The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘This is how they lift them,’ Stephen said. He picked up an iron bar. In section it was a trapezium – like an isosceles triangle with the topmost part of the narrower angle cut off. It had a base of almost ten inches, and was some two inches thick. In cross-section, it was the same shape and dimension as the dove’s tail shape inside the rock, the Dean guessed. He was right. ‘This bar drops into the larger slot,’ Stephen said, plunging it in. ‘And then it’s shoved over into the recess carved to fit it,’ he grunted, twisting and rocking the metal until it slipped sideways and sat in the narrower recess. Pulling on it, he said, ‘The space at the top of the hole is too small to allow the base of this iron bar to be pulled out. While it stays in the hole, the rock is secured to this piece of metal.’

  ‘And how would you – um – retain it there?’ the Dean enquired.

  ‘A two-inch thick wedge. It fits into the wider slot and prevents the bar from sliding sideways, which would allow the rock to fall. Except some fool today forgot to put the wedge into its hole.’

  ‘Are you sure? That is a – ah – serious allegation, Brother.’

  ‘If it wasn’t there, the iron could move, and then the rock would fall,’ Stephen said, folding his arms. ‘As it did.’

  ‘It was an accident, I say,’ the Master Mason repeated. ‘I saw my man setting the rock ready, and he’d already taken off the first three courses from this wall. He knows his job.’

  ‘You weren’t there to watch?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘No, but I know Tom. He’s no fool.’

  ‘Who else did see him?’ Stephen demanded.

  The Master Mason stared at him from lowered brows for a moment, then he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Your vicar there,’ he said at last. ‘He saw it. He was up there with Tom.’

  ‘Matthew, come here, please,’ the Dean called.

  The Clerk of the Fabric Roll looked as though he was still suffering from shock, but that was only to be expected.

  ‘I was up on the scaffold, Dean,’ Matthew began. ‘It was terrifying. I thought we must all die when it fell …’

  ‘Why did this wedge of iron move in its slot? Did you see?’

  ‘Yes. The rock was ready to be hoisted just as the others were, and it seemed solid enough. But I think that the iron block you’re holding there, Treasurer, is so heavy that it dropped and slackened in its slot. The hole in the rock, perhaps, was not the right size? For whatever reason, I think that the wooden wedge holding it in place got loose. Then, when we were about to lift the stone and swing it from the wall, the wedge was squeezed out. Instantly, the iron block moved sideways and the rock was released. When that happened, all that restrained it was the rope about it, and that wasn’t strong enough.’

  ‘There – ah – Stephen,’ the Dean said. ‘It was an accident. Very sad, I am sure. We must do something to honour this poor fallen hero. He was here to help us complete our great work, and has died trying to see our vision realised. It is a terrible thing to have another death on our hands.’

  The Master Mason Robert rubbed his forehead. There was something about these canons that raised his hackles. The Dean seemed to walk about in a daze most of the time, while the Treasurer watched Robert as though expecting him to take off with the church plate. ‘Dean, we’ve been very lucky so far. We’ve had very few deaths,’ he said tiredly.

  ‘Which is how I want it to continue,’ the Dean shot back, and the Master Mason was surprised to hear how sharp his voice suddenly grew.

  ‘Now – ah – Stephen. Please see to it that this poor fellow is cleaned up and made a little more presentable. We shall – ah – hold a service for him,’ Dean Alfred said, his affable manner returning. Then, with a quick look down at the ruined body. ‘Perhaps we should buy a small coffin.’

  ‘Certainly won’t need a big one,’ Robert muttered under his breath with a look at the half-sized corpse before him.

  Thomas was relieved to be able to settle the woman in her hut with her children and three of her female neighbours to look after her.

  There was nothing he could say. His only consolation was, he had done all he could. At least poor Sara had been informed now. It would have been cruel to leave her unsuspecting. Thomas had seen that before on other building sites where the Master Mason was less caring than Robert, and widows had been left without even the courtesy of a message to tell them of their husband’s death. Robert’s bark was much worse than his bite, and today he was mourning not only a companion of some years, but one of his best trained and experienced masons.

  On his way to the hovel today, Thomas had spied a small shop with skins of wine for sale. He hurried away and bought one, carrying it back less swiftly, hoping that she might have recovered. Hers was the sort of face he’d have liked to see smiling, not full of grief. When he first saw her, wearing that sweet and mischievous smile, he had felt that he would like to see her smile like that for ever.

  She was awake, lying on her palliasse and shuddering with grief, when he gently pushed at the door and peeped around it. As soon as he did so, a matron of his own age, sixty or so, rose with a glower and thrust a hand against his breast, almost knocking him over.

  ‘Mistress!’ he cried.

  ‘Shut up. You’ve done enough harm already, bringing the maid this news. Do you go, now, and leave her to recover. Go on, clear off!’

  ‘Mistress, I have brought her this to soothe her spirits. Please tell her I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Sorry won’t buy bread for her and the boys, will it?’ the woman said caustically, snatching away the wineskin and closing the door in his face.

  Henry Potell belched as he tipped the jug one last time. There was a small trickle, then two drips, and that was his supply of wine finished. He slumped back in his chair, polished off the remaining dregs, and stared moodily at the far wall.

  Joel. He was to blame. It was all his stupidity that had led to this disaster. Soon Henry would hear that the pleader had been instructed, and then he’d be called to the court to explain his mistakes. Not that there was any excuse for what had happened. He’d simply trusted Joel, that was all. He’d been buying his frames from Joel since he first set up his shop. If he was to be sued now, he’d sue Joel as well. There was no reason why he should be held responsible, when it was another man who had built the blasted things.

  ‘So, Husband. You’re still here, then? Are you going to try to drink all of the wine in the house?’

  Mabilla’s sarcasm was of little consequence to Henry. He had made up his mind. He stood slowly and, so he felt, magisterially. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Out? Oh, no! You can hardly place one foot in front of the other, Henry. Please, stay here and have a rest. We can talk about it again later, when you’re sober.’

  ‘Woman, I am as sober as I need to be for this!’ Henry exclaimed, and strode purposefully to the door, grabbing his thick, fur-lined cotte as he passed the chest.

  Outside, the sun was harsh at the limewashed houses opposite, and he winced as the brightness stabbed at his brain. Here, on his side of Smythen Street, all was in shadow; the low wintry sun couldn’t reach his front door, and all along his walk he had to keep his eyes narrowed. There was a cacophony of noise as he went, hawkers shrieking, horses neighing, dogs whining and barking – all conspired to erode whatever calmness there had been in his mind. As he passed by yet another female huckster selling apples from a great basket, he almost bellowed at her to be silent. God, he thought, grabbing hold of a table outside a shop, if only these damned people could be quiet for a moment!

  Joel lived at the corner of Goldsmith Street where it met the High Street. The place was not as large as Henry’s own house, but it was comfortable, and it had the advantage of a great yard behind it where Joel could store all his timber.

  Henry staggered to the door and pounded upon it with his fist. He had a slight light-headedness, he found, and he had to take some deep breaths of air as he stood there, contemplating the crowds hurrying past. The town seemed unaw
are of his predicament. Some folks did indeed cast a glance in his direction, but for the most part, all scurried along like so many rats in a sewer. Except this sewer was of their own making. His own making. That made his predicament all the more terrible.

  ‘Yes? Oh, it’s you, Henry.’

  ‘Yes, Joel, it’s me,’ Henry said, shoving his old friend out of the way without further ado and stomping through into the hall.

  ‘You look unwell,’ Joel remarked in concern. ‘Do you want some wine?’

  ‘Why not. Yes, broach your best barrel, Joel. You never know, you may not have time to finish it,’ Henry said nastily.

  He slumped on a stool while Joel first stared and then hurried from the room.

  The joiner’s hall was well-proportioned, with a wealth of pleasant carvings. Henry knew that Joel often relaxed with a baulk of timber and a set of chisels, and carved decorations for his own amusement when he had time; this hall was a testament to his skill. It was lovely, and it made Henry feel unutterably sad. He had no such tribute to leave behind him. All he had was his family, when all was said and done, and a certain amount of money. All he had made, his saddles and bridles, were owned by others. He had nothing – not even a simple harness of his own. He had no need: he didn’t possess a horse. There was little point, when a man could hire a mount when he needed to travel.

  Looking about him now, he felt that his own life was lacking. Even though he had the love of his dear Mabilla, and his daughter was a model of perfection, there was an emptiness at the core of his life. And that life would not go on for ever. He was over sixty years old, in God’s name!

  ‘Come, Henry, tell me what the matter is,’ Joel said as he returned to the room. He held a quart jug and two cups, and as soon as he reached Henry, he poured a good measure into the first cup, passing it to his old companion.

  ‘Where’s Maud?’

  Joel’s eyebrows rose at that. He was a portly figure with a thinning crop of pale hair, not quite light enough to be fair, not dark enough to be mouse-coloured. His face was rounded and comfortable, more prone to laughter than rage, and the crow’s feet at his eyes proved that he was cheerful company. ‘My wife is out at the market, I think – why?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want her to hear me like this,’ Henry said.

  Joel sat and sipped his wine. ‘Tell me what this is about, Henry.’

  ‘One of my bloody saddles broke last week, Joel. Hadn’t you heard?’

  ‘Well yes, I had heard something about that.’

  ‘And it was the frame that broke. It happened right in front of me – in front of my own house, Joel! The customer was reining in, and the cantle broke. I saw it with my own eyes. He plunged down to the cobbles headfirst, and I was sure he must die …’

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Yes, pretty damned terrible. And then he demanded that I pay for his physician, and told me he’d sue me for damages. He lost a lot of money that day, Joel.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  Henry saw the sympathy in his eyes, but that wasn’t good enough. ‘Not as sorry as I was. But that frame was one of yours, Joel. It was one that you sold me. You told me you only had good quality wood, but it snapped. You rooked me, you bastard! What did you do, put together green wood knowing I wouldn’t notice?’

  ‘You’ve known me long enough to realise I wouldn’t do that to you.’

  ‘Do I? That saddle frame was lousy, Joel.’

  ‘I’ll repay you for the frame, if you like, old friend.’

  ‘You’re damn right you will!’

  ‘Is that all? There’s something else eating at you, isn’t there? Come on – get it off your chest.’

  Henry set his cup on the floor, then put his head in his hands. When he spoke again, it was a whisper. ‘Joel, I can’t go on much longer.’

  ‘Come along, old fellow, you’re as hale as I am!’ Joel said heartily.

  ‘Perhaps I am, but I had a visit last week. From the madman.’

  Joel’s face set as though it had been carved from stone. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who did we always mean by that?’ Henry sneered. ‘William is back in the city. He’s a corrodian at St Nicholas’s Priory.’

  ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Joel mumbled, looking away.

  ‘He dropped in to see me,’ Henry continued. ‘At first he only had eyes for my daughter, but then he wanted to chat to me about the good old times. Not only that, he was happy to tell me all that he has done in the last forty years. God in heaven! Joel, the stories he told … you wouldn’t want to hear them, let alone believe them. The men he has killed …’

  ‘I never thought to see him again,’ Joel said.

  ‘Nor I. Yet here he is. He has served the King and the King’s father well, it seems. Well enough for his master to buy him a pension at the priory of his choice. So he is here, and he visits my house almost every day. I tell you, Joel, it makes me sick to hear him. Sick! I had to sit and listen to him snigger to think of poor Nick’s injured face, then boast about how he slaughtered the Chaunter himself, and then how clever he was to divert attention from himself and get the Mayor and gatekeeper hanged.’

  ‘That was how he found his patron,’ Joel agreed.

  They both remembered the old story. When King Edward I, the present King’s father, arrived in full panoply to determine who should pay for the murder of the Bishop’s man, it had been William who pointed out that the Southern Gate to the city had remained open all night. The King had decided to execute those responsible, even if they couldn’t find the true murderers. Then he rewarded William by taking him into his host. William had never looked back.

  ‘What of it? He’ll probably die soon enough,’ Joel said. ‘He was that bit older than us.’

  ‘I don’t know that I can continue to live with the guilt,’ Henry said. ‘My life is scarcely worth a candle. I am to die before many years are out. I’m lucky to have survived so long already. Before I die, I have to make my confession to the Cathedral.’

  ‘Now wait, Henry,’ Joel said hastily. ‘There’s no need for anything rash. Think of the risk if you do that: the Bishop may decide to haul you into his gaol and hasten your end, rather than show compassion. Never trust a man who has power of life and death over you.’

  ‘I have to do something. That is just what Matthew said, but I do have to do something. This guilt is eating at me.’

  ‘You told Matthew?’ Joel asked with astonishment.

  ‘I thought I could rely on him at least. I’ve known him so long,’ Henry said. ‘But he was very kind. He said that he had forgiven all those involved many years ago. In fact, he argued that this was such an old issue, it wasn’t worth raking up the embers again.’

  ‘I think he was very intelligent to say so,’ Joel said.

  ‘You none of you care, do you?’ Henry asked sadly. ‘That man died, with all his familia about him, and for what? To bolster the career of a man who was himself ruined. What was the point?’

  ‘To try to help the man who promised us much,’ Joel said.

  ‘Just as we should all try to help other Christians,’ Henry said bitterly. His heart felt as hollow as the empty cup on the floor beside him. ‘I don’t know. I think I should tell the Bishop.’

  ‘Well, I think you shouldn’t. Indeed, you mustn’t.’

  ‘Do you remember that first lad? The one who ran to the Chaunter to warn him? What was his name? Ah, it was so long ago. And then the Chaunter’s own man cut the boy down, thinking he was another assassin. That was the beginning of the slaughter. All so unnecessary.’

  ‘It may seem that way to you now,’ Joel said soothingly. ‘But it was necessary.’

  ‘Oh, damn you and damn Matthew! I must do what I think is right!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘I can’t carry on like this. Prior Peter on one side telling me I ought to confess before I die, and you two seeking only …’

  ‘Henry, don’t bellow like that, not in my hall,’ Joel remonstrated.

  ‘Oh, to
hell with you, you old devil! I’ll have nothing more to do with you,’ Henry said, rising heavily to his feet. There was no anger in him now, only a kind of dull resignation. ‘I’ll decide what I’m to do. In the meantime, if Udo Germeyne decides to sue me, I’ll sue you in return. I won’t be left damaged by your shoddy work.’

  Joel followed him out to the door. ‘Friend, be easy. I’ll return your money for that frame.’

  ‘You’ll do more than that, Joel Lytell – you’ll take back all the frames you’ve sold me, and you’ll compensate me for the damage done to my business by this fiasco.’

  Henry glared at Joel as he pulled the latch and threw open the door to the High Street, then stumped away in a semi-drunken state of misery.

  It was as he was approaching Carfoix, past the Fissand Gate in this busiest street in Exeter, when one man’s features suddenly stood out: the cold visage of a man he had thought dead many years ago – a man with a livid scar that slashed through the whole left side of his face from temple to jaw. That eye was clouded, the other was brown and intense, glittering with the fervour of the religious fanatic.

  ‘Sweet Jesus! Nicholas!’ Henry swore, a hand rising to his throat, but in that moment the figure was gone.

  He felt entirely alone in the middle of the crowds, like a foreigner with no knowledge of the language or customs. The past was vivid before him, and his throat closed up in dread.

  Chapter Four

  The Clerk of the Works was relieved to enter the Cathedral and take part in the service after the shocks of that morning.

  The way that the rock had moved had brought home to Matthew just how immense was the weight of stone used to build this great place. He glanced up nervously at the walls and ceiling as he knelt, thinking how easy it would be for one of the massive blocks to tumble down and leave him as a splash of crimson on the tiled floor. It was a sickening thought. God could do it with a snap of His fingers, if He so wished, and there was nothing that a man could do to prevent Him.