The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18)

by Michael Jecks

  Thomas hefted his bag, and felt the tears prickle at his eyes. This place had destroyed him. His father, once a familiar face to all in the city, a man of honour and integrity who taught Thomas all he knew, had been hanged after the murder on the orders of the King. The shame and remorse which had overwhelmed Thomas when he realised how badly he had betrayed not only himself but also his father, had lingered throughout his entire lifetime. He had hoped it would be gone by now, but no. There was nothing but shame and destruction for him here. Those three men had proved that.

  If he had taken the shortest road out of the Close, walking out by the Bear Gate and leaving the city by the South Gate, he might have missed the guards, but that would mean passing under the Southern Gate’s arch again, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to do that. He’d be tempted to look up, and as he did so, see again in his mind’s eye the body of his father swinging from his rope. No, rather than that, he’d thought he’d go out by the North or East Gates. In truth he hadn’t decided yet.

  At the Fissand Gate he threw a coin at the waiting beggar, then stood at the edge of the road, peering up at the High Street for a long moment before setting off. This city was not his any more. It was a foreign place, filled with danger.

  The High Street was full as usual. There was a herd of cattle ambling along the way, two dogs snapping at their heels, a man behind with a great staff, whistling at them. For a moment Thomas wished he was also a drover – a man in control of his life, measuring each day in the distance travelled, knowing that there was an end to his journeying. That would be a restful life, far better than his present wanderings. And now he must set off once more. He had come here hoping that at last he might find some peace and rest, but there was nothing for him here but death and despair.

  When the cattle had passed, he had to pick his gate, and although he turned right to face east, he never quite managed to set off. Instead, his eyes were drawn again to the north. It was in that direction that he would find more work, perhaps. The Master Mason had spoken reverentially of castles being constructed up there; the Despensers had had several of their castles thrown down during the wars with the Lords Marcher, and there were opportunities there for a man with skill at hewing stone, so Thomas had heard.

  It also meant he would pass close to Sara’s house. That was in some way an appealing thought. He dare not see her, but just knowing that he was close to her one last time would be good. He couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling today. Wretched to think that she had entertained her man’s murderer? Perhaps even repelled by the thought that she had consumed his food and drink. The poor woman was probably distraught.

  He recalled her face when her son told her: it became a mask of terror. In that moment Thomas knew that any affection she might have felt for him was gone for ever. He couldn’t hope to win her, not when he had killed off her Saul. It was a ridiculous dream, nothing more. And in any case, what could he do here, in the city which saw his father hanged? Exeter held nothing for him, only memories … and memories didn’t keep a belly filled.

  Thomas glanced behind him. There was a figure running up around the corner of St Mary Major.

  It was enough to persuade him to get moving. He set his face to the north, shrugged his pack more comfortably on his back, and started on his way.

  In the Charnel Chapel, Sir Peregrine was studying the body of the saddler. ‘You may remove him now. There’s nothing to be learned in here, especially since there have been so many men walking about in here.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Peregrine,’ Matthew said. ‘It has been terrible, what with this man, then the friar being murdered, and the stone mason too. What a time!’

  ‘I shall wish to see those bodies, too,’ the knight said. ‘And we shall have to hold an inquest.’

  ‘The friar has already been taken back to the Friary,’ Matthew said. ‘It’s impossible for us to hold their dead for them.’

  ‘Why? I’d have thought they’d be glad enough for you to hold their corpses until they were ready to take them and conduct the funeral.’

  ‘Not they!’ Matthew smiled. ‘The friars have always been rather at loggerheads with us over death and burials. They have insisted on being able to bury people, but the Cathedral has the right to bury all the city’s dead. We have an arrangement now, because the Friary started a ridiculous argument with us a while ago, demanding that they should be able to hold the funeral services for people whom they called their benefactors. Stupid, of course, but there it is.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sir Peregrine said absently. He was watching the three lay assistants to the grave-digger lifting the body. It was more than a little odorous now, even in the cool of the chapel, and Sir Peregrine was reminded of battlefields in autumn-time as he smelled the sickly sweet scent of rotting blood. ‘I heard about that. It was poor Sir Henry Ralegh, wasn’t it? He was taken by the Cathedral although he had stated that he wanted to be buried by the friars.’

  ‘What he wanted really isn’t the point,’ Matthew remonstrated. ‘A man who died in this city is the Cathedral’s.’

  ‘Absolutely! There is a lot of money involved,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘And when the Cathedral had performed the service, you took the body down to the Friary.’

  ‘But those dogs wouldn’t let us take him inside,’ Matthew declared with a shake of his head at such cruelty. ‘How could they behave in such a manner?’

  ‘And your men left the body to rot outside their gates when they barred them against you,’ Sir Peregrine said mildly. Then he lanced a look at Matthew. ‘You left him, a noble knight, to rot in the sun outside the Friary.’

  ‘It was they left him there!’

  ‘It was you who stole him away in order to win his money, Vicar! You played a contemptible game with a dead knight just for money!’ Sir Peregrine stated.

  His green eyes flared like emerald fire for an instant, and Matthew was careful to say no more. There was no way of telling how a knight might behave when roused, and this one looked particularly dangerous.

  ‘What of this other body? Where is it?’

  ‘The mason was buried ten days ago, Sir Peregrine,’ Matthew said submissively.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We could hardly leave the corpse sitting under a rock while we waited for a Coroner to arrive,’ Matthew said with some asperity. ‘What else could we do?’

  ‘That is not for me to say,’ said Sir Peregrine. ‘All I know is that the body should have remained where it was until I could view it. That is the law. So perhaps the Cathedral will have to pay a fine for that misjudgement.’

  Matthew said nothing. He was beginning to learn that this man was not the amiable sort of fellow who would listen respectfully to a vicar or even the Dean about matters which really pertained solely to the Cathedral and the Chapter. He appeared to think that he had a sole right to enquire about things here in the Cathedral. Perhaps the Dean should have stood his ground more.

  The knight was already striding off towards the Dean’s house, and now Matthew noticed that the Treasurer himself was standing near the corner of the Cathedral with a glower darkening his face as he watched the tall figure march away. Matthew sighed to himself and walked over to Stephen.

  ‘How painful was he today?’ Treasurer Stephen asked.

  ‘It was a difficult meeting. I think he feels that the Chapter is lax in its works when a man dies. He wants to fine us for the burial of the mason now.’

  ‘I did tell the Dean that we should stand our ground and insist on the man staying away. There was no need to call him. We are not part of the secular world.’

  ‘I think that Dean Alfred felt we should not deny him entry in case it became common knowledge that we had deaths here which we sought to conceal. After all, not so long ago it was the Cathedral which had to ask the King to hear a case of murder here, even though it was a murder committed by clerics on ecclesiastical grounds. That makes it difficult to argue that we should exclude the King’s officer now, surely.’

&nb
sp; ‘The Dean shouldn’t have allowed that man to come into our Cathedral,’ Stephen said doggedly.

  ‘Is there something the matter?’ Matthew asked tentatively.

  The Treasurer was startled by his question. ‘What do you mean? What makes you ask that, Vicar?’

  ‘I just thought you were worried, Treasurer. Nothing more than that,’ Matthew said hastily.

  ‘No, there is nothing wrong,’ Stephen said. ‘I just don’t like to think that our work could be delayed while that man runs around, snapping at ankles and making our lives more difficult.’

  Matthew nodded, but as the Treasurer turned and strode away, Matthew was reminded that the man who had ensured that his Chaunter, Walter de Lecchelade, had been murdered was also a Treasurer. John Pycot had only tried to claim the post of Dean when he already controlled the Cathedral’s purse-strings. That in some measure was the reason for his popularity.

  At least this Treasurer was honourable, he told himself … yet he couldn’t entirely lose the frown as he watched Stephen hurry over the grass towards the Exchequer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Baldwin and Simon left the tavern not long afterwards, Simon casting concerned looks at his friend as they walked down the road.

  Clouds were moving swiftly across the sky, although here in the city there was little in the way of a breeze, and the shadows were growing. Simon could see that the alleys heading north from the High Street were already gloomy, and he thought they should return to the Cathedral to let the Dean know what little they had learned.

  However, with Baldwin in his present black mood Simon wasn’t sure that raising the lack of progress was sensible. He was growing a little anxious. It was so unlike Baldwin. The knight could spring back from the harshest knock without hesitation, usually retaining his good humour. It was rare for him to be so affected by anything, especially by this melancholy spirit.

  ‘Baldwin, why don’t we return to the inn and have supper? Then we can decide what we should do next.’

  ‘We know what we must do next,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘Speak to this other confederate of Henry’s – the man called William who lives at the Priory. If we delay to fill your belly, we’ll find the gates locked and barred against us, for the night.’

  ‘I wasn’t just thinking of my stomach,’ Simon said, hurt.

  Baldwin looked at him.

  ‘Not entirely, then?’ Simon said, with a small grin.

  ‘I did not mean to offend you, Simon,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘There is much on my mind, though.’

  ‘I wish I could help.’

  ‘I do too. I fear no one can.’

  ‘Let’s concentrate on the two murders, then,’ Simon said.

  They walked to Carfoix, then down past the Fleshfold on Fore Street until they came to St Nicholas’s Lane, where they turned right. Soon they were at the Priory’s gate. It was closed, but Baldwin was sure that it wasn’t locked for the night yet; it was too early. He beat upon it with his fist.

  There was a pause for some little while before shuffling steps announced the arrival of the porter. A wheezing could be heard at the other side of the gate, which showed that the man was undoubtedly of great age, and then a small hatch opened in the wicket. ‘What?’

  ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, this is Bailiff Puttock. We have been sent on the Bishop’s behalf to speak to a corrodian here, a Master William. Is he in?’

  ‘Where else would he be, Sir Knight?’

  ‘Please ask him to come here that we might speak to him.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask the Prior first.’

  Baldwin’s patience was running out. ‘Then do so, and hurry! I do not have all night to wait here on your doorstep while you dawdle about.’

  William’s sole consolation as he followed the porter’s pointing finger to the door, was that at least he’d got his revenge in quickly on Joel. The cretin must have gone straight to see the Keeper as soon as William had left him. He was obviously determined to get rid of William. He’d tried arrows and they had failed, so now he was attempting the legal route.

  William stalked along the packed earth of the path around the little building until he came to the gateway. There he stopped, leaned on his staff and studied the two men. They had their backs to him, which he found annoying and disrespectful. He deserved better treatment.

  Except, he reminded himself sadly, most of his power was gone now. ‘I’m William,’ he growled. ‘What do you mean by coming here to a place of God and demanding to see me?’

  ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and I would like to speak to you.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, I shall inform the Coroner that I think you could have killed two men here, and were an accomplice at the very least in the murder of another,’ Baldwin said equably.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’ William swapped hands, gripping his staff in his left while he rested his right hand on his belly, tucked into his belt. It was a comforting place to put it, reminding him that once he had worn a sword here. Now all he had was a small eating-knife which was little use in a fight.

  ‘I think you do. You were worried about Henry, weren’t you? He knew so much about you and your past. He’d have been a great threat to you, wouldn’t he, if he’d managed to confess to helping kill the Chaunter all those years ago, because then your own part in that murder must surely come out into the open, and what would happen to your pension then? Your nice easy retirement could be all ruined, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Henry? He was an old friend of mine from many years ago.’

  ‘As was his wife. And you could have her again, if you were only to get rid of him. It was probably just the thought of the threat he posed to you at first, rather than the idea of stealing Mabilla too, but that thought wasn’t long in following, was it? And when you saw how to remove him, you took your chance. Why leave his body there in the chapel, though? What significance did that have?’

  ‘None that I know of,’ William said. He was intrigued that this man had learned so much about him and his history, but he had no intention of helping him in any way. Why throw him any titbits, when the man’s talking was adding to his own understanding of how much had got out?

  ‘How much were you paid for your murder of the Chaunter for the Dean? It must have been a handsome fee. This man was the Bishop’s own friend, after all.’

  ‘You are mistaken. I was the victim of an unpleasant campaign which sought to accuse me of participating in that murder, but it is untrue. What, should I become involved in disputes in the Cathedral Chapter? Why? All I ever did was support my King, as all subjects should.’

  ‘So you betrayed your own accomplices?’ Simon said.

  William sneered, ‘You ask me whether I betrayed anyone? I’ve never done that! I have been loyal to my word, and when I’ve been honoured for my service and have given my allegiance, that has remained to bind me. No man could say I’ve ever broken faith with another. What right do you have to accuse me of treachery?’

  That barb struck home, he saw. The knight looked as though he had swallowed bile, and he looked away. The scruffy man at his side seemed less bothered, and said, ‘Does that mean that you remained in the service of the Dean while you were taken by the King? I’d have thought that you’d find it hard to serve both masters.’

  ‘I was never in the Dean’s service. I only ever joined the King’s.’

  ‘So you say. Others tell us differently.’

  ‘Then speak to them, if you don’t like what I can tell you.’

  ‘Where were you on the night of four days ago?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Were you at the Cathedral Close?’

  ‘At night I have to be within these walls, Sir Knight. I’m a corrodian, I have to live by the rules of this House. What, do you think that I’d have broken out through this gate, broken in by one of the Cathedral’s gates, killed a man, and then fled back, all without being noticed? I am not so young as I was … Perhaps I could do it, but I suppose
I should be grateful that you think I could anyway. It shows how much respect you must have for me.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’

  ‘Where were you? You had more chance of getting out to kill someone.’

  ‘The first man to die was Henry Saddler. We know you knew him, and we know he held your secrets for you.’

  ‘Then call him to denounce me! Oh, but he’s dead, isn’t he? That makes it rather hard, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And last night,’ Baldwin continued impassively, ‘Friar Nicholas also died. He was murdered too – another man who could have accused you. He would most certainly have recognised you from that attack.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t. And I didn’t attack him,’ William said. ‘That was someone else.’

  Baldwin faced William, hands on his hips. ‘Master, this matter is too serious for me to bother about you. I look at you and I see an old man, withered and bent. You are not an ideal candidate for a murderer. To stand out in the cold waiting for a man to arrive, when it could mean you’d miss your curfew and get locked out … it is not likely. Whatever happened forty years ago is also not my concern. However, I have been charged by the Dean to seek the present murderer of Henry Saddler and this Friar Nicholas. It is possible that the murderer of these two has been here for many years, and his ire has only recently been encouraged by something. I will not seek to accuse you of past crimes, but if you can shed any light on this mystifying pair of murders, please do so.’