The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Thirteen

Baldwin stood in the calefactory as close to the roaring fire as he could, while the Annuellar took a seat at the wall. Looking at him, Baldwin thought that he should have been out in the fresh air, riding and practising with weapons, not spending all his life sitting in chilly rooms or cloisters, while his fingers froze, his pallor and spots increased and his natural humours were subjected to slow decay.

He had once been like this lad, he recalled with a sense of shock. In those days, Baldwin had been impressionable, wary of others, and confused. His older brother, Reynald, was to inherit the manor of Fursdon, and Baldwin had the option of following a cousin into the Church or making his own way in the world. When he had heard of the disasters in the Holy Lands and the way that the crusaders were being evicted from God’s kingdom, he had known that he must do what he could to help. Such, perhaps, was his destiny.

So he had taken ship and left from Devon’s coast, a callow youth who had little to lose. He was supremely confident in his abilities and in those of the other pilgrims at his side on that ship. They were Englishmen, knights and men-at-arms who could beat any force sent against them. The French may have succumbed to the heat and the fury of warfare in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but that meant nothing. If the German warriors had been beaten, it meant nothing. One good English pair of legs with a stout English arm to wield a sword, and a man could vanquish any enemy.

That was his opinion, and the opinion of all the others on the ship as it set sail, and there was nothing to alter their view as they passed the hazardous tongue of land that led into the Mediterranean. One of the sailors was an older man, with a wealth of experience, and he pointed out the sights, the places where the Moors had tried to launch invasions, and the places where the Christians had thrown them from their lands. When they passed a series of islands, he pointed out Cyprus, which Richard the Lionheart had taken when the the ruler, Isaac Ducas Comnenus, had tried to catch and ransom both King Richard and his sister. That rashness cost him dearly, because the wrathful King took the island by storm. There was nothing that a good English warrior couldn’t achieve.

And then — then they’d arrived at the hell that was Acre, the last Christian foothold in the Holy Land, and the mood of the warrior-pilgrims grew more thoughtful. Baldwin himself had not been scared at the sight. Not yet. He was still too foolish and inexperienced. So he stood at the forecastle of the ship and stared at the columns of foul black smoke rising from the devastated land and felt only pride that here he and the other English would show their mettle.

It was at Acre that Baldwin lost the foolishness of youth and became a man.

Looking at Paul, Baldwin saw himself again. In his mind’s eye he looked over the stinking, blackened corpses, their flesh desiccating in the awful heat, their fingers curling into claws, legs bending. Through the day, even when it was quiet, the sounds of creaking leather, the chinking of metal, could be heard as dead limbs tightened, pulling straps and mail into new postures. It was like listening to the armies of hell preparing to attack.

No, he would not have wanted to see this fellow put through the same appalling experience. And yet there was already a horror in his eyes. ‘Was this the first dead man you have seen?’ Baldwin asked him gently.

‘No, sir. I have seen my father. He was stabbed too. It was a long time ago, though.’

‘Yet a memory like that will remain with you.’

‘Yes,’ Paul said, and his eyes glanced away from Baldwin as the old pain was awakened. ‘I found him, you see. It was during the famine, seven years ago, and some men entered the house to steal any food they could find. My father was there, and he tried to stop them, but one held him and the others … well, they beat him with cudgels, and then they stabbed him and left him there. I was lucky they didn’t kill me too. So when I saw that man lying in the chapel, it made me remember, and I think I panicked a bit.’

‘It is not surprising. A grown man may be shocked to discover a corpse where he had expected none,’ Baldwin said understandingly. ‘What did you see from outside?’

Paul shrugged. ‘The door was a bit open.’

‘Not wide, then?’

‘No. Only an inch or two of gap.’

‘What time of day was this?’

‘Curfew. It was quite dark.’

‘If it was that late, how did you see that the door was ajar?’

‘I don’t know. I could see, though.’ Paul frowned.

‘No matter. So you walked to the door? What then?’

‘I walked up to it, yes, and I …’ Paul suddenly had a vivid recollection. ‘Yes! I remember, there was a faint glow from inside. It outlined the door itself, and I went to it wondering whether someone was in there holding a service — that was it!’

‘You pushed, then?’

‘Yes, but only gently. I wanted to see who was there. And as I pushed, I saw that there was a man on the floor …’

‘Did you notice whether there was a candle in front of you?’

‘I didn’t see one,’ Paul said with a glower of concentration. ‘No, I don’t think so. But there was something else … if a candle’s snuffed, or if it gets blown out by a door opening, there’s usually a smell of the smoke, yes? I don’t remember that at all. Although there might have been the smell of some tallow or something.’

‘Do you think that means that there could have been a candle alight, then?’ Baldwin pressed him.

The lad shrugged.

‘Very well. So you were standing in the doorway, and before you was the body. How was he lying?’

‘He was on his face. His boots were towards me. I could see the soles of them. They were all stained with mud and dirt.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Face down, feet towards you. How were his legs? Were they straight, bent, together, apart? The same with his arms. And his head, how was that? Literally with his face down, or was it set to one side?’

‘I didn’t really look at his face that well. I was …’

‘I understand — but his legs, his arms?’

‘His legs were apart,’ Paul said, his eyes closed as he tried to remember. ‘And the left one was bent a bit, the right one straight. His feet were apart. His right arm was under him, I remember, but his left was beside his body, the palm up.’

Baldwin mused. The saddler could have marched in and been attacked by someone lying in wait, or someone could have been behind him and thrust the knife in his back as he crossed the threshold, perhaps clapping a hand over his mouth to smother his cries as he did so. Without having seen the body as soon as it was discovered, Baldwin would only be guessing based upon the boy’s testimony.

‘You ran and fetched the porter, I think?’

‘Yes. I’d been locking up with Janekyn beforehand, and I ran back to him. I knew he wouldn’t have finished there yet, and he’s a good man to have at your side when you’re a bit — um — worried.’

‘I can imagine,’ Baldwin said soothingly.

‘He came back with me, and we hurried inside. It was so dark, we could hardly see a thing, and …’

‘Yet you saw well enough before,’ Baldwin pointed out sharply.

‘Yes, but it was darker by then. Maybe it was the failing light.’

Or a man had been there with a candle when you first walked in, but he had left by the time you returned, Baldwin thought.

Joel gingerly touched the swelling on his jaw and grimaced. That was Will, right enough. The vicious devil had given him this blow just as he was about to leave Joel’s house, slamming his bloody staff into his face as a goodbye gift. Good God alive! Joel had thought he was going to die at that point. The man had swung his weapon like a poleaxe, and Joel hadn’t been able to move for some minutes, the pain was so intense. And then he found he had a mouth full of blood. One of his back teeth had chipped, because when he felt about there with his tongue, it caught on a piece like a razor up there. He had to go to his workshop and fetch a file to round it off a little so he didn’t cut his tongue while eating.

Bloody William. He never even gave Joel a chance to talk. Just in, bash, and out again. Bastard! He hadn’t changed much over the years.

Maud walked in just as he had set his file down, and she gazed at him with alarm. ‘What on earth have you done to yourself? You look awful, Joel.’

‘S’hank you, dear,’ he lisped. His bottom lip didn’t seem to want to work properly and he daren’t open his mouth too much in case it hurt.

‘What happened? Have you been robbed?’

Joel smiled lopsidedly. It was a constant fear of Maud’s, ever since a friend over in Baker’s Row was broken into some years ago. The thieves had entered over the wall to the yard, then got in by the rear door, ransacking the place, defecating on a chair, and generally ruining everything. And then, when the owners returned, they were attacked and beaten. The husband was so severely clubbed that he never fully regained the use of his right arm. They caught the villains and hanged them, but that didn’t help the poor fellows who had been so badly wounded.

‘No, maid. It’s not that.’

‘Then how did you do that?’ she demanded. She had approached him, and she stood before him, peering at his jaw. ‘Let me see … Keep still! If you jerk like that I’ll hurt you.’

‘Don’t be so damn silly, woman, you already bloody have!’

‘And none of that sort of language in my hall, Husband! Keep still, now, you’re worse than a baby!’

‘Woman, will you … Will you leave it!’

She ignored him, but started to roll up her sleeves and called to their maidservant. ‘Bring warm wine and water, some towels and a cup. Oh, and ask Vince to come in here to help me.’

‘Maid, I don’t need to have this done. I’ve got customers to speak to.’

‘Fat lot of good you’ll be,’ she said, peering with narrowed eyes at his wound, ‘with your face like this, and unable to pronounce the simplest words. Keep still!’

‘Woman, will you please …’

‘Oh, good. Vince, pass me a cloth soaked in the wine, would you? Now, Husband, who did this to you?’

‘I’ll not talk while you’re fooling around there, damn it. Ow!’

‘Don’t be so foolish. Now, who was it?’

‘Good God! All right, it was William.’

She stopped and withdrew from him, staring at his face. ‘William? Why on earth would he do this?’

‘Jesus! Vince, get out. Go on, go!’

Maud was so surprised that she didn’t argue, and Vince put the bowl down on the table beside her, then walked slowly from the room. He pulled the door shut behind him, and fully intended to leave the place, but … but didn’t. It was an intriguing mystery, this attack on his master, and which apprentice could resist a tale like this? It was more than he could endure, to walk away now and leave the question of why Master Joel’s old companion and friend had attacked him. Rather than scurry off to the workshop, he stayed, hand still on the latch and gradually, very gradually, his ear moved closer to the boards of the door itself, until his lobe actually touched the wood.

‘I don’t know why, Maud — the man’s unstable. He said something about being attacked, but how should I know anything about it? He’s mad; practically foaming at the mouth today.’

‘Why should he think it was you?’

‘I don’t know … Ow! Are you trying to kill me, Wife? What was that for?’

‘There’s something about him, isn’t there? What is it?’

‘Oh, not again! Look, if I tell you, it’s a secret. I don’t want anyone else hearing about it, all right?’

‘Very well.’

‘And I want you to stop dabbing at me with that damned cloth. Just leave me in peace! No! Take it away, or I won’t tell you. That’s better.’

‘I’ve stopped now.’

Joel’s voice suddenly lost its warmth and power. Vincent thought he sounded like a man who had been hung over the edge of a precipice, and he had seen the depths beckoning.

‘William was from Exeter originally. He left here many years ago after a crime. And he left to join the King because he knew full well that he’d be made to pay for that crime otherwise.’

‘Why didn’t you accuse him?’

‘Because, woman, I was there too! It was the murder of the Cathedral’s Chaunter — oh, nearly forty years ago. I was there, Henry was there, Will was there … we all were! We set upon the Chaunter as a mob.’

‘You helped murder him?’ she whispered.

He nodded glumly. ‘It seemed the best thing to do.’

‘What happened?’

‘We all stood in the Close and waited. After Matins, the Chaunter and his familia left the Cathedral and walked to his house. That was when we jumped him. He nearly escaped, because one man was brave enough to try to save him … he came haring up before and shouted that there was an ambush, but one of the Chaunter’s men thought he was a traitor, and struck him down instantly. And then we got to the Chaunter, and he fell.’

‘Was he so badly protected?’ she asked.

‘He thought he was safe. I heard later that someone had told the Chaunter that there’d be an attack; the story was, the Bishop himself had heard of it and had placed men about the Close to protect him, so there was nothing to fear and the Chaunter believed the story. But it was a ruse. There was no one there to save him. The tale was a lie. So when we attacked, he was alone and defenceless, apart from a few weakly novices.’

‘And one man died trying to call out to him to save himself?’

‘Yes — poor Vincent. He was killed by Nicholas, who was one of the Chaunter’s most loyal defenders. Nicholas himself was struck down and dreadfully scarred, and he left the city soon afterwards. I always thought he was dead, but recently he’s been seen in the town again. He survived, and now he wears the Greyfriars’ garb. Nicholas must have thought Vincent was running up to attack his master; he never realised he had killed one of his own comrades.’

Vincent stood back from the door and moved away slowly, his heart pounding. If what he had heard was true, then the man who had killed his uncle was in the city again. A man called Nicholas.

A friar with a dreadful scar, he repeated to himself.

As he silently tiptoed away, back in the room, Maud was thoughtfully washing her man’s bruises again. ‘I don’t understand. Why should Joel think that you’d attack him because of that?’

‘Because afterwards, I had a great idea,’ Joel said. ‘I was sick of apprenticing just then. I had three more years to run on my contract, and I wanted to see the world, not live here. So when the King came to hear the case, I decided I’d go and tell him about the escape. All the men ran from the South Gate, which had been left open.’

‘I do remember, Husband,’ she said tartly.

‘Yes, well — I decided I’d tell the King and the court about it. I mentioned it to William because I was scared of him even then and didn’t want him angry about my words, and he said it was a good plan. He thought he ought to do something like it himself, because he was irritated about his woman. She was clinging too hard to him and he wanted his freedom. But he had no money to leave Exeter. Well, I told him I could go on the morrow because I had a bag of coin I’d collected over the years. Then, the day the King came, I went to the court only to see William standing up and telling of the gate being open. And after the King had left, I looked for my purse, and it had gone. The bastard robbed me of my idea, my money, and my future!’

Maud stared at him long and steadily.

He hurriedly appended, ‘Except I should be glad, for if he hadn’t stolen them, I might not have met you, dearest …’

As soon as he had left Paul, Baldwin went to speak to Janekyn Beyvyn.

He found the porter to be a tall, rather morose-looking man. His face spoke of mistrust and scepticism — all no doubt useful qualities in a man set to guard a gate to such an important place as the Cathedral Close, but not ones to inspire confidence in his kindness or generosity.

‘Master Porter, I should like to ask you about the body of Henry Potell, discovered in the chapel. It is my job to find out who was responsible.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you were the man called by the First Finder, weren’t you?’

‘Paul asked me.’

‘And you went to view the corpse with him?’

‘He asked me. I went.’

Baldwin pursed his lips. This was like drawing water through a stone. ‘Master Porter, may I tell you something? When I spoke just now to Paul, he spoke of a light that was in the chapel when he first found the body. When he returned with you, that light was gone. Did you see a light of any kind in there?’

Janekyn considered. ‘No.’

‘So there are two things to note. Paul had left you at the gate, clearing up. You are a most dutiful porter. You were here again when he hurried to fetch you. That means you are not only dutiful, it means you weren’t in the chapel when Paul arrived there, and you didn’t snuff a candle when he hurried off. In short, I do not suspect you. However, I do wish to know what you saw, because you, Master,’ he paused and studied the man, ‘you are older, wiser, and less likely to harbour superstitious nonsense about a darkened chapel late in the evening when all is quiet.’

Janekyn gave a shrug, then hawked and spat onto the ground near the wall. ‘Would you like some wine?’

Baldwin’s spirit quailed at the thought of drinking rot-gut with this man, but he forced a bright smile to his face and said, ‘I should very much enjoy some wine.’

He followed the porter into the small lodge. Here Janekyn twisted the cork from a gallon pot and sniffed it with evident pleasure while Baldwin glanced around him.

It seemed that Janekyn had occupied this room for some years. There were little signs of his life. A palliasse which had seen much better days was rolled and tied with a thong in one corner. Above it hung a couple of thick blankets from a wooden peg. Where the bed would be unrolled, there was a stool and low brazier, which threw out a wonderful heat. There were two pots — one enormous one with three legs set in its base, which had plainly been well used over the years, to judge from the uniform blackness of its exterior. A second beside it was large enough for only perhaps a pint of food, and Baldwin assumed that the frugal porter would often cook his own pottage here. There was a table, two small benches, and a cupboard with one door which housed the porter’s few belongings. Inside Baldwin could see many little pots and some reeds.

The walls were limewashed, but over time the wash had been almost entirely covered with pictures, mostly religious, but also others: portraits of jugglers in multi-coloured hosen and jacks; gaily dressed people walking among the tents and stalls of a great market at fairtime; bulls being baited by dogs; a man on horseback hawking … all these and many more were executed in a spare but precise style that rendered them utterly lifelike to Baldwin’s eye. ‘These are magnificent. Who painted them?’

‘Me,’ the porter said with a sharp look at him as though doubting the honesty of his words.

‘They are truly excellent,’ Baldwin said, entirely serious.

The porter gazed about him as though seeing the pictures for the first time. Then, ‘I like them.’

He set the jug down, took two mazers from a niche in the wall and poured the wine, passing the first cup to Baldwin, who took it with trepidation. For some years he had avoided strong wines. It was the effect of the training which he had endured in the Templars. He had learned that for him to fight with the strength and dedication owed to God, he should not partake of wines which tasted as though their primary constituent was vinegar. While learning his duties on Cyprus and after, he had come to appreciate that the worse the quality of the wine, the more severe the quality of the headache the following day. And he knew that porters were among the least well-regarded members of a religious institution. How else could they be viewed, when their whole life involved sitting on a stool and watching people walk past?

Taking a reluctant sip, he could feel the taste. It exploded on his tongue, a glorious, rounded, sweet wine. It was better than his own best quality. ‘That is …’ He looked at the porter. ‘You are a man of surprises.’

‘Just because I’m a porter doesn’t mean I don’t like good wine. I have an arrangement with the vintner. When I fetch my wine, he gives me good quality.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin grinned. He wondered what the porter offered in return. Perhaps an easy route into or out of the Cathedral’s Close, if the vintner wanted to visit a young female companion, or was it simply that the porter knew something about the man? There were so many possibilities. Maybe the vintner had been blackmailed by someone else, for example, and had killed the saddler to stop news of his misdeeds escaping? Anything was possible — but speculation was no aid to a man trying to find the truth, Baldwin told himself.

‘So tell me, what was your perception when you saw the body? I assume you wouldn’t think that Paul could be the murderer?’

‘Him? He’d crap himself if he was told to kill a rabbit,’ Janekyn said contemptuously. ‘No, I reckon the man who killed Henry was probably older.’

‘Why?’

‘When I got in there, the body was lying in front of the door, legs first, head away. Looking at him, I thought he’d just walked in and been killed from behind. That means someone who was sure of his attack. There was only one wound I saw, too. No practice stabs first. How I see it is, the saddler was with someone he knew and trusted, he walked into the chapel first, and soon as he was inside, the other man shoved his knife in his back. One push, into the heart, and that was that.’

Baldwin gave a shrug. ‘Did you smell anything in there? A candle recently snuffed?’

Janekyn gave a sour grin. ‘All I smelled was blood. I wasn’t going to go and search for more. No, I sent Paul to fetch the Dean while I waited there with the body. That was that.’

‘What of earlier? Did you see anyone in the Close who was acting or looking suspicious?’

Janekyn frowned. ‘There was only the physician, Ralph. He was wandering about the place when Henry came in, and he asked for his money for treating the German. Henry just told him he’d bring it later, and hurried on. Ralph didn’t look happy to be brushed off.’

‘Was there anyone else?’

‘Not that I saw, no. And Ralph didn’t kill him — not just then, anyway. The two parted, and Ralph came back towards the gate. I was called by a man walking in just then and didn’t see him actually leave, but he probably did. He doesn’t live too far from here.’

‘But he could have turned back and gone to lie in wait for Henry,’ Baldwin commented.

‘Aye. And he could have sprouted wings and flown to the chapel’s roof,’ Janekyn grunted. ‘But it’s best not to guess when it’s a man’s neck you’re wagering.’

Although Baldwin questioned him on other aspects of the case, he could bring no further light to the affair. The porter had seen no one else talking to Henry that day, nor did he see where Ralph had gone, and there was no one suspicious who entered the Close. Baldwin left him as the light faded and stood outside the lodge, gazing at the labourers packing their tools amid the mess and chaos of the building site.

He scarcely noticed the man who hurried into the Close like one fleeing from the Devil himself.

Thomas hardly knew where to go or what to do. After he’d been accused by Dan, he’d run away from that hovel, up to an alehouse he spied from the top of the alleyway, but as soon as he reached the door, he turned and started running towards the East Gate, desperate to be as far as possible from Sara.

Ah, God! He’d never be able to forget the expression of horror on her face. There was nothing he could say in his defence. Nothing at all. It was true. He had killed her husband through his negligence; that meant he had killed her son and reduced her to abject poverty. It was all his fault. If his death could ease her mind, he’d kill himself, just to avenge the dreadful crime his slipshod work had caused. At least that way she might find some peace, and so might he, too. Since returning here, he had known little enough.

Standing in the Close, he felt his legs beginning to move towards the stark walls of the Cathedral. There was a ladder propped against the scaffolding, and he walked to it like a man in a dream. The last few workers were clearing up, most of them had already gone, and few noticed as Thomas stumbled over the ground, his face pale and preoccupied. Suddenly, he tripped over a loose rock and fell heavily onto a large shard of stone. The splinter was as sharp as a fragment of glass, and it tore a great rent in his hosen and sliced through his shin like a knife, but he didn’t heed it. He righted himself and continued on his way.

At the bottom of the ladder, he stared upwards into the darkening sky. Turning, he saw the evening star gleaming, but then it was erased by a cloud, and as though this was the signal, he put his hand on the ladder and lifted his foot to climb.

‘It’s a little late for that.’

Thomas heard the voice and instantly his blood froze. His head was suddenly an awful weight, and he had to rest it upon the ladder’s rung between his hands.

‘Nicholas,’ he breathed, but his voice was a moan.