The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Seventeen

William walked about the cloister at St Nicholas’s Priory with his staff always in his hand, peering into the darkest places in the long corridors, while his ears strained for the hiss and clatter of a fine-pointed arrow striking the stones. When you stood in line waiting for the clash of arms, the first you would know would be the noise of the arrows whistling and soughing through the air, but something only a warrior knew was that when the thing was aimed at you, you usually wouldn’t hear it until it hit. He knew that, all right. Jesus! He should do — he’d stood against the sodding things often enough.

It was why he was here, of course, because he’d wrecked his health fighting for the King and the latter was repaying the debt; but now William was prey to some worrying fears. If the King ever came to learn of his dishonest behaviour (even though this had occurred many years ago), that wouldn’t stop Edward from demanding his corrody back, let alone heaping any other insults or curses he could upon William’s head. And the King could heap an awful lot of shit on a man’s head before he removed it.

Perhaps past loyalty would count. At the end of the day, that was all William had. He had done his duty time and time again — in battles from Scotland all the way across Wales and back. He’d been there in the bogs and marshes at Bannockburn to see the King’s first setback, and he’d been a loyal supporter of Edward even after the Lords Marcher had ringed London and forced the King to exile the Despensers. He had been in the King’s service when the latter himself took the offensive and headed northward, crushing the army of his cousin at Boroughbridge. Then there had been the fiasco of Tynemouth when he deserted his wife.

William had lost all faith in the King after that. As he sat in the boat, listening to the racking sobs of the Queen bemoaning her fate, her loveless marriage, and the death of one of her favourite ladies-in-waiting — a second died a little later — William had only one thought: this was the closest he had ever come to death. There would have been no escape, had he been caught there with the Bruce’s men surrounding the place.

The King had just left him there. Him — William! Dumped like unnecessary baggage to be rifled and casually discarded by Edward’s enemies. Sweet Mother of God, how could he do that to William? It left him with a very unpleasant taste in his mouth. And then the dizziness had started, and he knew it would soon be time to seek a quieter place to live.

He had been unhappy to leave his castle. Being in charge of a place like that, with so many squires and other men-at-arms under his control had been good. Far better than standing in a line of warriors, staring at a face only feet away, and swinging a sword.

That was battle. A man stood or fell by the power in his arms: his left holding up his shield and trying to avert blows from all directions; his right lunging with his sword, parrying, knocking aside when he could, prior to stabbing … and every so often the foe would fall, silently or shrieking, as his blood gushed like a fountain of bright crimson, drenching all those around him, or it might suddenly burst in a fine red shower. Then it was like the red mist which he had heard tell of so many times: that helmet of rage and hatred which encased a man so that, like a berserker, he could fly at his enemies with the power of ten men, scattering all before him.

Yes. Some men spoke of the honour of fighting, but Will knew better. Fighting was only ever a case of getting a good blow in first. Fuck the arse who decided to fight ‘nicely’, he wouldn’t last long. No, it was better to slay all you could as quickly as you could, and stay with the other warriors behind the shield wall. Courage and honour had nothing to do with it. Will had stood in those lines at almost every battle the King had asked him to attend. Yet the bastard had left him there at Tynemouth to die, and it was only by a miracle that he’d escaped.

When he asked to be released from the King’s service, the man had hardly bothered to talk. He’d simply indicated that Will should, ‘Speak to our Steward of the Wardrobe.’

It had hurt. After all he’d done, to be dismissed like that! It was shameful.

Still, a man must shift as best he might. This Priory had accepted the King’s money, but that wouldn’t serve to help William, should news ever be bruited abroad that he had once lied to the King’s father in order to be noticed. Whatever Edward’s personal reaction, his sidekick Despenser wouldn’t be amused. Despenser would want the money back, and he had none of the King’s subtlety. He would come and take it back with a sword in his fist, and if the money wasn’t all there, he’d ask where it might be, with that quiet, silky voice of his, while his blade was slowly sinking into Will’s belly. He had no illusions: he’d seen the Despenser at work.

That was why it was vital that his part in killing the Chaunter was kept concealed.

He had hoped to enjoy a little more time with Mabilla. In fact, when she asked him to meet her that day in the tavern, he had hoped that that might be the reason for her request. How foolish of him! She’d simply gone ranting on about that simpleton Henry, God rot his soul. Obviously, now he thought about it, if anyone had known of his desire for her, they might realise that William had an excellent motive to murder the man, and a trained warrior like him could well kill without compunction.

The only person who really knew still was Joel, though. Just as Joel knew other things about William … and hated him, too. It was the man’s own fault. He should have been quicker off the mark to tell the King about the South Gate being left open. Instead he let the opportunity slide, and William had grasped it. Of course he was jealous. And vengeful, too. He knew that the whole of Will’s career had been built upon that lie at the King’s court.

And then the corrodian had a most unsettling thought. It wasn’t only Joel who knew these things — Mabilla did, too, and she was capable of hiring a man to shoot him down.

William gave a deep sigh, then set his jaw. He’d never thought that being involved in the murder of Walter de Lecchelade could possibly come back to haunt him like this.

Udo Germeyne was very content this morning. Some little while ago he had invested in a part share of a ship’s cargo, and the proceeds from the sale had just come to him, exceeding by far his expectations. All his losses on the day he fell from his horse had been recouped, and he had also received a pleasing note from his fiancée which promised continued love and affection after their marriage. All in all, it was turning out to be a most satisfactory day. Ja!

The knock at his door made him beam. He was going to be married to the loveliest woman in the city. That was cause for delight, and he would welcome any man who entered his dwelling and offer them wine to celebrate his good fortune.

His servant walked in with two stern-looking men. ‘Master Udo, this is the Keeper of the King’s Peace and his friend Bailiff Puttock. They want to ask you about Master Henry.’

Udo’s calm wobbled. ‘Oh? Ah. So, how may I help you, Masters?’

Simon spoke. ‘We should like to hear all you know about Master Henry Saddler, the man who was murdered in the churchyard.’

‘Yes, I knew Henry. I had dealings with him recently.’

‘You owe him for a saddle?’ Simon asked.

‘No.’ Udo’s face set firmly. ‘He tried to make me buy a saddle from him, but it was lousy workmanship, and it broke when I first tested it. After that, I would buy nothing from him.’

‘We had heard that his quality was excellent.’

‘So it was, normally. Mine, that was not.’

‘And you argued with him in the Close on the afternoon of the day he was murdered.’

Udo thrust out his lips. ‘Was it then? I cannot remember.’

‘It was a loud dispute, Master Udo,’ Baldwin said. He was sitting at one of the merchant’s stools, and had listened to their exchanges with interest. ‘Others heard you.’

‘Perhaps they were thinking of another man,’ Udo said. Then: ‘Come, let me offer you wine. I have so much to celebrate. It is sad to know that I have lost a father-in-law, but I am to gain a wife. That is cause to drink and make merry, is it not?’

‘Who are you to marry?’ Baldwin smiled.

‘Why, the saddler’s daughter.’

‘Which is why she didn’t want us to worry you about our suspicions,’ Simon noted.

‘What suspicions?’

‘Oh, that a man might threaten to ruin a widow for his own profit. That a man might sue her and take her house.’

Udo smiled openly. ‘Come, you suggest that? No, I have already told them that there is no possibility that I would sue them. It would be too cruel to sue a lady who has just lost her husband.’

‘A man might kill, though, if he learned that his dearest wish to marry the woman of his choice was to be thwarted by her father,’ Baldwin said.

‘Who says so?’ This time Udo’s smile was a little more strained.

The servant came in with a pair of jugs and set them before Baldwin and Simon with two pleasant pewter goblets. Baldwin picked his up and studied it. ‘These are pretty things. Must have cost you a lot of money.’

‘They were not cheap, but you see, I am wealthy,’ Udo said, waving a hand about him.

‘A wealthy man might be righteously angry when another tries to fleece him,’ Baldwin observed.

‘A wealthy man would simply crush a fellow like that,’ Udo said with perfect calmness.

‘Perhaps. Yet if he was to try to marry into the family, there would be no point in impoverishing the fellow. Another means of punishment might be sought.’

Udo said smugly, ‘Today I learned that a ship has entered Topsham Harbour with a large cargo, and a part of that is mine. I am worth so much money that I do not need to worry about such trivial matters.’

‘You didn’t know that the ship was about to come in when Henry died, though,’ Baldwin stated.

‘I have other sources of wealth,’ Udo said.

‘And no one with whom to share them,’ Baldwin said quietly. He studied the rich German before him. This Udo was similar to how Baldwin had been before he had found his Jeanne. Jeanne, the source of his pleasure, the mother of his child; Jeanne, the woman he had betrayed. The thought made his tone bitter. ‘You have been lonely for many years, looking at other men in the city and thinking: “Yes, they have wives and children, they have meaning to their lives. Yet I here have nothing. I am alone, with no one to mourn me when I die.” That is right, isn’t it?’

‘But I am to marry!’ Udo exclaimed. ‘That is my joy, and the reason why I am celebrating.’

‘It would have been terrible, then, if Henry Saddler had told you in the Cathedral Close that he would not have you as his son,’ Baldwin finished sarcastically.

Udo pulled a moue. ‘What? You think so? I would have persuaded him. Ach! How could he refuse me, one of the most prosperous men in the whole of this city? You tell me he would have maintained his rejection of me after he had had an opportunity to consider? No. I do not think so.’

‘Even though you threatened to kill him?’ Baldwin said.

‘It was nothing. I didn’t mean it.’

‘What did you do that night? Did you remain out there, near the Charnel Chapel, and wait until he came past, meaning to discuss his daughter with him, only to learn that he was steadfast? Did you kill him because he wouldn’t bow to your riches?’

‘I went to a tavern, and then I came home.’

‘Which tavern?’

‘The Grapes in Broad Street.’

‘That is very convenient for the Cathedral Close,’ Baldwin sneered. ‘You could have sat in there, gone to kill him, and returned.’

‘Come, Master Keeper! With one breath you tell me that I was his enemy, saying that he would have nothing to do with me, and in the next breath you tell me that I was able to tempt him to talk to me in a dark alley!’

Baldwin suddenly felt the same strange sensation as he had experienced in the crypt — but this time it was worse. His palms felt clammy, his back sweaty. It was as though the walls were starting to lean inwards to crush him. There was a peculiar panic in his breast.

‘You think you are clever, Master Udo, but I understand you! You wanted the girl, because she is a very pretty thing, isn’t she, that little Julia? And the thought that her father might refuse to allow you to see her, that was like a lance-thrust in your flank, wasn’t it? You’d have slaughtered the whole of the city rather than give her up, once you had set your heart on her. You still would, wouldn’t you? She is beautiful, she’s the sort of woman to whom a man could give his heart gladly. He’d offer to share all his wealth with her — even house her mother, if he had to. And here was her father, the bastard, who had done you no favours, selling you a cheaply made saddle that failed the first time you used it, and he was going to try to keep you from her. What would a man with blood in his veins do? Exactly what you did. You went to find him and stabbed him in the back at the first opportunity, didn’t you?’

He had risen to his feet, and almost without realising it, had crossed the room and stood in front of Udo, who stared up at him with alarm. Baldwin shot a look at Simon, and saw the concern in the Bailiff’s eyes. Only then did he realise how his anger had all but overwhelmed him. He half-turned to go back to his stool, but then he whirled round to face Udo again. ‘Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you did not in truth murder her father. Tell me!’

Udo swallowed, then gulped at his wine. ‘I tell you I killed no one. I did not wield the knife, and I did not order or pay or ask another to do so. I am innocent. If you want the killer, you must search elsewhere.’

‘What was all that about?’ Simon asked as they left Udo’s house and meandered up towards Carfoix.

‘I wanted to get to the truth of the matter, that is all,’ Baldwin said defensively.

Simon touched his elbow. When Baldwin looked at him, Simon spoke quietly. ‘Baldwin, we’ve known each other many years, and I’ve not seen you like that before. You almost attacked him. What came over you? Should we visit a physician?’

‘No. I shall be fine,’ Baldwin said. ‘It was just …’

He stopped. He had never told Simon about the woman on the islands or his adultery. It seemed the wrong time to talk about it now.

‘Baldwin, I can see you’re upset. Come with me, old friend.’

‘I am fine!’

‘Let’s find a tavern or inn where we can sit down. You don’t have to tell me anything, but I can talk about Meg and try to remember what she looks like. I’d like to remember her,’ he added wistfully.

Baldwin felt a strong pang of jealousy. Here he was, missing his wife and his happiness at his marriage, and here was Simon, who still held his wife’s love, and who felt the loneliness of being parted. Baldwin would have given much to be in Simon’s position, rather than in the dreadful place he currently inhabited.

He allowed himself to be led along the High Street, and in through a low doorway to a tavern. There was a small table in the far corner, and the two men went over to it. Baldwin sat while Simon beckoned a maid. Soon they were taking their first grateful swallows of mulled wine.

‘You know I’ll keep whatever it is a secret if you want me to,’ Simon began, ‘but there is obviously something worrying you. Perhaps I can help.’

‘I don’t think so, Simon,’ Baldwin sighed.

‘Is it Jeanne?’

‘Why do you ask that?’ Baldwin said with genuine surprise.

‘Because of the way you reacted to a man who’s announced his intention of marrying,’ Simon said with a lopsided grin. ‘There was a strong hint of jealousy in your response to him.’

‘We are not getting on very well.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘It is not her. It’s me. I … I still love her, but I cannot …’

‘Then you should make sure that she knows you love her,’ Simon said. ‘It’s the only thing a man can do for his woman. Prove to her you love her.’

‘How?’ Baldwin asked simply. ‘I fear I have squandered her love for me.’

‘You have done nothing of the sort. You’re feeling confused since returning from pilgrimage, that’s all. It was a very different experience, Baldwin, especially for you. You have been to those places before, and you were revisiting your youth. You were excited, weren’t you, when we were at Galicia? It was like rediscovering your past. I could see it.’

‘I am home again now, though.’

‘And she is the same, but you have changed a little. We suffered much on our journeys, didn’t we? It changes a man. Perhaps you just need to relearn how good your wife is.’

‘Again — how?’

‘You trust her judgement, you like her intelligence. Make use of her. Why not bring her here now? Send a man to fetch her. Explain that you’d value her impression of things. You know she would never refuse you.’

‘I can’t!’

‘Why not?’

Baldwin lowered his head into his hands. ‘It would be impossible while that primped coxcombe Sir Peregrine is here.’

‘Yes. I wonder why he is here,’ Simon said.

‘I have a deeply unpleasant feeling that we shall soon find out,’ Baldwin said dejectedly.

Thomas thrust the last of his belongings into his small sack and bound his rolled blankets to it, before washing his hands, soaking the bloody rags to remove them.

Christ Jesus but they hurt! The left hand was marginally less painful. He’d grabbed the rope less hard with that, but the right was dreadful. Every time he moved that hand he broke the scabs again.

He rewrapped the linen bandages, flexing his fingers once or twice with a wince, and then threw his pack over his back and marched from his shed towards the Fissand Gate. He was going to get away from here now. There was nothing left for him here. The deaths of Nicholas as well as Henry would soon be laid at his door, and he had no intention of waiting around for that to happen.

There were some men lounging at the gate, and Thomas saw three of them eye him. So, instead of continuing, he walked round past the conduit and charnel, and then hurried along, concealed by the chapel itself, until he reached the Church of St Mary Major. There he stopped and hid, panting slightly, to check on what was happening.

Sure enough, the three men weren’t lounging now, they were pelting along at full tilt, one of them swearing at losing ‘that mother-swyving churl’. Thomas edged around the wall of the church as they ran down, one man yelling that he must have headed for the Bear Gate. Thomas immediately walked back towards Fissand.

This city was cursed, he thought to himself as he approached the gate. He stopped, turned and stared at the Charnel Chapel. It was a bleak, nasty building, he thought. Same sort of size as Lecchelade’s house, but without the charm. It was not even built of good stone, but had been thrown up hurriedly. Anyone could see that the place was made as a gesture, nothing more. He wondered whether Dean John Pycot had ever cared about the building … but the daft sod had probably never seen it, had he? He’d ordered its construction as a reparatory deed, hoping that it might lead to his reassimilation into the Cathedral’s Chapter, but he had failed in that wish. He’d taken his punishment without demur and left to go to his monastery as a monk.

Thomas hefted his bag, and felt the tears prickle at his eyes. This place had destroyed him. His father, once a familiar face to all in the city, a man of honour and integrity who taught Thomas all he knew, had been hanged after the murder on the orders of the King. The shame and remorse which had overwhelmed Thomas when he realised how badly he had betrayed not only himself but also his father, had lingered throughout his entire lifetime. He had hoped it would be gone by now, but no. There was nothing but shame and destruction for him here. Those three men had proved that.

If he had taken the shortest road out of the Close, walking out by the Bear Gate and leaving the city by the South Gate, he might have missed the guards, but that would mean passing under the Southern Gate’s arch again, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to do that. He’d be tempted to look up, and as he did so, see again in his mind’s eye the body of his father swinging from his rope. No, rather than that, he’d thought he’d go out by the North or East Gates. In truth he hadn’t decided yet.

At the Fissand Gate he threw a coin at the waiting beggar, then stood at the edge of the road, peering up at the High Street for a long moment before setting off. This city was not his any more. It was a foreign place, filled with danger.

The High Street was full as usual. There was a herd of cattle ambling along the way, two dogs snapping at their heels, a man behind with a great staff, whistling at them. For a moment Thomas wished he was also a drover — a man in control of his life, measuring each day in the distance travelled, knowing that there was an end to his journeying. That would be a restful life, far better than his present wanderings. And now he must set off once more. He had come here hoping that at last he might find some peace and rest, but there was nothing for him here but death and despair.

When the cattle had passed, he had to pick his gate, and although he turned right to face east, he never quite managed to set off. Instead, his eyes were drawn again to the north. It was in that direction that he would find more work, perhaps. The Master Mason had spoken reverentially of castles being constructed up there; the Despensers had had several of their castles thrown down during the wars with the Lords Marcher, and there were opportunities there for a man with skill at hewing stone, so Thomas had heard.

It also meant he would pass close to Sara’s house. That was in some way an appealing thought. He dare not see her, but just knowing that he was close to her one last time would be good. He couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling today. Wretched to think that she had entertained her man’s murderer? Perhaps even repelled by the thought that she had consumed his food and drink. The poor woman was probably distraught.

He recalled her face when her son told her: it became a mask of terror. In that moment Thomas knew that any affection she might have felt for him was gone for ever. He couldn’t hope to win her, not when he had killed off her Saul. It was a ridiculous dream, nothing more. And in any case, what could he do here, in the city which saw his father hanged? Exeter held nothing for him, only memories … and memories didn’t keep a belly filled.

Thomas glanced behind him. There was a figure running up around the corner of St Mary Major.

It was enough to persuade him to get moving. He set his face to the north, shrugged his pack more comfortably on his back, and started on his way.

In the Charnel Chapel, Sir Peregrine was studying the body of the saddler. ‘You may remove him now. There’s nothing to be learned in here, especially since there have been so many men walking about in here.’

‘Yes, Sir Peregrine,’ Matthew said. ‘It has been terrible, what with this man, then the friar being murdered, and the stone mason too. What a time!’

‘I shall wish to see those bodies, too,’ the knight said. ‘And we shall have to hold an inquest.’

‘The friar has already been taken back to the Friary,’ Matthew said. ‘It’s impossible for us to hold their dead for them.’

‘Why? I’d have thought they’d be glad enough for you to hold their corpses until they were ready to take them and conduct the funeral.’

‘Not they!’ Matthew smiled. ‘The friars have always been rather at loggerheads with us over death and burials. They have insisted on being able to bury people, but the Cathedral has the right to bury all the city’s dead. We have an arrangement now, because the Friary started a ridiculous argument with us a while ago, demanding that they should be able to hold the funeral services for people whom they called their benefactors. Stupid, of course, but there it is.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sir Peregrine said absently. He was watching the three lay assistants to the grave-digger lifting the body. It was more than a little odorous now, even in the cool of the chapel, and Sir Peregrine was reminded of battlefields in autumn-time as he smelled the sickly sweet scent of rotting blood. ‘I heard about that. It was poor Sir Henry Ralegh, wasn’t it? He was taken by the Cathedral although he had stated that he wanted to be buried by the friars.’

‘What he wanted really isn’t the point,’ Matthew remonstrated. ‘A man who died in this city is the Cathedral’s.’

‘Absolutely! There is a lot of money involved,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘And when the Cathedral had performed the service, you took the body down to the Friary.’

‘But those dogs wouldn’t let us take him inside,’ Matthew declared with a shake of his head at such cruelty. ‘How could they behave in such a manner?’

‘And your men left the body to rot outside their gates when they barred them against you,’ Sir Peregrine said mildly. Then he lanced a look at Matthew. ‘You left him, a noble knight, to rot in the sun outside the Friary.’

‘It was they left him there!’

‘It was you who stole him away in order to win his money, Vicar! You played a contemptible game with a dead knight just for money!’ Sir Peregrine stated.

His green eyes flared like emerald fire for an instant, and Matthew was careful to say no more. There was no way of telling how a knight might behave when roused, and this one looked particularly dangerous.

‘What of this other body? Where is it?’

‘The mason was buried ten days ago, Sir Peregrine,’ Matthew said submissively.

‘Really?’

‘We could hardly leave the corpse sitting under a rock while we waited for a Coroner to arrive,’ Matthew said with some asperity. ‘What else could we do?’

‘That is not for me to say,’ said Sir Peregrine. ‘All I know is that the body should have remained where it was until I could view it. That is the law. So perhaps the Cathedral will have to pay a fine for that misjudgement.’

Matthew said nothing. He was beginning to learn that this man was not the amiable sort of fellow who would listen respectfully to a vicar or even the Dean about matters which really pertained solely to the Cathedral and the Chapter. He appeared to think that he had a sole right to enquire about things here in the Cathedral. Perhaps the Dean should have stood his ground more.

The knight was already striding off towards the Dean’s house, and now Matthew noticed that the Treasurer himself was standing near the corner of the Cathedral with a glower darkening his face as he watched the tall figure march away. Matthew sighed to himself and walked over to Stephen.

‘How painful was he today?’ Treasurer Stephen asked.

‘It was a difficult meeting. I think he feels that the Chapter is lax in its works when a man dies. He wants to fine us for the burial of the mason now.’

‘I did tell the Dean that we should stand our ground and insist on the man staying away. There was no need to call him. We are not part of the secular world.’

‘I think that Dean Alfred felt we should not deny him entry in case it became common knowledge that we had deaths here which we sought to conceal. After all, not so long ago it was the Cathedral which had to ask the King to hear a case of murder here, even though it was a murder committed by clerics on ecclesiastical grounds. That makes it difficult to argue that we should exclude the King’s officer now, surely.’

‘The Dean shouldn’t have allowed that man to come into our Cathedral,’ Stephen said doggedly.

‘Is there something the matter?’ Matthew asked tentatively.

The Treasurer was startled by his question. ‘What do you mean? What makes you ask that, Vicar?’

‘I just thought you were worried, Treasurer. Nothing more than that,’ Matthew said hastily.

‘No, there is nothing wrong,’ Stephen said. ‘I just don’t like to think that our work could be delayed while that man runs around, snapping at ankles and making our lives more difficult.’

Matthew nodded, but as the Treasurer turned and strode away, Matthew was reminded that the man who had ensured that his Chaunter, Walter de Lecchelade, had been murdered was also a Treasurer. John Pycot had only tried to claim the post of Dean when he already controlled the Cathedral’s purse-strings. That in some measure was the reason for his popularity.

At least this Treasurer was honourable, he told himself … yet he couldn’t entirely lose the frown as he watched Stephen hurry over the grass towards the Exchequer.