The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Fourteen

Baldwin awoke feeling entirely unrested. There was a lethargy about him that was unusual for him. An old campaigner, he was used to taking his sleep wherever there was a dry place to rest his head, and normally he would be fully asleep in moments, but not now. Just now he felt as though his life was fraying, and he was distracted.

He had hoped that coming here to investigate a murder would allow him to forget his problems at home, but it had proved to be impossible. He had betrayed his wife, and that act of disloyalty must inevitably alter their relationship; perhaps even break it.

In his mind he saw Jeanne’s face again when he had allowed his anger to show after her light comment about the peasant girl. There was such a depth of pain and hurt in her eyes, he wasn’t sure how he could ever retrieve the situation. But retrieve it he must.

The room he had here at the Talbot Inn was large for a city inn. He always tried to rent this room when he needs must travel to Exeter, because he had a dislike, based upon too many years of sleeping in dorters with snoring companions, of sharing a room with other travellers. That was one thing that he would never miss about the life of a warrior monk!

Here he had a good-sized bed with a palliasse that was large enough to accommodate five men in a normal inn, but Baldwin had never yet been asked to share it. The master of this house had been a merchant until his profits from his excellent ale-brewing showed him that his talents were being wasted in providing ale only for his own household. He stuck up his bush over the door, and now his ale accounted for half of his business. A wealthy man, he was perfectly happy to accommodate Baldwin’s need for solitude. In return, Baldwin paid rather more than the room would normally be worth.

Today he awoke early, and with a slight headache from a disturbed night’s sleep. He was tempted to roll over and close his eyes again, but instead he lay back and stared at the cracked ceiling, trying to make sense of his feelings for Jeanne. Then, in despair, he pushed her from his mind and considered instead the murder.

This was one of those killings in which it was quite likely that no one would ever be brought to justice. There were cases of that nature — and although Baldwin knew that his own methods of detection were more successful than those of other men, still there were many murderers who committed their crimes and were never caught by him. Some men were too clever, others fiendishly lucky; most murderers were caught because they made mistakes or were too stupid to conceal their crimes. Baldwin had once found a man who denied the murder, but had cleaned his knife of blood by wiping the blade on his own jack. It was still fresh when Baldwin caught him, and although he claimed that he had killed a dog, he could not recall where, nor where he had put the body.

In a matter like this, though, there had to be a motive for Henry Potell’s death. If he could discover that, he would be much further on in the enquiry. It was possible, of course, that the widow would be able to help in this, but all too often Baldwin knew that the wife was the last person to discover certain secrets. He put the sharp mental picture of his own wife to the back of his mind again as Jeanne leaped into the forefront of his thoughts; no, in matters of business many men would not tell their women all that had happened in a day. It was one of those basic differences between men and women: the men would prefer to leave their work and relax; women by contrast sought to discuss every aspect of their day in the minutest detail before they could think of relaxing. Or maybe that was their way of relaxing — Baldwin didn’t know …

He woke to the sound of hammering on his door. Startled from a light doze, he was halfway out of his bed, his hand reaching for his sword when the door slammed wide. He grasped his hilt, swung it free with a flick of his wrist, sending the scabbard flying across the room, and span on his heel to face the doorway.

‘Come on, Keeper, put the bloody thing down. You should be up by now, anyway.’

‘Simon!’ Baldwin gasped with relief and delight.

Then he scowled. ‘Shut that door, Bailiff, before I catch a chill, and what is the meaning of this ridiculous noise? Are you so short of amusements that you must terrify a poor sleeping knight with your infernal row?’

‘Yes, it’s good to see you too,’ Simon grinned.

It had been the right thing to do. Yeah, of course it was. Vincent swung his legs out of his little cot and sat there naked with his legs dangling. It was cold, so he dragged his blanket over his shoulders. He’d done the right thing, sure enough. It was only …

He’d been really horrified to hear his master say all that last afternoon. To learn after all this time that his master had been involved in that murder, to think that he’d been there on the night his old man’s brother had been killed … well, it was really weird.

Rising, he pulled on his shirt and tunic and tied his hosen to the dangling laces. He had a thicker quilted jack which he pulled over the top, and then he tied a short strip of material about his throat. It was perishing cold out there in the yard and the workshop at this time of year, especially first thing, before anyone had time to build up a bit of warmth in their work. He tidied his bedclothes, put his blanket back on top, and patted the side of the cot. It was one of his first jobs when he was taken on as apprentice to Joel. His master had brought him up here and pointed to the small chamber. ‘You could make a bed in there if you wanted. The wood’s all outside.’

The first attempt had been embarrassing. He’d not known how to joint properly, and how to make the ends of the planks square so that they fitted together neatly was beyond him, but gradually as he learned his trade, he saw how to make the cot better. Each time Joel demonstrated a new joint or explained the principles of smoothing and chiselling, or how to square-off ends, Vince saw how to improve his work, until after two years he had a cot that was more prone to holding his weight, rather than falling apart every two months as wooden pegs worked loose.

His first real project, that bed. It was the sort of thing which he could knock up in a few hours now, but he was enormously proud of it. The cot had shown him that he was capable of doing this job, that he was right to be a joiner.

It hadn’t been easy at first. The old man wanted him to follow in his own footsteps and learn the tanning trade, but Vince was determined to escape that trap. The idea of remaining his whole life with that stench was revolting. He’d been there long enough as a boy, before he managed to win the argument and come here instead. It hadn’t been an easy fight, that.

The trouble was, his old man was determined to keep Vince with him so that he could protect him from the dangers of the city. Out on Exe Island, Wymond reckoned they were safe, free of the risks of politics and the disputes between the rich and powerful. The Church had regular fights amongst its different parts, between the Priory and the Cathedral, the friars and the monks. Wymond said it was only a few years before Vince’s birth that the Cathedral had fought a bitter fight against the friars down at the southern wall, because the friars claimed the rights to some dead man or other and the Dean and Chapter stole the corpse to give it the funeral rites in the Cathedral. That was fine, but the man’s estate was due to pay well for the funeral, and when the Cathedral later brought the body to the friars, they refused to accept it. The man lay there outside their gate for ages until the Cathedral shamefacedly sent someone to collect it.

Wymond wasn’t an expert on Church law, but he believed that if a man was dead and his soul was at risk, it was the duty of men from the Church to see to his protection without worrying about how much money they’d receive. The behaviour of those churchmen was enough to convince him that a man was safer outside the city. Country people were more pleasant.

That was what he’d always said, anyway. And there was the other event, the one which had coloured his life so vividly. The result again of Church disputes: the murder of his brother Vincent, after whom Vince himself was named.

Over the years the memory of that dreadful night had faded in the city’s memory. It was forty years ago: Wymond himself was only six-and-forty, but he remembered his brother with a fondness that bordered on adulation. When he was killed, it was like a bolt from heaven. And then the stories started to circulate.

It was just like the rumours which began over other events. If you have enough people together in one place, and you give them the opportunity of gossiping, some will inevitably come up with a theory that sort of fits the facts, without ever worrying about minor details like the truth.

So when there was the murder of the Chaunter, and some folks heard that Vincent hadn’t been in the Cathedral with the others at that Matins, it was assumed that he had been outside in order to help the assassins. He had been one of the killers.

That, so Wymond had always said, was ballocks. His brother Vincent loved the Church, and he was a devoted member of the Chaunter’s familia. The idea that he’d have betrayed his master, still worse taken part in his murder, was beyond belief.

Still, Vincent’s complicity in the murder was assumed for many years. His death meant that there could be no defence, because the accomplices refused to talk about his part. In fact, the Dean and the vicars who were caught refused to discuss any part taken by Vincent — because they simply knew nothing. Other men had commanded the attack at the Cathedral’s door; the Dean wasn’t there, and the vicars were standing at other points of the Close. Only the men in the group who actually killed the Chaunter could answer yea or nay to Vincent’s guilt or innocence, and they refused to admit their crime. The Mayor, Alured, didn’t confess — so who else could speak for Vincent?

In the absence of any others, Wymond himself spoke of his brother’s innocence and his devotion to his master, but that wasn’t enough, and soon the whole city was convinced that the novice was an ally of the Dean, like so many others. His memory was polluted; his integrity slandered. That was why Wymond detested the city. It had allowed his brother, his wonderful, kind brother, to be turned into a traitor and killer.

Poor Uncle Vincent. The tale told yesterday by his master had come as a shock, because he had been content to consider that in those far-off days his uncle might have been persuaded to change his allegiance and join the men allied with Pycot; perhaps he had gone to murder the Chaunter at their side. Only now he had heard from a witness that the poor fellow had been trying to save the Chaunter, his master. He had been honourable to the very end, when he was struck down by the man Joel called Nicholas.

One thing Vince knew, and that was that his father ought to be told. So late in the afternoon, he had invented a ruse to take him out of the house, and he had fled down the hill to the tannery. Before long he found his father, stirring skins in the handling pits.

He was panting slightly, and he caught his breath, savouring the moment that he should explain to his father what he had heard. Wymond would be delighted to hear that his impression had been vindicated, he’d be over the moon to learn that there was a witness, a credible witness, who had confessed at last.

Which was why Vince was baffled when his father listened, and then walked away, head bowed with sorrow. Vince ran after him, gabbling that all was well: Vincent his uncle was cleared, but his father waved a hand for him to go. And as Vince went, he could hear the sound of dry, racking sobs. It completely mystified him.

Baldwin threw on his clothes, washed his face in the bowl of water provided, and then followed Simon down the stairs.

‘You cannot know how glad I am to see you here,’ he said as they sat at a table. The owner’s daughter gave them bread and some cold slices of meat with a large jug of weak ale.

Simon gave a chuckle. ‘Nice to know that I’m indispensable at last.’

‘This affair is peculiar, old friend. A man suddenly appears in the Charnel Chapel, with a knife wound in the back. It’s a strange place to commit a murder.’

‘Perhaps. All I can say is, I am glad to be here,’ Simon said.

‘How is Dartmouth?’

Simon crumbled a piece of bread in his fingers. ‘It’s lonely, Baldwin. I hate living there without Meg and the children, and I worry all the time about Edith. What she won’t do in order to get her way, I don’t know, and it’s not healthy for Meg to be looking after her on her own. They both need a man about the place to stop them fighting.’

‘That’s Lydford, not Dartmouth,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘Dartmouth is a pleasant, fresh little vill. There’s a great port and lots of ships,’ Simon said drily. ‘It’s convenient, because it means that yesterday when I heard I was required here, I was able to be directed to a ship and board it to come here swiftly, rather than making the arduous journey on horseback.’

‘You came by ship? That must have been a difficult transport!’ Baldwin joked.

‘You can smile, if you wish, Baldwin,’ Simon growled. ‘You won’t get me on another, though. Damned thing. I had to stay up on deck the whole time to stop myself throwing up, and that meant I was soaked with spray and rain by the time I landed. Foul things, boats.’

During the year the two men had travelled to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Simon had learned that his belly was most uncomfortable aboard ship. During their return voyage, foul weather and pirates had almost killed both men, and the memory wouldn’t fade from Simon’s mind. He passionately detested anything to do with ships, and he intended to avoid them all his life. It was particularly galling to have to resort to a ship to come here now, when he had sworn only a matter of weeks ago, on their return, never to use that means of transport ever again.

‘I am delighted to see you here, in any case,’ Baldwin said, and explained what he had so far learned about the death of the saddler.

‘So plainly we need to visit the man’s widow,’ Simon observed.

‘Yes. It is unlikely to be a pleasant encounter.’

‘A woman who’s just been made a widow is hardly likely to be congenial, no,’ Simon agreed. ‘Does this mean you’re getting to be a little less ruthless in your questioning, then? The knight who was always known for rigour bordering on callousness in the search for the truth is at last learning empathy?’

He’d only meant his words as a light jest at Baldwin’s expense, and he was surprised to see his friend was offended. Baldwin half-turned his head from Simon, and when he spoke, his voice was a great deal quieter. ‘There is nothing callous in my make-up, I hope. I try only to serve justice to the best of my ability.’

‘I didn’t mean …’ Simon was unsure how to comfort Baldwin. ‘Baldwin, I’m deeply sorry if I’ve given you offence. I wouldn’t have dreamed of it, you know that.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m just feeling rather fragile at present. It is the effect of coming here when I should be at home with my own wife.’

‘I can understand that,’ Simon grunted. ‘In any case, my apologies if I’ve upset you, old friend. I’d never want to do that.’

‘I know,’ Baldwin said with a faint smile. ‘And now, to our food.’

Mabilla was finishing her morning meal when she heard the bang on the door. Her heart sank as she heard the two voices. She looked down at her full board and hurriedly finished her dish of a tart and some apple.

This was a most inconsiderate hour to visit a lady, she told herself. At this time of day, civilised people returned from their early Mass to take something to break their fast, just as she had, and to turn up at a woman’s doorstep now meant that there was serious business afoot. To her mind, that could only mean men who intended to demand money from her, supposedly because her poor darling husband owed it. Well, they’d soon learn the position, if they’d come here for that, damn them!

Hearing the knocking, Julia entered from the solar where she had been resting, and Mabilla felt her anger rising. Julia was looking particularly pale today. Usually such a complexion would be a sign of perfection in the opinion of most men, but today it was merely evidence, along with her red eyes, of her misery. She hadn’t slept well last night again. Mabilla had heard her bedclothes rustling in the little truckle bed, and felt the floorboards move as she tossed and turned. Although she was being courageous about her marriage to Udo, it wasn’t ideal, as Mabilla herself knew. If she could, she’d have tried to snare the man herself. She wasn’t such a poor catch, surely … but he wanted a woman in order to start breeding his own line, and Mabilla’s days of childbirth were behind her now.

Her poor, darling daughter. There was a look of resignation on her face as she entered the room, followed by a too-bright smile. She hadn’t eaten anything yet today. Mabilla must make sure that she ate later. This starvation was all very well, but it’d be certain to weaken her.

Julia faced the door, and then, as she heard the voices, she threw a look at her mother in confusion. ‘I thought …’

‘It’s not Udo,’ Mabilla said as her maid walked in with two men behind her.

‘Mistress, this is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the Keeper of the King’s Peace, and Bailiff Simon Puttock. They want to talk to you.’

‘Godspeed, madam,’ said Simon, walking around the maid and looking at Mabilla. ‘I am afraid that Sir Baldwin and I are here to speak to you about your husband’s death. The Dean of the Cathedral has asked us to come to Exeter and investigate the murder. We’re here to find his killer.’

Mabilla’s attention went from him to the other man, the knight. He looked more stern, but there was something else in his face. He had dark eyes and a little beard that followed the line of his jaw. There were flecks of white in it, and a little dusting of more at his temples. A fine scar ran down his face, and it caught slightly at his mouth, twisting it up ever so slightly, she saw, giving him a very faintly cynical expression. Yet there was that little something else flickering in his eyes, she thought: vulnerability.

‘We should like to hear what you can tell us about the day your husband died,’ he said, ‘but we also need to know anything else that might have a bearing. Did he have any enemies in the city? Was he involved in a legal dispute? Did he owe money? Anything at all may help us to find his murderer.’

‘Julia, please leave us, would you?’ Mabilla asked.

Caught off guard, her daughter nodded, and started to make her way to the solar’s door, then suddenly she stopped. ‘No, Mother. If it’s to do with Father’s death, I want to be here.’

‘This is simply a discussion of matters which don’t affect you.’

‘You won’t be discussing my future husband, then?’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin interrupted, ‘you should both be present. There could be something which is relevant, which one may not realise, but which both of you together may see more clearly.’ He motioned to a stool, and when Mabilla nodded her agreement, he seated himself on it, his sword clattering loudly on the stone flags. ‘Ladies, please … even if it seems entirely unlikely that something could have a bearing on Henry Saddler’s death, still tell us. It may help us to form an impression of the whole man, which could lead us to learn who killed him.’

‘Do you have his business records?’ Simon enquired. ‘Perhaps I could look through them.’

Mabilla ordered her maid to fetch wine, and then she rose from the table and walked into the small room which had served as Henry’s counting chamber. She had his key about her neck, and she opened the chest in there, bringing out his ledger. Returning to the hall, she passed it to Simon.

He opened it and began to peruse the figures. After the last few weeks with Andrew, he was more than capable of reading through the figures and seeing where there could have been any problems. He ran his finger down the numbers, the roman numerals slowly forming a pattern in his mind. ‘His saddles weren’t cheap!’

‘My husband was a very accomplished craftsman. He used only the finest materials, and only the wealthy would buy them,’ Mabilla said.

‘I can believe that,’ Simon said, his finger still running down the list.

‘Perhaps first,’ Baldwin said, facing Julia, ‘you should tell me about your fiancé. You are clearly worried about him.’ Baldwin sat very still and studied her.

She felt he was like an owl peering at a mouse across a field, knowing that there was no need to exert himself; the mouse would soon be his. The thought that he might look on her as mere prey made her hold her head a little more haughtily. She would not speak of her fiancé in front of this fellow. Udo was surely innocent of anything to do with her father. Why, only yesterday he had told her how highly he had esteemed Henry. The plain fact was, Udo was their salvation, and the idea that she should endanger that by discussing him with these two officers was unthinkable.

Mabilla didn’t feel the same. Julia could see it in her eyes when she glanced at her mother. She was preparing herself to speak of him. She was going to betray him. ‘Mother!’

‘Julia, please leave us. I have asked you to do so once already. You have said your part. Sir Baldwin, you said you would prefer my daughter to remain. I should prefer that she leave us. I have some information that I should like to share, but it is not for my daughter’s ears.’

‘I won’t go! You’ll betray him, won’t you?’

‘Julia!’ Mabilla blazed suddenly. ‘This is very hard for me. Very hard indeed. It’s a matter that doesn’t concern you, and I want to discuss it in privacy. Leave the room now!’

Julia stared at her defiantly, but gradually allowed her eyes to drop to the floor. ‘Very well,’ she muttered, and made for the doorway again, pausing briefly at Mabilla’s side to whisper, ‘Udo is innocent of this. You’ll only make him hate us, and then where will we be?’

Mabilla said nothing, but sat as still as a figure carved in stone. Baldwin considered that often women would grow in attraction as they matured, and this woman seemed to have the dignity and poise of a queen, even in the midst of her grief. Until the door behind her was closed, she sat still and said nothing. Baldwin privately wondered whether her daughter was standing at the door and listening, just as any servant would when there was an interesting argument in prospect in the main hall, but then Mabilla took a deep breath.

‘You will understand that I do not like to speak of this. My own honour is at stake, and that is a grievous heavy burden just now. You see, I fear I may be responsible for my husband’s death.’

Simon heard the sudden silence after her calm, quiet words, and he looked up, his finger still on the vellum before him. He frowned. ‘You don’t mean you stabbed him?’

‘Of course not!’ she snapped, but then added introspectively, ‘Yet perhaps I did, even though I didn’t hold the dagger myself.’

‘Please explain,’ Baldwin commanded.

‘Many years ago, long before I was married, I had a lover called William. I was foolishy attracted by his good looks, his dark moods, his aura of violence … I was young and my judgement unsound.’ She paused and cleared her throat. ‘Then, there was a fight in the Cathedral Close and the Chaunter died. My man was one of those involved, and he fled, leaving me behind. Henry and I got together later and I wedded him. And I don’t regret it one moment! He was kind, good, and deserved my respect. I was graced with my daughter, and although I know Henry would have liked a son to carry on his trade, we were not so fortunate. Our boy-children both died soon after birth. Still, Henry never once criticised me or expressed himself disappointed. He only ever behaved affectionately and generously towards me, and for that I honoured him.’

‘However, if this past lover were to have returned, you fear he might have grown jealous?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘He is returned. He lives as a corrodian at the Priory. As soon as I saw him again, I knew he wanted me for his wife. He couldn’t remember that he had deserted me, and that I was left alone for nearly forty years! All he knew was, he wanted me and I should go running to him. He is entirely self-centred.’

‘You think he could have killed your husband?’

‘Oh, yes. He is a determined man, Sir Baldwin. A killer. He came here regularly to visit. Henry and he used to be friends, and Henry thought William was coming to talk to him about old times. He didn’t realise that each time William was speaking to me and trying to persuade me to leave my husband. I felt such a traitor!’

It was no more than the truth. The way she had felt when William first appeared was a source of shame still. She had felt the familiar quickening of excitement to see William’s old twisted grin again. He was always thrilling; even now at nearly sixty years old, he could make her blood race by merely shooting her a look.

Damn William! He had wanted her for years, that much was obvious. Even Joel still feared him, because of his taste for violence. And he hadn’t actually denied killing Henry. No, the murderer must be William. An obstruction to his happiness — that was how he’d see Henry, as a pest who stood in his way. So he would crush Henry, thinking Mabilla would run into his arms again. Until he grew bored with her again, no doubt.

She covered her face quickly, turning away.

Baldwin felt his own heart lurch with sympathy. He could feel her self-loathing; it was much like his own. The heat of humiliation flushed his face.

‘Do not blame yourself for the failings of men,’ he said in a low voice. ‘If this William did kill your husband, it is none of your responsibility, but his alone. Now! Is there anyone else you can tell us about who had a quarrel with your husband? Even a mild business dispute can lead to daggers being pulled.’

‘No. No one at all.’

She spoke with determination, as one will when denying even to oneself a painful possibility.

As they were speaking, the Master Mason Robert de Cantebrigge was taking a turn about his works.

The buggers here were all bone idle, of course, and the loss of Saul was a pain, but at least the place appeared to be buzzing, even if the labourers were all sheep-fondling fornicators. Yes, the walls would soon rise again and then the roof trusses could be installed. They’d arrived a little while back and were all stored in the main shed while the walls were being finished. As soon as that was done, they’d be able to get the roof proper up, and then the interior works could be set in train. It hadn’t been an easy task so far, but with luck it would grow easier.

Although Robert de Cantebrigge was by no means superstitious, he didn’t like the fact that there was a dead man still lying in the chapel. He couldn’t voice his concerns, but sometimes he felt he’d be happy to take his money and leave this Cathedral. Something was wrong here.

He had just come to this conclusion when he reached the walls of the old nave, and he stood there eyeing them contemplatively.

Much could be saved, he reckoned. The old stone could be reused in places, but he’d still have to order a lot of rocks from Beer and the local quarries. He’d already persuaded the good Bishop that they should make use of Caen stone in places, and Bishop Walter had agreed. Robert fancied that the latter wanted to be remembered for this great edifice. Well, if Robert had anything to do with it, Bishop Walter would be!

These walls must come down, probably as far as the window sills, maybe a little more — he would wait and see what condition the base of the walls were in before deciding — and then he could start erecting the new ones. Yes, he was looking forward to that.

There was a rope dangling nearby, and he tutted to himself. Ropes should always be neatly stored and carefully tied. If he’d told them all that once, he’d told them a hundred times. Following the line of the rope, he saw that it rose to a block, and then dropped into a space between some rocks and rubble thrown down from the top of the walls, not far from the northwestern corner of the Cathedral. It seemed peculiar. He couldn’t see why the rope should be lying over there; there was nothing to lift over that way. It was simply a pile of old stones from the walls which had to be sorted into those which were reusable and those which weren’t.

He was frowning about this when Thomas walked to his side.

‘Master, can I have a word with you?’

‘Thomas? Aye. What have you done now, laddie? Killed off another bloody mason? You may not be at all bad at your job, son, but you’ll end up doing it on your own if you’re not careful.’

Thomas did not smile. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ he said. ‘I heard you were going to work on another building soon.’

‘Yeah. I’m running four building projects right now, and it’s time I went to check on the others … why? You bored up here?’

‘Not bored, no, but I’d prefer to leave. I can only serve to upset Saul’s wife if she sees me, and that’s a sore grief to me.’

‘His death was a sore grief to me, too. He was a good mason, sod it! I’ll think about it, anyway.’

‘Thank you, Master.’

‘Now get back to work, will you?’

‘Yes!’ Thomas smiled. He grabbed a ladder and began to climb. As he did so, the master eyed the rope again. Giving it a tentative yank, he was about to leave it, when some instinct made him pull on it. It came fairly easily, although there was a dead weight at the other end.

‘Christ and all His saints!’ he bawled, when he saw what dangled on the other end.