The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18)

by Michael Jecks

  The knight swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was a whisper. ‘Very clearly. Where is the man?’

  ‘He is usually to be seen on the scaffolding or in the Exchequer. I shall look there first.’

  ‘Good. But Simon, be cautious. The man has a good bow arm. He may look like a feeble old clerk, but I am proof that his arm is strong indeed.’

  ‘I shall be careful. Edgar, you stay here and guard your master and mistress. I will be back as soon as I know what has happened.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The market was filled with people shoving and pushing, and Wymond allowed himself to be carried along with the general flow. At the outside were all the animals: songbirds in cages, kittens wriggling in larger crates, puppies tied to a post. There were stalls with sweetmeats, then the hawkers with apples and vegetables, and only at the top, nearer Carfoix, did he find the alley where he normally bought his bread. However, when he got to the shop he found that the boards were still up.

  ‘He’s been taken ill,’ a neighbour informed him with that restrained excitement that another’s misfortune will often bring out in a bystander.

  Wymond chewed at his lip. There were other shops that sold bread, but he didn’t want to go back to the market. Instead he continued up the lane, which led to St Petrock’s Gate, a narrow way into the Cathedral Close. Intending to take a short cut up to the High Street, he went inside. A few yards from the church he suddenly saw the crowd of men. In their midst was William, a face he thought vaguely familiar, but the others were strangers to him. William was bound at the wrist, and Wymond wondered what he could have been accused of, to be tied up like that.

  And then he heard the man’s confession and his shocking revelation that Matthew had helped plan the death of the Chaunter.

  Matthew. The Clerk of the Rolls was known perfectly well to Wymond. This man, who had been the sole survivor of the attack, who had been struck down at the beginning of the incident was himself guilty of causing the affray in the first place. He was one of the evil devils who had betrayed poor Vincent.

  Wymond looked from William to the Exchequer, the building lay beyond the northernmost tower, and as he studied it, he saw the figure of a clerk among all the labourers on the scaffolding. The clerk was watching the group gathered at the Fissand Gate intently, then he slowly began to make his way along the scaffolding towards a ladder.

  It was nothing for Wymond to walk idly down towards the Cathedral, around the wall of St Mary Major, along the line of houses, and over to the point where the ladder reached the ground. Once there, Wymond saw the clerk descend the last rung and then hurry along the paved roadway towards the Bear Gate.

  Wymond gripped his bow more firmly and hastened after the man. He was certain now that this was his target. The clerk scurried along like a rat, his legs going all anyhow at speed, whereas Wymond could march steadily and cover a great distance with each stride.

  At the point where the Bear Gate met the street, Matthew turned left, heading down towards the Southern Gate of the city; and now there were more people to block Wymond’s sight, but he was sure of Matthew’s direction, and didn’t hesitate. By continuing to the gate, Wymond knew that soon he would be out of the city itself and back in the open wildlands where he had slept last night. Once through the old gate, there were fewer people, since all were heading into the city from the suburbs to buy their food, just as he had done. He sighted his quarry ahead, taking the Magdalene road, and Wymond felt delight stirring in his breast. This would be an easy shot!

  Thomas couldn’t wait while Simon and Peregrine split up their men, some to take William to the city’s gaol, others to go with them to find Matthew. Instead he hurried across the Cathedral Close to the Exchequer and burst in through the door. He met Stephen’s scandalised glare with an angry stare of his own.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ the Treasurer demanded, but Thomas merely snapped back, ‘Where is he? The Warden of the Fabric?’

  ‘Why, up on the scaffold, I believe. He likes to keep an eye on the men up there, especially since your clumsy killing of the mason. Why?’

  ‘Because your lovely clerk is a liar! He helped kill the Chaunter. He deceived everyone.’

  Stephen closed his eyes a moment. Then, ‘You want him for that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas said as he banged out. It was only later he wondered at the choice of words, almost as though Stephen had expected Matthew to be taken for something else. Still, just now he had no time to worry about the Treasurer’s odd manner. He ran to the scaffolding and shouted up to the gang at the top: ‘Where’s Matthew? Have you seen him?’

  ‘He was here a moment ago,’ the Master Mason answered. ‘He must have gone for a drink or something.’

  Thomas chewed his lip. That did not sound right. The sun was nowhere near its full height in the sky; it was too early for Matthew to have gone for a drink. Perhaps a piss, but then he’d still be in view. No, he was gone somewhere else.

  ‘Anyway,’ the Master called, ‘what’re all those buggers doing over there? Matt was wondering – he said he knew the man in the middle. What’s going on?’

  Thomas swore to himself, and as Simon and a small force joined him, he shouted, ‘He’s gone! You’ve missed him!’

  Baldwin had at last fallen into a light sleep, and Jeanne was able to release his hand; she stood, stretching her back. Just recently she had started to develop a mild back strain every so often, and hurrying down here to Exeter this morning had not helped matters. She missed her daughter Richalda terribly. Richalda would be fine, she knew, playing with Edgar’s wife. Crissy and she always got on, the maid spoiling her daughter atrociously. Still, Jeanne hated to be away from Richalda for any time. Meanwhile, she was growing aware of an emptiness in her belly. She’d ridden here at such speed, there had been no time to pause for food. Looking at her husband, she reckoned that he wouldn’t miss her for a little while, were she to seek food.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’ she whispered to Edgar.

  He looked at her and shook his head silently. She knew him of old, and she was happy that he would stand here by the door with that small smile on his face, watching over his master. That smile of his had won the hearts of many women until his wife, Crissy, had snared him. It showed his humour and essentially flippant, amiable manner. People little realised that it could hide a ruthless single-mindedness. This servant was a trained warrior, and he would have no compunction about using his weapons to protect his master. None whatsoever.

  Walking from the room, Jeanne stood in the Close feeling the sun on her face, warming her body and making the earth smell fresh. It added to the all-encompassing joy she held within her, knowing that Baldwin was so pleased to see her. Her heart felt a renewed love for her man, and although she was anxious that he might suffer complications from this arrow-wound, she was at least content in the knowledge that Baldwin had rediscovered his love for her. She didn’t understand his snapping at her over that maiden, and nor did she care. He had returned to her now.

  She saw Janekyn and asked him, ‘Where may I find some food and wine?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Lady, I’ll get someone to bring you some,’ Janekyn said. He gazed across the Close and saw a pair of choristers playing a game of catch around a tree. Lifting his chin and inhaling until his chest looked like that of a pigeon, he suddenly bellowed at the top of his voice, ‘HAM AND ULRIC, COME HERE!’ Turning back to Jeanne, he bowed slightly. ‘Would a loaf of paindemaine and some wine with water be all right? I’ll see if they can find some cold meats too, if you want.’

  ‘That will be fine,’ Jeanne said. She caught sight of John Coppe sitting on the ground by the gate and gave him a smile.

  ‘Mistress, Godspeed,’ he said, a grin twisting his awful scar.

  ‘Godspeed, friend,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you before when I arrived here. I should have given you some coin otherwise.’

  Coppe watched as she reached for her purse, and he felt a warm regard
for her as she brought out a whole penny. ‘Lady, I am very grateful. You are always generous to a poor beggar.’

  ‘I try,’ she said, but already her eyes were returning to Janekyn’s door. She felt guilty to be out here when Baldwin was inside, so unwell. A thought prompted her to turn to Janekyn. ‘Master porter, we have taken your room and bed. You must let me compensate you, too.’

  ‘No need,’ Janekyn said gruffly. ‘Your man was ill, and it’s enough payment to me to see him well again. No need for more.’

  Jeanne’s hand wavered near her purse for a moment, but then she nodded. ‘I thank you, then. I—’

  She caught sight of the expression in Jan’s eyes, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw Simon and Sir Peregrine marching back to them. Simon’s face was grim.

  ‘He’s fled. Probably saw us from up there on the scaffold and decided to bolt before we could catch him. We need horses!’

  Matthew’s soul felt heavy with despair as he marched on down the road. Half a mile from the walls he passed over the Shitbrook bridge, glancing at the leper house that stood just over it, and then carried on, past the last houses and into the spare woodland and open fields that surrounded the city to the east and south.

  Despair was the right word: it reflected his desolation, hopelessness, anguish, and desperation. All that he had ever done was gone. He had seen that as soon as the men started talking in their huddle, William in their midst. It was plain that they had spoken to him, and he was going to claim his rights as an Approver to protect himself. The King must listen to a man who had once been one of his own favoured servants, so there was nothing that Matthew could do to defend himself against Will’s allegations.

  Not that he could, in all conscience. Matt could hardly deny that Will was telling the truth. Matt hadn’t had to lie about anything since that terrible night, and he wasn’t going to risk his immortal soul by committing perjury now. No, he had been involved in that murder as a non-active participant, merely telling one untruth – and that not under oath. He was an accessory, perhaps, but plainly not guilty of the actual murder. After all, he was struck down only a moment or so after the attack was launched.

  Yet all his life, all his efforts, had been built on the foundation of his integrity and honour, because people thought that he was the sole survivor of the murderous attack on his master. The Chaunter had died – and now everyone would find out that, instead of being a heroic defender of his master, in fact his master was slain because of his action. From being the hero, he must become the villain. He would be hounded from the Cathedral, forced to undergo humiliating punishments, and finally sent away to a monastery to live the rest of his life in penance. Sweet Jesus! He couldn’t do that. The only reason he’d decided to join the Cathedral was because he had seen the easygoing life of the canons and reckoned that a civilised existence within the Bishop’s enclosure, with good food, ale, and the ability and freedom to wander about the city, must be a great deal better than life as a humble apprentice.

  Without his home in the Cathedral, he had no idea where to go or what to do. How could a mere clerk with training in controlling the Fabric Rolls be suitable for anything else? He had no money, no coin of any sort about him. He hadn’t expected to have to run like this. He should have foreseen this situation. Damn those busybodies, the Bailiff and the Keeper! In his bedchamber he had secreted a small purse which was full of coins, but he had been forced to leave it all behind, so urgent had his escape become.

  There was only one route open to him: to become an outlaw. Rob from others.

  He stopped in the road, glanced about him, and then sank to the ground, his hands covering his eyes and weeping.

  How could he become an outlaw? He was nearly sixty years old, he’d never learned how to fight, and his arms were feeble. There was nothing he could use as a weapon; all he possessed was a small knife, which was fine for paring nails, perhaps, but utterly ineffectual as a means of committing murder, or even threatening a traveller. Any merchant or carter would beat the shit from him for having the temerity to try such a thing.

  Wailing, he rested on his knees in the dirt, staring about him with no idea what to do. His entire life had been ordered by ritual, by the seasons and dates, by the Feast Days of the saints, and the Offices of the day. The very concept of planning or fending for himself was alien.

  One act so many years ago, and all his life was ruined. Now all must loathe him and look upon him with scorn. He was become a creature of contempt. How low could a man fall in his brothers’ esteem? He couldn’t live in the city any more, carrying that guilt with him.

  He bent his head and wept again, just as Wymond slowly drew back the nocked arrow and let the barbed point rest on the bone that protruded at the top of Matthew’s back, where the neck met the spine.

  Jeanne was back inside the room when there came a knock at the door, and the tall, black-clad figure of the Treasurer peered inside. With him was a chorister with a tray that held bread and cheese and a large bombard filled with wine. Jeanne took the leather flagon from the tray to help the struggling boy, and set it down on the table. The tray was carried past her and placed beside it.

  ‘How is he?’ Stephen asked in a low voice.

  ‘He is as well as can be expected,’ she said. ‘It is fortunate that the arrow missed any arteries and his lungs. It could have been much worse, although it is bad enough. A wound like this could kill a much stronger man. We must pray for him.’

  ‘I am so sorry about it,’ Stephen said. He made as though to approach the bed on which Baldwin lay snoring gently, but suddenly he was stopped by Edgar. It was his hand, rather than his sword, which ungently prevented the Treasurer from going closer, but Stephen was left in no doubt that were he to persist, the sword would soon be added to the argument.

  ‘No one goes close other than his wife,’ Edgar said with a smile.

  Stephen nodded uncertainly, looking down at the knight’s wounded figure. ‘I am so sorry,’ he repeated.

  Jeanne said, ‘It is terrible that such a thing could happen here in the Close.’

  ‘It is a source of shame to us all,’ he agreed.

  ‘But the man responsible is soon to be caught. The posse will bring him back here, and then we can all rest easy in the knowledge that the whole matter is finished.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Stephen said. ‘I hope that they can bring him back safely.’

  ‘You care deeply for him?’

  ‘He was from my own familia. I was his mentor. I taught him all I knew in order that he could become Treasurer in my place. Matt is so skilled with the numbers and controlling the works, much more so than most. He would have been an excellent Treasurer.’

  ‘If he did this, he deserves death,’ Jeanne said tightly, gesturing to Baldwin.

  ‘Of course. Of course. Murder is wrong in any case,’ Stephen said hurriedly. ‘I shouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise. I was just thinking, if he were innocent of this terrible attack, and the murders, he would have been a good candidate.’

  Jeanne said nothing. So far as she was concerned, the man who had done this to Baldwin deserved to pay with his life.

  Stephen could sense her feelings, and went on: ‘It is only that the Cathedral needs men who can serve the rebuilding, you see. Although we will never live to see the full beauty of our work here, will never see the fruition of all our plans, nevertheless we must work to ensure that God’s House is completed. It is our duty.’

  ‘God would scarcely want a murderer to work on His House,’ Jeanne commented. ‘No, Treasurer. There is nothing you can say which could possibly excuse the man. He is a low assassin, who tried to slay my husband in order to prevent the full story of his crimes becoming known.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’

  ‘So it is best that he be caught as soon as possible, and then caged or slain in his own time. There is no other way to deal with a murderer.’

  Stephen looked at her sadly. She saw the desperate need for her understandin
g and compassion in his eyes, but she couldn’t reciprocate. All Jeanne wanted to see just now, was the lifeless body of her man’s attacker.

  Simon had taken a horn from Janekyn to start the process of the Hue and Cry, blowing three times as loudly as he could. Before long he had a goodly crowd of men, all struggling and pushing.

  Thomas tried to set off after them, but Simon grabbed his arm. ‘No, Thomas. You can’t leave the Close.’

  ‘Why not? I couldn’t have hurt the knight. You said so yourself!’

  ‘I know, but you were responsible for other deaths, weren’t you? You took a part in one many years ago, and you caused the mason’s death too. You had best stay here.’

  ‘I won’t, I—’

  ‘Man, you’ll stay here!’ Simon rasped. He had no time to argue. ‘If you won’t, you’ll be set back in the gaol, understand me? I won’t have you wandering the town in case someone takes it into their head to punish you for that, if nothing else! Now for God’s sake shut up, before I shut you up myself!’

  Leaving Thomas in the Close, Simon and Sir Peregrine went outside to organise their men. One group was to hurry towards the East Gate, checking the buildings and fields that lay about the Crolditch outside the city walls. The second, under Sir Peregrine’s leadership, would take the Carter’s Road that followed the line of the river down towards the estuary, while the third would take the Magdalene Street. Simon chose to lead this group himself. He had a feeling that Matthew would avoid the coast so near to Exeter, and would instead make for the east.

  Simon had a horse, but many of his party did not, and he was frustrated by the need to hang back and wait for the slowest of the men. As was usual, the Hue and Cry had raised all those who were nearest and who were able to help. There were boys of perhaps thirteen, to look at them, and one toothless old man who must have been over sixty and had no place in Simon’s team. Simon cajoled and swore at them all to make them move faster, but some of them could barely keep on their feet after only perhaps a half mile or so, just as they were reaching the Magdalene bridge by the lepers’ hospital.