away with embarrassment. She put the meat into her cooking pot, added water from the bucket and set it over the fire to stew. Neither spoke for what seemed a very long time, and then she looked up and found his eyes upon her. There was an infinite sadness in his face, and she set her head to one side with sympathy flowing through her veins. She said gently, ‘Tell me what upsets you so much, Thomas.’

He looked away. ‘I was just thinking — I never had a wife nor children, and I realise how much I’ve missed.’

‘It’s not all easy,’ she said. ‘Sometimes you hate your family.’

‘I don’t believe that of you. You loved your man, didn’t you? And his children.’

She could feel the tears begin again. The mere mention of Saul and Elias could make her throat constrict. ‘I never regretted marrying him,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘You are fortunate.’

‘Did you never want to settle with a woman of your own?’

‘There were women I admired from a distance, but when I set out on my trade, I never stayed long enough in one place to settle down. By the time I had slowed down enough to appreciate what I was missing, it was too late. I was too old. Look at me! A wrinkled husk of a man with little to recommend me.’

‘There’s enough. You have a good soul.’

He looked away again at that.

‘Your voice,’ she said after a moment. ‘You sound like the men of this city. Did you use to live here?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘But I had to leave.’

‘Why?’

His head drooped, and he glanced at her from under his brows. ‘Many years ago, when I was a wild youth, I got into a fight. A man died. Then because of one man lying, someone else was captured for the murder, and he was executed. He died for what I’d done.’

‘That’s terrible! So you felt so sorry to know that an innocent man had died, that you left?’

‘The innocent man was my father,’ Thomas said, and his shoulders began to leave with silent sobs. It was the first time he had ever spoken of his guilt, but now his life was changing again. Matthew was sure to spread news of his presence.

After all, Thomas had helped kill Matthew’s companions, and almost killed Matthew himself.

Baldwin had spent the afternoon uselessly waiting to speak to the Annuellar Paul who found the body, but Paul’s canon had several duties for him that day and the lad couldn’t be found until it was almost time for Vespers.

Baldwin caught up with him as the fellow walked towards the Cathedral. ‘Paul? I must speak to you,’ he said.

The Annuellar was tall and lanky, with a mop of tallow-coloured hair and a pasty face which showed off an explosion of acne to best advantage. He shot a look at his canon, a short, thickset man with a glowering demeanour. ‘May I just speak to this-’

‘It’s time for Vespers, boy. Get a move on. We don’t have time to stand and chat with everyone who wants our company!’

Baldwin felt his jaw tighten. ‘That is fine. I have travelled ten leagues to be here at the request of your Dean to help the Cathedral before the Coroner returns because of the shame and embarrassment the dead man’s body will bring to you all. I have already been forced to wait the afternoon, so I suppose you do not wish me to learn what has happened. I shall take my leave, Master.’

‘Where are you going?’ the canon asked suspiciously.

‘To apologise to your Dean. And to write to your Bishop. I haven’t seen Bishop Walter for some weeks, but we are well-acquainted, and I should be sorry to leave here without putting in a commendation for your deeply religious approach in this matter. Clearly Vespers is very important, Master, and it is your duty to see that all the services are correctly attended. God forbid that one should miss a service, when the only alternative would be that a man’s murderer, who shamed the whole Chapter, might be discovered.’

‘Wait! Oh, very well, Sir Knight, but hurry with your questions, and don’t forget, God watches over us, and if you prevent this lad from performing his duty, God will punish you for your temerity! Paul, go. But hurry to the service when this … person has finished with you.’

Baldwin watched the canon hurrying off self-importantly, his black gown and tunic flapping, his familia — novices, choristers and servants — streaming behind him in a haphazard line. Farther up the Close, more canons were emerging from their houses, each again trailing streamers of hangers-on, while the bells tolled for the service.

‘Is he always such a fool?’ Baldwin asked.

‘He is deeply spiritual,’ Paul said in a slightly pained tone.

‘Perhaps he would be more spiritual if he was more sympathetic,’ Baldwin observed.

‘You cannot understand.’ The Annuellar gave a deprecating smile. ‘It’s the nature of our service.’

Smug little arse! Baldwin had lived under the threefold vows for fifteen years before this little puppy was born! But he swallowed his own pride. The lad meant nothing by it, and since Baldwin had no intention of confessing to his past as a Knight Templar, there was little point in beginning that discussion.

‘I understand you found the body of the dead man in the Charnel Chapel?’ he asked instead.

Paul hopped from one leg to another. ‘Yes. I saw that the door to my chapel was ajar, and so I pushed it open. There was just enough light to see the body there.’

Baldwin eyed him. ‘Are you all right?’

‘It’s just the cold,’ Paul admitted.

‘Let’s find somewhere a little less chill, shall we?’ Baldwin suggested. ‘It is certainly too windy and cold here for thought.’

The Annuellar, nodded hastily as a gust of cold air blew around from the east. As Baldwin turned towards the welcoming door of the calefactory, he caught sight of the Charnel Chapel again, and his expression hardened.

Even to him, a warrior of some thirty-six years’ experience the chapel exuded an unwholesome atmosphere of its own.

If he were not so ill-disposed to superstition, he might have called it evil.

Udo was home again by twilight, and he was thrilled and not a little surprised by this sudden change in his circumstances.

He had walked into the hall and stood near the fire in his finery, picking his spot with care, knowing that the flames would sparkle and gleam on his new cote-hardie and the buttons of his gipon. Behind him, the boy with the basket was apparently overwhelmed by the appearance of the hall, and indeed it must have been an awesome sight to a poor, half-destitute youngster like him. The ceiling was high overhead, and the timbers were a pleasing light brown colour, since the building here wasn’t so old as the exterior might have hinted. The roof was thatched, and the lowest, original layer was open to view; the lighter colour made the hall feel more cosy than its size should have permitted. Whoever built this hall knew what they were doing: the dais at the far end was not so high as to intimidate any guests, but was sufficiently higher than the floor to allow the master to keep all in his view when he sat at table. The fire was not quite central in the floor, but instead was a little closer to the dais, where it might warm the family; the window was less massive than some Udo had known, but that only meant that although there was less light to brighten the room, there was also fewer draughts, which was a cause of great relief on this chilly day.

Yes. Although Udo saw the shabbiness of the decorations, the scruffiness of old wood, the faded and chipped paint, he could still understand the poor lad’s astonishment. It represented more wealth than a fellow like him could ever dream of. On entering, he saw the gracious figure of Mabilla rising from a seat near the window. She had been sitting there with some needlework, and now she hastily put her little workbox to one side, as though embarrassed to be found mending old clothing.

Udo smiled inwardly. If the poor lady must make do with old shirts and hosen, clearly she was in enough of a financial mess to be grateful for any man’s rescue. ‘My dear Mistress Mabilla,’ he breathed in his suavest tones. ‘Please allow me to offer my condolences. I have gifts brought — sweet cakes, ja?’

‘Oh, that is kind of you, Master Udo,’ Mabilla gushed. ‘And my daughter loves dowsettes so much. That is really very good of you.’

‘It is my pleasure.’ Udo tapped his staff with an impatient forefinger. Where was Julia? He wanted to talk to her.

‘My daughter,’ Mabilla offered hurriedly, reading his mind, ‘will be here in a moment. I know it is she whom you wish to see. A poor old widow is scarcely the same as a fresh young woman like her.’

Udo studied her closely. ‘My lady, you are most sad, and this is not an appropriate time, perhaps.’

‘Sir?’

‘When you are in mourning, I should not come and intrude.’

‘I was hoping that your visit would be no intrusion, but a welcome distraction, sir. My poor daughter would doubtless be happy to be diverted from her present misery. It is a terrible thing to lose a father … just as it is to lose a darling and devoted husband.’

She had some courage, this woman. Although her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, she wouldn’t bend or bow to her grief, but sat bravely holding his gaze like a queen, and Udo was as impressed as she had intended.

‘I know, my dear Mistress Mabilla, that before his death my relationship with your poor husband was not of the most cordial …’

‘Yes. And you may yet sue us for the damage,’ she said, and this time there was a faint break in her voice.

‘My dearest Mistress Saddler, I should not wish to have to do so, but a man must shift for himself, you know. What would other men say of me, were I to allow this sum to be lost? I could have been killed, and then there is the matter of the expense to which I was forced to go. Because I was in bed, I lost a great deal of money.’

‘And my husband would have wanted to make good your losses,’ Mabilla sniffed, and put a hand to her brow. ‘I shall see to it that we repay you, no matter what it costs us. But we should be glad of a little time, in order to overcome our sadness first.’

‘Surely this is not the time to talk of such matters,’ he said with his best attempt at kindness. ‘Mistress, I should be attempting to amuse you and help you to forget for a little while the dreadful circumstances in which you find yourself, and here we are discussing a debt which … well, it is a lot of money, of course.’

‘I know this. And we cannot afford to lose even a single ha’penny.’

‘You will forgive my saying this while you are in mourning, but you will need a protector. A man who can keep you both. Your husband — again, please forgive my bluntness — did he not provide for you after his death?’

Now she did break down. She put her face in her hands and sat silently sobbing, and Udo considered her with a feeling of admiration. All women had to dicker with tradesmen every day of the week, of course, but Mabilla was conducting this negotiation with all the skill of one who intended securing the most beneficial outcome for herself. Even the tears were splendidly timed. Not that he didn’t believe she regretted the passing of her husband, but that didn’t stop her using her position as a weak, lonely woman to best advantage.

He said gently, ‘Perhaps I should leave you and return another day when you are more composed?’

‘No, Master.’ She wiped her eyes and gave him a bright, terrible smile. ‘Please — do not fret. I shall be well in a moment.’

Udo cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps before your daughter arrives I should discuss her with you, although it seems to me that it is a great insult to you both to haggle. Doubly so when you are still in mourning weeds.’

‘Haggle? Over what?’

‘Over your daughter’s hand in marriage, Mistress. You have much to think of just now and I do not wish to add to your burdens, but I should like to know your feelings.’

‘I cannot deny that there are many other things for me to consider now,’ Mabilla answered, and for a moment her head hung dejectedly. ‘Henry was a good man, Master Udo. A kind husband and father, and I shall have to travel far and wide to find such another.’ She paused, then said passionately, ‘Yet how else could I support myself? The city is expensive for a poor widow woman. The business is worth little, and the property, for all its advantages, is not in the High Street. My husband had a few meagre savings, but a widow with her daughter needs a protector. I fear we shall have to leave together and seek a new life.’

Udo nodded, with sympathy clogging every pore of his face. She was transparent, the hussy! Well, he didn’t have too much to worry about here, then. ‘Perhaps, if your daughter were to marry, at least that expense would be saved you?’

‘My treasure?’ Mabilla said. And her voice trembled with a passion that was surely not feigned. ‘How could I think to dispose of her so lightly? My only darling, my little Julia?’

I am sure whatever you decide, Udo had thought to himself, you would not dispose of her lightly or cheaply!

And now, in the comfort of his hall, staring into the fire, his prized goblet of silver filled with wine in his hand, he knew the bargain. All living expenses for the mother to be paid, herself to keep the house in which she and Henry had lived for so long, and the threat of the court case to be dropped.

It was an expensive bargain, Udo told himself, pulling the corners of his mouth down. Very expensive. And yet as soon as the cost was named, as though she had been waiting at the door for her moment to enter, which no doubt she had, Julia walked into the room, and Udo felt as though the sun had suddenly landed on the ground before him. She was radiantly beautiful, even in her grief.

So! Udo was to become a married man.

Sara had stewed the meat with a handful of herbs and a little of the carefully hoarded salt she kept wrapped in a leather pouch. Every so often she glanced at the man at her table, wondering.

He was so vulnerable. It was curious: she was doubly bereaved, and yet he inspired a depth of sympathy as though his own pain and loss were incomparable. When he wept, she stared at him for a long while and then put her arms about his shoulders and rocked him gently, shushing him and remaining at his side until his terrible sobs eased. Then she kissed his forehead softly before preparing food. There was no need for words; both had needed and still needed comfort, and each had tacitly agreed to give it one to the other.

She hoped Saul wouldn’t object.

The supper was almost ready when she heard the rush of feet outside, and the door was thrown open. ‘Close it, Dan, it’s freezing.’

Her son didn’t move, but stood staring at Thomas. ‘That’s my dad’s stool!’

‘Thomas is tired,’ she said. ‘Look, he’s brought us meat! Do you want some?’

‘No! I don’t want anything from him!’

She stared. His face was streaked with dirt, clear lines where the tears had run during the day, but he wasn’t close to tears now. Instead there was a dreadful ferocity about him. ‘Danny, be calm,’ Sara entreated. She should have kept him here at home, not let him go out with his friends unwatched and unprotected. Something must have happened today to make him so angry. He sounded outraged just to see Thomas there in their home.

‘I’ll take nothing from him. Nothing!’ Dan cried. ‘He’s a murderer!’

Thomas’s head hung dejectedly. ‘I’d better leave.’

‘No, Thomas, please. Danny, he’s told me. It was a terrible thing, but a very long time ago …’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Mother,’ Dan interrupted. ‘I’m talking about Daddy! That’s the man who killed him.’

Sara gaped, and turned to Thomas to ask him what her son meant, but as she did so, he rose quietly and walked to the door. He opened it.

‘No, you couldn’t have!’ she breathed, but even as she spoke, he turned to face her and she saw the terrible guilt in his eyes.

‘I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,’ he said. ‘I’d do anything to take his place.’ Then he turned and fled from the room.

Sara had only enough time to sit down on her stool before the waves of darkness overwhelmed her. Her remaining son stood resolutely at her side, preventing her falling. She heard him sniff once, felt one tear strike her on the face after falling from his eye, and then she sank into the blackness.