The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘There was a murder, right enough. It was November, a week and two days after All Souls’ Day.’

  Coppe nodded. That would be the ninth, then.

  ‘The trouble had been brewing for ages. I was only a lad, but I can remember it still. It cut up the city. The Bishop was a foreigner, a man called Quivil, who was arrogant. Wanted everything done his own way. Under him the Archbishop put in a Dean who was a local man, John Pycot – everyone called him John of Exeter. The Archbishop was determined to see Pycot grow in importance and fame. There were rumours spread about him – that he was greedy, took benefices wherever he could, and never did a stroke of work apart from what would benefit him – but they came from the Bishop. That was the sort of man Quivil was. Always putting down those he couldn’t get on with. All the city respected the Dean. We liked John Pycot. The Bishop refused to accept him, and never even acknowledged his position, but couldn’t get rid of him. So he put one of his own men in as Chaunter, to sort of keep Dean John at bay the whole time. The Dean was cross, and it led to a fight. The Chaunter got killed. And that’s about it.’

  ‘Why the coldness towards the friar, then?’

  ‘He was there; he helped protect that damned Chaunter against the good Dean’s men. That friar saw what the Bishop wanted him to. Useless. No, any man who knows this city would agree that the Dean was the better man.’

  ‘Is he dead now?’

  ‘Don’t know. He was gaoled for a long while in the Bishop’s cells, then forced to take up the vows and go into exile in some monastery or other. No one will hear from him again.’

  ‘Don’t you think that the friar has paid for his actions?’ Coppe said, thinking of the dreadful wound on his face that all but matched his own.

  Janekyn gave him a steady look. ‘Sorry, John, I know you feel sympathy for a man like that, but I can’t. He fought on the side of the man who helped create a rift in the Chapter. For that I hope the Chaunter rots, and I don’t care to drink with those who tried to save him, neither.’

  After William’s departure, Mabilla entered the counting room. ‘I saw him leaving,’ she said quietly, nervously fingering a thread on a tapestry.

  ‘He told me I mustn’t confess,’ Henry said heavily. His wife, he could see, was very scared. She seemed unable to meet his eyes, as though she feared his emotions might force her to break down in sympathy.

  Sympathy was a commodity he could not summon up for others. He sat drained, his face twisted and his eyes moist; he could have wept. Both forearms lay on the table before him, and Mabilla felt that William had sucked the energy from him. Even the will to live was gone.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ she said. She went to his side and took his hand in her own, kneeling and gazing up at him. ‘My love, don’t look so upset. The man was only demanding that you protect him.’

  ‘He said he’d kill me. I think he threatened not just me, my darling, but you and Julia too. I need some wine!’

  ‘My love, no! Keep your head clear just for a little longer. Don’t think of me or of Julia. We are strong enough. Think of yourself. If you allow him to threaten you, it’s your soul he’ll harm. Don’t let him do that. We can always seek protection. There are men you can hire.’

  ‘Darling, he threatened …’

  ‘All he can do is perhaps try to hurt you, but we can stop that. We’ll get men to guard you, if you want. But his threats are nothing compared to the risk to your immortal soul, Henry. Think of that: your soul! If you feel you must confess your sin, then do so.’

  Henry turned his head and looked at her. ‘I wish I knew what to do for the best.’

  ‘Look into your heart, my love.’

  ‘It’s not just my heart, darling. Peter, the acting Prior at St Nicholas’s said I should confess, too.’

  ‘Then you must do it, my love. It’s your eternal soul. Don’t let him risk that.’

  ‘But if I speak to any of the canons or vicars, they’ll be bound to tell someone else. The Cathedral is no repository for secrets. They gabble away all the time like old women. If only I …’

  A face returned to him. A face he had seen in the streets, the ravaged features of the man he had last seen sprawled in the mud at the side of his master. Friars could hear confessions, he reminded himself.

  ‘Perhaps there is one man I could speak to,’ he said.

  Sara was early at the gate to St Nicholas’s. She and Elias were waiting for the bread to be distributed, and she lifted and pushed her little son before her, trying to maintain their place among the people who crowded the narrow street.

  It was a blessing that the good monks at St Nicholas’s Priory issued their alms. Without their generosity many of the poor of the city would die, Sara among them.

  No! The boys were reason enough to continue the battle. She might have lost her man, but she wouldn’t lose her boys too. And if that meant queuing at the gate to St Nicholas’s, she’d be here all night if necessary.

  Just then, the bell tolled out, and now she could hear the chain and latch being pulled. That meant the Almoner had brought food for the poor. She’d be able to get something into her belly, with luck. But there were so many people about, she realised, glancing from side to side. What if there wasn’t enough food for her, for Dan and Elias?

  As she looked and felt the others pushing her forwards from behind, she noticed that the ring of people before the gate was contracting: men and women were forcing their way towards the gate from either side. The crush on all sides was so tight that it was impossible to move her arms, and then her breasts were bruised as she was shoved painfully into the backs of those in front. They retaliated with elbows and backward kicks, and her shins were barked by the boot-heels of the man in front of her as he shouted for people to stop their ‘infernal fucking shoving!’

  It was alarming, most of all because she knew that Elias was at her side. He had her hand in his, and he was wailing already. She couldn’t pick him up, though. He was terrified, and so was she as the mass of people pulled her inexorably on. And then the fellow in front wasn’t there. He simply disappeared from sight, and as her mind tried to absorb this, her feet were trapped. She couldn’t lift or press them onwards, and the weight of hundreds was at her back. With a scream of dread, she felt herself topple; her son’s hand was ripped from her grasp, and she tumbled down with her ears seared by the sound of his screams.

  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.