The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Twenty

Thomas came to with his head feeling as if someone had dropped a mallet on it from the top of his own scaffolding. As soon as he had opened his eyes he had to snap them shut. The light was too bright.

Where the devil was he? Then he realised: he was still in Sara’s house. He was sitting with his back up against one of the two posts in the middle of the floor. The light came from a small tallow candle that smoked repellently over his left shoulder. His legs seemed to have gone to sleep, and he knew that he must move them. He had to get up and run from this place. Whoever had hit him could return at any time.

He tried to lift a hand to shield his face from the deadly beam of the candle, but his hand was stuck behind him. When he jerked his wrist, he felt the pain simultaneously in his palm as well as the wrist, and it was so sharp, it was like pulling against a razor. Giving a cry of pain, he started to topple to one side. To break his fall, he threw his other hand out, only to find that that too was securely bound. Cursing and sobbing, he slid to the side, his arms slowing his painful descent, until his head struck the packed earth of the floor, and he could lie there with the pain throbbing in both wrists, his heart pounding with fear and a feeling of sickness.

‘You wait there,’ came a harsh and unsympathetic voice. ‘You try and rob a poor widow, you deserve all you get.’

‘I haven’t tried to rob anyone,’ he protested, squirming to see who was talking. Peering over his shoulder, he saw that it was the woman, Jen, who had taken his wine on that first day when he brought news of Saul’s death. ‘Woman, why have you done this? I’ve never robbed anyone in my life!’

‘You robbed this family of their father and husband. I’d say that was robbery,’ she said equably. ‘’Tis a shame, too. You bought good wine,’ she added, smacking her lips.

‘Can I have a drink of something? My throat is parched.’

‘Be glad you’ve got one. The boy would have cut it as soon as look at you. You’re lucky I saved you and only sent him for the crowner.’

‘The crowner?’ he repeated dully. If the Coroner was on his way, there was little point in struggling. He was dead already — just like his father. He too would die on the scaffold and be displayed at the Southern Gate. Not for his own crimes, but like his father, for those of other men. ‘Come on, maid, it can’t hurt anyone to let me have a mouthful of water, can it? I’m dying of thirst here.’

‘Then you shouldn’t have come here to take her money, should you?’

‘I didn’t! I left her my money to try to help her!’

‘I found you in here and clobbered your head with a stick, so don’t lie to me,’ she snapped.

‘I’d taken the pennies from my purse to give to her,’ he said with resignation, knowing she wouldn’t believe him. ‘I felt guilty about her man’s death, and I wanted to give her something to help her get by. I was going to leave the city and find somewhere else to work.’

‘They fired you, then?’ she cackled. ‘Not surprised, if all you can do is kill off their other workers.’

‘I …’

Thomas was quiet as a shadow slipped in through the door. In sudden fear he recognised the quick movements of Sara’s son, Dan. He couldn’t see the boy because the door was behind him, but the shadow was terrifying, the boy’s shape deformed and sly as it moved about the room until Thomas could see him. He saw the hatred in the lad’s eyes: the fellow would draw his little pocket-knife at the first opportunity.

‘Well, Master Thomas, I think you would have been better served to have waited for us at the Cathedral, rather than trying this frankly unorthodox approach to gaining our attention.’

‘Is that the Keeper?’ Thomas demanded. He was scared still, but less so by the looming shadow that now appeared in front of him.

‘Lad, cut those thongs,’ Baldwin ordered, walking around in front of the man and squatting. ‘Now, Thomas, you are held under my authority and we are going to take you back to the Cathedral to the Bishop’s gaol. When we are there, we are going to ask you some questions, and this time I want the truth from you!’

Thomas let his head hang. ‘I will tell you everything.’

Matthew was surprised to be called to the Treasurer’s hall so late in the afternoon, and he hurried there as soon as the summons came. As the Warden of the Fabric Rolls, he was largely responsible for the new Cathedral as it was building, and if the Treasurer had found a problem with his calculations or book-keeping, he wanted to know about it as soon as possible. It was the one thing about his job that constantly preyed on his mind, this fear that one day there would be a false calculation found in his work.

It wasn’t very likely, of course. Most men, whether clerks or not, found it difficult to add and subtract the figures which had been passed down from antiquity by the Romans along with their venerable script for reading and writing. No man could argue that the Romans were not the most marvellous race of men so far created by God. They had built wonderful buildings, invented waterways and roads, and left a legacy of learning which was superior to any other civilisation.

‘You called for me?’

The Treasurer’s house was one of the smaller ones on the canons’ street. It fronted the Exchequer, and suited the modest requirements of the man who was, after all, one of the most powerful men in the Cathedral.

‘Yes, Matthew.’

He was looking old today, Matthew thought. Old and tired, like an apple left on the ground too long — not quite rotten to the core, but very close to it. He suddenly wondered whether the Treasurer would survive much longer. If he were to die, whom would the Dean select as his replacement from the members of the Choir? Surely it would be the man most attuned to the numbers which ruled the life of the Treasurer — the man who could understand the rolls and make the best of the money the Cathedral had allocated for this rebuilding. He suddenly felt a little light-headed.

‘This old affair of the murder of Chaunter Walter is springing up once more. It is regrettable, but there is little we can do to cover it all up if it comes into the open. I wanted to warn you, Matthew. I know that the whole thing must be deeply distressing for you, but there is nothing I or the Dean can do to stop it, I fear. The dead saddler was certainly involved in the attack, and of course the friar was there.’

‘Yes, I remember. Poor Nicholas. I was at his side when he won that terrible wound,’ Matthew said incomprehendingly. ‘But I don’t …’

‘Of course,’ Stephen said. ‘I wasn’t in the Cathedral that night, but when I returned, you were still in a fever, and Nicholas was at death’s door.’

Matthew nodded. It was odd how many men had apparently been out of Exeter that night. The Vicar of Ottery St Mary, for example, had been out of the Close; so had the Vicar of Heavitree. Both were later found guilty of being there at the murder, of course, and they’d paid heavily for their crime in the Bishop’s gaol.

Still, he told himself, there was no point raking up old suspicions. No one really wanted to go into the matter again.

‘If it were possible to ask these two men to hold their investigation, I should do so,’ Stephen said quietly, gazing up at the cross that hung on his wall above the screens passage.

Matthew found his manner disquieting, but then he told himself again that it must surely be Stephen’s great age. The man was exhausted, but he must carry on until he collapsed. That was the sort of man he was.

And then a more unnerving idea came to him: perhaps the Treasurer had been one of the men attacking — it might even have been him who knocked Matthew down on the night he so nearly died. A man who had done that would later make amends in any way he might. He could take a novice into his own department and see to it that he was well and carefully trained and nurtured, so that he would himself become indispensable.

Matthew found himself studying his mentor with a feeling of prickly nervousness running up his spine. This man, the one who had given him the better posts, who had looked after him in forty years of life at the Cathedral, had once been there trying to kill him just because … Why?

‘Stephen,’ he said quietly. ‘Was it you struck me down?’

The Treasurer was still staring at the cross. He blinked then, as though the cross had itself stung him. There was a slight moisture at the corner of his eye, Matthew saw, and he felt the shock thrill through him before Stephen had even answered.

‘The Chaunter was divisive,’ Stephen said. ‘He was a malign influence on the Cathedral — my God, anyone could see that!’ His eyes were on the cross again, as though pleading his sincerity. Gradually his eyes fell, and he turned his attention back to Matthew. ‘But I swear to you, Matthew, I never wanted to see you or anyone else harmed! Only him! He was evil, a man who would divert us all from our tasks and drive a wedge between the Bishop and his Chapter. Who could want to leave him in power when his entire efforts were dedicated to ruining us all? Any man who had a relationship, no matter how tenuous, with the Dean and Treasurer, was detested by de Lecchelade, and belittled and demeaned. No one who held the good reputation and honour of the Cathedral in his heart could tolerate his behaviour.’

‘He was the Treasurer, wasn’t he?’

‘Dean Pycot? Yes. And perhaps he should have given that up earlier, but it’s a man’s nature to keep to the job he knows and with which he feels most comfortable. Dean John was like you, Matthew. He was excellent when it came to numbers; they held no secrets for him. It was possible for him to run a finger down a roll and when he reached the bottom, he could tell you the total. As fast as this,’ he demonstrated, running a forefinger down a column. ‘I could never emulate that, so I never thought I should take over from him.’

‘He was your master?’

‘I lived with him. I was Clerk to the Works at the time, and when Dean Pycot was made Dean I couldn’t take over. I was too young, Matthew. Far too inexperienced.’

‘It has been said that the Dean siphoned away a great deal of money.’

‘Such accusations are easy to level against another man,’ the Treasurer said dismissively. ‘It is a great deal harder to prove that you are innocent.’

‘So you took his part during that attack?’

‘I swear I didn’t hurt you, Matthew,’ Stephen said. He looked at Matthew again with real fear in his eyes. ‘I have wanted to tell you so many times in the last four decades, but there has never seemed to be the right moment. At first you were so badly beaten, it seemed ridiculous to add to your trials by saying I was myself one of those who might have hurt you; then when you were healed, it seemed foolish to risk my own position; more recently, it seemed madness to try to bring up long-dead history again.’

‘But now?’

‘The Dean has asked me who was here then. Who still lives at the Cathedral who was here forty years ago.’

Matthew understood. ‘So you must tell him of my part. And that you too were here.’

‘Yes,’ Stephen said, and looked away with shame flooding his eyes. His voice was soft. ‘I would have your forgiveness, if you feel you could be so generous towards me.’

He looked pathetic. Matthew was repelled by his tears and weakness. ‘I forgive you,’ he said, ‘provided you were not the man who actually beat me and left me for dead. If it were not you, who was responsible for my injuries?’

‘It was dark, Matthew. I think we’ll never know. I was myself running to attack de Lecchelade, but I know I didn’t hit you.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Matthew demanded hotly. ‘If it was so dark and you were so lost as to not know what was going on, how can you tell?’

‘You were knocked senseless, were you not? I did not hold a club, Matthew. I had only a sword.’

Simon hauled Thomas to his feet. He stood like a man who has lost all his will to resist further, his head hanging, his expression utterly devoid of hope. There was only a grim fatalism in his eyes.

Simon had captured many people in his time. Some felons would wail and tear at their bonds, others would show no remorse, only a determination to escape any possibility of retribution. Seeing a man so hangdog was not unusual; it was a common attitude of one who had committed a crime in a flash of rage, only to regret his own behaviour later, especially when he was caught.

‘Get a move on!’ Simon growled, and the man stumbled slightly as he walked forward, his legs moving loosely and in a gangling manner, like one who was drunk or befuddled.

Baldwin was already outside, and Simon manoeuvred Thomas to the door just as Sara appeared in the lane.

‘Thomas?’ she said, glancing at him and then looking from Baldwin to Simon. ‘Who are you?’

Baldwin introduced himself and Simon, and then nodded towards Thomas. ‘This man was in your house to steal your money.’

‘What money?’ she asked with an expression of surprise. ‘I don’t have any.’

‘There were some coins on your table,’ Baldwin said. He beckoned to Jen. ‘You have the coins?’

‘Here they are,’ Jen said, heaving her bulk through the door and holding her hand out to Sara. ‘Look, this is what he was trying to take.’

‘These aren’t mine,’ Sara said. ‘I don’t have more than two pennies, and they’re here,’ she added, hefting her purse in her hand. ‘I wouldn’t leave money in my house.’

‘Then where did the pennies come from?’ Simon demanded.

‘I tried to explain,’ Thomas said wearily. ‘I put them there for Sara. When I decided to leave the city, I wanted to give Sara something to help her get by. I left her all the whole coins in my purse. That woman saw me enter and chose to assume the worst of me. When I was putting the coins down, she hit me.’

‘And where did you come by all these coins?’ Simon asked.

‘They are the money I’ve been paid for my work. Since I’ve taken away Sara’s husband, I thought the least I could do was try to help her.’

‘It was kind of you,’ Sara said. ‘You didn’t have to.’

‘He’s a murderer!’ Dan said to Baldwin. ‘Take him away from here, we don’t want him or his money! You keep it, murderer!’ he spat.

‘Leave him, Danny,’ his mother said quietly. She was exhausted, and although she had tried to seek work, she had failed through the day. All she wanted was a chance to fall onto her bed and sleep. ‘Thomas was trying to help us. Sirs, he can’t have been robbing us, so can’t you let him loose? I won’t accuse him of anything.’

‘Mistress, we can’t,’ Simon said. ‘He was involved in a murder many years ago, and he may well be the killer of two more men who have died recently. Until he’s been questioned, we can’t let him go.’

‘If he was a murderer, he’d not have been so kind to me and Danny,’ she declared.

Baldwin set his mouth in a firm line. ‘I am sorry, but we do not know that. He must come and be questioned.’

‘Sara, forget me. I hope the money will help you. Just be happy and find someone else to protect you,’ Thomas said quietly. ‘Take me away, please.’

Simon had him by the shoulder, and he directed the man away from the rough home, along the lane and then down the sloping road towards Fore Street. He glanced over his shoulder once, and saw the widow still standing in front of her doorway, her hands on her son’s shoulders, gazing after the three men.

They soon reached the Cathedral, and Baldwin walked straight in through the gate.

‘You made good time, Sir Knight,’ Janekyn called. ‘I’ll be closing this gate soon. What have you there?’

‘This fellow was trying to run from the city,’ Baldwin said. ‘The Coroner will want to see him in the morning, so we need to have him securely held in the Bishop’s gaol. Who can open it for us?’

Janekyn eyed Thomas with some interest, and then led them to the part of the Cathedral where the gaol was, asking them to wait while he sent a novice to look after the gate for him, and then he disappeared to find the gaoler.

‘I didn’t do it, masters,’ Thomas said.

‘What?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I didn’t kill the Chaunter, and I haven’t killed anyone else. Henry was an old friend. I could never hurt him. And Nicholas … I gave him his wounds all those years ago, and I spoke to him to beg forgiveness. He did forgive me.’

‘He forgave you those dreadful scars?’ Simon said disbelievingly. ‘And then what? He bought you a barrel of fresh ale?’

‘No, only a quart of cider,’ Thomas said.

‘When?’

‘The very night he died,’ Thomas shrugged. ‘He forgave me and we went to the tavern on the right as you go up beyond Fissand Gate towards the High Street. We were there for some little while.’

‘Was there anyone there who could vouch for you?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I don’t know. There must have been people there who’d recognise a description of the friar, though. They may have noticed me too.’

‘We will check,’ Simon promised. ‘But for now, you’ll have to remain here. The Coroner will want to speak to you in the morning.’

‘He’ll see me hanged.’

Simon was struck by his attitude. ‘He may agree you’re innocent. How could you be so sure that he’ll want to have you hanged?’

‘I cannot hide my guilt, Master. I was there on the night the Chaunter was killed, as I said, and I fled the city afterwards. I felt guilty and ashamed of my crime. And then, later, I heard that the South Gate had been left wide open, and those responsible hanged. Well, it wasn’t fair or just, but it was a judgement of a sort. It was my father who was hanged. He died in my place.’

Simon gave a grunt of sympathy. ‘I see.’

‘I never thought to return here, not after hearing that. Especially now, though. I have learned who actually had my father killed. It was that devil, William. He told the King about the gate being left open and accused the city of complicity so he could worm his way into the King’s favour. It was because of him my father was hanged.’

‘Is that William the corrodian?’

‘Yes. I was with him and Henry on the night of the killing, and I wish I’d taken the opportunity to kill him. If I had, I’d not be here now.’

Baldwin and Simon led him towards the cells as the gaoler and Janekyn returned. They passed him over, and Thomas walked with them. As Baldwin and Simon stood waiting, they heard the rattle of keys, then the slam of a heavy door being closed.

‘So that is that,’ Simon breathed.

‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. Then he sighed. ‘Ach! Let us return to our inn and take our rest. We have little more to do tonight, and we don’t have to do anything in the morning. There’s no need to worry about haring off after Thomas now. Come, let me buy you some wine.’

‘That sounds good,’ Simon smiled.

They were outside the Charnel Chapel when Baldwin stopped and stared at it. ‘Evil is not a word I use often, Simon, but I have been aware of a feeling about that building ever since I first saw it. It was built as a reparation for the murder of the Chaunter, but it brought nothing for the Dean who constructed it. Now it stores the bones of the dead, and yet bears an atmosphere of pain and fear. Do you know, old friend, I fear it myself.’

‘And you used to accuse me of being superstitious!’ Simon laughed aloud.

They walked past the chapel, up towards the flickering light of the torch in the arch of the Fissand Gate. And it was there that he heard it.

It was a soft, whirring sound, a little like a bird’s wingbeat. For an instant, Simon wondered what it might be, and then he opened his mouth to shout while he threw himself to the ground. ‘Christ Jesus!’

Luckily Baldwin had heard it too, Simon saw. He lay full length beside Simon, and the Bailiff frowned as he gazed about the place. There was no sign of the arrow. Now, lying on the ground, he wasn’t even sure which direction it had come from. ‘Did you see the man?’ he asked softly. He might still be there, preparing to fire again. ‘Baldwin? We ought to get away from here, find some cover.’

‘Simon … Simon, help!’ Baldwin’s voice sounded strong enough, but there was a strange quality to it, as though he was a long way away and calling to Simon on a foggy day.

When he looked at his friend, Simon frowned. His mind didn’t register at first. All he could see was the knight’s suddenly pale face, the eyes grown huge, and then Simon saw the apparently frail stick, the fletchings quivering gently with the wounded man’s every rasping breath, and he had to bite back his scream. ‘Baldwin, hold on! It’ll be all right, Baldwin — just hold on!’

Simon leaped to his feet and ran to him. Baldwin gave him a twisted grin as Simon knelt by his side, staring about them for a sign of the assassin, but there was nothing, no movement, no scurrying shadow-figure. All was still as he leaned down to Baldwin; he felt the skin crawling on his back, as though his very flesh was anticipating the next arrow to strike, but then he was studying his friend, and had no time to worry about his own safety.

The arrow had entered his back high, not far from his spine, and now protruded from his breast about three inches below his collar-bone. Baldwin’s sword arm was all but immobilised, and Simon reckoned that his shoulder-blade was pinned by it. Still, as he helped his friend haltingly to his feet and pulled Baldwin’s left arm over his shoulder, he was glad to see that there was no bright blood dribbling from his mouth. The lungs must be safe, and so high as it was, Simon was sure that Baldwin’s heart was safe. He whispered encouragingly as he helped his old friend towards the nearest shelter, which was Janekyn’s lodge at the gate.

‘Janekyn? Jan! Come here now! Help me!’ he bellowed as he approached the door. Baldwin was whispering urgently in his ear, but he ignored his friend’s words. ‘You’ll soon be all right, Baldwin. You’ll be fine.’

It opened as he reached the light of the torch still flickering under the arch, and then Janekyn, his face filled with alarm, helped Simon carry Baldwin through the door to a stool near the brazier. There they sat the wounded knight, panting, and Simon could see at last the wicked arrow-head. It was a modern ‘pricker’, a square-sectioned bodkin of some four inches long, designed to penetrate chainmail armour. The sight of it made Simon’s heart stand still, but then he was ordering Janekyn to wrap his friend in a blanket and keep him warm, while he bolted for the Dean’s house.

All the way, all he could hear was his friend’s rasping breath, and those words spoken in his quiet, self-possessed manner.

‘My wife. Tell her … Tell her I loved her. I still … love her.’