The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18)

by Michael Jecks

  The old King was a real man. Strong, quick to take offence, slow to forgive or forget, and he could scare any of the barons in the land. He was utterly ruthless, and the devil with any man who stood in his way. Still, for William he had been a good master.

  He had noticed William when the latter had explained about the South Gate to the city and how it had been left open. That was during the trial of the Chaunter’s murderers, and the implication was obvious to the meanest intelligence: the city was complicit in the assassination. Only with the connivance of the city’s oligarchs could the killers have had the gate opened in order to guarantee their escape after curfew.

  Standing up like that in his own city to denounce his neighbours, that had taken courage, and the King had seen it. He admired it, too. A man who’d stand against all his past friends to help the King, that was a man of loyalty … or greed. Either way, it was enough to make him useful to the King.

  Soon after the ending of the trial, when the King left Exeter, he took Will with him. He joined the King’s host, and climbed the ladder of opportunity whenever he could. Under King Edward I he became an infantry constable, a post with which he was well-satisfied, and when King Edward II took the throne in 1307, within two years Will found himself a Royal Yeoman. He never was too sure what had led to that, because he hadn’t got on very well with the new monarch, but he supposed it was something to do with Edward’s needing allies. Everyone seemed to dislike him. He had begun his reign in a promising way, taking over the realm to general acclaim and delight, because he was a tall handsome lad, and people were sick of the austerity of his father’s rule. All military clothes and no style – if it wasn’t practical, Edward I wasn’t interested. The young Edward, however, wanted fun!

  Actors, jugglers, singers, troubadours … all came to see and entertain him, and when he was particularly enamoured, he’d join in and perform with them. At first, this pleased some of his subjects but then a sourness started to settle. His frivolity angered the churchmen, who muttered about his excesses, and his barons looked on him disrespectfully, comparing him unfavourably with his father.

  Then came the ignominious disaster of the invasion of Scotland, and Robert Bruce’s repulsion of the English at Bannockburn.

  Ach, William could remember that well enough. He’d been one of the hungry foot-soldiers there, standing with his pikemen at his sides, waiting, and seeing the knights all go down in the pock-marked swamp. They did not stand a chance. The Scots bastards stood back and fired at them with their bows, then formed into groups of pikemen, the points outthrust like a hedgehog’s back, and none of the knights could penetrate their defence. Not that many of them got that far: most fell in the mud and drowned or were slaughtered where they lay, incapable of rising in their armour, their mounts thrashing at their sides with their legs broken in the pits dug by the Scots. It wasn’t a good battle. Will and his men had been lucky to escape without a serious mauling.

  After that, his star waxed full marvellously. King Edward had granted him the custody of Odiham Castle with the men-at-arms who resided there, twenty-one squires and their pages, even though William wasn’t of knightly rank. And there he’d remained, occasionally answering the King’s calls to go to war, once falling out with the King when he tested his skills by using a writ of the Privy Seal to thieve a manor from the widow of a knight. He’d won, though, in the end. The King had need of trained fighters, especially men who could be trusted with a company behind them.

  War had been good to Will. He’d made his fortune several times, and if he lost it afterwards, well, that was what money was for. He wasn’t going to complain.

  Still, when he realised that his sore joints and scars were making him unfit to fight, the idea of coming back here to his old home was attractive. Even if there might be one or two who still bore him a grudge because of the way he had fingered Alured de Porta, the city’s Mayor, and the Southern Gatekeeper, pointing out that only their incompetence or their active support could have led to the gate being left wide open for the killers to escape. So Alured was taken out and hanged on the feast of Saint Stephen, the day after Christmas. A shame – he was a pleasant enough fellow. But when the murderers had all escaped, apart from the vicars and novices in the Cathedral of course, the King had to pick someone who could be punished symbolically on behalf of the whole city. The Mayor was the best and most fitting victim. Nothing personal.

  Will filled and drained his horn three times while he waited, considering again his long life and the many battles in which he had participated, the men he had killed. Some had died in the angry heat of warfare, while others had expired more quietly in little green lanes when they had least expected it – and when their deaths could benefit him most directly. All those bodies were in his memory, available instantly to be called to his mind, and he smiled as he recalled some of them: the weaker ones who pleaded with him; those who tried to flee; those who brazened it out, lying to him in order to secure their freedom. Some of those were the most memorable. All had helped him. While he removed their lives, he also took their purses.

  Only when the third horn was empty did he hear the door open and, glancing up, see the figure he expected. ‘At last.’

  ‘I can’t drink that stuff. I need some wine.’

  ‘You look as though you need more than wine,’ he said fondly.

  Mabilla stared at him, and her expression froze his blood. It was a look of pure, intense hatred.

  ‘Why do you look at me that way?’ he almost stuttered. ‘It’s me, your William …’

  ‘How did you think I should look?’ she hissed malevolently. ‘I’m a widow now, because of you! It was you, wasn’t it? You murdered my Henry!’

  Chapter Nine

  Baldwin had made his journey with a joy-filled heart, glad to be out and working again. It felt so good to ride the muddy roadways, smell the fresh, damp soil, feel the warmth of the sun on his flank, the sensation of swaying with his rounsey as the massive beast moved with him – and yes, to be away from the petulance and confusion of married life.

  He rode down the road south to Thorverton, and here was tempted to cross the river at a convenient ford and approach Exeter from the north, but he changed his mind when he saw the Exe. He hadn’t realised how full the river had become recently, and the sight of the broad floodplain told how foolish he would be to try to cross so far north. In preference he headed south to Brampford Speke. Here the river was a little lower, and he could test it, but he wasn’t happy with the angry, grey look of it, nor with the fast-flowing waters, and continued south and west.

  The River Creedy was less engorged when he reached that, and he decided to follow the road that led west of the Exe and approach Exeter by the great multi-arched bridge that led to Exe Island and the city beyond. With this in mind, he clattered through the Creedy and on. With his delays at the rivers, it was well past noon by the time he breasted the last hill and could see the bridge ahead.

  Exeter’s bridge was a wonderful feat. Before this great stone thoroughfare with its eighteen arches had been constructed, there was only a wooden footbridge, so Baldwin had heard, which had been appallingly dangerous in winter, and which only permitted people on foot. Carts and horses must take their luck with the ford. In summer this ford was safe enough, but the river had a very powerful current which would often wash travellers away. So Nicholas Gervase and his son built the bridge with funds which they raised from the county, and when Nicholas died, sadly before the bridge was completed, they buried his body in the Church of St Edmund on the eastern end of the bridge.

  The structure was massive, and Baldwin always rather enjoyed riding so far up above the river on the sixteen-feet-wide roadway. Today the waters swirled angrily about the pillars below, however, and he was uncomfortably reminded that only solid rock, placed there with human intelligence, was keeping him up. He had never understood why an arch should support a great weight over its gaping emptiness, and now, peering over the side of the bridge, he felt
a faint queasiness at the sight of the roiling water. He swallowed hastily and continued on his way.

  Having almost reached the city, he wondered again about the Dean’s message. A man had died; his body found lying somewhere in the Cathedral’s Close. He was not a member of the clergy, so Baldwin assumed that the death could be a cause of some embarrassment – still, he wondered why the Dean should have asked him to come and look into the matter. Surely there must be a new Coroner by now?

  As he reached the eastern end of the bridge the stench was foul, due to the tanners’ yards on Exe Island; Baldwin spurred his mount onwards to be past it. The skins were left in the sun, soaked in urine in order to remove the hairs, and in the next stage, the leather was left soaking in vats filled with a mixture of bird droppings or dogshit. How any man could wish to become a tanner was quite beyond Baldwin, other than the fact that there was always a demand for leather.

  When he looked over towards the nearest works, he saw in among the great vats and pots, a large man with a bow. The fellow stopped, crouching slightly, and then nocked an arrow and drew it smoothly. He paused, his muscles straining, and then released the arrow. As Baldwin watched, it shot off swiftly up towards the river, and the man relaxed. He trotted off after his arrow, and Baldwin saw him pick it up. It had passed almost completely through a large rat. The fellow jerked his hand, and the rat was flung from the arrow, over the fletchings, and into the river. It sank, leaving only a small swirl of crimson. He slowly made his way back towards the bridge.

  Baldwin nodded to the man, who acknowledged him with a cheery wave. ‘A good shot, Master.’

  ‘Aye, well, a man has to keep them down.’

  Baldwin stopped and rested his forearms on the crupper of his saddle. ‘It’s been very wet.’

  The man nodded seriously. ‘Miserable weather. Makes the rats all come out, otherwise they’d drown in their tunnels. If I killed one each minute of the day, I couldn’t get rid of them all. There are thousands down here.’

  ‘They are foul creatures.’

  The tanner grimaced. ‘My wife used to hate them.’

  ‘She died?’

  ‘Many years ago. She fell under a horse – a proud clerk rode her down. He apologised and helped pay for a nurse to look after my boy, but it didn’t bring her back. Miss her every day,’ he added, staring away up river.

  Baldwin was struck by his attitude. There was a stoical sadness about him, like a man with a grim understanding of grief who must yet continue with life. He might recognise his loss, but he must accommodate it, not allow it to colour his entire existence.

  With the odour of faeces strong in his nostrils, Baldwin chose to ride on. Offering the man a respectful ‘Godspeed, friend,’ he trotted on. It was with relief that he saw the great square tower of the West Gate appearing before him. He trotted past the church and all the works on Exe Island and hurried up to the gate where he acknowledged the surly-looking porter, before continuing on his way towards the Cathedral Close.

  Reaching the entrance to the Fissand Gate, he felt a sudden sinking sensation. The last time he had been here, it was at the time of the Christmas celebrations, and he had been in the company not only of Simon Puttock, his old friend, but also the Coroner, Roger de Gidleigh. Roger was dead now, and Baldwin regretted his passing. The man had been a good, sturdy investigator, as tenacious as Baldwin could have wished. His death was a sad loss, and not only to Roger’s wife. Baldwin missed him.

  He swallowed, cleared his throat, and spurred his mount onwards. At the gate itself, he beckoned the porter and swung himself from his saddle. ‘I’m here to see the Dean. Tell him Sir Baldwin has arrived.’

  Mabilla closed her eyes against the headache that threatened, so it seemed, to make her head explode into shards of red-hot bone. It was hard to believe that Henry really was dead: the man who had been the rock of her life, who had protected her, who had given her three children, only one of whom had survived.

  Hearing faltering steps, Mabilla groaned to herself. The very last thing she wanted right now was her daughter wandering about the room with her eyes all red and bleared with misery.

  Seeing William hadn’t helped, either. The man seemed to think that now Henry was dead, he, Will, would be able to step in and claim her again.

  ‘Come on, girl! You wanted me before him, didn’t you? It was only when I left the city …’

  ‘You expect me to come to you as soon as you kill my husband?’

  ‘Mab! You don’t really think I’d do a thing like that? Just remember the good times we had before I went.’

  ‘When you deserted me, you mean. You wooed me enthusiastically, but when you bethought yourself well-enough acquainted with the King’s temper, you chose to fly off with him.’

  ‘What else would a man do?’ he demanded innocently, his hands outspread, palms uppermost in a gesture of openness. ‘It was a career for a man like me. I went there with the King’s father, who gave me money and honours. The new King even bought me my corrody, when I was too old to continue in his service with all my wounds. He respected my service to him and his father.’

  ‘And you left me all alone. You had sworn yourself to me, and when you’d had your fun, you sought other women. You went off with the King’s host and abandoned me. You didn’t care what happened, did you?’

  ‘I knew you’d be all right,’ he said, the twisted grin returning to his face as he sat back and studied her. ‘And you were, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was fortunate to marry a good, decent man,’ she said. ‘Henry …’ Her eyes filled with tears, and a lump appeared in her throat. A moment passed before she could continue in a low hiss, ‘And you killed him! You murdered my man, just so that you could try to claim my body again!’

  ‘I love you, Mab,’ he said, but then something glittered in his eyes that was nothing like love. ‘But don’t accuse me of things like murder in a public room. I won’t permit it, woman.’

  ‘You wanted me back, didn’t you? Thought I’d be a comfort to you in your old age.’

  ‘I’d like to be comforted by you,’ he grinned.

  That was what made her stand and leave. It was that expression of his, as though nothing bad had happened. He didn’t – he couldn’t – understand her devastation. There was nothing malicious about it, it was just that he had no comprehension as to how others might feel.

  Walking along the High Street afterwards, Mabilla had a sudden, terrible thought. She had to stop and grip an upright pole, panting as though she had run a great marathon. Will hadn’t denied killing her man. He had no sense of empathy with her, because to his mind, Henry was merely a body which had ceased breathing. To him, that was all other people were: animals that walked and talked. Equals or targets. There was nothing else in his simple world.

  It was appalling. She was as sure as she could be that William had killed her man – and she wanted to denounce him, but daren’t. William had no feeling for others. He had killed her man, presumably hoping to win her back, but he would have no compunction in killing her or Julia, were he to view them as a possible threat.

  And now she had accused him, that was exactly how he viewed her: as a threat.

  Joel stood before his window and gazed out into the street.

  Maud was out again, seeking for sweetmeats and other morsels to tempt his appetite. He could have told her not to bother, for there was nothing which could calm his spirit at the moment, but having her out of the house meant he could drop the mask for a while – the mask of a man who was in control and ready for anything. He was Joel the Joiner, in God’s name: Joel Lytell – a man of substance. Yet Maud could sense that he was worried and upset. Christ’s Cods, it’d take something dramatic to make him lose his love of wine and good foods, but since he’d heard of Henry’s murder, he’d had no appetite at all.

  That ungodly bastard William! The murder had all his marks on it. Killing Henry in the Charnel where they had murdered the Chaunter just when Henry was going to confess his part i
n it … William couldn’t bear the thought that his crimes might be uncovered at long last. He was evil.

  It was all because of that damned night so long ago, just as Henry had said. Forty years ago now. Joel had thought that the matter was all done and dusted. When they hanged the wrong men, it was plain as the nose on the hangman’s ugly face that the affair was over. The men in the Bishop’s gaol languished there for a while, but not overlong. And by the Fall of Acre, everyone had more important things to worry about. The Cathedral didn’t want to rake up old enmities when they had the news of Moors attacking and capturing the Holy Land. As though that weren’t enough, that appalling famine followed – when so many people died. Joel knew four families which had faded away and expired, the whole lot of them. The Pieman family in particular were sorely missed. Lovely little girls, they were. Four of them. And they all starved to death because Hal Pieman hadn’t any savings to rub together. The cost of flour and grain rose so sharply, Pieman was unable to buy the ingredients to make his pies, and his poor young family suffered. In the end he hanged himself. He was discovered the next morning by his apprentice. His children and wife were all dead by then. Someone reckoned that almost half the population of Exeter died.

  No, so many lives had been lost, so much water had passed down the Exe, there was no reason to suspect that some silly arse might refresh people’s memories about those far-off times. Yet someone had. And now, Joel felt doubly threatened. There was the story about his part in the killings, and the fact of Henry’s death; if the matter of the broken saddle were to come to court now, it might well be against him that the German directed his ire. After all, it was the frame that broke. Joel’s frame.

  ‘Master?’

  Joel didn’t hear the first calls. He was still standing before his window, unaware of the breeze that blew in and ruffled the tapestries and hangings. Such rustling and whispering of material was a constant feature of life in a pleasant little hall like this, just as the whistling and chattering of birds and other wild creatures was in a forest. Thus it was that when Vince spoke his name again, he was startled, and span on his heel, eyes wide with alarm. He was off-balance, and had to grab at a curtain to save his fall, and as soon as he had regained his posture, he bellowed at his apprentice.