‘There were letters to the Pope, letters to the Archbishop, threats, shouts, rattling of weaponry … it was an awful time. And at the end of it, it grew obvious that one or the other man must go. I was in league with most of the Chapter when I chose the side of the Treasurer. We did not like this foreign upstart telling us what to do and when we could do it. We wanted a local man, a good fellow like the kindly Treasurer John. And so, when it was decided that we should destroy the Bishop’s man, it was not a sudden decision by a small minority of people, but a firm resolution by all Treasurer John’s allies. Me included.
‘We laid an ambush after Matins, and when he came out, we killed him. That, I thought, was that. But no, now it is all coming back to haunt us.’
‘Who was there with you?’
‘Thomas there,’ the Treasurer grunted, motioning towards the mason loitering at his wall. ‘Myself, two vicars long dead, some townsfolk. I don’t know how many exactly.’
‘I know of Joel Lytell and Henry. Henry is dead and Joel has been badly beaten. Who would have done that? Were there any survivors among the Chaunter’s men other than Nicholas?’
‘There was Matthew, of course. Why?’
‘Because so far Henry is dead – he helped in the attack – and so is Nicholas. I’ve already heard that someone told the Chaunter that he need not fear the ambush because the Bishop had been informed and had gathered together a force to catch all the assailants. But there was no such force. Whoever told that tale to the Chaunter was playing a cruel trick – and it worked. I am wondering whether Nicholas was the traitor.’
‘I should not be surprised. I have heard similar stories, and I think that it is possible, although I’d have thought that the murders could have been committed for another reason. We killed the Chaunter forty years ago, Bailiff. Why should someone hold a grudge for so long? Why set out to do these things only now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Simon admitted. ‘But I will find out.’
Thomas said slowly, ‘I remember another novice.’
‘There were many of them?’ Simon asked.
‘Aye. Many enough on both sides. I myself attacked one whom I’d always called my friend,’ Thomas said. He experienced the shame, but felt he had to admit to his crime. ‘It was I who struck poor Nick. He’d always been my friend, but that night we were all mad, I think. I struck and struck at him in a fury, just because he was opposed to my Dean. And then Peter came up from—’
‘Peter? Yes, Peter was there,’ Stephen said suddenly. ‘He might know something. He’s the Prior of St Nicholas’s now.’
Simon was still eyeing Thomas. ‘You said last night you were the man who so injured the friar?’
‘Yes. And my God, how I regretted it afterwards. I used to go to my church and apologise for it at every Mass afterwards, begging forgiveness. I confessed my sin to my priest, but he only said that a man who sided with the Bishop was clearly as good as an excommunicate and refused to give me a penance. I felt that very sorely … and then I saw how God punished me.’
‘How, Thomas?’
Thomas had a vision of bodies swinging hideously in the twilight. ‘He executed my father.’
Vince left the meal feeling sickly, wondering what had become of his father.
Yesterday, they had eaten and drunk themselves into a comfortable drowsiness after a meal, and his father had told him again all the stories he recalled of Vince’s uncle, how decent and kind he had been, how honourable. It was dull, but Vince sat and listened, knowing that this constant repetition was his father’s only means of exorcising the demon within him. His brother had been accused of taking part in a murder and had been denounced as traitor to his master. Now all Wymond could do was relive the good parts of Vincent’s life as though by doing so he would somehow overwhelm all the lies.
It was that which had made his father renounce the city itself, Vince knew. That was why he was aghast when Vince told him he intended living in Exeter itself. ‘You can live here with me, boy, you don’t have to go up there. You can’t trust folk in a place like that. They lie to each other, and if you’re on the side of one man, his enemies will invent stories to insult you.’
But he had been adamant, and now he felt sure that it had been the right thing to do at the time, although now he wondered whether he could continue, knowing that Joel his master had taken part in the murder of the men in the Close.
His father had been dreadfully shocked by the revelation, he saw. That was why he stayed there through the afternoon when he should have returned to his master’s workshop. He was worried about Wymond.
But there is something strange about older men. Those who have drunk strong cider and ale all their lives can sometimes drink more even than a young apprentice. Where Vince had intended to drink his father into another drunken sleep, he found last night that his eyes were growing heavy, his limbs incapable. He was laughing more than he ought, while his old man was resting back on his bench, eyes bright. At some point, Wymond picked up his bow and began to wax the string, protecting it from the wet by putting a thin coating of beeswax on it. Then there was a light oil which he used to buff the bow’s wood. It was a simple yew bow, his, but Vince knew that it could propel a steel-tipped arrow through a half-inch-thick plank of oak. A fearful weapon, Vince couldn’t even draw it to shoot one of his father’s clothyard arrows.
Wymond had owned a bow since he was a young boy, and he’d practised with it at least once every week all his life since then. Now he used it to clear the rats and birds from his vats, so that they couldn’t ruin his skins and leathers as they cured, and his eye was good for a shot of anything up to eighty yards for even a moderate-sized rat. On a good day, Vince had seen him fire that bow two hundred and fifty yards. They had paced it out afterwards.
And this morning, when Vince rose, his father was gone, and so was his bow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thomas sniffed, but without rancour. ‘It’s all a long time ago now. When I arrived back here, I was hoping to find a little peace and rest in my old city, but I hadn’t counted on how the death of my father would affect me. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be executed like some felon.’
‘What happened?’ Simon asked.
‘I left the city after I so nearly killed Nicholas. I was disgusted with myself. There I was, supposedly a novice, readying myself for a life in the Church, and I had drawn a knife to murder my own best friend, purely because of the politics at the top of the Cathedral. That day I went home to my father’s house and sat up until morning, wondering what had become of me.
‘My father came down as he always did just as dawn broke, and he saw me there. He saw the blood all over my clothes and hands, and he went out and fetched me water, then crouched before me and cleaned me. Only when all the blood was washed from me did he ask me how I’d come by it, and I told him.
‘He was very upset. I could see that. He’d always brought me up to be Christian, and here I was stabbing a man in a rage who was no enemy of mine. It was mad, and I saw that. And because of that, shortly afterwards, I left the city. I made no song and dance, but just packed some belongings and walked out. I eventually ended up in Winchester, and helped a stone waller, and began to learn my trade.’
‘What of your father?’
‘When I came back, I learned what had happened to him. The King came to hear the case when the Bishop petitioned him. He was told that the city’s gates had been left open on the night of the attack. Because of that he ordered two executions. My father was one. While I walked away to find a new life, he lost his.’
‘I’ve heard that there was another man there,’ Simon said. ‘A fellow called William.’
‘I know him,’ Thomas said. ‘A madman. He would kill for the pleasure of testing his blade’s sharpness.’
‘And Matthew was there too, but on the opposing side,’ Simon mused.
‘Yes.’ Stephen nodded palely. ‘He was there. And I almost hit him with my sword, but managed to ave
rt my blow when I saw who he was. I had always liked him. It was Peter who actually struck him down. At the time I remember thinking he was lucky. He fell so swiftly, all thought him dead and he was safe. Indeed, it was some weeks before he recovered from his wounds. Afterwards, when I was given ever better jobs, I brought him with me as a means of honouring his valour and integrity that night. He never flinched when all the men attacked. Others fled in terror, but not he. He stood his ground although he had no weapons on him, and was felled like a sapling under the axe.’
‘Could he not have learned to hate the men who attacked and killed his master?’ Simon asked.
‘He is essentially a mild, kindly fellow,’ Stephen said. ‘I am sure that he would not do such a thing. And if he were to wish to do so, again, why wait so long? He has had the opportunity to kill his attackers many times over the years.’
‘True,’ Simon said. ‘Which surely means that it’s more likely that the murderer is someone like William, who has been away from the city for many years.’
‘Or me,’ Thomas said without humour.
‘Perhaps,’ Simon allowed. ‘Except you forget that last night when Baldwin was attacked, you were safely in the gaol. I am sure that one man is responsible for the murders, and it’s farfetched to think that someone else attacked Baldwin. No, it must be the same man.’
‘Not a woman?’ Stephen asked.
‘It was a good arrow struck Baldwin. The distance wasn’t too great, but it would have been a man’s bow.’
‘It is always possible to hire a bowman,’ Stephen said. He shot a look at Thomas. ‘Even a man in gaol could command a hireling.’
‘Maybe,’ Simon said, ‘but Thomas would have needed warning of his arrest. He thought he was escaping the city. Why order an assassin? And he had no idea that he would be arrested and in gaol just as the arrow flew. No. What of this Peter? He was loyal enough once, you say.’
‘And was ruined by it. He was forced to take the threefold vows, just as John Pycot did before him. He is only here again because the last Prior was taken to the mother Abbey.’
‘Then I shall see him now,’ said Simon with decision. ‘And I ask that you bend your mind to this affair, Treasurer. We have to learn who has been killing people here. If you can think of anyone, anyone at all who might have had a hand in these murders, you must tell me. Otherwise, there may be more blood spilled.’
‘If I knew anything, I swear I would tell you,’ Stephen said, and Simon believed him. The man’s face was quite haggard. ‘I had thought that this whole affair was left far behind me, but now it has returned to haunt me once more. I say to you, Bailiff, I would that none of this had happened, not the death of the Chaunter forty years ago, not the death of the saddler, and not the death of the friar. I regret the execution of the Mayor and of Thomas’s father. Just think of all these deaths, all unnecessary, all repellent when men should be bending their minds to the building of this magnificent Cathedral. It is enough to make a man despair.’
‘It is very sad,’ Simon agreed caustically as he beckoned Thomas to follow him. ‘Heaven forbid that the Cathedral should be delayed purely because of a few deaths!’
He was still angry at the Treasurer’s attitude as he entered Janekyn’s little chamber. Baldwin was still apparently asleep, and as Simon entered, the physician Ralph was at the wounded man’s side. He looked up as Simon walked in. The physician’s lips were pursed and he was very thoughtful.
‘How is he?’ Simon demanded curtly.
‘He has no fever, which is a relief, but there is still time for it to come. The natural humours seem well-balanced, but I could wish for a little more pus from the wounds.’
Simon nodded understandingly. Everybody knew that the laudable pus would cleanse a wound, for it aided expulsion of the evil humours which caused men to fall prey to fevers and death. He watched the physician remove a linen swatch from Baldwin’s chest and saw the wound, still leaking blood and red raw about the edges. Ralph leaned forward and tentatively sniffed at it.
‘It doesn’t seem to be foul, anyway,’ he said pensively. ‘It may be that he is already on his way to recovery. At this stage it is too early to tell.’
‘Please keep a good, close watch over him,’ Simon said.
‘I will do the best I can for him,’ Ralph sighed, replacing the patch over the wound and binding it in place with a bandage.
Simon nodded and tentatively leaned forward, patting Baldwin’s forearm. ‘Jeanne will be here soon, old friend. Godspeed, and get yourself better soon.’
‘That is his wife?’ Ralph asked. ‘He has called to her in his dreams.’
‘Yes. She should be here soon after lunch, I hope,’ Simon said.
‘Is it true that the scarred friar is dead?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I was interested. I met him in the High Street a few days ago after seeing Joel Lytell. He was an interesting case.’
‘In what way?’ Simon asked, torn by a desire to demand answers from Prior Peter and remain here and learn all he could from a man who knew the friar in case his words could hold some bearing.
‘Friar Nicholas was terribly cut about. A man had slashed at him and his wounds were dreadful. His face was only a part of his injuries. His back was deeply scarred, his arm withered and all but useless … It was a miracle that he lived.’
‘You think that God was kind to him?’ Thomas asked sarcastically.
‘Who can tell what He thinks of men such as Nicholas?’ Ralph said, standing back and surveying his handiwork before pulling the blankets over Baldwin’s torso. He turned and looked at Thomas. ‘I was talking to the man who used to know him, Vicar Matthew, and he said that the friar’s features would be enough to make many a man confess his sins just to avoid the same form of punishment.’
‘What sort of crime was the friar supposed to have committed?’ Simon enquired.
‘From what I heard, he had supported an evil man in the Cathedral.’
‘That bears out what I thought,’ Simon muttered, and then, ‘Come along, Thomas. We must see the Prior and hear what he has to say for himself.’
Udo was finishing his preparations. A last glance in the big mirror in his hall, a dab of holy water to wish himself luck (a silly thing to do, for God would either bless his union or not), and then he left his house.
The distance was nothing. He strolled up the hill, turned left, then went up Milk Street and thence into Smythen Street, where he continued down the hill.
From here the view was magnificent. Ahead of him lay the river, shimmering silver in the sunlight through the smoke of the works on Exe Island, but beyond all was green. The land rolled most pleasantly, with low hills covered in trees all the way westward. Today, with the rains finished, he could see that there were many pools. They shone blue and grey, while the river itself was more torrential than he had seen before. Full from the rains, it raced past the city as though in an urgent hurry to get to the sea.
He stood enjoying the scene for a long while. It reminded him a little of his homeland, and that raised a small sensation of longing. As he set off again, he was reminded that it was many years since he last saw his home. Now, were he ever to see it again, he would see it as a married man.
At the door, he rapped loudly and stood waiting. The door opened and the maidservant showed him through to the women in the hall. He bowed and went to Mabilla first, although his eyes never left Julia.
She was as fresh as a flower in spring, he thought. Her skin was almost white, and it was so fine that he swore he could see the blood coursing at her temples and throat. She was dressed in a sombre dress with a girdle, her hair bound up in a net, and her eyes remained downcast, but for him that very correct modesty was itself wonderfully attractive. He could hardly believe that this marvellous creature was soon to be his!
‘Sir, you are welcome in our house,’ Mabilla said as he walked to the stoup and made the sign of the cross with the holy water.
‘Mistress, I thank
you. How is your daughter?’
Julia raised her chin, while keeping her eyes on the ground. ‘I am well, sir.’ She felt the fluttering of her heart like a caged bird, and desperately fought the blush that threatened to colour her face. ‘I hope you are well too?’
This was not like other courtships she had witnessed. All too often, they were conducted without any involvement by the bride-to-be, but instead all aspects of the negotiation and contract went on in her absence until all was ready, and then she was presented with the agreement. Enough of her friends had become wedded for her to know that commonly the groom would be a man considerably older than his wife. Only last month two of her friends had been married, and both took men more than ten years their senior. An older husband was normal enough, because only when a man had finished his apprenticeship and acquired his own shop and business, could he start to think of the other necessaries of life. And a woman who preferred not to be a spinster or be forced into servitude would be glad to take a man with a profitable living.
No, Julia had no concerns about this man. He was a little pompous, it was true, but a good woman like her would soon be able to smooth off some of the roughness. And she would make him a good wife; she was determined of that. He was kind enough to take her and her mother, and right now she had a feeling of warmth and safety in his presence that was entirely lacking when he was gone.
Her only fear was that he wanted her purely as a prize; a trophy to ornament his arm when he walked abroad or invited guests to his home. She had heard of loveless marriages where the wives were bored and listless. They had little communion with their families or friends because their husbands were jealous of their companionship, or perhaps feared that they might speak to others in a derogatory manner of their lives. These were the sort of men she feared. If Udo were to become like that, she didn’t know how she would survive. By merely thanking God that he would not live for too long, and when he died, he would leave her a wealthy widow, she supposed. It was a grim prospect, and one that scared her. But she had no choice.
The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) Page 31
