The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Twenty-One

That night was the longest Simon had ever spent. The Dean gaped, and then ordered that his steward should rouse the Mayor’s household to ask who the best physician was in the city, and then bring him at once. Soon Ralph of Malmesbury was with them in Janekyn’s little room, and he at once set about his work.

While the physician studied Baldwin’s breast, Simon stood at his friend’s side. There was no great effusion of blood, which gave Simon some hope, but he knew that the danger which threatened Baldwin would only become clear when the arrow was removed and the wound could be studied more closely. Ralph opened a small vein to release some of Baldwin’s bad humours, and then started to work on the arrow itself. Baldwin maintained a steadfast patience, only showing his temper when the physician stood on his foot. ‘Do you not think I have enough damage done to me?’ he said weakly.

‘I am at least experienced in this kind of wound,’ the physician said. ‘Stop your bellyaching. Most surgeon barbers would pull the arrow through one way or the other. At least there are no barbs on this bastard, eh? If there were, a barber would bend them back and try to yank it through you again. Me, I think that’s daft. What’s the point?’ He took a pair of strong-bladed shears and rested them upon the arrow’s shaft. ‘Better to cut the arrowhead off like this. Are you strong?’

Baldwin gave a pale smile. ‘As strong as I can be.’

‘This may hurt,’ Ralph said, and he threw a look to Simon. Understanding, Simon put his arms on Baldwin’s shoulders and held him still as Ralph began to cut through the shaft, turning the arrow as he did so. ‘This will be uncomfortable, but by moving the arrow itself, I free it up ready to be withdrawn,’ he said. The process was slow, the shaft solid and difficult to cut. The grain was strong. Still, after some minutes, the shears were biting through the outer surface, and then sinking deeper and deeper. Although Baldwin grimaced, closing his eyes and grunting, he didn’t cry out. Simon could feel his muscles tense, but then he slowly relaxed, as if he was growing accustomed to this peculiar pain.

‘All done!’ Ralph declared suddenly.

He was about to throw the arrowhead onto the floor, when Simon said, ‘Put it on the table there. I shall want to look at it.’

Ralph glanced at him in surprise, looked at the bodkin in his hands, and shrugged. As though humouring the vill’s idiot, he placed it carefully on the table before turning back to the arrow shaft. He cleaned its length with a mixture that he produced from a small bottle, smearing it over the shaft with a finger that grew crimson from Baldwin’s blood, stoppered the bottle and rose. ‘I need to stand behind him.’

Simon stood before Baldwin, and the physician rotated the shaft in his hand gently. ‘This will hurt, I fear, but try to keep him still.’

Feeling the nausea in his throat, Simon took Baldwin’s shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. Baldwin was in great pain, that much was obvious from his wan features. Simon had never seen him look so colourless, and if that weren’t enough, the sight of Baldwin’s white knuckles on the stool’s seat was proof. Baldwin reached up as Simon took his shoulders, and put both his hands on Simon’s forearms, gripping them tightly.

Ralph was watching almost absently as he turned the shaft slowly, and then he began to pull it out as though it was screwed, constantly turning it, while his gaze remained unfocused on a point over Simon’s shoulder. Simon saw the cut-off end slip backwards until there was only an inch or so protruding from about three inches beneath Baldwin’s collarbone, and then it was gone. The dreamy-eyed Ralph remained there for a few more moments, slowly rotating the shaft, his fingers slick with blood, until the remaining section came free, and he glanced down at his hands with apparent surprise. ‘Ah! All done.’

Simon felt Baldwin’s hands lose their fierce grip, and then the wounded man sank into a merciful faint.

Baldwin was installed in Janekyn’s bed, while the porter was removed to a room nearby to sleep on a bench. The Dean, who had come to see how things were going, tried to conceal a yawn.

‘My dear Bailiff, do — ah — forgive me. You must be a great deal more tired than I am,’ he said. ‘I shall order that another bed be brought in here for you.’

‘No, thank you,’ Simon said. He was turning the bodkin over and over in his hands, frowning. Some blood still adhered to it, and his hands were growing stained, but he didn’t care. ‘If I sleep, the attacker may come back for another attempt.’

‘You don’t think that this was launched by a member of the community here?’ the Dean asked.

‘I don’t know, but it’s certainly possible, and I won’t risk his life,’ Simon said. ‘The assassin could have been a foreigner who fled by the Bear Gate or the Palace Gate, but he may equally well be hiding here in the Cathedral’s Close somewhere, and I won’t take any chances that he won’t try to murder Baldwin in his bed.’

‘I see.’

‘I was wondering where the arrow could have been launched from,’ Simon said. He walked to the door. From there he could see where he and Baldwin had hurled themselves to the ground. Behind them at that moment had been the Charnel Chapel, with the black mass of the Cathedral beyond. ‘It must have been either from the chapel or the Cathedral itself.’

He stared out. From here, the chapel blocked the whole of the Cathedral’s front. When they had been out in the Close, a bowman on the Cathedral’s walls would surely not have been able to see them — which meant the shot must have come from the chapel.

Simon was in two minds. He wanted to go to the chapel at once to test whether his theory was correct and the assassin had fired from there, but he knew that he would be better served to wait until daylight. Also, he feared leaving Baldwin in case he should need Simon — either because he had suffered a collapse, or because a killer tried again to dispatch him.

‘Dean, I shall remain here all night to protect Baldwin. Could you arrange for a pair of men whom you trust to come and help me? Not so slipshod as the three told to keep an eye on Thomas, either. I shall also want to send a messenger as soon as possible to Baldwin’s wife, to let her know about this attack.’

‘Naturally,’ the Dean said. He glanced back at Baldwin’s figure. ‘Bailiff, I cannot tell you how sorry I am, that this dreadful attack should have happened within my Close.’

‘Dean, I am sure that Baldwin wouldn’t blame you for one rogue, and I won’t either.’

‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘I should like a large flask of wine, and first thing in the morning, please arrange for Thomas to be brought to me from the cells.’

‘Are you sure he is safe?’

‘I think the idea that there could be two murderers running about the Close is far-fetched,’ Simon said. ‘Someone tried to kill Baldwin after Thomas was installed in the gaol, and that means it’s unlikely he is the guilty party. Yes, I am happy to vouch for his safety.’

But who, he wondered as he again stared about him at the darkened Close, who will vouch for mine?

The night was a long and uncomfortable one for Simon. The Dean had been as good as his word, and sent two lay members of the Cathedral staff to stand at Baldwin’s side; they were strong-looking young men, both armed with swords and knives, one with a club as well, and they exuded a general attitude of competence.

‘You get some sleep, Bailiff. I can watch over him for you,’ said one, whose name apparently was David.

Simon took a seat on a stool, but wouldn’t sleep. He kept an eye on Baldwin, but most of the time he spent staring towards the doorway, wondering whether there would be another attack or not. It was hard to see how someone could hope to get past three men to kill Baldwin, but that was the least of his worries. What Simon wanted to know was, why should someone have decided to attack him in the first place? Was it because by some accident, Simon and Baldwin had come close to the truth of the matter?

And yet the bowman had only aimed at one of them — he had not fired a second arrow at Simon. Why not? Was it something Baldwin had learned which implicated the murderer, or was it simply that Baldwin’s behaviour had upset the guilty man? Simon felt the possibilities flying about in his head all through the night, but when the first light started to brighten the cracks in the shutters at the windows, he was no nearer an answer.

But the answer itself could be damned. Just now Simon was aware of nothing but an overwhelming anger: he would find the would-be assassin, and make him pay. Simon vowed there and then to destroy the man who had made an attempt on Baldwin’s life.

He looked at his old friend. The knight lay breathing stertorously, a deathly pallor on his gaunt cheeks. Simon prayed that the wound healed cleanly, and did not become infected. The next few hours were crucial …

As the night wore on, Simon found his mind wandering. He recalled how he had first met Baldwin in the torchlit hall at Bickleigh Castle, how Baldwin’s face had shown such grim despair, and how over the last seven years that weary grief had eroded under the happy influence of his wife, the former Jeanne de Liddinstone. Recently he had seen how Baldwin’s problems with Jeanne had caused him a renewed pain, and Simon was scared just now that Baldwin might not last the night and see her again. It made him grip Baldwin’s hand and wring it, trying to force his friend to hold on, if only for as long as it would take Jeanne to arrive.

No messenger could leave until the city opened its gates, which would mean that she wouldn’t know of this misfortune until the middle of the morning at the earliest. If she were to mount her own horse, she might, just possibly, be at Exeter at noon, but a little after that was more likely.

Simon could have marched to the gaol and demanded Thomas immediately. He could have started to learn all the mason knew, but to do so he would have to leave Baldwin with strangers to guard him, and that was not going to happen. Far better that he should wait until dawn. In daylight he would feel safer. All the murders so far had happened in the dark; during the day there were always too many people wandering about the Cathedral and in the Close for someone to be able to commit a crime of that nature with any hope of escape.

At full light, a man knocked at the door. It was the messenger who was to go to Jeanne, and Simon thought quickly. ‘Just tell her that Baldwin has been injured, that he is not dead, but sorely wounded, and that he loves her.’ He considered for a moment. A message like that would be sure to worry her … well, there was not much he could do about that. He didn’t want to worry her, but she needed to be aware that Baldwin was badly wounded. She should make the journey to Exeter to sit with him. Her presence would be a comfort to her husband. In the meantime, Simon wanted Baldwin’s last words to be taken to her as well. They might prove to be soothing.

Soon after the messenger had hurried outside and clambered aboard his horse, a fierce-looking beast with hooves the size of small barrel-bottoms, and hurtled off through Fissand Gate towards the West Gate of the city, Simon found himself confronted with a canon who carried a tray.

‘Bailiff. I was so sorry to hear of Sir Baldwin’s attack last night,’ Treasurer Stephen said. ‘I trust that a little food would help to support him? Please give him these dowcettes to improve his strength, and send him my best wishes.’

‘I thank you,’ Simon said, and set the tray on a table. Just now he was unsure whom to trust, and although the Treasurer was no doubt a safe, fair man, he wanted to ensure that no harm could come to Baldwin. That meant treating all food with caution, keeping others away from Baldwin, and making sure that he was safe at all times.

The Treasurer saw how Simon eyed the food. ‘It is good — do you want me to eat some of it in front of you?’ he asked.

There was a plaintive tone to his voice which made Simon give an apologetic shake of his head. ‘I must be cautious. Until the physician returns, I shall not be giving him anything.’

Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of Thomas in the custody of a young layman. Simon did not notice how Stephen shot a glance at Thomas and winced, before looking away again, his face slightly paler.

‘How are you?’ Simon growled.

‘As well as a condemned man could be,’ Thomas replied caustically as Simon pulled out his dagger and cut the thongs that bound his hands. He stood flexing his arms for a moment. ‘The Bishop’s gaol is not so comfortable as a mason’s shed, although I daresay it’s better than some other prisons. Could I ask for some water to wash my hands? My palms are very painful still.’

‘My companion was attacked last night and almost killed,’ Simon said, motioning to the guard to fetch him a bucket. ‘I will find out who was responsible, and to do that I need to know everything you can tell me about the murder of the Chaunter and what has happened since you returned here.’

‘I’ve already told you all I can about the Chaunter’s death. I know nothing more.’

‘I know of Henry, Joel and William. Who else was involved?’

‘There were many of us — but not all are alive now.’

‘Well, who is, then?’ Simon said harshly.

Thomas gave him a long, considering look. ‘Very well.’ He reeled off a series of names. ‘As you can see, they are all members of the city’s nobility. Those who were members of the Cathedral at the time have mostly gone.’

‘Which ones haven’t?’

‘There are only two, I think. Peter, the acting Prior of St Nicholas, and one other: the Treasurer here, Canon Stephen.’

Simon stared at the Treasurer accusingly; the latter nodded, his eyes closed. Setting his jaw, Simon jerked his chin at the mason. ‘There was one more, wasn’t there? Matthew recognised you.’

‘Yes, he was there, but he was one of the Chaunter’s men.’

‘That could mean that he wanted his revenge on those who’d had a part in the Chaunter’s death.’

‘I doubt it. He’s been living here all these years alongside Henry Potell and Joel Lytell. What would make him suddenly become so lethal that he would seek to murder Henry and then the friar?’

‘The same goes for Joel — and the Treasurer here,’ Simon said. ‘Was it the arrival of the friar or William that caused the murders to begin? Or your arrival, of course.’

‘Mine?’ Thomas said, startled. ‘I’ve been here a year, in God’s name. Why should someone wait so long before starting to kill?’

Simon nodded. His eyes were gritty, and his tongue felt as though it was made of felt. He needed a draught of good ale and some food. The guard was returned now with the bucket of water, and seeing how Thomas winced as he dunked his hands in the chill fluid, Simon made a quick decision. He said to the guard, ‘Fetch us a plain loaf of bread and a jug of wine. Thomas, you and I need food. As far as I can see, you could have had nothing to do with the attempt on my friend and that makes you more reliable than many here. I’d like you to come with me.’

‘You’ll have to ask the Dean first. I think he wants me in his gaol.’

‘The good Dean will do as I demand,’ Simon said flatly.

Thomas had his mouth open as the scabs began to ease. His hands smarted and stung, but Simon’s tone made him forget the pain. Looking at the Bailiff, Thomas was struck by the cold ferocity in his eyes.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said.

‘I am,’ Simon said, and then he turned to the Treasurer. His voice was harder now, like a judge preparing to command an execution. ‘And now I want your story.’

Joel woke with his face aching a little less than the day before, and he was relieved to find that his breast was not so painful. Breathing was easier, and his first impression as he was helped from his bed by a servant was that he was healing quickly.

That was a notion quickly dispelled as soon as he stood. He coughed painfully, and had to grab his servant’s arm to stop himself falling. Stifling the curses which threatened to burst forth, he tried to stay calm. Excitement caused the pain to increase, and he had no desire to enhance this in any way.

Dressed at last, he carefully went down his steps one at a time and then grabbed a staff to help himself down the passage to his hall.

Maud was already waiting for him at their table, and he forced a smile to his face at the sight of her, not sure how she would be after his gaffe of the day before. ‘Not going to church today?’

She eyed him seriously. ‘I have already been.’

He nodded, and hobbled across the floor to her, dropping into his seat with relief. ‘I thought you’d waited for me.’

She nodded to the servant, who stood hovering at the doorway, and he began to usher in the other servants and apprentices. ‘No, Husband. I felt the need to go and pray for you.’

‘Now you know I’m a murderer, you mean,’ he said bleakly.

Maud turned to eye him. ‘Don’t be even more of a fool than you already are, Joel. I married you for love, and I’d be unaccustomed to life without you after all these years. Foolish man, I love you still.’

He stared at her. Theirs was a marriage of easiness. They hadn’t been fortunate enough to have children, but neither had blamed the other for that. As the priests said, it was God’s choice whether a union would be blessed, and both had enough contentment in the company of the other for their mutual happiness. They only rarely expressed their love aloud. Somehow it seemed a little immature — and unnecessary. ‘Am I such a fool?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Yes. For you’ve managed to upset that madman William while achieving nothing for yourself.’

‘It’s not my fault he’s upset,’ Joel grumbled. ‘He assumed I must have launched an attack on him because of the way he treated me in the past. If I wasn’t so important as I am, he’d have cut my throat and left me in a ditch. As it is, he’s done enough, hasn’t he?’

‘Where is Vince?’ Maud asked, momentarily distracted.

Joel’s brows lifted and he glanced about the room. True enough, there was no sign of the fellow, and Joel felt annoyed. He disliked his apprentices behaving lazily; even if he himself were a little late for his meal, like this morning, there was no excuse for them to copy his example. Just when he was going to repeat the question, Vince walked in.

‘You are late!’ Joel called.

‘Master, my apologies. My father was unwell last night, and I had to stay with him to tend him,’ Vince said.

‘You weren’t with some whore from the Grapes, then?’

Vince held Joel’s gaze with a cold contempt. ‘I don’t know that place, Master Joel.’

Joel felt sure that in a moment Vince would ask him what it was like inside, and he waited with the rage growing inside him, only to feel a curious blend of relief and annoyance when Vince curled his lip and looked away, striding off to wash his hands in the ewer.

‘What was all that about?’ Maud asked.

‘I don’t know. The boy’s unhappy about something, though.’

‘I shall speak to him, then,’ she responded. An apprentice was much like a son, after all. If one of their fellows was unhappy or in trouble, the Master was responsible. She could ask more gently than Joel — especially today, she thought to herself, taking in her husband’s wince and stifled gasp of pain as he shifted in his seat.

‘Come along, then!’ Simon ordered.

Stephen hunched his shoulders. He had refused to discuss the matter in the open Close, and had instead invited Simon to his own hall. Now he stood near the new fire in his hearth, gazing at the flames and wondering how to begin. While he hesitated, Thomas stood near Simon, lounging with his thumbs hooked in his belt. He looked every bit the labouring mason that he was, and although Stephen knew that he himself paid Thomas’s wages, he felt unaccountably threatened by the man’s presence here in his hall. More so than the Bailiff.

‘It was before you were born, I dare say, Bailiff. I was a young novice, not yet old enough to take up responsibility for my own congregation, but with a voice that had broken. It was — it is — difficult for a fellow of that sort of age to move further up in the Church. One must be fortunate. I was lucky, I thought, because I had always had a propensity for numbers.’

Simon tried not to let his face show his revulsion at this thought. The idea of Andrew came unbidden into his mind, and he wondered fleetingly whether all clerks who liked playing with numbers were similarly prone to crime.

Stephen continued. ‘The Treasurer was an engaging man. He was interested in me, and in all that the Cathedral could do to further the rebuilding works. It was largely due to my mentor, Treasurer John, that the Cathedral was placed on a strong financial basis. So when he began to help me and prove his desire to teach me all he could, I was flattered. I wanted to help him in return.

‘He knew how to teach. If a fellow was confused about numbers and how to add or subtract, he would show infinite patience and kindness. He rarely if ever had need to resort to the strap or the birch, because we all respected him.

‘Anyway, when the Bishop arrived, we all saw the difference in him. The Bishop took an unreasonable dislike to him, and would keep on at him all the time. The Chapter itself took the matter in hand, and at the first opportunity, they elected John to be their Dean.

‘It drove the Bishop into a rage the like of which I have never seen before. The Bishop believed that men of the Church should not simply acquire riches, but should deal out such benefices as were won fairly and equitably. He felt that the Treasurer already had funds aplenty, and refused to let him take more. He insisted that Treasurer John should give up much of his wealth. The Treasurer refused, and so started the festering war that was to cause such bitterness and hatred.

‘There were letters to the Pope, letters to the Archbishop, threats, shouts, rattling of weaponry … it was an awful time. And at the end of it, it grew obvious that one or the other man must go. I was in league with most of the Chapter when I chose the side of the Treasurer. We did not like this foreign upstart telling us what to do and when we could do it. We wanted a local man, a good fellow like the kindly Treasurer John. And so, when it was decided that we should destroy the Bishop’s man, it was not a sudden decision by a small minority of people, but a firm resolution by all Treasurer John’s allies. Me included.

‘We laid an ambush after Matins, and when he came out, we killed him. That, I thought, was that. But no, now it is all coming back to haunt us.’

‘Who was there with you?’

‘Thomas there,’ the Treasurer grunted, motioning towards the mason loitering at his wall. ‘Myself, two vicars long dead, some townsfolk. I don’t know how many exactly.’

‘I know of Joel Lytell and Henry. Henry is dead and Joel has been badly beaten. Who would have done that? Were there any survivors among the Chaunter’s men other than Nicholas?’

‘There was Matthew, of course. Why?’

‘Because so far Henry is dead — he helped in the attack — and so is Nicholas. I’ve already heard that someone told the Chaunter that he need not fear the ambush because the Bishop had been informed and had gathered together a force to catch all the assailants. But there was no such force. Whoever told that tale to the Chaunter was playing a cruel trick — and it worked. I am wondering whether Nicholas was the traitor.’

‘I should not be surprised. I have heard similar stories, and I think that it is possible, although I’d have thought that the murders could have been committed for another reason. We killed the Chaunter forty years ago, Bailiff. Why should someone hold a grudge for so long? Why set out to do these things only now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon admitted. ‘But I will find out.’

Thomas said slowly, ‘I remember another novice.’

‘There were many of them?’ Simon asked.

‘Aye. Many enough on both sides. I myself attacked one whom I’d always called my friend,’ Thomas said. He experienced the shame, but felt he had to admit to his crime. ‘It was I who struck poor Nick. He’d always been my friend, but that night we were all mad, I think. I struck and struck at him in a fury, just because he was opposed to my Dean. And then Peter came up from-’

‘Peter? Yes, Peter was there,’ Stephen said suddenly. ‘He might know something. He’s the Prior of St Nicholas’s now.’

Simon was still eyeing Thomas. ‘You said last night you were the man who so injured the friar?’

‘Yes. And my God, how I regretted it afterwards. I used to go to my church and apologise for it at every Mass afterwards, begging forgiveness. I confessed my sin to my priest, but he only said that a man who sided with the Bishop was clearly as good as an excommunicate and refused to give me a penance. I felt that very sorely … and then I saw how God punished me.’

‘How, Thomas?’

Thomas had a vision of bodies swinging hideously in the twilight. ‘He executed my father.’

Vince left the meal feeling sickly, wondering what had become of his father.

Yesterday, they had eaten and drunk themselves into a comfortable drowsiness after a meal, and his father had told him again all the stories he recalled of Vince’s uncle, how decent and kind he had been, how honourable. It was dull, but Vince sat and listened, knowing that this constant repetition was his father’s only means of exorcising the demon within him. His brother had been accused of taking part in a murder and had been denounced as traitor to his master. Now all Wymond could do was relive the good parts of Vincent’s life as though by doing so he would somehow overwhelm all the lies.

It was that which had made his father renounce the city itself, Vince knew. That was why he was aghast when Vince told him he intended living in Exeter itself. ‘You can live here with me, boy, you don’t have to go up there. You can’t trust folk in a place like that. They lie to each other, and if you’re on the side of one man, his enemies will invent stories to insult you.’

But he had been adamant, and now he felt sure that it had been the right thing to do at the time, although now he wondered whether he could continue, knowing that Joel his master had taken part in the murder of the men in the Close.

His father had been dreadfully shocked by the revelation, he saw. That was why he stayed there through the afternoon when he should have returned to his master’s workshop. He was worried about Wymond.

But there is something strange about older men. Those who have drunk strong cider and ale all their lives can sometimes drink more even than a young apprentice. Where Vince had intended to drink his father into another drunken sleep, he found last night that his eyes were growing heavy, his limbs incapable. He was laughing more than he ought, while his old man was resting back on his bench, eyes bright. At some point, Wymond picked up his bow and began to wax the string, protecting it from the wet by putting a thin coating of beeswax on it. Then there was a light oil which he used to buff the bow’s wood. It was a simple yew bow, his, but Vince knew that it could propel a steel-tipped arrow through a half-inch-thick plank of oak. A fearful weapon, Vince couldn’t even draw it to shoot one of his father’s clothyard arrows.

Wymond had owned a bow since he was a young boy, and he’d practised with it at least once every week all his life since then. Now he used it to clear the rats and birds from his vats, so that they couldn’t ruin his skins and leathers as they cured, and his eye was good for a shot of anything up to eighty yards for even a moderate-sized rat. On a good day, Vince had seen him fire that bow two hundred and fifty yards. They had paced it out afterwards.

And this morning, when Vince rose, his father was gone, and so was his bow.