The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Twenty-Two

Thomas sniffed, but without rancour. ‘It’s all a long time ago now. When I arrived back here, I was hoping to find a little peace and rest in my old city, but I hadn’t counted on how the death of my father would affect me. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be executed like some felon.’

‘What happened?’ Simon asked.

‘I left the city after I so nearly killed Nicholas. I was disgusted with myself. There I was, supposedly a novice, readying myself for a life in the Church, and I had drawn a knife to murder my own best friend, purely because of the politics at the top of the Cathedral. That day I went home to my father’s house and sat up until morning, wondering what had become of me.

‘My father came down as he always did just as dawn broke, and he saw me there. He saw the blood all over my clothes and hands, and he went out and fetched me water, then crouched before me and cleaned me. Only when all the blood was washed from me did he ask me how I’d come by it, and I told him.

‘He was very upset. I could see that. He’d always brought me up to be Christian, and here I was stabbing a man in a rage who was no enemy of mine. It was mad, and I saw that. And because of that, shortly afterwards, I left the city. I made no song and dance, but just packed some belongings and walked out. I eventually ended up in Winchester, and helped a stone waller, and began to learn my trade.’

‘What of your father?’

‘When I came back, I learned what had happened to him. The King came to hear the case when the Bishop petitioned him. He was told that the city’s gates had been left open on the night of the attack. Because of that he ordered two executions. My father was one. While I walked away to find a new life, he lost his.’

‘I’ve heard that there was another man there,’ Simon said. ‘A fellow called William.’

‘I know him,’ Thomas said. ‘A madman. He would kill for the pleasure of testing his blade’s sharpness.’

‘And Matthew was there too, but on the opposing side,’ Simon mused.

‘Yes.’ Stephen nodded palely. ‘He was there. And I almost hit him with my sword, but managed to avert my blow when I saw who he was. I had always liked him. It was Peter who actually struck him down. At the time I remember thinking he was lucky. He fell so swiftly, all thought him dead and he was safe. Indeed, it was some weeks before he recovered from his wounds. Afterwards, when I was given ever better jobs, I brought him with me as a means of honouring his valour and integrity that night. He never flinched when all the men attacked. Others fled in terror, but not he. He stood his ground although he had no weapons on him, and was felled like a sapling under the axe.’

‘Could he not have learned to hate the men who attacked and killed his master?’ Simon asked.

‘He is essentially a mild, kindly fellow,’ Stephen said. ‘I am sure that he would not do such a thing. And if he were to wish to do so, again, why wait so long? He has had the opportunity to kill his attackers many times over the years.’

‘True,’ Simon said. ‘Which surely means that it’s more likely that the murderer is someone like William, who has been away from the city for many years.’

‘Or me,’ Thomas said without humour.

‘Perhaps,’ Simon allowed. ‘Except you forget that last night when Baldwin was attacked, you were safely in the gaol. I am sure that one man is responsible for the murders, and it’s farfetched to think that someone else attacked Baldwin. No, it must be the same man.’

‘Not a woman?’ Stephen asked.

‘It was a good arrow struck Baldwin. The distance wasn’t too great, but it would have been a man’s bow.’

‘It is always possible to hire a bowman,’ Stephen said. He shot a look at Thomas. ‘Even a man in gaol could command a hireling.’

‘Maybe,’ Simon said, ‘but Thomas would have needed warning of his arrest. He thought he was escaping the city. Why order an assassin? And he had no idea that he would be arrested and in gaol just as the arrow flew. No. What of this Peter? He was loyal enough once, you say.’

‘And was ruined by it. He was forced to take the threefold vows, just as John Pycot did before him. He is only here again because the last Prior was taken to the mother Abbey.’

‘Then I shall see him now,’ said Simon with decision. ‘And I ask that you bend your mind to this affair, Treasurer. We have to learn who has been killing people here. If you can think of anyone, anyone at all who might have had a hand in these murders, you must tell me. Otherwise, there may be more blood spilled.’

‘If I knew anything, I swear I would tell you,’ Stephen said, and Simon believed him. The man’s face was quite haggard. ‘I had thought that this whole affair was left far behind me, but now it has returned to haunt me once more. I say to you, Bailiff, I would that none of this had happened, not the death of the Chaunter forty years ago, not the death of the saddler, and not the death of the friar. I regret the execution of the Mayor and of Thomas’s father. Just think of all these deaths, all unnecessary, all repellent when men should be bending their minds to the building of this magnificent Cathedral. It is enough to make a man despair.’

‘It is very sad,’ Simon agreed caustically as he beckoned Thomas to follow him. ‘Heaven forbid that the Cathedral should be delayed purely because of a few deaths!’

He was still angry at the Treasurer’s attitude as he entered Janekyn’s little chamber. Baldwin was still apparently asleep, and as Simon entered, the physician Ralph was at the wounded man’s side. He looked up as Simon walked in. The physician’s lips were pursed and he was very thoughtful.

‘How is he?’ Simon demanded curtly.

‘He has no fever, which is a relief, but there is still time for it to come. The natural humours seem well-balanced, but I could wish for a little more pus from the wounds.’

Simon nodded understandingly. Everybody knew that the laudable pus would cleanse a wound, for it aided expulsion of the evil humours which caused men to fall prey to fevers and death. He watched the physician remove a linen swatch from Baldwin’s chest and saw the wound, still leaking blood and red raw about the edges. Ralph leaned forward and tentatively sniffed at it.

‘It doesn’t seem to be foul, anyway,’ he said pensively. ‘It may be that he is already on his way to recovery. At this stage it is too early to tell.’

‘Please keep a good, close watch over him,’ Simon said.

‘I will do the best I can for him,’ Ralph sighed, replacing the patch over the wound and binding it in place with a bandage.

Simon nodded and tentatively leaned forward, patting Baldwin’s forearm. ‘Jeanne will be here soon, old friend. Godspeed, and get yourself better soon.’

‘That is his wife?’ Ralph asked. ‘He has called to her in his dreams.’

‘Yes. She should be here soon after lunch, I hope,’ Simon said.

‘Is it true that the scarred friar is dead?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I was interested. I met him in the High Street a few days ago after seeing Joel Lytell. He was an interesting case.’

‘In what way?’ Simon asked, torn by a desire to demand answers from Prior Peter and remain here and learn all he could from a man who knew the friar in case his words could hold some bearing.

‘Friar Nicholas was terribly cut about. A man had slashed at him and his wounds were dreadful. His face was only a part of his injuries. His back was deeply scarred, his arm withered and all but useless … It was a miracle that he lived.’

‘You think that God was kind to him?’ Thomas asked sarcastically.

‘Who can tell what He thinks of men such as Nicholas?’ Ralph said, standing back and surveying his handiwork before pulling the blankets over Baldwin’s torso. He turned and looked at Thomas. ‘I was talking to the man who used to know him, Vicar Matthew, and he said that the friar’s features would be enough to make many a man confess his sins just to avoid the same form of punishment.’

‘What sort of crime was the friar supposed to have committed?’ Simon enquired.

‘From what I heard, he had supported an evil man in the Cathedral.’

‘That bears out what I thought,’ Simon muttered, and then, ‘Come along, Thomas. We must see the Prior and hear what he has to say for himself.’

Udo was finishing his preparations. A last glance in the big mirror in his hall, a dab of holy water to wish himself luck (a silly thing to do, for God would either bless his union or not), and then he left his house.

The distance was nothing. He strolled up the hill, turned left, then went up Milk Street and thence into Smythen Street, where he continued down the hill.

From here the view was magnificent. Ahead of him lay the river, shimmering silver in the sunlight through the smoke of the works on Exe Island, but beyond all was green. The land rolled most pleasantly, with low hills covered in trees all the way westward. Today, with the rains finished, he could see that there were many pools. They shone blue and grey, while the river itself was more torrential than he had seen before. Full from the rains, it raced past the city as though in an urgent hurry to get to the sea.

He stood enjoying the scene for a long while. It reminded him a little of his homeland, and that raised a small sensation of longing. As he set off again, he was reminded that it was many years since he last saw his home. Now, were he ever to see it again, he would see it as a married man.

At the door, he rapped loudly and stood waiting. The door opened and the maidservant showed him through to the women in the hall. He bowed and went to Mabilla first, although his eyes never left Julia.

She was as fresh as a flower in spring, he thought. Her skin was almost white, and it was so fine that he swore he could see the blood coursing at her temples and throat. She was dressed in a sombre dress with a girdle, her hair bound up in a net, and her eyes remained downcast, but for him that very correct modesty was itself wonderfully attractive. He could hardly believe that this marvellous creature was soon to be his!

‘Sir, you are welcome in our house,’ Mabilla said as he walked to the stoup and made the sign of the cross with the holy water.

‘Mistress, I thank you. How is your daughter?’

Julia raised her chin, while keeping her eyes on the ground. ‘I am well, sir.’ She felt the fluttering of her heart like a caged bird, and desperately fought the blush that threatened to colour her face. ‘I hope you are well too?’

This was not like other courtships she had witnessed. All too often, they were conducted without any involvement by the bride-to-be, but instead all aspects of the negotiation and contract went on in her absence until all was ready, and then she was presented with the agreement. Enough of her friends had become wedded for her to know that commonly the groom would be a man considerably older than his wife. Only last month two of her friends had been married, and both took men more than ten years their senior. An older husband was normal enough, because only when a man had finished his apprenticeship and acquired his own shop and business, could he start to think of the other necessaries of life. And a woman who preferred not to be a spinster or be forced into servitude would be glad to take a man with a profitable living.

No, Julia had no concerns about this man. He was a little pompous, it was true, but a good woman like her would soon be able to smooth off some of the roughness. And she would make him a good wife; she was determined of that. He was kind enough to take her and her mother, and right now she had a feeling of warmth and safety in his presence that was entirely lacking when he was gone.

Her only fear was that he wanted her purely as a prize; a trophy to ornament his arm when he walked abroad or invited guests to his home. She had heard of loveless marriages where the wives were bored and listless. They had little communion with their families or friends because their husbands were jealous of their companionship, or perhaps feared that they might speak to others in a derogatory manner of their lives. These were the sort of men she feared. If Udo were to become like that, she didn’t know how she would survive. By merely thanking God that he would not live for too long, and when he died, he would leave her a wealthy widow, she supposed. It was a grim prospect, and one that scared her. But she had no choice.

‘You are thoughtful, my dear?’ he asked.

She could have sworn at herself for allowing her thoughts to become so visible. Colouring slightly, she said, ‘I was thinking of my poor father. He would have been so pleased to see me wedded to so successful a merchant. But he will be watching over us, I am sure.’

‘Yes,’ he said, with a slight clearing of his throat. He appeared nervous for a moment.

‘I do miss him,’ she said.

Mabilla sniffed slightly and Julia saw her turn a little away. ‘He would be very proud. I know that he was keen to have a respectable man for his only child, and he must have been as delighted as I am, Master Udo.’

‘I thank you,’ Udo said with a slight bow. ‘And now, perhaps I should offer this? With your permission, Mistress?’

Julia saw her mother give a nod, for Mabilla was as thrilled to see what the man had brought as was Julia herself. Udo stood and approached her with a small leather purse. He weighed it in his hand with an anxious expression.

‘My dearest, I have bought this for you, thinking that it would enhance your beauty, but now … I cannot but think that you are too perfect with nothing. I … I hope it is proof of my sincere devotion to you, and that you will look on me forever as a kind husband and master, who seeks only to make you happy. In all that I can do, I will seek your pleasure. I … Well, here it is.’

He suddenly thrust it out towards her and she took it. The purse itself was pretty enough, with small embroidery about the outside, but it was quite heavy, and she looked up at him with some doubt, wondering whether she should open it. He nodded encouragement, and she released the thongs at the neck.

From it spilled a necklace of gold, with a pendant that formed a cross.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked, and now the anxiety was all too plain.

‘I love it!’ she whispered, and smiled at him with tears of gratitude in her eyes.

The Priory’s gatekeeper was reluctant to allow them entry, even when Simon used the name of the Bishop as his authority, but before too long the prior himself had arrived and he haughtily deigned to allow Simon and Thomas into the Priory’s lands.

‘What do you want from me?’ Peter demanded.

‘I have heard that you were one of the men involved in the murder of the Chaunter many years ago. There have been two murders since then, of Henry Potell and a Friar Nicholas. Both were implicated in the original plot with you, I understand.’

Peter looked at him and his upper lip lifted just slightly, enough to expose a tooth. It looked like an expression of deep and sincere contempt. ‘I have nothing to say on the matter. And now you must leave.’

‘I’m going nowhere, Prior. You may not like me or my tone, but that’s not my concern!’ Simon spat. His head felt light from lack of sleep, and just now his temper was close to boiling over. ‘My best friend and companion was almost killed last night by an arrow. He may be dead now for all I know, and I want the murderer found before anyone else is harmed.’

‘Your friend?’ Peter said, his face suddenly still, as though he was thinking very quickly indeed. ‘Why should that be?’

‘I do not know, unless Baldwin’s questions were bringing him close to the identity of the murderer. If that’s the case, the killer should beware, because I intend to bring him to justice — and for trying to murder a knight, that will be a rope! I’ll take pleasure in pulling it tight round his neck myself!’

‘What do you expect from me?’

‘Your help, and that means telling me what happened on the night that the Chaunter was murdered.’

Peter stared at him, and then gazed up at the sky for a long while, before giving a low sigh and clearing his throat. ‘Very well.’

He told them all about the dissension in the Cathedral’s Chapter. It was much the same as the story which all the others had told. ‘It was simple, really. A fight between those who knew the city and had lived here all their lives. I was born here, only a short distance up from the main gates by which you entered this morning. I used to play ball in the street, bouncing a pig’s bladder against the wall of this Priory. Sometimes we’d play football against the next parish, seeing which could take the ball into the opposing team’s churchyard. It was hard work.’

Thomas nodded with a grin. ‘I remember that. You used to gang up on my friends. We were in the parish of the Holy Trinity, while you were in St John’s.’

‘Yes. We used to play on festive days. Your parish, Matt in St Mary Major, Joel in St Mary Arches. And my team always used to win.’ Peter smiled at the memory. ‘We could be quite competitive. Especially Matt and William, as I remember it.’

‘They were competitive about everything. The only time that I felt at risk of my life was when Matthew and William were betting on their target-shooting at the butts. Matt was winning as usual, and then I took a bow and fired one that beat them both! I thought they’d lynch me. William was furious,’ Thomas recalled.

‘What of Henry Potell? Was he there too?’ Simon asked.

‘Henry was born in St Kerrian’s, as was poor Vincent.’

‘He was the man killed when he tried to warn the Chaunter against the attack?’

‘Yes. Some thought him a traitor, but he was honourable. He had given his word, and he lived in the Chaunter’s house. That was the trouble, you see. When the Bishop arrived he upset a lot of people. He didn’t understand how we’d grown up in the alleys and streets, forming our own relationships. It was as though he was deliberately pitting all those who were from the city against the newcomers. I can recall us all arguing about it in a tavern, some of us wanting to support the new Bishop and give him the benefit of the doubt, while others were determined to oppose him and force him to see reason.’

‘What of the friar?’

‘Aye, well, Friar Nicholas always argued for supporting him. He was a foreigner too, you see, and reckoned that the Bishop was always right.’

‘But I thought you paid him to spread the story that the Chaunter needn’t fear any attack?’ Simon blurted out. He was suddenly aware of an appalling lassitude. The foundation of discovering the murderer was the fact that the prior had paid the traitor. If Nicholas wasn’t the traitor, then what could be the reason for his death?

‘Nick wouldn’t have considered betrayal,’ Peter said with conviction. ‘No, it was another.’

‘Who?’ Simon demanded, but with less force. In truth, he was very tired now. ‘It has been said that you were the man who paid a man to pass on the lie to the Chaunter that led him to believe that he was safe.’

Peter shrugged. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘The man who paid was more deeply involved than me. I was only there because I sought advancement. I thought that if I was to help John Pycot get what he wanted, he’d see to it that I was well-rewarded. More fool me!’

Simon grunted at this sign of his self-contempt. ‘You didn’t get much from it, did you?’

‘At least I am now the prior of this place, if only for a while.’

‘Tell me about the attack again,’ Simon said.

There was little to learn from him. The prior’s story merely confirmed all that Simon and Baldwin had already heard, and Simon could discern nothing in it which rang false against all the other testimonies he had been given.

‘I am still fascinated by the idea of the man who arranged for treachery. Who could have planted the lie so closely to the Chaunter? If a man were to behave so dishonourably, wouldn’t he feel the guilt afterwards? Surely his crime would be obvious.’

‘There are some who feel no such compunction,’ Peter said. ‘Look at my corrodian, William. He is a man of great resolve and determination, but if he finds another in his way, he will destroy the man. You have heard of his denunciation of the Mayor?’

Simon could feel Thomas suddenly stiffen, and Simon glanced at him as he said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Mayor was hanged because the King learned that the South Gate had been left open for the assassins to depart the city after their deed. While we of the Cathedral Close went to our beds and hid, the others fled the city through that gate. The watch was not efficient, and there was no means to check on who was in the city that night and who was not, so all escaped. Well, since that gate was left open, the first two people whom the King ordered to be executed were, of course, the gatekeeper and the Mayor. The city was complicit in the act, the King declared, so the representative of the city must pay. It was William who told the King of the gate being left open, so it is he who bears the guilt of the Mayor’s death, yet you will see no shame in his eyes.’

‘Why did he do that?’ Thomas demanded.

‘Because he sought advancement,’ Peter said sarcastically. ‘If a couple of deaths would lead to his being taken into the King’s host, it was a trade worth his while. That was how he reasoned, and he was proved correct. He has lived to a good age in the King’s service and now he can expect a long retirement.’

‘All from a pair of executions so long ago,’ Thomas said bitterly.

‘I am sorry, Tom,’ Peter said more kindly. ‘I forgot the gatekeeper was your father.’

‘Where is William?’ Thomas said. ‘I want to see him.’

‘He left the Priory this morning quite early,’ Peter said. ‘I don’t know where he’s gone.’

William had, in fact, spent much of the morning in the Frauncey’s Inn over near the East Gate. When the sun rose, he went out from the Priory with a desire to find a good pint of wine and drink it as quickly as possible. In a city like Exeter, with over thirty inns and taverns, that was no difficult task, and he had eschewed the first three he had come across on the basis that he had been to all of them before only recently. Today he wanted anonymity.

It was clear enough that Peter was not going to help save them. Someone was out there with a grudge against William and probably Peter too, and he could probably harm William, but Peter didn’t seem to care, the bastard. He could rot in hell for all William cared now. The Prior just didn’t understand how worried William was that his corrody could be endangered by the stories of his behaviour during the assault on the Chaunter. It meant everything to William! If it was bruited abroad that he had been in on the attack, the King could remove his corrody and leave him destitute. Entirely without a penny. What could a man do when he was faced with that kind of stern reality? There was only one route — become an outlaw and steal what was needed for survival.

William reached that conclusion at the bottom of his first pint of wine, and he set out to empty a second jug with a sense of increasing gloom.

It was not because he had a moral objection to the idea of life as a felon. That was no concern to him. After all, he had behaved that way before often enough. No, it was that with his recurring dizziness and headaches, the idea of life out in the woods was less than appealing. It could well spell his death. And he was not the warrior he once had been. In the past he had been as quick as a striking viper … now he was still fast, but …

All men had to admit to themselves when they grew too old to defend themselves against younger men, and William knew full well that his time was come. If he were to offer himself in the ring for combat, he’d not be certain to win. He had done so in the past, when he was a noted fighter, and he’d seen off several good swordsmen and sword-and-dagger fighters for good purses. Only a few had died in the ring with him. There was no need to slaughter them all; the audience got the pleasure of the battle without the need for an actual death.

Yes, in his youth and middle years, organising a prize-fight had been a profitable business. If he gained a scar or two, so be it if the purse was good enough. But nowadays — well, it was a younger man’s game, that.

So with no prize, no corrody, the only life open to him was the harsh one of a felon, and that did not appeal to him. Living rough, always sleeping lightly in case the King’s posse arrived to poke a sword or pike at a man’s ribs, that was no way to live.

And then he had the idea flash in the back of his mind.

There was one other way to make a new life: find a wealthy woman who would marry him. Slowly his frowning concern left his face, ironed away by the brilliance of this new thought.

Mabilla would surely have him. She had wanted him. Oh, she’d said she hated him when they last met, because she blamed him for her old man’s death, but that was hardly his problem. And just now she could help him. She must see that. She had enough money, too. All he had to do was marry her and then he’d become master of her money. The corrody would be unimportant, and he could thumb his nose at the King if he chose to steal it back.

No sooner had he considered the benefits of this course, than he had finished off his jug of wine, and stood. His head was a little dizzy, but no matter. He shook himself and sauntered from the tavern, making his way across the city towards Smythen Street, and then walked down the hill towards Mabilla’s house. Reaching it, he banged on the door with his staff and stood back to wait. As soon as it opened he pushed his way inside and ignored the flapping maid who tried to keep him out. In the end he put an arm about her breast and shoved her ungently from his path.

‘Mabilla, my love! I need to talk to you!’ he called at the top of his voice as he left the screens and entered the hall, and then he stopped at the sight of the other man there. ‘Who are you?’

Mabilla rose to her feet, her face cold and angry. ‘You are not welcome here, William. What do you want here? I ask you to leave.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, woman. I came to talk to you. Where’s that little maid? Tell her to fetch me wine.’

‘You are going to leave, Will. You aren’t wanted here.’

‘Woman, that’s no way to speak to a future husband! I want to marry you.’

Mabilla’s face froze. She looked like a statue formed of steel. Her voice, when she spoke, was harsh and grating. ‘William, I would not marry you, were you the King of the lands. Now leave my hall.’

‘Mab, don’t be like that. You loved me before you married that foolish saddler. Come on. Give me a hug and say you’ll be mine.’

‘The lady asked you to leave,’ Udo said.

Will turned with frank surprise that the fellow should dare to thwart him. He had looked a vain, foolish sort of man, not one to test a warrior of Will’s mettle. ‘I piss on you. If you’re determined to have only one man here, you’d better go. Otherwise I’ll make you. Either that, or shut up.’

‘You have into this house of mourning broken, and now a riot you threaten?’ Udo said, his anger making his urbane English falter. ‘I would resist.’

William raised his staff threateningly. ‘Try to resist this, you piece of German shit! I’ll break your head if you get in my way!’

To his astonishment, the German didn’t flee, but instead drew a solid-looking broadsword.

It was all he could do not to laugh. Will changed his grip and held the pole as a quarterstaff, with a quarter of the wood between his hands, the metal-shod end outthrust towards Udo like a lance. He might be old, but he had a staff, and a man with a staff would always beat a fool with a short lump of steel in his hands.

Moving slowly, he prodded with his staff, catching Udo in the breast. It made the German wince, and Will chuckled. Then he poked more aggressively, catching the German in the belly, in the shoulder, then the nose. He’d been aiming for the eye, but the effusion of blood was satisfying enough. Udo swung with his sword, but he couldn’t get past the pole, and only when Will had backed him up against the wall did he lunge suddenly, cracking Udo across the head, and as the man slumped back, darting in to grab his sword. He stabbed once at the man’s belly, then kicked his face, feeling that thrill again, to see a man beaten and at his mercy. It was tempting to hack at his head, but before he could do so, he heard the noise of men at the screens.

Turning, he saw the figure of a tall man. The latter bowed courteously enough, while keeping his eyes on William. ‘My name is Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple. I am Coroner. You are arrested. Drop the sword.’