The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Six

Henry Potell was sunk deep into thought as he walked from his house. He knew that he ought to confess his offences before God before he died — but he was concerned that he would be hastening his death, were he to try to speak to Nicholas Friar and William got to hear of it.

Mabilla was convinced that he must confess, and she seemed confident that William would pose no genuine threat. Henry had wondered at that for a moment. She had once known William very well, when she was younger … but there was no point doubting her. She was his wife; she’d been loyal to him for years.

‘Christ!’ he muttered. The prospect before him was not one to inspire cheerfulness.

Still, he must persevere. Fear of William’s retribution was one thing: his fear of God’s wrath was infinitely more pressing. He would find poor, scarred Nicholas and beg forgiveness — but first he would go to the Cathedral and offer a prayer to show how sorry he was to have participated in the murder. It couldn’t hurt.

He stopped at the entrance to the Fissand Gate and peered down at the Cathedral. It looked so forbidding, he was tempted to turn around and go straight home again. The scaffolding which rose about the truncated walls looked eerily like giant polearms, as though God had sent a force of great angels to capture him and harry him down to hell. The thought was enough to make the saddler feel sick.

Right in front of him was the Charnel Chapel, a plain block, pointing towards the Cathedral’s western front, with a pair of doorways. One gave into the chapel itself, while the second opened onto a flight of steps which led down to the undercroft where the bones were neatly stored.

Henry shivered with revulsion, not because of the remnants of the dead, but because this undistinguished charnel block was the site of his greatest sin.

At the time it had seemed so simple, so straightforward. John Pycot the Dean was a local man, from Exeter, and Henry had believed him to be the better judge of what was best for the Cathedral, rather than some outsider like Quivil. Just because he’d been made a Bishop didn’t make the man infallible. And anyway, everyone knew perfectly well that he didn’t even have the support of his own Archbishop. It was only natural that when Quivil went and installed Walter de Lecchelade as his henchman and spy to counteract the beneficial influence of Dean John, that Lecchelade himself should become the target.

For Henry it was a matter of his personal belief in and allegiance to the Dean. John was an endearing man, the sort of fellow who could easily instill trust in a youth. He was interested in Henry, treated him with politeness and respect, which wasn’t normal for an apprentice saddler. Usually they were granted a level of disdain which fell only slightly short of contempt.

It was that easiness in the presence of other Exeter folks that endeared Dean John to so many, although others were keen to help him from less worthy motives. Henry knew that some, like Peter, were determined to slaughter Walter Lecchelade to further their own ambitions, aware that they’d be more secure if they helped their Dean to put this foreign Bishop firmly in his place.

Even those who sought political advantage were preferable to the others, who were only in it for the money; they repelled Henry just as they must any man with a conscience. He had no dislike of money, naturally enough; money was essential for any man, but some would betray their own master for financial gain.

As he had this thought, he swallowed his anxiety and forced himself onwards. At the gate itself he saw the beggar, John Coppe, sitting at his accustomed post; he threw him half a penny, as though that small donation could in some way redeem him for the harm done to Nicholas by his companions while the Friar was trying to defend his master. It was a strange coincidence, that Coppe too had lost his right eye in a sweeping blow which had raked down his face from temple to jaw.

The darkness of the narrow gateway always gave Henry the curious sense of some gloomy region that wasn’t quite of this world; entering the tall houses on either side prevented the sun from reaching the cobbles. And then suddenly he was out in the wide expanse of grass which was the Close, confronted with the mass of the Cathedral itself. It was an exciting moment, and just as he always had been, Henry was impressed. Even with the scaffolding about the sections of wall that were still being erected, even with the mess of builders and masons and all the labourers lying at its foot, the Cathedral was a marvellous, living entity, a symbol of God but also a growing proof of Exeter’s own importance.

As he strode along the grass among the workmen, he heard a voice address him.

‘Master Saddler! I am pleased to see you again.’

‘Udo … I am glad to see you, too,’ Henry said with a sinking heart.

Thomas was at an inn when the commotion began.

There was a clear, tinkling noise like a bell, and then he heard voices shouting. A bellow roared out, followed by a scream and then a rumbling noise … He quickly downed his quart of ale and went out after the other patrons into the street.

The row seemed to be coming from the entrance to the Priory. As Thomas hurried up Fore Street he joined a gang of children who were capering along too, and some women. Even a few hawkers who apparently had little better to do were giving in to their curiosity. All those with more urgent things to do were already over beyond Carfoix, Thomas said to himself moodily.

Further up the street, the crowd increased, and soon Thomas could not see the Priory gate itself for the press of men and women thronging the path.

The screams were much louder now, and made the blood run cold. Necks craned, there were confused shouts and then the press of people parted as the first of the wounded appeared — a girl, eyes wide in terror, arms outstretched, pushing and wailing, desperate to get away. Thomas grabbed her arms and tried to calm her, to get her to explain what had happened, but she only mewed like a cat, and as soon as she could, pulled away and bolted past him.

People were suddenly melting away, and Thomas barged onwards, not certain why, but convinced that he must get forwards, to the front.

Later it became clear what must have happened, but at that moment, when he reached the Priory’s wall, he gasped in shock as he, and those around him, found themselves confronted by the pile of bodies.

So many, he found it hard to believe. Some at the top were still twitching, but those beneath were still, their eyes open, blood dripping from scratches and scrapes, hands and feet mingled in a hideous mound of death. All about there was a strange, tragic silence.

Thomas doubted that there could be any survivors in that monstrous heap, and yet someone must make sure. Reaching for the first, he tentatively pulled at the scrawny ankles until the thinly dressed figure of a girlchild of maybe nine years fell on the cobbles before him — a pretty little waif, with round face and fair hair. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed, his throat constricted with the horror, and reached for the next. ‘Help me!’

Other willing hands were soon at work, and they began hauling bodies aside. Some were still breathing, and these they set apart, but the dead were the larger group, and it was easy to see why. They were all malnourished, the children with rickets, the adults with the yellow or grey skin that spoke of illness and hunger.

It was when he had pulled the fourth body from that obscene mound that he found Saul’s wife, poor Sara.

Udo extended his hand and nodded to the saddler.

‘I … er, I’m pleased to see you so well,’ Henry stammered.

‘Ja, well, your physician is very good,’ Udo said with a grimace. ‘He bled me twice, and assures me I can expect to have a full recovery.’

‘I am very glad to hear it!’ Henry said effusively.

Udo glanced at him. ‘It was exceedingly painful,’ he noted.

God in heaven, but how painful he could never describe. The physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, had arrived with two assistants, both carrying large leather bags filled with the tools of their trade. Almost as soon as he entered Udo’s hall, he subjected the room to a cursory investigation, and only when he had noted Udo’s silver plate and the pewter jug and goblet on the table at his side did he show any desire to study the patient himself. Blasted physicians always wanted to make sure a man could pay before bothering to exert themselves.

‘I understand you fell from your horse?’ Ralph began. He was a chubby fellow, with bright blue eyes set rather too close for comfort, and hair of a faded brown, like a fustian cotte that had been washed too many times. His chins wobbled softly whenever he nodded his head, which he did a great deal as though everything Udo said was merely confirming his initial opinion.

‘Ja!’ Udo had grunted, the pain still overwhelming. ‘The verdammte saddle broke!’

‘I see. You put your arm out to break your fall, of course? Yes, as I concluded. It is a simple enough case, then. It is either a broken arm or a badly dislocated one. There is no bleeding?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

The physician was nodding and looking bored, as though this matter was so simple and lacking in professional interest as to be almost beneath his skills. He motioned to his assistants. ‘Remove his shirt.’

At least these two were gentle enough. They gradually tugged the shirt from his shoulders and eased it from him until Udo was bare-chested. He glanced at his shoulder and saw how swollen and sore it looked. ‘Can you-’

‘My dear fellow, a barber could mend this!’ Ralph smiled. ‘Now, we shall need a good strong piece of wood. A lance would be ideal, but anything of that dimension would be fine.’

Udo could remember the rest of that day with perfect clarity. Apparently the operation was most straightforward. That was what the physician said. They had set Udo kneeling on his table, one assistant in front, the other behind, both holding a long wooden pole over their shoulders, which passed beneath Udo’s underarm. The physician gripped his wrist, and then, eyeing his patient speculatively, he yanked down with all his weight while the assistants pushed upwards. Udo shrieked with the agony of it, trying to stand and wrench his wrist from the damned physician’s grasp, but he could do nothing while the assistants raised the pole under his arm. And then, suddenly, there was a strange, painful, and yet noticeably right crunch. Something slipped sideways or backwards, or something, and although there was a sharp stabbing for a moment, instantly he felt indescribably improved. ‘Mein Gott!’

‘I felt that!’ the physician smiled, leaving go his hold.

The pole was removed and Udo flexed his hand. There was a sensation of pins and needles, but the feeling was already returning. His shoulder was painful, yes, but already he could move his arm a little without agony.

‘Very good, master. I am glad to have been able to help you,’ the physician said. ‘Now, is there anything else I can do for you? I specialise in hernias and haemorrhoids,’ he added hopefully.

Udo shook his head slowly, unwilling still to jolt his renewed arm. ‘I need nothing more. You may present your bill to Henry Potell the saddler.’

‘So he informed me. Very well. I thank you.’

Ralph had gestured to his assistants, who had packed their bags and taken them and their pole away. Soon Udo was left alone in his hall, flexing his hand and wondering how much that short course of treatment would end up costing the saddler.

There had been plenty of time to muse over his misfortune that day. He had gone to buy the damned saddle only because he wished to get to know the Potell family better, and introduce himself to their daughter Julia; instead he had hurt himself, scared Henry with talk of suing him, and probably petrified his wife Mabilla and the girl into the bargain! Udo had several times thought of going to the saddler’s house in the last days to put things right, but somehow he had never quite summoned the courage.

This appeared a perfect time to talk to Henry. They were both away from home, there was no reminder of that disastrous day, and Udo could perhaps hint at his interest still in Henry’s daughter. Yes, that was surely the best approach.

‘I have not seen your delightful lady for some days.’

Henry stiffened slightly. ‘I suppose your shoulder was too painful to be able to go out,’ he said drily.

‘Your physician was most competent. I have no complaints. He has mended me well.’

Henry was still apparently reticent. His eyes, Udo noticed, kept flitting towards the Charnel Chapel.

‘Henry — Master Saddler — I should like to talk to you about a matter of delicacy.’

‘You mean to ruin me?’

There was a depth of sadness in that question and in Henry’s eyes as he uttered those words which Udo felt compelled to ease. ‘Master Saddler, I have no intention of pursuing you. Any man can,’ he swallowed, ‘be unfortunate enough to have an accident. It was surely not your intention to see me hurled from my horse, so how could I prosecute you? That would be the act of a cruel man.’

Henry appeared stunned. He stopped dead, and turned to Udo with an expression of complete bafflement. ‘You mean you won’t sue me?’

‘I have not instructed a pleader, no, and I shall not, I think. No, I believe that you and I should become friends.’

‘I’m sure that’d be good,’ Henry stammered. ‘But, how can I thank you?’

Udo cleared his throat. ‘There is one way …’ he said hesitantly.

Without realising that she was the subject of a discussion between Udo and her father, Julia wrapped a neckerchief about her shoulders and pulled it tighter as she walked into the hall. Her mother was already there, sitting at her favourite place on a stool before the table, near to the fire. Against the cool of the afternoon, she was wearing her cote-hardie and a blanket wrapped about her, but Julia was sure that it was not the draughts but the family’s straits that chilled Mabilla’s blood.

‘Mother, may I fetch you some wine?’

Mabilla glanced up at her and gave a smile. ‘No, I am fine, dear. Just waiting for your father to return.’

‘Where has he gone?’

‘He has some business to attend to,’ Mabilla responded slowly.

‘It’s nothing to do with that odious man, then?’

‘You mean Master Udo?’

‘God, no, not him! That revolting old pensioner, Will. I hate him, Mother. He looks at me like a man staring at a piece of meat on the butcher’s slab. He has no compassion or sympathy for others. How could Father have grown to know him? And how can he let a fellow like that in the house?’

‘You shouldn’t speak of him like that,’ Mabilla countered, but without anger. ‘Your father knew Brother William a long time ago.’

‘I’ve never seen him before. It must have been a very long time ago that he left here.’

‘No matter. You should know your father better than to think that he would desert his friends just because they’ve been away for a long while.’

‘Will that German seek to ruin us, Mother?’ Julia said after a moment’s silence.

‘He may not, Daughter. Let us hope not.’

‘I had thought …’

‘Yes?’ Mabilla pressed.

‘The way that he stares at me in church … like a man besotted. And when he asked for the saddle, I felt he was considering making an offer for my hand,’ said Julia. She hadn’t broached the subject before with her mother, and now she could feel her cheeks flush as she spoke.

Mabilla eyed her. ‘You mean you’d consider taking his hand? A man so very much older than you?’

‘He would be experienced of things that I’d know nothing about, and he’d be able to look after me.’

‘For a while, perhaps. But he would be certain to die, wouldn’t he? And then what would you do?’

Julia lifted her chin. ‘I should have thought that he would be able to protect me after he had died. I would be able to count on at least a third part of his estate even if there was a child, according to the law, and he might settle more on me if he wished.’

‘I don’t think there is much likelihood of his wishing to settle anything on you now, dear,’ her mother said sadly. ‘I had no idea you guessed his intentions. I only realised myself when your father told me of the gift he brought for you and me. Then I wondered. We hardly know the man, after all, and there was no need for him to bring us cakes, but then it seemed so obvious.’ She sighed. ‘I shouldn’t think he’d want to treat us like that again.’

‘Perhaps …’ Julia was hesitant, running the fingers of her right hand over the top of the table, avoiding her mother’s eyes. ‘I mean, if I were to signal my interest to him, maybe he’d be prepared to think me a worthy prize? Instead of harming Father’s business, might he not consider taking me and a dowry?’

‘Possibly,’ Mabilla said, but now her voice was harder. ‘Yet think on this, Julia. If a man was to take you not from love or affection, but because you were a prize won at another man’s expense, or rather, you were another man’s prized possession, and he took you in compensation instead of another reward, just ask yourself how well he would treat such a woman. Would he cherish you, or merely own you like any other chattel? As your mother I should be wary of letting you enter a bargain of that nature, child.’

It was all too true, Mabilla thought bitterly. A man could take a woman without care, without thinking. If he desired her, all too often he would have her, promising her love and adoration for life, and then disappear the moment any proof of his commitment was needed. Yes, Mabilla knew that well enough. Yet at least Julia was not keen on William. That would have been too demeaning and degrading to consider.

‘To live as the unloved wife of a wealthy man would not be so very hard,’ Julia continued. ‘Especially if the alternative was to live in dire poverty without a husband.’

Mabilla bit back her anger. ‘You would be happier living in luxury with your father’s enemy, rather than remaining with us if that same man sued us and ruined us?’

‘I didn’t mean that!’

‘It’s what it sounded like.’

‘No, Mother.’ Julia took a deep breath. ‘I was only thinking that I should prefer to live with him as his wife if that was all it cost me to see you and Father living in comfort. If the alternative was to see you both impecunious, obviously I’d prefer to marry him.’

‘He would be taking you for the wrong reasons.’

‘I don’t know,’ Julia said, and now she stood at the great window, pulling her neckerchief about her again in the draught. ‘He was keen enough before. I believe he loved me. Who can say how his heart is today? Perhaps he would still make me a good husband. It’s worth thinking about, isn’t it? I know how worried you are.’

Her mother grunted, staring back into the flames, but Julia was sure that Mabilla would consider her words. It did make good sense, after all.

‘Well? And what is your feeling about this?’ Udo asked as he completed his offer.

It had taken him time to work out the best means of presenting his suggestion. First, he had thought that he should perhaps threaten the man, saying that if he didn’t agree to let him take Julia, he would continue with suing him for damages — but on reflection, he felt that threatening a fellow in order to be able to take his daughter’s hand in marriage might not be the ideal approach. No, it was better simply to present himself as a keen groom to the daughter, and ask for her hand as would any hopeful swain.

Henry stood gazing at him blankly, and Udo felt a rising irritation that this man had not jumped at the opportunity of having him as son-in-law. He had made his case as best he could, after all. He was surely not such a poor catch, was he? This man’s gormless stare was insulting. He should be glad that Udo had not threatened him with ruin! Udo had gone to some lengths to explain that he had desired a wife for some while, and felt sure that Henry’s daughter would serve him well. She was young and desirable, Udo was old but wealthy. They would make a good match.

Henry cleared his throat. ‘You are asking me for my daughter? You want to marry Julia?’

‘Of course. It would be a good arrangement, so I think.’

‘You expect me to sell my daughter to a foreigner?’

‘I have lived in Exeter for many years, Henry. I am more of an Exonian than many others who are members of the freedom.’

‘I would have to think very hard. And ask Julia.’

‘I am sure she would agree with your advice. She is a dutiful woman, I think.’

‘Perhaps she is, but I wouldn’t tell her to marry against her own feelings.’

‘This would be a good marriage for her. I can support her better than … than most.’

‘You mean, “Better than you, Henry Saddler”.’

‘No, not at all. I was thinking of the other men who could ask for her.’

Henry chewed at his inner lip. He was unsure of the best course. Right now his mind was focused on the friar and what he must say to him in Confession. His eyes wandered over the Close until they reached the Charnel Chapel again.

It was a foul little place. Henry could see again the anguish and naked terror in the Chaunter’s men’s eyes as the first fellow hared down to them screaming that it was an ambush, only to be struck down by the man at the Chaunter’s right hand. He fell without a further sound, tumbling down like a rag doll, by a small depression in the grass. Staring about him now, Henry could see that depression again. If he was of a melancholy disposition, he might have considered that it looked like a grave. Poor devil: to be slaughtered like that when all he was trying to do was save them all.

‘Come, now. I want your daughter. Will you not accept? I promise to make her happy, wealthy and wise.’

‘She’s not a piece of property to be bought and sold. She’s my flesh and blood.’

‘You are a stubborn man, Saddler. I expect you to persuade her, though, yes?’

‘I will not force her,’ Henry said, allowing a little testiness into his voice. This foreigner was persistent to the point of annoyance. There was a figure near the chapel, he saw, talking to the Annuellar. A tall, thoughtful man clad in a friar’s greyish-brown robes, his head concealed by a hood.

‘My God,’ he breathed. The figure was stooped, one hand ruined, a mere claw, yet he reminded Henry of …

‘I do not demand that you force her …’ Udo continued.

Henry listened with only half an ear. The man’s clothing was worn and stained from many years of use, but there was something about him. Was he the man who had been attacked, who had been so dreadfully hurt during that night of blood? The friar with the terrible scars whom Henry had seen after leaving Joel’s house? It made the blood still in his veins. This was the man he must talk to! If no one else, that friar could give him absolution. If he could hear the confession of the man who had inflicted those dreadful wounds, Henry could be saved. Damn William, he thought. I will tell the truth at last!

‘Come! All I ask, then, is that you speak to her kindly about me. She must know I am wealthy. After all, you have been worried, I expect, that I would bring a suit against you.’

Henry had not been listening. Now, suddenly coming to the present once more, he was surprised to realise that Udo was still talking. Then his surprise turned to anger as he absorbed Udo’s words. ‘So that is it! You mean, I would be better off if I sold her to you, rather than suffer the risk of you ruining me!’ Henry spat. ‘I would rather see her die a spinster or a nun, than force her into a marriage just because I was being blackmailed!’

‘I did not mean that,’ Udo stated firmly. His own temper was darkening.

‘Leave me! Sue me if you wish, but I won’t help you to steal my daughter just to save myself from your threats!’

‘I do not threaten. Listen to me, Master Saddler.’

‘Leave me alone, Germeyne! I have business with others.’

‘Damn you! If you don’t listen to me, man, I’ll destroy you!’ Udo bellowed as Henry stalked away. He watched as the saddler turned. Slowly and deliberately, Henry bit his thumb at him, and Udo felt the blood rush to his face with his anger as he registered that insult. ‘I’ll destroy you!’ he repeated, more loudly.

Henry closed his eyes, shook his head in a brief, dismissive gesture, and stalked off.

It was tempting to grab his sword’s hilt and hare after him, but Udo swallowed his anger. His face was mottled with his fury, but gradually as he calmed, he saw the other people standing and staring at him. There was a friar up ahead, a couple of labourers behind him, and a pair of the Cathedral’s canons. One he recognised as the Charnel Chapel’s Annuellar, who stood quivering with anger for a moment before launching himself at Udo with the speed and ferocity of a rock hurled from a trebuchet.

‘What is the meaning of this? You dare to threaten a man’s life here in the Cathedral Close, man? You will apologise to the Dean and Chapter of this holy place!’

‘I am leaving. It was not to upset you,’ Udo said with what hauteur he could muster.

‘Remember, fellow — I heard you threaten that man. All of us here did,’ the Annuellar said, waving a hand at the group nearby. ‘If any harm comes to Henry Potell, I shall see you brought to justice. I hope that is clear. You had best pray that he remains safe!’

Janekyn, the porter at Fissand Gate, heard the curfew bell with enormous relief. ‘At last,’ he grunted to himself, shoving the heavy doors closed and dropping the huge timber plank into place in its slots.

‘That’s it! You want some wine, Paul?’ he asked.

The young Annuellar from St Edward’s Chapel had arrived to help with the gates. As usual, he looked rather drawn, Janekyn thought. Maybe the fellow needed a break from his routines. He had the appearance of one who fasted too often and too rigorously. Janekyn often used to offer food and wine to the choristers who seemed to need it most, and tonight he was tempted to do the same for Paul.

Paul shook his head. ‘I’m off to the calefactory. It’s bitter tonight.’

‘’Tis cold enough to freeze the marrow in your bones while you live,’ Janekyn agreed.

Aye, it was ferociously cold, and the stars shining so merrily in the sky hinted that it wouldn’t get any warmer. The porter had often noticed that when the clouds were up there, they seemed to behave like a blanket over the world, keeping the area a little warmer, but that was a forlorn hope now.

‘Are you well?’ Janekyn asked gently as the Annuellar stood as though lost in thought.

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘What is it, then? Your face would curdle milk.’

‘Is it that obvious? Well, I’ll tell you. Earlier I saw the German arguing with Henry the Saddler. They were rowing about young Julia, I think.’

‘Udo wants her?’ Janekyn pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘I can’t blame him. Who wouldn’t?’

‘When Henry parted from him, Udo said he’d ruin Henry — no, not that — he said he’d destroy him. I was quite angry to hear such words in the Close.’

‘Did Henry strike him or anything?’

‘No. He left soon afterwards, walking off with a friar — you know, that man with the terrible scars?’

Janekyn nodded slowly. That description fitted only one person.

As the youth left him, Janekyn finished the last of his chores. He set his brazier back in the middle of the floor, snuffed the three candles at his table, leaving only the one in his bone-windowed lantern, and tidied his room, unrolling his palliasse and spreading his blankets over it. He had a pottery vessel, which he now filled with hot water from the pot over his fire, stoppered it and put it amongst the bedding to keep it warm. Then he settled down with his last cup of wine, and sipped the hot drink.

He had consumed only half when there was a splattering of gravel at his door, and a hasty banging. ‘Jan, come quickly!’ shouted a voice.

Suspiciously he opened his door and peered outside. Recognising Paul, he demanded, ‘What are you doing back here?’

‘Help, Jan! Please come and help me!’

‘In God’s name, what is the matter, boy? I’m ready for my bed!’ Then his eyes widened as he saw the blood that clotted the boy’s hands and breast.

‘It’s Henry! He’s been murdered! Oh God, a murder in our Close! Jan, what can we do?’