The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Twenty-Five

When Stephen had left the room, Jeanne sat at Baldwin’s side again. She broke up the bread into pieces and when she saw that Baldwin was waking again, she soaked a little of the crust in wine and passed it to him. He sucked it eagerly and gave her a smile. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and she dabbed at it with a spare piece of linen, smiling back at him as comfortingly as she could, and that was how she remained while he was awake. As soon as his eyes were closed and his grip loosened on her hand, she sat more upright, feeling the muscles in her back relax.

‘My Lady? Are you all right? If you want to go and take a walk about the Close, I shall remain here with Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar said. His tone was kindly, his manner respectful, but as compassionate as a brother.

She threw him a grateful look, but then her eyes went back to her husband’s body. There was more sweat breaking out on his face. ‘Do you think he’ll survive, Edgar?’

He sniffed. ‘I reckon he’ll do. He’s been wounded before, and I’ve seen worse than that pinprick. Yes, he’ll live.’

Most servants would have been cautious in their responses to their mistresses, but Edgar was being honest.

He continued, ‘I’ve seen men die from serious wounds about that part of the body, but usually there’s more blood, either seeping from the wound or coming from the mouth and nose. He looks well enough. So long as the pus runs and cleans him inside, he’ll be fine.’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And that physician hasn’t been here yet. Where is he?’

‘We should send a messenger for him, perhaps?’

She nodded and glanced at her sleeping husband. He looked so vulnerable, so childlike. She said softly, ‘In a while, perhaps. Not quite yet.’

It was hard. Daniel had stayed up late with her, trying to comfort her, but although she wanted the solace of his young arms about her, there was nothing that he could do or say which would ease her pain.

Her husband’s death had left a hole in Sara’s life that felt unfillable. Her man had taken her, a raw, foolish peasant girl, and seen something in her which no one else had. By marrying her, Saul had given Sara a very different life from the one she could have anticipated, and he had also given her himself. For that she would always honour him and his memory. Now, although others might say that they understood her feelings, they couldn’t. Her life had ended that day when Thomas told her of her man’s death.

The second loss was appalling, too: to lose a child was to lose a part of yourself. She had been one with this little boy for nine months, nurturing him within her womb. No man could understand how that loss must stupefy and devastate a woman. She had grown used to the idea that there would only be the three of them from the moment of Saul’s death, and then God had taken her darling Elias too. It was too cruel! Then, for consolation, He gave her a man to soften the blow and save her from madness: Thomas. The man who had killed her husband.

How God could treat her so was a mystery. She must have sinned in her past … but for the life of her she didn’t remember it. She had only ever tried to praise Him as the priests told her she must.

Thomas had murdered her Saul, and then arrived at her door to tell her; maybe it gave him some kind of gratification to see her pain. He was there again when she fell with Elias at the Priory’s gate, as though God was sending him as a messenger of doom to oversee every misfortune of her life. Overtly a comforter, in fact he was only ever there to bring still more grief to her life. And then he had become a focus for her affection. She had learned that he was always about when she needed aid, and he had never sought to dissuade her from becoming attached to him, although he should have been consumed with guilt. He was the engineer of her misery. She must hate him!

Yes. She must hate him, just as surely as Daniel did. Her son was repelled by him, and even this morning as the first light had illuminated their room, Daniel had asked if she was also awake.

‘Because when the Dean hears that man’s story, we ought to be there.’

‘I don’t want to see him again,’ she said.

‘Don’t cry, Mummy. Don’t! We’ll be all right. I’ll get work and feed you. We’ll be all right.’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied, wiping her eyes. ‘I just don’t want to think about him, that’s all.’

‘Well, I want to see him punished. I have to know that my father was avenged. Do you think the Dean will hang him for robbing us?’

She turned away. ‘He didn’t rob us, Danny. He tried to give us money.’

‘Only because he was guilty! He killed Daddy and wanted us to forgive him.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, but without conviction. If she were honest with herself, the sight of him in their home had shocked her. She’d thought that he wouldn’t dare come back here again, but he had, to help with a parting gift. That had been kind.

‘I want to go and see him pay,’ Danny said grimly. He rose from their bed and began to pull his shirt on over his head.

It was one of Saul’s, and many sizes too large. Seeing him there — little, thin, preparing for a winter without a father or secure supply of food — Sara could barely keep the tears at bay. The two of them might survive a while, but without a man they would soon know the anguish of hunger gnawing at their bellies as the money ran out.

She gripped him tightly against her bosom, rocking him back and forth as she prayed for help from the God Who had taken so much already, pleading that He wouldn’t take her last son as well.

There was only Danny left for her to lose.

Matthew was weeping much of the way back to the city. His hands were tied with a thong attached to a long rein which Simon had bound to his saddle’s pommel. The other riders were behind them, and the silent, thoughtful tanner marched on Matthew’s right, his bow unstrung in his hands.

The weeping and wailing eventually got to Simon. ‘Shut up that noise, Vicar!’

‘One error, and my life has been ruined!’

‘The error was your betrayal of your master, so don’t expect sympathy from me!’ Simon grated. ‘You committed treason and saw to your master’s murder.’

‘It was for the good of Exeter and the Cathedral, though! I had no choice.’

‘That was why you demanded money of William, was it?’

‘That shit! Damn his heart! He persuaded me into it, and then fled the city himself. Made himself look good by telling the King about the gate, and took the King’s money to go.’

‘Much like you, in fact,’ Simon said. ‘You took all the advancement you could, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Well, that wasn’t my fault. I didn’t seek advancement.’

‘Oho! No, of course not!’

‘I didn’t! But if a man is offered … I mean, I didn’t try to get new tasks and income, they just came.’

‘Yes,’ Simon scoffed. ‘And none of them because of the respect in which you were held by your peers?’

‘Perhaps,’ Matthew said, and brought a sleeve over his face again. ‘But I could hardly admit what I’d done. Bishop Quivil would have had me thrown into gaol and left there to rot, just like he did with John Pycot. I only ever sought to serve the Cathedral, nothing more.’

‘And committed murder to protect yourself.’

Matthew sobbed again, head fallen forward, shoulders jerking spasmodically. For several paces he couldn’t speak, and Simon was tempted to pull the long leash that bound his hands, but that would only yank the man off his feet and lead to another delay. Simon had no wish to pull him all the way to Exeter, and then present him to the Dean with the skin flayed from elbows and knees. Better to take the journey more slowly. Still, he was losing his patience rapidly, and he was about to ask the fellow to hurry, since Simon wanted to return to Exeter before old age saw off his friend Baldwin rather than the Vicar’s own arrow, when Matthew started to talk again.

‘It was terrible. My guilt is so clear and unequivocal, and I feel the shame of it every moment of every day. I cannot even confess properly! I tried to. I spoke to Paul at the Charnel, but I couldn’t say the actual words, and when he caught wind of my crime, he said I must speak to one of the Dignitaries, not to him. He meant the Treasurer, of course. Stephen is my master. But how could I tell him, after all he had done for me, thinking that I …’

‘That you were honourable,’ Simon sneered.

‘Not just that. Oh, how could you understand? You’re just a Bailiff. You don’t have the faintest idea what life is like in a cathedral or canonical church.’

Simon was again tempted to pull on the rein, but quashed the urge. ‘You lived a life of falsehood because of the crime of your youth, and you hid that crime for forty years, taking all the advantages you could along the way, until at last you found that someone knew the truth — and then you killed him. Poor Henry knew what you’d done, did he?’

‘No! I had nothing to do with his death, nor that of Nicholas.’

‘Of course not!’ Simon grinned disbelievingly.

‘I didn’t! But to my shame, I did kill the mason.’

‘You say you murdered Saul?’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him. What, do you think you can aim a rock from the top of a wall and hit a man tens of feet below you? Don’t be stupid!’

His sudden vehemence surprised Simon into silence.

‘No, that was an accident. Anyway, I was talking about Stephen, not Henry. He was the last person I could confess to: at first because I thought he believed me to be the embodiment of reliability and honour, and to tell him that I had deceived him would have hurt more than his mere pride, it would have devastated him and left him bereft.’

‘You rate yourself highly, Vicar.’

‘You don’t understand! Stephen is too old to continue for long in his post, he is desperate to retire, and I am the only man who can keep control of the Fabric Rolls and see to it that the Cathedral maintains its progress. We have to make sure that the place survives and that the rebuilding is continued. My God! Do you have even the faintest conception of the amount of work involved in getting this sort of project completed? It is likely to take another fifty years to see it to fruition. That means four generations of canons since the work began. It is not some frivolous, ephemeral undertaking that can be started in a moment and idly set down a short while later. This is a crucial part of God’s work. We have to see it through as best we can, each of us, and if the right man for a specific task is there, he must take up his responsibility. If there were another who could do the job so well as me, I would bow to him, and Stephen could hear my confession today — but there is no one!’

‘Someone will be found,’ Simon said. ‘No man is indispensable.’

It was the tanner who had picked up on Matthew’s words, though. ‘You said you couldn’t tell him “at first”. What changed, Vicar?’

‘Eh?’

‘He’s right,’ Simon said. ‘You said you couldn’t tell Stephen initially. What changed?’

‘He was another who was involved in the attack on the Chaunter,’ Matthew sighed. ‘He told me — and that meant I couldn’t possibly tell him about my guilt. Look, all through our time together, he has brought me up with him, teaching me all he knows, giving me a good living, protecting me from the politics of the Cathedral Close … should I then, could I, go to him and tell him that his belief in me was all wrong?’

Simon frowned. ‘He gave you honours and advancement through your life because he thought you were a man of integrity. Then, you learned that he had been guilty himself … I do not understand. Why should he not know that you too were guilty?’

‘Because to a man like him, that would mean that the whole of his life had been in vain. He had tried to help me in order to expiate his own guilt. I was a symbol of his reparation, as significant to him as the Charnel Chapel was to John Pycot. How could I demolish his lifetime’s act? I was there to take over from him; if he learned of my crime, he would see no means of continuing the rebuilding with me, and that must mean that the project would fail!’

‘So you preferred to conceal your crime more effectively by murdering the saddler and Friar Nicholas and trying to kill my friend Baldwin,’ Simon said nastily.

‘No!’

Simon jerked the reins. ‘And now you’ll have to pay the price in full, Vicar, because we’ll see you convicted in the Chapter’s court!’

It was late afternoon by the time that Simon and his little group had reached the Bear Gate again, and they trotted into the Cathedral Close before leaving their mounts with a pair of grooms who promised to see that the horses would be well looked after and the Dean’s taken to his private stables.

‘So, Matthew. You’ve caused enough trouble already,’ Simon said coldly. ‘You can come with me now and see the Dean.’

‘So there he is at last!’

Simon turned to see Thomas striding towards him. ‘Hold on, Thomas! This fellow’s coming to the Dean with me now. We’ll see what Dean Alfred decides to do with him.’

‘I have little interest in him. I just wanted to see his face one last time, to see what a man looks like who’s lived a lie for so many years,’ Thomas said sadly. ‘If there’s someone I want to see punished, it’s William. He was the one who had my father killed.’

‘Then come with us and hear what Matthew has to say,’ Simon suggested, and they marched their prisoner along the Close, out to the Dean’s house and inside to his hall, Wymond trooping along in their wake, his bow still in his hand.

The old tanner was feeling oddly disconsolate. After the excitement of haring off after this cleric, he had the sense that there was something amiss. He couldn’t go home; not yet. There was some sort of unfinished business here, he felt, and he had to try to resolve it while he could. Perhaps this man’s confession would make sense of Vincent’s death on that black night in 1283.

Still, at least he had avenged his brother in some small way. His speed in capturing Matthew was deeply satisfying, although he’d have preferred to have killed the man on the spot, rather than see some protracted punishment. There was nothing that the Dean could do which would repay the debt so speedily as an arrow, so he’d thought.

It was only when he had the barbed tip aimed at Matthew’s neck that he realised he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t fire.

All his life he had wanted to hate the men in the black garb of the Cathedral, because they represented the ones who had destroyed his brother, and later, his wife. It was they who had set up his Vincent and had him slaughtered in front of the Cathedral doors. If not for them, Vince might still be here now.

But Vincent had worn that same cloth, and Vincent in that clothing was the victim. In the end, it was impossible for Wymond to decide who was deserving of life and who deserved death. This man was, so far as he knew, guilty of having played some part in the death of Vincent — but what if he was wrong? There was a reluctance to shoot at a man who was in the same uniform which Vincent had worn. Looking at Matthew now, Wymond realised he could in fact have been an older, sadder Vincent. The thought had brought to his mind a picture of his brother: that happy, smiling face, the calm, generous spirit beaming from those bright eyes. The image for a moment obscured the reality of the snivelling Matthew, and made Wymond lower his bow. Killing like this was the last thing Vincent would have wanted, he knew.

Perhaps forty years ago Wymond could have released the arrow, but not now. Instead he had let Matthew see his bow, and had sat back to wait. The Hue and Cry couldn’t take too long to find them.

And now the last stage of the tale was to be told. Wymond wanted to hear this. It might, perhaps, allow him to put aside all those feelings of sorrow and loss which had plagued him over the years.

Looking about him now at the richly decorated hall of the Dean, he realised that whatever the truth, there was little chance that he would ever be able to obtain any justice. This was a rich man’s house, not the sort of place in which a mere tanner like him could hope for help or restitution.

Sara approached the Fissand Gate with a strange sense of nervousness. She wanted to know what would happen to Thomas. No matter what Daniel thought, he had been kind to her, and if he was truly a murderer, she must know why, and what his punishment might be.

There were rumours that he’d not only killed Saul, but that he’d killed two other men in the city as well — and tried to murder a third. He only failed because his arrow missed its mark in the gloom of evening, or so the people said.

The porter at Fissand was always helpful: he would give wine or bread to those who had need, and perhaps today he might be equally forthcoming with news or assistance, showing her where to go to hear of the case against Thomas. She had no idea when the Bishop’s court was likely to convene, and the idea of waiting for days was very unappealing. She only hoped that, like most other courts, this would meet very soon and the sentence be imposed quickly. At least then she would know that justice of a sort had been served.

There was no porter evident. Instead she approached a vicar. ‘Master? Can you tell me where-’

‘I don’t have time, woman!’ The cleric to whom she addressed her enquiry was a tall man, quite old, and he threw her an anguished look. ‘If you have questions, go in there and ask the porter!’

Feeling very small, she watched him stalk away. Sara didn’t know why she’d bothered to come here in the first place. This was a man’s world, not suitable for women like her. She was mad to have thought otherwise. She would have turned tail there and then, and returned home, but Daniel chose that moment to bolt, running over the graveyard towards the Bishop’s palace, calling out that he’d find out where they must go.

At the wall was a beggarman. Sara had seen him about the city before: with his horribly scarred face and missing leg, he was hard to miss, but he’d never spoken to her.

‘Maid, is there something wrong?’

The gentle tone of his voice nearly made her weep. ‘I just wanted to know what’s happened to the mason who killed the others here. Is he going to be put on trial soon?’

‘What’s your interest?’

‘The dead mason, Saul, he was my husband.’

‘Oh maid … I’m sorry.’

‘Do you know what’ll happen?’

John Coppe eyed her sympathetically, but closely. A beggar was quick to gain an insight into the feelings of others — it was an essential element of his make-up. He had to size up his market and grab the most money from those most likely to pay him. In his opinion this woman was close to her limits. She couldn’t cope with any more shocks or alarms.

He said, ‘Maid, I think Thomas, the man you’re talking about, has already been proved innocent. Another man was attacked last night, while Thomas was in the gaol. So he seems to be innocent.’

‘Innocent!’ Sara felt as though her legs must fail her. Suddenly both knees began to wobble, and she teetered on the brink of collapse.

Coppe tried to lurch to his feet, but he was already too late, and all he could do was shout for assistance.

The door to Janekyn’s chamber opened, and Edgar stood there, his sword ready in his hand, eyes flitting about the Close before they came to rest on Sara’s figure and the desperate beggar at her side.

Others were already running over, and a number of men and women came to Coppe’s side, lifting the woman up. ‘Where can we take her?’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Ah, she’s only fainted!’

Jeanne pushed her way past Edgar and peered at the huddle of men and women. Coppe saw her with relief. She was one, he was sure, who would look after a woman like this. ‘Mistress, please help us! Can we put this poor widow in the room with your husband?’

‘What is the matter with her?’

‘She’s fainted. It’s her husband, he died here a few weeks ago. Crushed when a stone fell on him, and since then she’s been … well, you can imagine.’

Through the encircling crowd Jeanne saw how young Sara was, and how vulnerable she looked. That one look was enough. ‘Of course you must bring her in here. When Baldwin’s physician arrives, I shall ask him to see to her at the same time.’

They carried her within, while Edgar stood at Baldwin’s side, sword threateningly still in his hand. There was no need for him to wave it about to make a point. His apparent languid stance was enough to put fear into the hearts of all who eyed him. The crowd deposited Sara on a bench near the wall, and left.

As Jeanne stood over her, the woman started to moan softly, and Jeanne took her hand, pressing it. ‘It is all right now. You are safe here.’

‘How can I ever be safe?’ came the bitter response.

‘I am sorry,’ Matthew said, his head hanging. ‘I didn’t think that my actions could cause so much grief.’

‘You were happy enough to commit murder, though,’ Simon said.

‘I only did what I thought I had to.’

‘Yes — you murdered Saul,’ Simon said unsympathetically.

‘No!’

‘But you admitted it before,’ Simon said. ‘Out there, you said you killed him!’

‘Not on purpose … but it was the same thing to God, though,’ Matthew said with a pious shudder.

‘What are you talking about?’ Simon demanded. There was a noise of hoofbeats from the cobbles outside, and he turned to see Sir Peregrine ride in with his party. The Coroner threw himself from his saddle with the energy of a man half his age and hurried over to join them.

The clerk turned to Thomas and spoke clearly.

‘I mean this: Thomas, I am sorry. I confess my sin, and I beg your forgiveness. I tried to kill you on the scaffold.’

Thomas gaped. He rubbed his hands against his thighs. The palms were sore again, but in some odd way the feel of roughness against his legs was soothing. It seemed to make the world more comprehensible, since the only feeling he was aware of at this minute was that of unreality. ‘But the stone fell because of an accident.’

Matthew shook his head. ‘I released the metal wedge that held the stone up. I thought that it might kill you.’

‘What did you want to kill me for?’ Thomas cried.

‘Because I thought you knew about my part in the attack. I knew that William was aware, and I knew you were one of his friends. Henry and Joel had kept silent all the time I was being nursed after the Chaunter’s death, but you I feared.’

‘Why not William too?’ Simon asked.

‘Because, he was the man who paid me. If he betrayed me, he’d betray himself. As he did today,’ Matthew said bitterly.

‘So you let the stone fall?’ Thomas said.

‘You had a rope about your wrist. I thought that were I to release the stone, it must drag you down and kill you. I was panicked. I didn’t know what else to do!’

‘And Saul?’ Simon said.

‘He shouldn’t have been there,’ Matthew said resentfully. ‘He ought to have been in the works, not hiding under the walls. I didn’t know he was there, not until I saw the legs sticking out from under the rock and realised it had crushed someone.’

‘So Thomas had no part in Saul’s death?’ the Coroner said.

‘He was only the intended victim,’ Simon agreed.

‘Which hardly makes him culpable,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘Except we still do not know who was the murderer of Henry and the Friar, and the would-be assassin of Sir Baldwin,’ Simon pointed out.

‘Wasn’t that him too?’

‘No, I had nothing to do with their deaths. Saul’s death was an accident, and you can’t make me confess to the others. They were nothing to do with me!’

‘And the sun doesn’t rise in the east,’ Sir Peregrine said, smiling.

Jeanne had called for some wine to help Sara’s recovery, and she was glad to hear the steps at the door. It opened cautiously, and she saw Stephen standing there, holding a jug and some cups on a tray. He proffered the tray to Edgar, who glanced at Jeanne, busy with the sick woman, then set his sword at Baldwin’s feet and took the tray. Even as he turned to take it to Jeanne, she saw the pale face of Stephen looking at Baldwin, not even shooting a glance at Sara, and she wondered why. It wasn’t important, she told herself, taking a moment to reflect on the importance of Edgar in her life. Without him, her husband would certainly be dead already, because his trusted servant had been at his side in almost all the dangerous situations he had experienced during his life. Edgar was the most devoted, loyal and obedient servant she had ever known.

Which was why, as she saw the cudgel and guessed the truth, there was only time to gasp before the blow fell and Edgar dropped like a stunned ox. He collapsed on the shards of the cups, and when she saw the red liquid seeping over the floor by his head, Jeanne couldn’t help but open her mouth and scream and scream …

John Coppe was still outside, thinking of little but where the next coin might come from, but when he heard that cry, he hoisted himself to his feet. Jan was nowhere to be seen, and there were few people walking about in the Close at this time of day, so John was unsure at first what to do, but he could identify the cry of a woman who needed help. He hobbled with his crutch over to the door, but when he pushed at it, it seemed jammed. Unbeknownst to him, Edgar’s body lay against it and John couldn’t gain enough leverage to open it.

Instead, he opened his mouth. John Coppe had been a sailor, and a man who has had to bellow over roaring wind and thrashing seas learns to make himself heard. He bawled the ancient call for the Hue and Cry at the top of his voice:

‘Out! Out! Out! Help! Murder! Out! Out! Out!’

In the Dean’s hall, Coppe’s cries were just loud enough to penetrate the thick hangings and solid walls, and Simon set his head to one side as he listened a moment. His mind was still on the man in front of him, however, as he asked sarcastically, ‘If not you, who else could have wanted to silence Henry and Nicholas and Baldwin?’

‘How should I know? All I know is, it wasn’t me!’ Matthew wept.

Simon looked over at the Coroner; Sir Peregrine grinned at Simon. ‘I’ve often seen this sort of thing before. A man realises he can’t get away with his crimes and decides to surrender himself for a lesser crime. It won’t work here, though.’

‘It is a shame,’ the Dean sighed. ‘Matthew has been a good servant of the Cathedral. After all, that is what we do here. We are all servants of the Cathedral itself.’

Simon gaped at him in horror. Now he realised who was responsible for the murders! Even as his mind made the leap, he recognised John’s hoarse bawling, and with a muttered oath he span on his heel and bolted from the room.

‘What on …’ Sir Peregrine murmured, and then grabbed Matthew’s arm. ‘Not you. You’re going nowhere.’

Wymond was already hurrying after Simon, wondering what the screams might signify. He hurtled through the front door and gazed about him wildly until he caught sight of the Bailiff’s sturdy body running off towards the Fissand Gate. He immediately set off in pursuit, wondering whether he should have strung his bow.

Jeanne threw herself over Baldwin’s body with a fresh scream even as Stephen reached for the sword. As his hand touched the hilt, she grabbed at it and managed to catch the blade, pulling it from him. The brightly burnished steel cut into her palm, but she refused to acknowledge the pain, shrieking as loudly as she might to gather help. Somehow she must keep this fiend from her husband.

The sword clattered on the floor, and now Sara was screaming as loudly as Jeanne. Jeanne lunged for the hilt, but as she did so, Stephen swung a fist at her. His face was set in a white, determined mask. He looked petrified, but resolute. Jeanne felt the same, but seeing his own terror helped her to conquer hers. She ducked and his blow missed, but she also released the sword. It span away, out of reach beneath the table. They both went for it, Stephen on all fours, clambering over Edgar in his haste, while she scrambled across the floor, shards of broken pots and cups slicing her knees. A great splinter lanced up into the ball of her thumb, but she paid it no attention, her hand reaching out to take up the sword again.

This time his fist found its mark. While she stretched, oblivious, a blow thundered into the side of her head. It was like the first time she had been drunk: the very room appeared to whirl about her, and nausea bubbled in her breast, ready to spew forth. She tried to clear her head, but her arms and legs were formed of lead. There was a mistiness in the room, and a strange silence which made little sense. That was when his fist hit her in the eye.

Through the fog she could see Stephen. He stood near Baldwin, the sword held aloft in both arms, ready to strike, but his eyes were on Jeanne. Later, she thought he might have been pleading for forgiveness, or begging her to try to understand … but she could never be truly sure. He turned away from her, and prepared to deliver the coup de grâce.

But then she saw her husband’s good arm rise up, and with the little strength remaining in him, Baldwin stopped the blow from falling. And as Jeanne saw that, she was aware of the door opening, juddering against Edgar’s body, and Simon pelted in. He stopped and gaped for an instant as he took in the scene.

Behind him, Wymond, the experienced brawler of a hundred tavern scuffles, didn’t hesitate. He shoved Simon from his path, then poked his unstrung bow like a pike into Stephen’s face. The Treasurer gave a shriek of agony and dropped the sword. Wymond stepped to the side, and as Stephen’s hands went to his ruined eye, he swung his heavy bow. It cracked across both Stephen’s forearms, and he howled as an arm broke; then it swept back one last time, and smashed into his throat. Stephen fell to the floor, gurgling and thrashing as he desperately tried to take in air, but as he lay there, Edgar crawled to him, placed a hand on his brow, and ran a dagger over his throat. In the spurt of blood, Stephen’s movements became more panicked for a while, but then gradually ceased.

At last he lay still, just as Thomas shoved his way in through the door and saw Sara, her face and torso smothered in blood. He gave a great roar of pain and grief, and ran to her, putting his face in the corner of her neck as he wept.