The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Two

Thomas was still feeling that odd juddering in his belly, as if a load of moths were fighting in there. Vicar Matthew had seen his shock, and gave him a little wine to calm his nerves after he’d helped Thomas down from the ruined scaffolding. However, Master Robert de Cantebrigge was entirely unsympathetic, even when he saw Thomas’s raw hands.

‘Look at him, you prick! You dropped a ton of rock on the poor bastard, and killed him! That’s criminal carelessness, that is!’

‘Christ’s Bones, Master, I didn’t mean it to happen … I don’t know what-’

‘You don’t seem to know sod all, do you?’ Robert spat. ‘You can call on Christ as much as you want, but it won’t bring back a bloody good mason, will it?’

‘Master, I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry, it was an accident.’

‘Oh no, it wasn’t, Tom. You killed him — it was sodding negligence, that’s what. Don’t try to get out of it that way. This was no bleeding accident, laddie — it was near as buggery pure sodding murder!’

The Master Mason was almost screaming at him, the spittle flying from his mouth, and Tom averted his head. Unwise move — for doing so made him catch sight of the corpse, and that in itself was enough to make a man heave. Sweet Jesus! Saul had no head left, no upper torso. The rock dropping a good thirty feet straight onto his head had completely removed every vestige of humanity above his belly. It was merely a repellent smudge of blood and flattened muscle, with a few yellowish cartilaginous lumps that made Tom want to puke. At one side he saw a single tooth, snapped off and not quite destroyed, but the rest of Saul’s face and features were gone. It was like a chalk picture smeared away with a damp cloth. That was all Saul was now: a smear.

‘I can’t bring him back,’ Thomas said sadly, and he could feel the tickling of tears behind his lids. Matthew shouted for linen bandages as he said quietly, ‘I would if I could.’

‘No, you can’t, can you? Cretin! Where am I going to find another decent mason like him? God’s Ballocks! What a fucking mess!’

‘He was married,’ Matthew said, his voice hushed. He put a comforting arm about Thomas. ‘We should tell his wife.’

‘His widow!’ Robert rasped. ‘That prickle can do it. He took her husband from her, let him be the one who explains it to her. I’m damned if I can understand a word he’s said about how he managed to lose the block, myself.’

Thomas looked back up at the pulley at the top of the crane. Still lashed to the hook was the metal wedge that should have remained inside the block, while whips of rope were tossed from side to side in the wind, their ends frayed where they’d broken. That was the first crack he had heard, when those ropes snapped under the weight of the rock. One, he saw, was still blackened with his own blood where he’d tried to hold it. His hands were raw, the flesh stripped from the palms, and he’d covered both with pieces of linen he’d hacked from his own shirt. They’d be dreadfully painful for days, he knew.

His rope and the others weren’t supposed to support all that ponderous mass. It should have been the iron wedge that took the weight. How could it have slipped out? He couldn’t have thrust the wedge in properly. That was the only explanation. Robert was right: his negligence had killed Saul.

Poor Saul. Thomas had known him slightly. There were so many men working here on the rebuilding of the Cathedral that it was hard to get to know even all the stone-workers, let alone the members of the other crafts. Saul was a foreigner, Thomas remembered hearing. One of those who’d been working on some other project with Robert de Cantebrigge and had been brought here with him. That was how Master Masons made sure that their work was up to scratch. They kept a stable of good workers with them, taking them from one job to another, so that hopefully when the Master Mason had to go to another site, he could leave his men working together, knowing what he would expect them to do.

It was a hard life, building churches and cathedrals. Saul had been too young to know the misery associated with growing older in the trade: the bones that ached in the mornings on a winter’s day, the sudden cramps in the legs, the back that locked and wouldn’t move, the weariness at the end of a summer’s day when every moment of daylight had to be used to the full; no matter that your fingers were scratched and bruised, the nails ripped out from the last falling rock you tried to lift onto the wall, nor that your arms refused to lift another pebble, they were so exhausted. The work was the thing. Any man here on the site must work as quickly as possible to bring to fruition the creation that men would look on for evermore, thinking, That, that is God’s House.

But a Master Mason didn’t only have one project on the go at a time. He was a skilled engineer, hence much of a man like Robert de Cantebrigge’s life was spent on horseback travelling from one city to another, monitoring each of his building projects and making sure that they remained on target.

Saul had been with him longer than Thomas. That was the thing. It was why Robert would probably never forgive Thomas. He had taken away one of Robert’s best, youngest, strongest men, and finding a suitable willing replacement would prove a considerable headache.

And now Thomas had come to see the Almoner at St Nicholas’s Priory, to trace the whereabouts of Saul’s wife.

‘You wished to know where a certain woman lives?’

The Almoner was an austere-looking man who listened gravely as Thomas explained his mission.

‘What a tragic event,’ he said when Thomas was finished. ‘I knew Saul slightly. A good man — he often gave to the poor. And his woman seems good, too. They have two children. Little boys, both of them. This will be grave news for her, poor Sara.’

‘I would do anything I could to escape telling her,’ Thomas muttered. ‘Even if it meant taking his place. It’s not right for a boy to grow without a father.’

‘It’s not right for a man to consider self-murder, either,’ the Almoner said sharply. ‘I hope you are not speaking in earnest. Saul is dead because God thought this was his time; when it is your time, God will call you too.’

‘I wouldn’t kill myself,’ Thomas declared. ‘But I wish he wasn’t dead.’

‘That is good. You shouldn’t hanker after the death of another, no matter who he might be,’ the Almoner said approvingly.

He began to give directions. Apparently Saul and his wife had lived in the easternmost corner of the city, in the area vacated by the Franciscans when they moved to their new six-acre site down outside the southern wall.

‘As soon as the friars were gone, a small army of the poorer elements of the city took it over, building their own sheds from dung and straw and roofing them with thatch. Now they live there in their own little vill, made by themselves for themselves.’

‘I have never been there,’ Thomas admitted. ‘I live at the Cathedral while the works go on.’

‘You have a local man’s accent, though,’ the Almoner noted.

‘I used to live near here, but I left when I took up my trade,’ Thomas said quickly. He still feared being discovered. For all he knew, he could still be taken and hanged.

The Almoner was too rushed with other work to notice his defensiveness. ‘Well, go back to Fore Street, take the first street on the right, and follow that all the way to the end. That will bring you to the friars’ old compound, and you’ll find all the huts there. I think that Saul and Sara’s was the third on the left as you bear round to the right, just before the left-hand turn in the road. She used to have a door of limed oak — but I don’t know if she still has. A door like that is expensive, and many up there would be keen to filch it, I don’t doubt. So remember to count.’

‘I thank you, Master Almoner,’ Thomas said, respectfully ducking his head low as he set off.

As the man had said, it was easy to find the place. Where the Friary had been, the workers had removed all the building material, razing the old house and leaving nothing but a wasteland. It was here that the poorest of the city had taken up residence, throwing up a series of hovels, each one room and no more. The stench was overwhelming, for although there was a drainage channel cut into the lane leading up, the area itself was relatively flat and, rather than walk to the gutter, people threw their wastes into a huge malodorous midden that lay just to the left of the entrance to the place.

There were two dogs fighting over a bone as Thomas arrived, with four men idly watching them and gambling on the winner. He didn’t wish to speak to them. Instead he walked along the road, hoping that the Almoner was right about the location of the woman’s home.

The third house on the left was a sturdy enough looking place, and the door was whitened timber. Thomas closed his eyes a moment, then took a deep breath and crossed the yard, past the scanty little vegetable plot with its yellowing cabbages and stunted leeks. He rapped hard on the door.

‘Sir?’

The voice came from behind him, and he almost sprang into the air with alarm. Turning, he found himself staring into the laughing green eyes of a woman who was almost as tall as himself. She had hair the colour of burnished copper, and skin that was pale and freckled, with almond-shaped eyes and a tip-tilted nose. She smiled, showing regular teeth that shone. ‘My apologies, master. I didn’t mean to terrify you. Do you want me?’

‘I was looking for Saul’s wife,’ he said, and as he spoke the last word, his voice died away. He looked at her silently for a moment.

She returned his gaze and gradually her smile disappeared. ‘Has something happened to my husband?’

‘Mistress, I wish I could …’ he croaked.

‘Is he dead?’ she demanded.

‘I … yes. I am sorry.’

She didn’t seem to hear; she made no movement for a moment, and then he saw her eyes roll upwards, and he had to leap to catch her as she fainted.

The saddler was drunk.

That fact was unarguable, and more than a little amusing, Henry reckoned, as he slumped back in his chair, blearily staring at the mazer on the table before him. With a burp, he smacked his lips and reached cautiously for the wine.

‘Husband, haven’t you already had enough?’

‘Enough? When there’s still a little more left in the jug, my dearest? Of course not!’ He chuckled to himself, repeating his words a couple of times to gain the fullest humorous benefit from them.

Mabilla’s face swam into focus at the other side of the table, and he waved a hand at her in a vague gesture of dismissal. ‘Woman, leave me in peace!’ he pleaded.

‘I will not leave you to ruin yourself and us,’ she stated flatly. ‘You are drunk again. This cannot continue, Husband.’

‘Don’t seek to rule me,’ he growled, but then his eyes popped open as she leaned across the table towards him.

‘And you don’t seek to tell me what I can and cannot do, Henry Potell!’

‘Am I not master in my own home!’

‘You need to ask me that? What is making you behave this way? You never used to get so drunk. Is it something serious?’

‘Oh, it’s serious, madam!’ he said, assaying a light giggle. It appeared to fall flat.

‘Henry Potell, you will ruin us all. That is very serious. I won’t have you destroy everything you’ve built up. What will you say to your daughter when you are dead in the gutter and she has no husband nor means to find one?’ Mabilla snapped.

Henry snatched the mazer before she could remove it, and defiantly lifted it in a mock salute before draining it once more. ‘She will be all right. So will you,’ he said thickly. ‘There’s enough money saved for you both.’

‘And what of you, my husband?’

Her tone was softer, he noticed, and was relieved that the spat was probably already over. ‘My love, I don’t know. Just now I can’t think straight.’

‘The wine won’t help you.’

‘It may not clear my head, but it eases the pain,’ he slurred.

‘What pain? Are you suffering?’

He looked at her, but couldn’t answer. The pain he had was a forty-year-old guilt, and he had never heard of a cure for that.

Vincent the apprentice joiner stretched his arms high over his head and yawned.

‘Oi! Get out here, will you, you lazy shite! It’s Master Ralph come to see his frame.’

Vincent grinned to hear his master speak like that. Master Joel Lytell always made a loud noise to let his customers feel that he was jumping to satisfy their every whim, and today was no different. When a customer appeared, Joel bawled at his apprentices without pause, determined to create the right impression.

Picking up the heavy demonstration frame, Vincent carried it out from the workshop into the main hall at the front of the building. There he found his master talking to a shortish figure, well-padded, with bright blue eyes and an easy, smiling appearance. Vincent had seen him before about the city. He was a physician known as Ralph of Malmesbury.

Vincent took the frame over to the two men, and set it on the tall bench which had been made to display this and other works for clients. Standing back, he watched as Joel led the man to the frame, pointing to the strengthening points, pulling at the joints to demonstrate how firm they were, and how sturdy the entire saddle would be.

‘I’m known as the best joiner in the city,’ Joel finished with pride.

‘Really? And I’m the King’s physician,’ Ralph said disdainfully.

‘I am! I build the frames for Master Henry, and no one can buy better than his saddles, master,’ Joel said with a hurt tone.

‘Ha ha! And you think that might be a recommendation? I’ve only just treated the last of his clients.’

Joel’s smile grew a little fixed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Udo the German’s saddle broke when he was testing it the first time, and he was thrown onto the cobbles. A terrible dislocation. Very unpleasant. So don’t tell me that selling your frames to Henry is any sort of endorsement! Christ’s Bones, maybe I oughtn’t to be here after all. I’d heard your equipment was better than that.’

‘Ah well, Master, I can assure you that my frames are the best in the city, and if one of Master Henry’s broke, no doubt he bought it in as a cheaper piece of work from someone else for a poorer quality saddle,’ Joel said smoothly. ‘Perhaps this Master Udo didn’t want to pay full price for one of Henry’s top quality saddles.’

‘I wonder. I’d want to know that the workmanship on this would be as good as it could be,’ the man said.

‘I would have my best man build it,’ Joel said.

Vincent preened himself. He knew he was the best joiner in the shop out of all the apprentices — probably better than Joel himself.

‘Hopefully not that little runt, then,’ Ralph said, peering at Vincent with a look of contempt on his face. ‘He doesn’t look like he could put a simple stool together!’

When Henry was young, he’d never have thought that the crime could affect him so much so late in life. Here he was, damn it, almost in his grave, and he’d hardly ever given a moment’s thought to the night when he’d trailed across the city with the others, huddled close to the Chapel of St Simon and St Jude, waiting until that terrible moment when a crack of light appeared in the door to the Cathedral and the men poured out.

And now that moment had returned to haunt him, for he knew that his life couldn’t last much longer, and when he went to God, he wanted no risk of rejection just because he had once aided one man against another. By St Peter’s beard, this was a mess!

‘Is it the German? Is that why you’re worried?’

He could hear the concern in her voice, but he had no power to ease it. Udo Germeyne’s threat was a real one: Germeyne could certainly cause havoc with their finances. The man had every right, too, Henry thought, scowling at the mazer. ‘That bastard! He thought he could pull the wool over my eyes, did he?’ he snarled.

‘I don’t think Master Udo tried anything of the sort, Husband,’ Mabilla said soothingly. ‘You’ve been drinking too much.’

‘Not him, woman! That ox’s arse Joel. He fobs me off with ballocksed frames, and when a customer comes and takes a tumble, he leaves me in the shit.’

‘I am sure Joel didn’t mean anything of the sort. Have you told him about the fall?’

‘Not yet. Haven’t had a chance.’ Henry belched, reaching for the jug and topping up his mazer.

‘Then tomorrow, when you are sober, go and speak to him. Joel has been one of your oldest friends, hasn’t he? Talk to him and see what he has to say. I am sure he’d not want you to be unhappy. He’s supplied you for donkey’s years.’

‘He won’t any more,’ Henry declared stoutly. He stood and lifted his mazer, declaiming, ‘Here I state that I’ll go to any other damned joiner in the city rather than him!’

‘Oh!’ his wife exclaimed. ‘If you’re in that sort of a mood, I’ll have done with you. Let me know when you’re sober again, and I’ll speak to you then.’

He watched as she raised her hands and dropped them again in despair, then she flounced heavily from the room, her gorgeous crimson skirts flaring.

The sight was enough to bring a smile to his face. His Mabilla still loved him, and she was a woman any man could love in return. She looked barely forty — five-and-forty at most. Still had that soft, pale flesh that a man associates with a much younger woman. There was none of the harshness of old age on her, nor the pain or lines of fear. No, she was a delicious woman still. God, but he was lucky to have her. They’d married more or less despite her parents, who weren’t sure that this young saddler, who so recently had been an apprentice, was going to be a powerful enough figure to protect their daughter, but he’d shown them! Yeah, he’d shown them.

First he had saved his money carefully, rarely getting into the normal occupations of apprentices and vomiting or pissing his money away on wine and ale. No, Henry had a plan even then. He wanted to be a wealthy fellow in his own right, and everything he did was aimed at that one target. He made saddles from the finest materials and presented the very best workmanship to those who could afford it. While others spent their days knocking together cheap stuff to make workaday equipment that a modest fellow could afford, Henry concentrated on buying in the most elegant decorative pieces, beautiful ironwork from the best smiths, enamels from old Jack in the High Street, silken threads and soft padding. His saddles gained a reputation for being the most comfortable, distinctive examples of his craft; works of loveliness as well as function. His reputation had grown as had his purse, and soon everyone who had a pair of pennies to rub together wanted one of his saddles.

And now all that was at risk because of bloody Joel Lytell.

Stephen, Treasurer of the Cathedral, stood staring at the body with a feeling of revulsion. The victim had been so cruelly disfigured by the lump of stone, it was hard to see that the upper part of the torso had once belonged to a man.

‘The mason should not have died,’ Stephen said. He had been down here at a trestle table, arguing with a lead dealer when the screams and shouts had disturbed him. Men must die in a project like this, of course. Men would always die in the cause of great tasks, and there was nothing greater than the construction of God’s Own House. It was crucial that this wonderful Cathedral be built as quickly as possible to God’s praise. Yet it was sad to see a man like this mason die unshriven. Perhaps he would receive special recognition in heaven for his works down here on earth. It was sincerely to be hoped. Stephen would pray for him.

And poor Matt. He had already suffered enough in his time. That was why Stephen looked after him, because Matthew was deserving of honour for his role in that fight so many years ago. His integrity was proved at the same time as Stephen’s own was destroyed. He supported and helped Matt because he hoped that it would reflect well on him.

But for now the vital thing was to clear up this mess and get the builders back to their work. The Cathedral mustn’t be delayed, not even for death.

Joel Lytell showed his client out through his front door with a respectful bow before shutting it quietly and breathing, ‘What a little shit!’

‘He was a right smarmy churl,’ Vincent agreed.

‘I didn’t ask your opinion,’ Joel snapped. ‘Take that frame back out to the workshop, and don’t be cheeky about your betters, boy.’

Vincent said nothing. It was rare for his master to be in a bad mood, but Vincent felt sure that this was the beginning of one. He had no wish to be in the vicinity when Joel was angry. Since he had been apprenticed here, Joel and Maud had been like Vince’s father and mother. Especially since his own mother had died some years ago. She had been on her way home from the Cathedral, where she had been helping to brew ale for the canons and their servants, when a clerk racing a companion on horses rode by at the gallop and knocked her down. Two hooves struck her, and she was dead almost before the clerk could ride back to her. Vince had hardly known her, which was why he loved Maud and respected Joel.

Now he ran to the table, took up the frame and hefted it out to the workshop, past the pile of fresh, green wood that had been delivered a few weeks ago. It was too young to use yet. Put to use on a saddle frame or decent piece of work, and it would twist and crack, ruining the workmanship. Only well-cured wood could be used for frames. Of course, much of the older wood had been used up now, and the possibility of finding more that had been dried out and kept under cover for long enough was a problem. Recently, even Joel had …

No. That was daft. Vincent set the frame on the table at the back of the workshop, and moved away to gaze about the room. The light was beginning to fail now; the sun had slipped beneath the roofs of Joel’s house and the houses opposite on the High Street. At this time of year, Vince had to work much of the time in the comparative dark. That was why they had a large bill for candles during autumn and winter. Still, it wasn’t dark enough yet to light a candle, so Vince set to with his adze, trimming wood ready to be jointed to make a table-top.

It wasn’t a bad life here. Vincent was a keen worker, and was proud of the results of his efforts. His stools and chairs were highly regarded.

He only had another two years of his apprenticeship to run. After that he could leave and establish his own business, where he could build his own saddle frames, and then join forces with a saddler to finish the work and sell it on. There weren’t enough saddlers in the city to cope with demand. Sure, there were some like Henry who could sell the really expensive ones, and there were quite a few who could sell cheap ones which would almost cut a man in half over a long journey, but there was a need for strongly constructed saddles which weren’t as grossly over-priced as Henry’s. And Vince reckoned he could make them.

His plan was similar to Joel and Henry’s arrangement. Vince’s father was a tanner, and he had a friend who would take the tanned hide and work it into useable leather. Then there was another apprentice, Jack, who worked with one of the cheaper saddlers up near the East Gate. With all of them working in conjunction, they could make saddles that would be ideal for the merchants of Exeter …

‘Vince? What the hell are you doing in there? Get a move on!’

Joel was really in a foul mood. Vince left his daydream behind and began working again, making the chips fly. Yes, one day he would be a known face in Exeter. He’d be a man with money.