The messenger had arrived as she was finishing her breakfast, and Jeanne had instantly sent a man to tell Edgar. Once Baldwin’s sergeant in the Templars, Edgar had been his most loyal servant ever since, and even though he was himself married now, he yet looked on his master as his first responsibility, and Jeanne was pleased to have the lean, wiry man at her side on the ride here, and to know that he was with Baldwin to protect him in case of another attack. Edgar would not permit any man to harm his lord.
But seeing Baldwin like this was terrifying. He was not so obviously knocked about as he had been after the tournament last year, but he was clearly very weak, and Jeanne prayed that he would not suffer from one of those terrible fevers which could kill stronger and younger men than he.
‘Be strong, my love,’ she murmured, and she was startled to see that his eyes were filled with tears. He said nothing, but his grasp was almost savage, as though he was holding on to her in the same desperate, fearful way that he was holding on to life.
Simon was soon back, Paul with him carrying a large pot of warmed water and some towels. Paul set it near Baldwin, while Edgar stood nearby, his sword still in his hand and a half-smile on his face that showed he was ready to use it.
‘Jeanne,’ Simon said in a low voice. ‘Has he said anything?’
‘I’m not dead yet,’ Baldwin murmured with a trace of astringency in his tone.
‘I just wondered … who could have wanted to fire that shot at you?’
‘A murderer, clearly. Perhaps the murderer. Until we catch him, I won’t know,’ Baldwin said hoarsely.
‘Why should someone have wanted to aim an arrow at you?’ Jeanne whispered, dabbing at his brow with her cloth.
‘Because I was getting too close to learning who the culprit is.’
Simon fretted, ‘But I can’t for the life of me think what we have heard that could have hinted at the killer.’
‘No,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but I think that you should go over it all, because this man is plainly determined.’
Edgar shifted near the doorway. ‘Whoever it is, we’ll find him, Sir Baldwin.’
‘We need his confession first,’ Baldwin said, his voice little more than a whisper now. ‘I don’t want you executing people without being sure of their guilt, Edgar, no matter how angry you are to see me like this.’
‘When I find who did this, I will see him punished,’ Edgar said imperturbably.
‘I do not care for any of this,’ Jeanne said, gently untying the bandages at Baldwin’s breast. ‘All I care about is your return to health, my love.’
Wymond had not enjoyed a restful night. He had left his son snoring at the table as evening turned to night, packed his bow and some arrows into his blanket, and set off into the gloom. He walked down to the Friary, then round their new wall to the fields near the Holloway. There he crossed over the river and found himself a seat on a hillock of turf.
He often came down here when he had to think. Bless his Vince, but the lad’s inane chatter about other apprentices and the gossip at the joiner’s shop was enough to make a man’s brains turn to shit in his skull. No, Wymond needed to reflect, not sit in his house drinking wine until he fell over. Vince was not mature enough to be able to comfort a man like Wymond, who was nearly sixty.
It was the other Vincent whom Wymond needed: Vincent his brother, the boy who’d protected him as they grew, the kind companion who taught Wymond everything he knew, who used to chuckle at him when he hurt himself and somehow make the pain go away, the one who would always praise his triumphs. He was the person who, more than any other, showed him what it was to be a man. And then, just as he was entering adulthood, Wymond lost him. Some crazed bastard at the Cathedral took him away for ever.
Seeing a movement, he slowly unrolled his blanket, then gazed about him nonchalantly. There was no one on the road, and he took his old bow, stepping between the stave and the string. With the stave at his back, he reached up and pulled the upper portion over his shoulder, sliding the string up along it until it met the horn notch. He stepped out, took a quick look about him again, and selected an arrow. It had a tiny barb, this, ideal for small game. A last glance all around, and then he quickly nocked the arrow to the string, pulled it back so that the point of the barb lay just where the two ears forked up, and then gradually allowed his fingers to release. There was the familiar jolt to his arms, the single thrumming tone, and the fletchings scorched over his knuckle. He remained there a moment, his arms unmoving, until he saw the ears slam backwards, and then he let the bow down. Stepping inside the string, he quickly released it from the notches, allowed it to straighten, and wrapped it in his blanket again. Only then did he walk along the grassy pasture to the far end, counting his paces as he went. As he thought: a good fifty yards.
The rabbit sat transfixed, the arrow’s fletching protruding from the side of its head, while the barb had gone straight through and into the earth behind. He pulled the rabbit from the fletchings, then took some grass to wipe the arrow and pulled it free from the ground, replacing it with the others.
The shock of the massive yard-long arrow penetrating its head had killed the rabbit instantly, and when he snapped its neck it was purely a precaution. He squatted and took out his little skinning dagger, paunching the cony and pulling out the entrails. He set these down with the head, and skinned it quickly, slipping his hand in between the pelt and the muscles and loosening it all about the body, cutting off the paws and slipping the skin over the little stumpy tail. Then he wrapped the body in a sheet of linen, and made his way to the river again.
He knew a little place where the river bent and where there was a short stretch of sandy beach; up above it lay a sheltered spot with a cosy little hollow. When they were lads, he and Vincent had used to come here to play, pretending to be outlaws. They would kill a rabbit, bring it here and cook it for their supper, sharing alike. Once they had stayed out all night when Vincent was debating with himself whether he should take up the post offered to him by the Bishop. He had not wanted to take it, knowing that it would alter his relationship with his family for ever, but in the end he had little choice. None of them did. A job at the Cathedral meant education, and that meant money. He could help them all if he won that.
So that was perhaps their last night together. The following morning, Vincent had left home and gone up to the Cathedral, and suddenly Wymond saw less of him. It was, in large part, the end of his childhood.
Now, as the light faded, he gathered up twigs and branches, and when he had a decent pile, he began to strike sparks from his flint and dagger. Soon wisps of smoke rose from the bonfire, and he settled back to wait.
It was a perfect evening. The soil was warm from the day’s heat, the water rippled merrily, and the dying sun painted the trees and grasses with a golden hue. He jointed and cooked his rabbit, skewered on sharpened sticks over his fire, then sat back in the curve of the hollow, and let the warmth of his fire soothe his memories.
In his mind he saw the happy young face of his brother, then the broken, bloody body after that terrible night in 1283. He saw his dear wife’s face, lit up and excited when she realised that she was pregnant, and then he saw her ruined body after the horse had knocked her down. The subsequent fever had taken her life, leaving him with his second Vincent, squealing and bawling in the corner.
These scenes were all so close, he felt he could hear little Vince’s bawling again; he could smell the herbs and blood on his wife’s body; he could touch Vincent’s icy corpse.
Vincent was killed by the Cathedral. He had been destroyed because he was loyal to his master, and had tried to save him. A traitor cut him down. His wife had died because of the Cathedral, run down by a young fool of a clerk playing silly devils on a horse. The Cathedral had taken the two most precious people in his life.
There was no surprise in hearing from his son that Vincent was innocent of the accusation. Wymond had always known it. Yet the Cathedral had spread the news of his guilt as
though it was established fact. Everyone knew that those raised in the city were against the Bishop, and that was enough to damn Vincent in their eyes. To many it seemed as though he was a hero, having stood up for his city, but Wymond knew that he was innocent. No, Vincent would never have betrayed his master. He had given his word to the Chaunter, and he would have guarded him with his life. As, indeed, he did.
Wymond fell asleep late into the night, struck with a strange melancholia.
It was long after dawn the next morning that he rose and stretched. He threw some water over his face from the river, dried it on his sleeve, and then picked up his package and bent his way towards the island. When he was close to the Friary he stopped, hesitated, and then carried on towards the city itself. He would go to the market and buy some bread.
Jeanne studied the wound. It looked like a tiny mouth with bright red lips. Now that the arrow was gone, it was smaller than the arrow’s diameter as the flesh closed together. So small, it was hard to believe that it could do so much harm.
Simon peered closer. It was early days, but the wound didn’t appear to have become too inflamed as yet. He prayed that Baldwin might survive.
Paul backed towards the door, his eyes fixed on Edgar’s bright sword.
Watching him, Simon suddenly frowned. ‘Have you seen the Coroner recently, Paul?’
The Annuellar shook his head quickly. ‘Not today, sir, no. I think he went into the town.’
‘What of the inquests? Has he said when he will hold them?’
‘He has ordered the bodies of the friar and the mason to be disinterred so he can examine them. I think he means to hold all three inquests at the same time, and he has still to view all the bodies from the crush in the street outside St Nicholas’s Priory.’
‘I had forgotten all that,’ Simon breathed. So many deaths in such a short time. The city was filled with distraught people. Everybody must know someone who had died recently. Yet there was nothing new in that. People died all the time, whether from brawls or illnesses or accidents. There was always somebody who was mourning for a child or parent or lover.
And there was one man who was perhaps mourning for people who had died here many years ago. Who could be so angry and bitter that he still sought to avenge that murder?
With that thought he was about to speak to Thomas when there was a noise in the gateway outside: the tramp of heavy boots and an angry voice shouting, ‘Get your hands off me, you fornicating son of a diseased whore! What are you, you piece of shite! Brave when I’m bound, aren’t you, but wait until I get a chance to pull a dagger on you, man, and we’ll see how fucking brave you are then, eh?’
Simon glanced at Edgar, puzzled, but then he saw Thomas grit his teeth and suddenly recognised that furious voice. It was William again. Making a quick decision, Simon pulled the door open and walked outside. Thomas was immediately at his back, and Simon heard Baldwin’s weak voice demanding to be able to hear what was going on. Edgar chuckled, and when Simon shot a look behind him, he saw the servant standing at the side of the doorway, his sword in his fist, the blade held at the ready across his body. No one would get past him to enter the room.
‘Oho, Bailiff!’ laughed Sir Peregrine. He was at William’s side, holding onto a thong which bound the man’s wrists. ‘Here’s a fine man. He tells me he is the King’s corrodian, yet I found him attacking a poor merchant in his fiancée’s house. A strange way to behave, wouldn’t you say?’
From where he stood, Simon could smell the sour wine on William’s breath. ‘I wished to ask this man a couple of questions.’
‘Please do so. I was about to take him to the city’s gaol, but he claimed benefit of clergy since he’s a corrodian, and I am on my way to ask the Dean what he thinks I should do with him. It cannot hurt to have him lodged here, I suppose – but I should prefer to see him in the city’s custody if there is to be a fine laid upon him!’
Simon was uninterested in Peregrine’s legal ramblings. ‘William. You told us how you took part in the murder of the Chaunter all those years ago. You also implicated two innocent men, didn’t you? You told the King that the gate had been left open, knowing that he would hang those responsible, and knowing that he’d reward you for your information.’
‘If you know so much, what do you want from me?’ William snapped. ‘Get these damned thongs from me, you bladder of pus! Release me, I’m the King’s man. Don’t dare to hold me! Bailiff, release me. I won’t stand here like a common felon.’
‘You are worse than a common felon!’ Simon roared. He shoved William, almost pushing him over. ‘You lied to the King in his court, and committed perjury, didn’t you? You denied taking part in the murder itself.’
‘Why should I confess to something like that? Who says I was there?’
‘I do,’ Thomas said. ‘I was there, and I accuse you, William. You were guilty. You stabbed the Chaunter’s vicar as he lay on the ground, and you stabbed the Chaunter himself. I saw you. I accuse you of murder. You beat Matthew, too, and—’
‘Wait!’ Simon blurted. ‘Matthew? You hit him? Why not kill him?’
‘I deny this! It is all false! Release me!’
Thomas shook his head. ‘We grew up together. I doubt he wanted to kill an old companion.’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Simon moaned. ‘That was it, wasn’t it? Matthew was another like you, William. That whole dispute was between people from the city and people who were foreigners, wasn’t it? The new Bishop, Quivil, was a stranger, and men like you supported the Dean, John Pycot, against him. All those who sought to support the Chaunter were from outside the city, weren’t they? And there was one man in his familia who was from inside the city: Matthew. I’ve heard from the Prior Peter that he used to play ball with you and him. Matthew was a city man, so of course he wouldn’t support the Chaunter or the Bishop.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ William sneered.
‘It was him, wasn’t it, William? Matthew lied to the Chaunter and made him feel safe. Matthew wasn’t an ally of the Chaunter. His loyalty was first to Exeter, second to the Cathedral.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ William blustered.
‘Matthew was no hero that day, was he?’ Simon pressed. ‘He lied to his master, deliberately, in order to persuade him to go out into the Close to his death.’
‘Maybe he did, but that’s got nothing to do with me,’ William said.
‘Except someone must have got Matthew to tell the lie.’
Peregrine was looking at Simon with the expression of one who is unsure what he is hearing. ‘What lie was that, Simon?’
‘This man told Matthew to take part in an attack on the Cathedral’s Chaunter; he was to forewarn the Chaunter of the attack, but then lie, telling him that the Bishop himself knew of it and would position guards to protect him. The story was, they wanted to catch the assailants red-handed so that they could be tried for the attempt at murder. It was a good story, too, one which made sense – and it was invented by this man here, this shrewd fellow William. Afterwards, he also invented a story about the Southern Gate being left wide open, and caused the Mayor and the porter of the Southern Gate to be executed, solely that William could earn favour in the eyes of the King. And since then, he’s been a contented member of the King’s household.’
‘Why is he here, then?’ Sir Peregrine asked.
‘The King bought him a pension at St Nicholas’s Priory – as payment for his years of service.’
‘It’s all invention, true enough,’ William spat. ‘It’s invented by you! Coroner, if you insist on holding me here, the least you can do is protect me from the misguided rantings of a fool like this. Are you going to put me in a cell or not?’
Sir Peregrine glanced at Simon. ‘Are you sure of this?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘In that case, Corrodian, you are coming back to the city’s lockup. I’ll need to consider the case with the Justices of Gaol Delivery. After all, the King may like to
hear about the matter. It sounds as though he has been rewarding you for years of deceit after committing a foul murder.’
‘You can’t be serious! I’m a King’s man, damn your cods!’
‘Which is why you’re going to gaol,’ Sir Peregrine said serenely.
‘Wait! What if I admit? If I approve?’
Sir Peregrine and Simon exchanged a look. Simon said, ‘If you become a King’s Approver, the Justices may be lenient and save your neck.’
‘I will approve! I admit my crimes, and I admit that I also persuaded Matt to tell the tale to the others, but it wasn’t for love of the city – Matthew did it for money. He always wanted more money! That was why he agreed to help have the Chaunter killed. Joel helped, and Henry, but without Matthew, we’d not have succeeded.’
‘So you admit your part in that murder?’ Sir Peregrine demanded.
‘Yes. I was one of the assassins. I helped kill the Chaunter and his familia. I did it to help the city, but Matthew did it from his lust for money. He was a mercenary.’
Sir Peregrine sucked his teeth. ‘Bailiff?’
‘I am content with that. I think you’d better take him to the city gaol now.’
‘I don’t want to go there!’
Simon looked at him for a long moment. ‘William, you have the choice of an ecclesiastical gaol, where the gaoler will be interested in how you tried to thwart the word of a Bishop, or a city gaol where you will be looked after by men who may respect your protection of city men. The choice is yours.’
There was no choice. Soon William was being taken up towards the East Gate, and shortly afterwards, Simon was back in Janekyn’s room. ‘You heard all that?’ he asked Baldwin.
The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) Page 33
